high enough and then make a straight line back to their tree. You follow that line
as well as you can and then burn some more comb. You keep doing that until eventually the bees start leaving in the opposite direction. Then you just walk back real slow and you’ll find the tree.”
Mourning’s bottom lip covered the top one as he nodded his head in approval.
“Then how you gonna get the honey out a that tree, with all them bees buzzing
around?”
“That’s no thing.” She grinned. “I’ll call you to chop it down. You know, my
clothes are too bright for hunting. You think I can borrow one of your shirts, wear it over my dress?”
Now he grinned. “Like to hear what Lady Grody gonna say about that.”
“It’s not ‘Lady Grody.’ The journal is published by a Mr. Godey. For ladies.”
Then she saw from his grin that his mistake had been intentional and grinned back. “Where are your clothes?” she asked.
“Where they gonna be at? Out in the barn where us critters live.”
She glanced at him, but was glad to see only amusement on his face. She
went to the barn, picked his gray shirt off a nail, and pulled it on over her dress.
Then she went to the cabin for the Hawken and her possibles bag and took a wine-colored leather volume from one of the wicker baskets. It was the last thing
she had bought in Detroit – a journal. She hadn’t yet written a word in it, but now she would have time. She intended to keep track of everything. The work they did, what they ate, even their arguments. She checked the stopper on her pot
of ink, wrapped it tightly in a rag, and slipped it and the long narrow case that
held her quill into the pocket of her apron. She waved good-bye to Mourning, who was up on his ladder mumbling, and called out, “I’ll be on the other side of
the stream.”
She easily retraced her trail and settled down with her back against the tree.
She measured powder, loaded the Hawken, and practiced taking aim before
propping the cocked rifle next to her.
Finally she opened the journal, lifting it to her face and breathing in its wonderful scent. The cover was bumpy leather, just like her Bible, but wine-colored instead of black. This was how Gulliver must have been born, she thought. And Chingachgook. A man had put black ink to white paper and created
a world of words. She knew she would never make that kind of magic, but at
least she could pass on her memories. At first she wrote as quickly as the quill allowed, trying to get down every clever word Mourning had said, every sound
she had heard, every smell and breeze. Then her hand slowed, as she tried to describe her feelings. She tried to write as if no other soul would ever read her
words.
She was lost in thought, the end of her quill tickling her nose, when she
glanced up and saw them. A doe and two long-legged spotted fawns stood not
five yards from her, the doe broadside, presenting a perfect target. Holding her breath, Olivia slowly set her quill in its case, closed the book, and lifted the rifle.
She had the doe in her sights and her finger pressed hard on the trigger when one
of the fawns perked its head up and turned enormous innocent eyes in her
direction. It cocked its head and blinked, and Olivia lowered the gun. Not this one. How could she leave those little fawns alone and helpless in the woods?
She watched them lower their heads to eat and then walk slowly away.
An hour later she was sitting with the Hawken between her knees, wondering
if Mourning would be angry when she told him why they were having griddle
cakes for supper again, when a buck stepped into the clearing. Olivia slowly lifted the rifle to her shoulder and took her shot. The deer disappeared into the
woods, but Olivia knew it had been a kill shot and she wouldn’t have to track it
far.
She loaded the rifle again, left her journal and possibles bag beneath the tree
and strode to where the buck had been standing. The blood trail was easy to follow. Plunging eagerly into the woods, she had to force herself to take the time
