The Story Keeper (29 page)

Chapter 24

Chapter 15

Deep Winter

’Twas well past the ides of December that Sarra began to find herself dispatched about the mill camp without supervision from time to time, sent scurrying for this reason or that upon the orders of Hudson’s Cherokee wife, Bonnie. Since their arrival at Sagua Falls in Hudson’s wagon, Bonnie had generally detained Sarra close at hand, seeming to protect her in a motherly fashion. Yet as the disagreeable nature of the highland winter added to the complexity of their daily responsibilities, the Cherokee woman found it necessary, if not prudent, to more often send Sarra off to accomplish short tasks alone.

On one such task, having been emboldened by several successful endeavors, Sarra found herself within the chink-log structure that comprised the mill store. Discovering the store to be devoid of occupants, save for the kindly old shopkeep, she
dallied over a supply of bobbles obtained by the keeper in anticipation of the arrival of millworker wives and families to greet the commencement of spring operations. The men being bent to their building of the mill structures at this particular time of day, Sarra supposed it safe to momentarily peruse this wondrous collection of merchandise, prior to continuing upon her given task.

“Believe you forgot these.” The interruption of a voice startled her, quite unaware.

Sarra briskly pivoted to find a man referred to as Hoffsteader a scant foot or two away. He extended a hand, loosely dangling a string of silvered glass beads. These were of the sort often employed for trading purposes and not an item of great expense, but to her eyes they were delightful. Having never before become acquainted with jewels of any sort, beyond the hand-hewn bone beads and carved prayer box given her by her Cherokee grandmother, she had, on several occasions, cast yearning sidelong glances in the particular direction of the silvered beads.

Her hand ascended to them of its own volition now, but quickly she drew back her fingers. “No. Those ain’t mine. I ain’t after nothin’ but the salt and the flour for the fryin’.” She presented the basket of foodstuffs for which Bonnie had dispatched her. Using these things, they would fry the meat of a fat doe that had been harvested the evening prior by Hoffsteader himself. He was, doubtless, aware of this, as it was his work to see to the acquisition of wild game, to extend the meager winter stores through to spring.

A sudden intake of breath was her reaction as Hoffsteader
captured her hand in his own and placed the bead threads there. “But you oughta have ’em. They’s the color a your eyes, but a mite less fetchin’.”

Sarra gaped mutely at the strings that now rested along her palm. Never had someone spoken words of such nature to her! Never had a stranger presented a gift, and in a way that fairly insisted she must accept!

“Those were sure enough made for a fetchin’ neck, I’d say.” Hoffsteader’s fingers traversed the air as if it were his intention to shift aside her hair and examine the skin where the beads might eventually rest.

Sarra recoiled without deliberate thought of the motion. The precious beads skated from her fingers and clattered upon the floor. Her balance faltered fleetingly before she found her feet again, if not her voice.

Removing his hat most gallantly, Hoffsteader bowed forward, recovering the beads and bundling them within his robust fingers as if they were tiny toys. “Didn’t mean to scare you none.”

Bonnie’s innumerable warnings eclipsed the unruly thrum of Sarra’s own heart, drawing her a step farther distant.
Don’t keep no comp’ny with the men. They’s too many of ’em lonesome and coldsome here.

She withdrew yet another step but found herself hemmed against the rough-hewn shelving along the wall. ’Twas no small bit distressing, day upon day, to live among so many men and belong to none of them. Most certainly, she could have managed such an arrangement, had she desired it. On occasion these
weeks gone by, she had considered that perhaps she should. Were she to wed one of these men, Jep and Brown Drigger would be compelled to surrender their quest after her. The stealing of a man’s wife was a killing offense, and in the highlands where life remained subject to mountain law, that sort of killing was oft accomplished in the most brutal fashion. Hoffsteader being a strong specimen, a crack shot, and of mountain and Cherokee blood himself, he could doubtless protect her quite well.

Hoffsteader’s voice was tender and alluring as if he were calling a pup to his side. “It was writ all in your face. I seen you lookin’. Reckon you could mark them as a gift. Just tween friends.”

“I . . .” She hadn’t a notion of a proper response. “They’s looksome, but I only come for the flour and the salt for Bonnie.” Hitching the basket against her hip, she cast eyes toward the door. The small, low-roofed building had gathered the feel of a trap, far too devoid of maneuvering space.

“Well, I was headed thataway myself.” He had swept the basket from her hands before she could fully circumvent his person. “Time I took the rest a that doe’s carcass and tossed it off the rock bluff, where it won’t be bringin’ up varmints.”

Finding little alternative, Sarra followed along, listening as he nattered on about a bobcat that had boldly marauded near the camp on several nights prior.

She did not reply but nodded politely and with certain fascination, not having imagined Hoffsteader to be the sort for telling tales. In fact, she had spoken with him not at all in the foregone
weeks at Sagua Creek. He often vanished for days on end, then reappeared when he possessed stores to deliver. He was expert in the ways of mountain wildlife. Similarly, he was versed in the using of roots and leaves to flavor food and cure ills, and he oft gathered those as well.

Perhaps, Sarra thought now, it would be prudent to attempt to turn her heart toward this man, if a heart could be turned by sheer force of will. Perhaps he might aid her in making the way home to Aginisi’s cabin, come spring, to bury the bones and pray over them properly.

She watched the mud squelch beneath her boots and considered these most arduous questions as Hoffsteader told of the bobcat and the means by which it had eluded him the day previous.

“I’m a man to catch what I set my sights fer, sooner ’r later.” He halted stride at the doorway leading to Bonnie and Hudson’s coarsely made cookhouse. His regard held her firmly again. She was not naive to his desirous look, and a portion of her very being instinctively cowered away. Warranted or not, his lustful expression recalled memories of long nights in Brown Drigger’s cabin.

“What mischief do we have here?” Randolph’s voice disturbed the stillness of winter afternoon. Sarra took up her basket from Hoffsteader’s grasp and twisted about to see Randolph exiting the trees nearby. Oftentimes he ambled in the wood with his book and his pen. Today he carried a small branch from the plant Aginisi titled
shee-show
in Cherokee. It grew close by the water’s edge and maintained its leaves in the cold months.

A coal burned in Rand’s blue eyes as he regarded Hoffsteader, who in response straightened his own chest and lifted his chin much like a cur dog resolved to hold its territory. “Mind if I ask why that’d be a concern a yourn?”

“I mind.” Randolph entwined his arms most comfortably and claimed for himself a leaning place against the cookhouse wood stack.

“Ain’t your woman, is she?” Hoffsteader nodded in Sarra’s direction.

“I brought her here. It is my responsibility to see to her well-being, certainly.”

A bit of injury was done Sarra by the answer. Within her bloomed a yearning that Randolph might have responded to the question with a single, spare word:
Yes.

“I don’t aim to do ’er no harm. Just to spend a bit of time in her comp’ny. Reckon she’s up to decidin’ on that fer her own self.”

Randolph settled a hand upon Sarra’s arm then and brought her nearer his person. His touch was gentle, albeit firm. “I’d say it would be best if you sallied along, Hoffsteader.”

Sarra’s thoughts scattered in the way of nest mouselings discovered beneath the empty crocks in spring.

Hoffsteader upheld his position momentarily before finally stepping away, a malicious mirth creasing his lips. “You oughtn’t leave such a fine thing wanderin’ alone while you’re off afield, then. ’Nother fella might come ’long and make his intentions knowed.”

He left then, and Sarra stood with Randolph, watching the man depart the field.

“What in blazes was the meaning of that?” Randolph demanded, a stern frown lowering his chin. His gaze settled on the foodstuffs basket, and hers did as well. ’Twas then she observed that Hoffsteader had left the silver beads atop the flour.

“Was him that bought those,” she muttered, indicating the beads. Some bit of wickedness caused her to quite impulsively add, “Said they’s a color a my eyes.”

“Oh, Hoffsteader said as much, did he?” He removed the beads from her basket, taking measure of them in his hand. “Well. I’ll see they’re returned. All sorts of men are here at Sagua Falls, Sarra. With all sorts of intentions, and many not honorable. Do you understand that?”

Her ire stirred and spite reared within her. She thought to grab the bobbles back, to say,
Them’s mine now. He give them to me.
Yet she comprehended Randolph’s meaning, though she wished she did not. The beads would come at a price. All things offered by men came at a price.

Even the largesse Randolph had extended her
 
—saving her life, bringing her here
 
—had come at a cost. The deeper grew the winter, the more greatly she feared it would be much higher than she could bear to pay. An ache strained inside her and grew by the day. It pierced her through each time she considered his departure in spring. She possessed no words with which to classify the pain. ’Twas not a sensation she had
experienced prior, but in some fashion, a feeling not unlike the blinding torment of leaving Aginisi to die alone.

“And Hoffsteader was wrong, most certainly.” Randolph’s voice moderated, only for her ears and his. “Your eyes are much more lovely than these bits of glass . . . or any.”

She regarded him deeply then, and the yearning wrenched her, split her open as surely as one of Brown Drigger’s carcass hogs. The pain wrested heart and stomach and soul from her body, leaving her hollow.

Randolph’s cold fingers caressed her face and she did not withdraw from him but rather tended nearer. It was a thing she had not thought herself capable of again, trusting the touch of a man’s hand.

“We’d best go inside,” he whispered.

“Bonnie and the fixin’s are waitin’,” she agreed. Soon enough the men would be in. They would come hungry for the fresh meat tonight.

Yet a question circled her awareness, its wings outstretched, riding the drafts of air. When Randolph looked deeply into her in such a way, what did he see?

Closing the beads into his fist, he tucked them in his coat pocket. “I’ll ensure these are taken care of and Hoffsteader is well aware of it.”

Sarra nodded and followed along inside but thought of the beads. Perhaps she should have considered retaining them instead. Perhaps she should have been thinking to know more of a man who would not soon enough depart the mountain.

~

Inclining over his paper, Randolph lifted his pen again and continued the communiqué to his family
 
—the selfsame missive he had attempted on many occasions since his arrival at Sagua Camp. A fortuitous gathering of warm days had provided snowmelt to some degree, and mail would soon be given conveyance to a post via mule train.

At this juncture, his family would doubtless be wondering after him
 
—his mother and his darling sisters fretting that some most dire circumstance had befallen his person. Reading the letter again, he observed the clear, straight lines upon it, the evidence of the steady hand with which he had described the mill camp and managed to create the impression that his reason for lingering here was purely an academic interest in the process of establishing a mill town.

He finished his description by offering comfort.

Eyelids falling to rest, he braced his forehead within his hand and faltered once again in his effort.
The one true God
. . . against whom all untruths were the bleak markers of sin. He had been less than forthright with his family, as well as with himself.

How often during those cold nights he had imagined his loved ones gathered to the comfortable old hearths as they sipped warm tea, told stories, and recited evening prayers! How frequently he had wished to be among them, enjoying Old Hast’s tea cakes and delicacies!

Why now did his mind fail to reach for them? Why did they seem so far distant?

His regard strayed over the room until he spied Sarra nestled near the fire, attending the sewing Bonnie had given her. It had become their custom, Sarra’s and his, to linger here after Hudson and Bonnie were off to bed. In time, Sarra would retire to her cot in the kitchen room, and Randolph would lay out his pallet here by the fire, gazing into curling flame and considering the many weeks they had sheltered in this place. December was half past. ’Twas already deep winter.

Spring suddenly seemed too close at hand.

Sarra sobered as she turned from her mending now, as if a thought had discovered her most unexpectedly. “Why d’you scratch in that there book s’much? Many’s a time I seen you go off with it.”

The question caught Randolph unawares. He cast about, seeking an answer. How could he hope to elucidate to her the sciences of botany and ornithology and the aspiration for
academic discovery? In Sarra’s world, there existed no locus of reference for such things. She understood the ways in which plants might be employed, and means by which they grew, and at which times they came to flower head, but never would it have occurred to her to study, catalog, and record such occurrences, other than within her mind.