Courting Morrow Little: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

loveliness that had so long been denied her. A
cardinal flew by with a flash of red as they moved into the shade
and took a westward turn. Home. This was her home, no matter
what, no matter the memories. She lifted her chin and smiled
at the sky.
    Thank You, Lord, for bringing me back.

     

There was no place on earth more like Eden than their home on
the Red River, Morrow thought. In certain seasons, the stately
two-story cabin couldn't be seen, smothered as it was by trees.
But it was a peculiar place, the house only half lived in. She and
Pa occupied the west side while the east side was kept shuttered
and shadowed. A dogtrot divided the two, joining twin porches
at front and back. Two fine chimneys of river rock adorned each
end, one nearly continually puffing smoke, the other banked for
a decade or better. To her knowledge, Pa had never entered the
east side since that tragic summer's day all those years before,
though her own footprints had mingled with those of the mice,
marring the dusty floor.
    All was chaos within, just as the Shawnee had left it. The
spinning wheel where Ma had slumped sat untouched, the wool
she'd been working mere spiderwebbing. Splintered furniture
was strewn about-a chair leg here, a hatchet-marked cradle
there. All the prized glass from the broken front window had
been swept up by someone, sometime, and replaced with oiled
paper. But a few stray feathers from the shredded tick remained,
having escaped a brisk broom, and startled her anew each time
she entered. With the door ajar, they danced in the draft, and
she felt she was five years old again, fresh grief spilling into her
heart.
    Their side of the cabin was feather-free and tidy as could be.
Bright rag rugs lay like pressed flowers on the clean pine planks, and a huge hutch bore plates of pewter and what remained of
the fine English china. From spring to fall, fresh flowers graced
the trestle table, and winter boasted bittersweet. A staircase
hugged the west wall, its hickory steps and handrail worn smooth
with time.

    Today she hurried to her room at the top of the stairs, standing in the doorway and surveying the plate-glass windows she'd
just cleaned that bubbled and streaked in the sun. Her eyes
were drawn to her bed, bigger than a girl's had any right to be,
its counterpane immaculate, the pillows fluffed, the chamber
pot out of sight beneath. Her old dolls sat primly on a shelf, and
her fine Philadelphia clothes were hidden in a corner wardrobe
painted with a fleur-de-lis. When she'd left for Aunt Etta's, the
room had seemed just right. Now, two years later, why did it
have a childish feel?
    Although she'd been home less than a week, it seemed longer
somehow, and she'd resumed her old routine with nary a blink.
Still weary from the trip, she sank down atop the soft bed, her
thoughts far upriver. To Fort Pitt and beyond to the bustle of
Philadelphia. She missed it a bit. She'd forgotten how quiet the
cabin was ... how lonesome she felt. Pa was mending fences in
the far pasture and likely wouldn't be home till supper.
    She looked through the shiny windows, suddenly aware of
a door groaning open below. The ensuing silence sent an icy
finger of alarm down her spine. Pa always called to her when
he entered, as if he knew it would ease her. She tried to swallow
down her fear, but it had followed her for so long she felt nearly
suffocated by it.
    If it wasn't Pa ... who?
    Isolated as they were, company rarely came. A reassuring
rumble of voices sent her scurrying to the landing, where she
leaned over the stair rail. As she peered down, surprise lit her
face. Standing below was an Indian girl scarcely older than she herself, clutching a bundle. Good Robe? She'd nearly forgotten
the wife of Trapper Joe, who lived downriver. A stocky shadow
appeared in the open doorway behind the tawny figure, voice
booming.

    "Miz Morrow, where are you?"
    "Right here, Joe, she answered, hurrying down the