about
German widows, but no. No warning could have prepared him for his
Helga.
The first time he'd seen up a woman's dress,
it had been hers. Of course, she'd been giving birth to little
Jakob at the time and truly there had been nothing sexual or
seductive about the sight.
Her screaming had literally terrified him. He
well understood the fear the little boy had shown when he'd coming
running toward him on the bank of the river. He hadn't understood
the boy's frightened words, but he'd recognized panic when he saw
it.
He'd followed Karl back to the cabin and
discovered the woman about to give birth. He had known about the
German who had lived there. He had seen the man a few times and
knew that he had a family. But it was said that the man had left
for points downriver. It had never occurred to Laron that he might
have left his wife and children behind.
He had been beside her while she gave birth.
He couldn't say that he'd helped her. He'd mostly just wiped the
perspiration from her brow and whispered coaxing endearments to
calm her screaming. When the child had arrived in his arms, it was
a miracle he could not believe. Perhaps he had begun to love her
right then.
He hoped that it was his concern for his
fellow human being and the hungry mouths of two innocent children
that had kept him coming back to that cabin. He hoped that that was
what it had been and not the occasional glimpse of pale female
flesh when Helga took the baby to nurse.
He had never allowed himself to touch her,
not even to brush against her accidentally. He just wanted to be
near her. And he believed that she needed him. He could hardly stay
away. Several days a week he headed up her bayou bearing stores and
game and meat.
He remembered the evening he'd brought her
the first of her guinea hens. He'd traded one of his brothers a
half-cured deer hide for the pair of them. If his brother had
wondered about his need for guineas he hadn't asked. Laron had
loaded the two in separate sacks as if they were fighting roosters
and carried them on the pirogue.
She had been delighted. Oooing and giggling
over them as if they were satin shoes or hair ribbons.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she'd said
to him. It was the first French she had ever spoken, obviously
taught to her by her children.
He had been pleased to hear the sounds made
uneasily by her pretty lips.
She'd fixed him a wonderful meal. That was
one of the first things he had learned about her, that she was a
marvelous cook. He could bring her anything, woodcock, squirrel,
even possum and she could turn the meal into a dinner more luscious
than wild turkey and sweet potatoes. That night she'd fixed a soup
of fish with very strange but tasty bread. He'd never had such a
thing to eat, but he decided that he liked it. He liked it a
lot.
He had brought her coffee, but she knew very
little about it and made it more like a tea. He brewed it for her
as she got Karl and Elsa up to bed. The baby slept peacefully in
the basket she'd woven for him from salt-soaked reeds.
Later as they'd savored the dark rich coffee,
she suddenly seemed distracted and ill at ease.
Why should she not be? he had thought. The
little ones were all asleep. It was if they were completely alone
in the cabin. And it was not at all the thing for a woman to be
alone with a man who was not her husband.
He should go, he decided. But he lingered one
more minute. It was one minute too long.
"Thank you, thank you," she said again.
He shrugged as if it were nothing.
She couldn't sit still and got up to pace
before him momentarily, wringing her hands.
Her distress was evident. It was clear that
he should go.
"Madame Shotz—" he began.
She dropped to her knees in front of him. He
was startled. Was she going to pray? Was this some kind of homage,
kneeling to him to express her gratitude. It was not necessary. He
wanted to tell her that. He did tell her that. But of course, she
couldn't understand his French.
She moved closer to
German widows, but no. No warning could have prepared him for his
Helga.
The first time he'd seen up a woman's dress,
it had been hers. Of course, she'd been giving birth to little
Jakob at the time and truly there had been nothing sexual or
seductive about the sight.
Her screaming had literally terrified him. He
well understood the fear the little boy had shown when he'd coming
running toward him on the bank of the river. He hadn't understood
the boy's frightened words, but he'd recognized panic when he saw
it.
He'd followed Karl back to the cabin and
discovered the woman about to give birth. He had known about the
German who had lived there. He had seen the man a few times and
knew that he had a family. But it was said that the man had left
for points downriver. It had never occurred to Laron that he might
have left his wife and children behind.
He had been beside her while she gave birth.
He couldn't say that he'd helped her. He'd mostly just wiped the
perspiration from her brow and whispered coaxing endearments to
calm her screaming. When the child had arrived in his arms, it was
a miracle he could not believe. Perhaps he had begun to love her
right then.
He hoped that it was his concern for his
fellow human being and the hungry mouths of two innocent children
that had kept him coming back to that cabin. He hoped that that was
what it had been and not the occasional glimpse of pale female
flesh when Helga took the baby to nurse.
He had never allowed himself to touch her,
not even to brush against her accidentally. He just wanted to be
near her. And he believed that she needed him. He could hardly stay
away. Several days a week he headed up her bayou bearing stores and
game and meat.
He remembered the evening he'd brought her
the first of her guinea hens. He'd traded one of his brothers a
half-cured deer hide for the pair of them. If his brother had
wondered about his need for guineas he hadn't asked. Laron had
loaded the two in separate sacks as if they were fighting roosters
and carried them on the pirogue.
She had been delighted. Oooing and giggling
over them as if they were satin shoes or hair ribbons.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she'd said
to him. It was the first French she had ever spoken, obviously
taught to her by her children.
He had been pleased to hear the sounds made
uneasily by her pretty lips.
She'd fixed him a wonderful meal. That was
one of the first things he had learned about her, that she was a
marvelous cook. He could bring her anything, woodcock, squirrel,
even possum and she could turn the meal into a dinner more luscious
than wild turkey and sweet potatoes. That night she'd fixed a soup
of fish with very strange but tasty bread. He'd never had such a
thing to eat, but he decided that he liked it. He liked it a
lot.
He had brought her coffee, but she knew very
little about it and made it more like a tea. He brewed it for her
as she got Karl and Elsa up to bed. The baby slept peacefully in
the basket she'd woven for him from salt-soaked reeds.
Later as they'd savored the dark rich coffee,
she suddenly seemed distracted and ill at ease.
Why should she not be? he had thought. The
little ones were all asleep. It was if they were completely alone
in the cabin. And it was not at all the thing for a woman to be
alone with a man who was not her husband.
He should go, he decided. But he lingered one
more minute. It was one minute too long.
"Thank you, thank you," she said again.
He shrugged as if it were nothing.
She couldn't sit still and got up to pace
before him momentarily, wringing her hands.
Her distress was evident. It was clear that
he should go.
"Madame Shotz—" he began.
She dropped to her knees in front of him. He
was startled. Was she going to pray? Was this some kind of homage,
kneeling to him to express her gratitude. It was not necessary. He
wanted to tell her that. He did tell her that. But of course, she
couldn't understand his French.
She moved closer to
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