contentment and certainty, made my unease grow until it was like a heavy ball of unbaked dough in the pit of my stomach.
“Philadelphia is my home,” I said quickly. “Truly, I don’t belong here. And besides, the oystering venture with Mr. Swan has been a disaster.”
“But Mademoiselle, you must give Mr. Swan a second chance. It is Christian to forgive.”
I barreled on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days taking in men’s mending.”
“Who will make pie?” Kape asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. Frink is quite capable of baking a pie.”
Kape seemed unconvinced.
“Have you told Jehu about your plans?” Father Joseph asked quietly.
“I don’t believe Jehu’s opinion has any bearing on my life,” I said stiffly.
“You must at least tell Keer-ukso that you’re leaving!”
“I suppose I should,” I admitted reluctantly. I had hoped to make a quick escape. “He’s at M’Carty’s helping mend the roof.” With Jehu, I thought.
Father Joseph looked relieved. “Wait a moment.” He dug around in a basket in the corner and pulled out two bottles of wine. “Would you mind taking this to M’Carty? For the pain.”
“Where did you get them?”
He looked a little shamefaced. “It’s communion wine.”
Poor Father Joseph was normally firm about Church doctrine, and I imagined that the bishop would not approve of doling out communion wine to men who broke their legs. I took the bottles.
“You shall be missed, Mademoiselle,” Father Joseph said, and then he gave me a great hug.
I hugged him back hard, the scratchy wool of his robe grating on my cheeks and soaking up my tears before he could notice them.
The day grew unseasonably warm and humid. By the time I reached M’Carty’s homestead, I was damp and uncomfortable. I took off my cape and carried it.
Jehu was perched on the roof, shirtless, his muscled back coated with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Boston Jane!” Keer-ukso called, walking toward me, carrying planks. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either! Was I destined to see the bare chest of every man on Shoalwater Bay?
Jehu heard Keer-ukso’s shout and peered at me. He scaled down to the ground.
“Something wrong back at the cabin?” he asked, wiping the hair from his forehead.
“Uh, no,” I stammered. “Everything’s fine.”
“What have you got there?”
I held the bottles of wine aloft. “I brought them for M’Carty. From Father Joseph.”
“That the only reason you came?” he asked quietly.
Before I could answer, Keer-ukso was at my side. He nodded at the roof, explaining, “We fix roof in Chinook way.”
The Chinook way was to use cedar planks, as I knew from helping Keer-ukso myself once. “It looks very good,” I assured him, as he and Jehu both retrieved their shirts to put on.
“Come meet Cocumb,” Keer-ukso said, taking me by the elbow and leading me into the log cabin.
The last time I had seen M’Carty he had looked strong and fit, even a little full at the belly. Now he was thin and drawn. His leg was propped up on a pile of pillows and secured by two thicksticks bound with a bandage. A Chinook woman with a dark fall of hair was bending over him, her face turned away.
“Is that Miss Peck I see?” M’Carty joked, his smile strained.
The woman gave a firm tug on the bandage around his leg.
“Cocumb!” he barked in pain, struggling to sit up.
But his wife pushed him back to the pillows. M’Carty reached for a whiskey bottle on the side table, but Cocumb beat him to it, swatting his hand away. M’Carty groaned dramatically. Cocumb shook her head, as if scolding a belligerent schoolboy, and turned to us with a sigh.
“Boston Jane,” Keer-ukso said, introducing me.
“I’m very pleased to finally meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
Cocumb shook it firmly. “I have heard much about you.” Like many of the Chinook, she spoke very good English.
I pressed the wine into her hand. “From Father
“Philadelphia is my home,” I said quickly. “Truly, I don’t belong here. And besides, the oystering venture with Mr. Swan has been a disaster.”
“But Mademoiselle, you must give Mr. Swan a second chance. It is Christian to forgive.”
I barreled on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days taking in men’s mending.”
“Who will make pie?” Kape asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. Frink is quite capable of baking a pie.”
Kape seemed unconvinced.
“Have you told Jehu about your plans?” Father Joseph asked quietly.
“I don’t believe Jehu’s opinion has any bearing on my life,” I said stiffly.
“You must at least tell Keer-ukso that you’re leaving!”
“I suppose I should,” I admitted reluctantly. I had hoped to make a quick escape. “He’s at M’Carty’s helping mend the roof.” With Jehu, I thought.
Father Joseph looked relieved. “Wait a moment.” He dug around in a basket in the corner and pulled out two bottles of wine. “Would you mind taking this to M’Carty? For the pain.”
“Where did you get them?”
He looked a little shamefaced. “It’s communion wine.”
Poor Father Joseph was normally firm about Church doctrine, and I imagined that the bishop would not approve of doling out communion wine to men who broke their legs. I took the bottles.
“You shall be missed, Mademoiselle,” Father Joseph said, and then he gave me a great hug.
I hugged him back hard, the scratchy wool of his robe grating on my cheeks and soaking up my tears before he could notice them.
The day grew unseasonably warm and humid. By the time I reached M’Carty’s homestead, I was damp and uncomfortable. I took off my cape and carried it.
Jehu was perched on the roof, shirtless, his muscled back coated with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Boston Jane!” Keer-ukso called, walking toward me, carrying planks. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either! Was I destined to see the bare chest of every man on Shoalwater Bay?
Jehu heard Keer-ukso’s shout and peered at me. He scaled down to the ground.
“Something wrong back at the cabin?” he asked, wiping the hair from his forehead.
“Uh, no,” I stammered. “Everything’s fine.”
“What have you got there?”
I held the bottles of wine aloft. “I brought them for M’Carty. From Father Joseph.”
“That the only reason you came?” he asked quietly.
Before I could answer, Keer-ukso was at my side. He nodded at the roof, explaining, “We fix roof in Chinook way.”
The Chinook way was to use cedar planks, as I knew from helping Keer-ukso myself once. “It looks very good,” I assured him, as he and Jehu both retrieved their shirts to put on.
“Come meet Cocumb,” Keer-ukso said, taking me by the elbow and leading me into the log cabin.
The last time I had seen M’Carty he had looked strong and fit, even a little full at the belly. Now he was thin and drawn. His leg was propped up on a pile of pillows and secured by two thicksticks bound with a bandage. A Chinook woman with a dark fall of hair was bending over him, her face turned away.
“Is that Miss Peck I see?” M’Carty joked, his smile strained.
The woman gave a firm tug on the bandage around his leg.
“Cocumb!” he barked in pain, struggling to sit up.
But his wife pushed him back to the pillows. M’Carty reached for a whiskey bottle on the side table, but Cocumb beat him to it, swatting his hand away. M’Carty groaned dramatically. Cocumb shook her head, as if scolding a belligerent schoolboy, and turned to us with a sigh.
“Boston Jane,” Keer-ukso said, introducing me.
“I’m very pleased to finally meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
Cocumb shook it firmly. “I have heard much about you.” Like many of the Chinook, she spoke very good English.
I pressed the wine into her hand. “From Father
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