Chronicles Of The Maca Collection - Books 1-4

19. Fort Davis-2

As she returned to the area where they were camped, she chanced to look in the direction of the water. Was it curiosity or was it because it had become quiet? She never resolved that question, but his broad, muscular back was devoid of clothing, the water dripping down from his dark hair. She turned so quickly the load she was carrying almost fell. That he was a huge man, she had not doubted, but the muscles like cords on his back and arms were so unlike anything she knew from Mr. Lawrence it took her breath away. What is the matter with me ran through her mind. Her annoyance at herself lasted until he returned carrying a small tin.

“This tis,” and he started again in German. “This contains a special salve. I keep some with me in case I pick up an infection or suffer a wound. It will help heal your ears.” He wondered how he had missed realizing that the matted hair around that portion of her face was more than grime. Indians used water for bathing and washing. He had been too long in the company of men.

Anna"s stare was defiant. She was daring him to touch her. He handed the tin to her.

“I suggest you at least wash your hair before applying it. I will start the evening meal, and you can start your sewing.”

She considered and knew he was correct. The flesh where the outer ears had been were scabbed over and needed to be cleaned. “Do you have any soap, please?” Her voice was almost meek.

The half smile was back on his lips and amusement lurked in the dark eyes. “Aye, here it tis. Ye twill have but air for the drying.”

Anna palmed the soap and marched toward the river. The view across the river was unrestricted. Round river rocks and sand lined the beach. The willows extended out into the water and the cottonwoods created shade. She could smell the smoke and grease in her clothes. Why hadn"t she brought the trousers and shirt? She could have hidden behind the tree trunk. Because you are a stubborn woman, she thought. She turned and walked back to the cart. MacDonald was kneeling where the fire would be, piling on dry leaves and then the smaller sticks.

She ignored him and reached over the cart to pull out her bundle of clothes before returning to the water"s edge. There she removed the socks and brogans as she did not want them wet, and began unbraiding her hair. Why hadn"t she asked for a comb? Once her hair was wet the curls would become a mass of snarls within hours. She knew it had turned white, but at thirty-three it was doubtful that any man would look at her. Normal men wouldn"t anyway. She was too tall; worse she had been in a Comanche camp for two seasons. She would be fortunate if Gerde even allowed her near little Hans. She smelled of the Indian camp and their foods. She knew it. What did it matter if the man r***d her? She was already fouled in the eyes of the white man"s world.

She pulled off the offending deerskin garment and plunged into the willow-protected water and used the soap to scrub vigorously at her body and her hair. Before walking back to dry ground, Anna looked around, but MacDonald was nowhere in sight. She moved swiftly ignoring the rocks under her feet and pulled on the man"s shirt and trousers. The trousers were rough canvas and the shirt cheap cotton, but they covered her. Her hair she tried wringing out, but it was too thick, curly, and unruly and soon soaked her shirt. She turned away from the cart and as rapidly as possible put on the socks and boots before buttoning up the shirt and trousers.

The only thing to do with the hair was to run her fingers through it and braid it. She would need to use the rawhide ties for now. Once the hair was braided, she opened the small can and applied the salve. Maybe it will work and maybe it won"t were her thoughts. She stood and returned to the camp.

MacDonald was sitting on the cart tongue whittling and glanced up.

“Those boots announce every step ye take.” He stood, folded the jackknife, and smiled at her. “Ye look like a young, albino laddie. Ye need some weight on that skinny frame and then ye twould be magnificent.”

There was admiration in his voice and Anna drew in her breath. Had she been insulted or complimented? It was difficult to tell.

MacDonald insisted on doing the clean up while she worked on her skirt. She had him cut a four inch strip off the side of the blue material and then cut the remaining piece in half before sewing the two large pieces together. At first her efforts were clumsy, but as time went on her stitches became her stitches: a close, small, neat line of white marching across a blue field. All too soon the light fled and nighttime held sway.

“I can let the fire burn a wee bit longer for yere sewing this eve as we are still close to Fort Davis. By tomorrow eve, I canna do so.”

Anna looked up puzzled and then realized what he had said. “Thank du, Herr MacDonald. I vill this thread finish…” and realized her words were wrong. “I"ll use the thread now in the needle and stop. Thank du.”

He smiled at her and used her language. “I noticed the tips of your little fingers are gone. Did that occur before you were captured?”

She raised her head and tightened her lips. “No, they did that when they gave my sons to others. I tried to fight them. They cut them off to show that my boys were dead to me. They were not dead, and Daniel still lives. They are my sons. I was stronger then. They healed over.” Her grey eyes were defiant as though defying him to challenge her.

Had he challenged everyone in this land when he first walked free? Did she fear he was going to bed her or argue that she should nay have fought? It twas a wonder they had let her live. Then realization hit him.

“Is that when your hair turned white?”

She looked down at the sewing and continued stitching while she spoke. “Yes, by the next morning it was completely white. They weren"t sure whether it was magic or if there was something wrong with my mind.” She tied off the thread and looked up.

“There, I have finished for this evening.”

MacDonald stood. “I suggest ye sleep in the cart if ye still dinna feel safe.”

She looked at the cart. It was perhaps four to five feet in length which meant she would need to sleep cattycornered. Plus, the boards would be rough and harder than the ground.

“Would it be all right if I slept under the cart?”

He smiled. “That should nay be a problem, Mrs. Lawrence.”