White Fire

The essence of all beauty, I call love

The attribute, the evidence, and end,

The consummation to the inward sense,

Of beauty apprehended from without,

I still call love.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Dressed in her green velvet riding habit, a sheer veil from her hat shielding her green eyes behind it, Flame eased her horse behind a thick cover of brush when she had seen the Indians leave White Fire’s cabin. She watched them as they rode away, not catching her spying on them.

It had been by pure chance that they had led her to him. When she had sneaked away from her room just as the sun rose to go horseback riding, she had found such pleasure riding through the forest. Then she had seen the dignified older Indian riding with the woman and child on his horse.

Intrigued by the sight, Flame had followed them, keeping back just far enough so that they would not be aware of her presence. She had felt no threat in doing this. Not while the Indian warrior had a woman and child with him.

When their travel had taken them to a cabin, and they had gone inside without knocking, Flame could not help herself. She was too curious not to continue watching them, especially to see if they lived in the cabin apart from other Indians. It did not seem the norm in the Minnesota Territory that Indians would live like that.

She secured her horse in the woods, then had sneaked up to the cabin and looked into a window. She had watched the Indian warrior build a fire as though he belonged there.

Yet it was the behavior of the woman and child that had made her believe this was not their home. They had stood stiffly, watching the warrior instead of going about their own business. It was as though none of them belonged there.

That had made Flame continue to spy, even though she knew there was a chance of getting caught in her shameful act of voyeurism. She had intended to ride long enough today to possibly find White Fire’s cabin. But the intrigue of the Indians had sidetracked her. She would search for White Fire another day.

As she continued to watch the Indians through the window, and then saw White Fire suddenly make an appearance in the room, she had almost fainted. The Indians had unknowingly led her to him.

Upon first seeing him, so handsome even this early in the morning, Flame knew that her heart, as it had been as a child of ten, was truly lost to him. She had thought of him, had dreamed of him so often through the years, it was as though she truly knew him.

For certain it was now no fantasy or dream that she was this close to him. It thrilled her to know that she could return another time and talk to him. She could hardly wait for that time.

But for now she had only been able to observe through a pane of glass and wonder what was being said between the Indians and White Fire. When the child had gone to him, and he had taken her into his arms so sweetly and gently, Flame’s heart had melted with love for him.

Ah, how she longed for children.

And this man, to whom she would give her heart, loved children as much as she. She saw it in his eyes and in the way he held the Indian child.

She had to wonder how he now felt about his son living with someone else and if he had gone yet to see him. Was he going to have a fight on his hands to get the child back from those who now claimed his son as theirs?

Knowing that she must return home before her father caught her gone, and excited about going to choose a new wardrobe, Flame hurried back to her horse. She rode off in a hard gallop toward the fort.

But she would never forget this morning. She laughed softly when she recalled her fright when the Indian warrior had momentarily left White Fire’s cabin.

She had moved swiftly to hide at the back of the cabin, yet had managed to still look around the corner of it to see the warrior take an eagle feather from a bag at the side of his horse.

When he had gone back inside, she had crept back to the window and watched him place the feather on White Fire’s table.

Then she had felt that she had taken too many chances by staying so long. She had fled back to her horse and rode off and had hidden just in time not to be caught by the Indian as he had rode away from the cabin.

“I so badly wish I could have gone inside and talked with White Fire,” Flame whispered as the fort came into view through a break in the trees a short distance away.

But even now her father could be waiting in her room with words of anger about her escapade this morning; warning her about the dangers of it.

She smiled when she recalled her father’s habit of sleeping late each morning. While living in St. Louis, he had never risen until around nine, always depending on oth

ers to see to the early morning duties at the fort. He was older now. She imagined he might even sleep later.

As she rode out in the open, she glanced at the horizon and saw the sun was now creeping up behind the trees. She knew that it was not yet seven o’clock, and felt safe enough. The sentries at the fort would surely not tell on her for fear of stepping out of line.