That day of the ambush, she had seen one of the renegades gazing at her hair. She had, as quickly, seen how he had yanked a knife from a sheath at his right side. She knew what his intentions were, abhorred by even the thought of being scalped by that evil red man.
She could hardly make out his features, for they were marred by ungodly streaks of red and black across his face. “War paint, I imagine,” she whispered.
Just as he had let out a horrendous, mind-shattering war whoop and had begun making his way toward her, she heard the report of the gun that had downed that heartless man. Marsha would never forget how frightened she was. She couldn’t move a muscle in her body!
She remembered how his knife dropped from his hand as he clawed at his bloody chest before falling from his horse, dead. One of the cavalrymen had downed the man, saving Marsha’s life.
“I’ve changed since then,” she whispered to herself, now slowly moving her hand over her facial features. Until that day, she had been so happy, so content with the world. But since then, she had found it hard to smile.
She doubted, now, how anyone could think she was pretty, for surely she wore her sadness on her face, and even in her violet eyes.
She tried not to. She knew that she had to move on with her life, but she just wasn’t sure what that life was to include. For now, she was taking it a day at a time, caring for her brother and trying to put the past behind her.
Marsha went to a table and picked up her crochet work and sat down before the fire. She had worked hard all morning, washing and cleaning. It was now time for her to indulge herself before preparing the evening meal.
When she had first taken up her crochet work after having arrived at her brother’s home, her fingers had shook too much to be able to hook the thread with the needle.
Finally, her fingers were no longer trembling, and she intended to make many more pretty things for her brother’s cabin—even though she could see his look of “Oh, no, not something else lacy for my house” when he gazed at what she sat crocheting.
She only gave him a sweet smile, which usually would do the trick. Since she was a child, with an older brother to look after her, that smile had been able to win her anything from him.
And now?
Yes, when she smiled she could see how relieved it made him, not only because he had always loved her smile, but because he could tell that, day by day, she was getting past the tragedy and was finally becoming the sister he had always known, someone who was always there with a smile and comforting words when anyone had a bad day.
“Big brother, I will be all right,” she whispered to herself as she looped thread around a finger, and then around the crochet hook.
She got lost now in thoughts of her brother. He had moved to Kentucky two years ago and had established a trading post at a Creek Indian village. The Creek people had seen that it was in their best interest to have a post in their village, for they didn’t have to travel far to make their trade. Other clans came from far and wide to deliver their deerskins, furs, hides, tallow, oils, and honey to the trading post, knowing that her brother paid well for the supple hides.
Her brother had explained that trading with Indians was a lucrative business for him; that a traders’ life followed seasonal rhythms linked to the autumn hunt. He had also said that he enjoyed having his post at the Creek village because he felt much safer surrounded by a peaceful Indian such as the Creek, instead of being at the mercy of those who killed whites for pleasure.
Again Marsha was reminded of that renegade who killed her parents, a man who not only had the one empty socket where his eye had once been, but also a livid white scar that ran down from the socket, across his right cheek.
Forcing this man from her mind again, she continued thinking about how things in her life were, now that she lived with her brother.
She had been there for one month now. Upon her arrival, she had been surprised to see how different this Indian village was from others. She learned that the reason these people were called Creek was because their impressive towns lined the banks of beautiful creeks and streams.
She also found that instead of living in tepees, the Creek lived in cabins. The roofs of their cabins were shingled with bark. The sides were made of poles and sticks plastered with mud. Marsha had noticed that one of those cabins was larger than all of the others. Her brother had told her that it was occupied by the village chief, whose name was Swift Horse.
“Swift Horse,” she whispered beneath her breath as she paused with her crocheting.
She smiled as she thought of this man and how he had greeted her on the day of her arrival at the village. His dark eyes had lingered on Marsha for a moment or two as her brother had introduced her to him; Chief Swift Horse was even more handsome than any white man she’d ever seen or known. He was broad-shouldered, muscled, and spoke with a gentle kindness.
But she had looked quickly away. She was confused by her attraction to the handsome chief. This was the last thing she would have ever imagined happening. She wanted to hate all Indians, not be infatuated by any. She kept reminding herself that her parents were dead because of Indians.
She hoped that her brother would change his mind soon and agree to return to Georgia. But as each day passed, she became more doubtful of that ever happening. He was enjoying mixing with the Indians, as well as others who came from other villages to trade with him, while she was filled with warring emotions!
How could she trust Indians—any
of them?
How could her brother?
“I’ll just keep on minding my own business as best I can,” she murmured, resuming her crocheting.
Marsha paused again from her crocheting when she heard the drone of voices in the store of the trading post.
Her ears perked up when she heard a familiar soft, feminine voice. It was the voice of a Creek woman she now knew as Soft Wind, who was Chief Swift Horse’s sister. She came often, and Marsha did not want to think about why she was there so much.