Ice Princess

http://www.uncialpress.com

DEDICATION

Many folks have helped and cheered me along the rocky, sometimes discouraging journey to publication. This book is dedicated to six women who critiqued my early manuscripts with honesty, courage, and love. Laurie, Phyllis, Karen, Barbara, RubyLee and Norma, I'd never have gotten here without you.

Or without Neil....

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

In recent years a number of books and websites have shone new light on the lives of Black slaves in eighteenth and nineteenth century America. While I can't claim to have consulted all of them, I read enough to know that no suffering or hardship I could dream of for William to endure could possibly equal reality. I'd like to thank all those academic and genealogical researchers who have opened this window to a dark and shameful part of our past.

Prologue

Cherry Vale, Oregon Country: July, 1846

The knife slid through skin and gristle with a sound like ripping silk. Flower gripped the bone hilt, stared at blood pumping from the gaping cut. The man's body slackened onto the packed dirt floor as the flow subsided. She let the knife drop.

It is done, she said. I am avenged.

She looked down at her bloody hand. Now I must cleanse myself, she said, her voice sounding hollow and distant in her own ears. Rising, she pushed past Hattie's outstretched hand, and rushed into the outer darkness.

Stumbling through the dark forest, she had no care for where she went. Her mind was filled with memories--of faces and places, of voices loved and feared, of joy and of pain.

At dawn, she went to ground in a half-cave left where a forest giant had fallen. She curled herself into a ball and tried to clear her mind while the voices raged in her head.

She hurt. Her face, her breasts. Most of all, her belly.

She held her pain unto herself, using it as a shield against remembering. Failing.

The greatest gift a young woman can give her husband is purity.

White men will see you as a filthy half-breed, my daughter, and they will treat you accordingly.

Marry yourself a white man, leetle gal. They ain't an Injun alive will give you the kind of livin' you'd want.

You are a child of sin, Pe-nah-he-ump, and you must never forget that your soul is irremediably soiled.

And over and over, Don't fight me, woman, or you will die!

She lived again the sharp pressure of the knife at her throat, the cutting of her shirt, the heat of his hands on her as he fondled her breasts, probed her secret places. The tearing agony as he shoved himself deep into her with a swift, painful thrust.

And most of all she hated herself that she had not fought.

Chapter One

Fort Vancouver: November 1846

Konrad Muller sat far back in the smoky room, never letting his gaze waver from the tall, buckskin-clad man who stood at the crude bar. The stranger wasn't drinking, although a copper mug of grog sat at his right hand. He was leaning across the bar, talking quietly and urgently to the bartender. Eventually an agreement must have been reached, for the two shook hands. The gent in buckskin dropped a coin on the bar, a coin that rang with a mellow note, a coin that was quickly caught up and concealed beneath a grimy apron.

Muller watched him leave, let him get well clear of the door before following. Then he crossed the room as if he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. When the tavern door squealed closed behind him, he slipped into the shadows of the Fort Vancouver stockade until he came to the muddy track leading to the docks. No matter where his prey was headed, he was likely to go to the waterfront first. Muller had seen him pay a young Indian to watch his pack.

Muller reached the waterfront first, faded into the shadows of a stand of fir where he had a good view of the sleeping Indian leaning against the pack. The moon wouldn't set until near dawn, so he wasn't likely to miss the gent's return. He could afford to be patient. As he waited, he mentally spent the fortune in gold that was to be his.

Muted speech woke Muller from a light doze. A pale winter dawn hovered over the mountains to the east. Three men, all tall and lithe, all clad in fringed buckskins, were clustered about the Indian boy. Two pack mules carried traps and knobby bundles. A third mule waited patiently.

Muller cursed under his breath. He watched, immobile, as the man with the gold coins hefted his pack across the mule's back and swung up before it. Within minutes Muller's fortune rode out along the trail heading east.

He wasn't more than an hour behind the trappers.

By the time the trio reached The Dalles, Muller was scarcely a mile behind, unworried that they would think him following. The traffic from Fort Vancouver was almost constant these days.

His pockets were all but empty. He'd been thinking on ways to acquire some of the silver brought West by new emigrants, but then he'd been distracted by the tall trapper's unusual golden coins.

If there were two coins, it was likely there were more.

* * * *

Valley of the Boise: March, 1847

William watched Buff's cabin all day, waiting for some movement to show Flower was there. Nothing moved, save fluttering brown birds in the willows, a coyote nosing in the pile of dry bones behind the outhouse. The air was still, so still that he could hear the Boise River talkin' to itself, a full quarter-mile away.

The log cabin wasn't much more than a dugout, its backside right up against the hill behind it. The door opened in, but it was thick wood planks and wouldn't be easy broke. He'd bide his time.

Every hour or so he stretched his legs, knowing that when he moved, it might have to be quickly. Whenever the cold seeped through the mountain sheep skin he wore like a coat, he tightened his arm and shoulder muscles.

Once in a while he saw a faint waver in the air above the chimney that told him there was heat inside, a careful fire of well-dried wood barely smoldering. William had tended fires in that very fireplace and knew just how long it could smolder.

He had time. He could wait.

At dusk he moved closer, slipping among the thick cottonwood trunks until he was within fifty feet of the cabin door. He settled behind a clump of dry goldenrod, knowing his stained and mottled leather clothing would blend with the standing dead stalks. Only his eyes could give him away, their whites gleaming in the fading light.

Like a hunter, he could be patient. He had pursued her for months now. A few hours, even a few days, would do nothing more than try his patience.

He likened his vigil to that of a hunter, seeking wounded game. She had gone to ground as surely as a gutshot doe, fated to die slowly and painfully. Except that her wounds were of the spirit, not of the body. Hadn't he seen other folks die when their spirits were tried beyond belief?

It was full dark when the door opened. She could have been a shadow as she slipped through the narrow opening, moved silently along the path toward the hot spring.

For the first time in weeks he allowed himself to relax, allowed his senses to retreat from full alert. He had found her.

She would not escape him again.

* * * *

Flower let herself back inside, wondering if she would ever feel clean again. She had bathed twice each day since returning to her father's cabin, had scrubbed her skin with the fine sandstone of the hillside until she felt flayed alive. She had fasted, as her mother's people would have, hoping--praying--for a vision, for wisdom. And she had appealed to the God of Reverend Spalding, little as she liked His vengeful omnipotence, for forgiveness.

How could He forgive her when she could not forgive herself?

She shuddered when a droplet from her wet hair slipped between her breasts and down her belly. It was like the phantom touch of a man's finger, intimate and invasive.

Except that the men's hands that had invaded her had not been so gentle, so careful.

With a soft cry, she pressed her buckskin dress against her body, blotting the trespassing droplet.

Even though she had no appetite, Flower ate the last of the dried fish for supper. Tomorrow she must reset her snares, down along the riverbank. Perhaps this time she would capture one of the gray geese that had been feeding there these past few days. And it was time to set out her fish trap again. She would need food for her journey. There would be little that she could gather along the trail, so early in the spring.

She needed firewood as well. The woodpile set against the cabin's outside wall was growing alarmingly smaller each day. She had already gleaned all the deadfalls from the nearby cottonwood groves. Upriver there were only dense willow thickets, and if she were to go downriver, she might encounter some of Goat Runner's people. Some of the men.

Flower sighed. Eventually she would have to face men, talk with them, trade with them. She could not reach the safety she sought otherwise. Would she be able to hide her fear and her anger when she met strangers--strange men? She did not know.

All too soon she had tomorrow planned. And the next day. The next week. There were no books in the cabin, and nothing else to occupy her mind. Nothing to hold the memories at bay.

It was too early to retire, for she would only lie in the bunk and stare into the dark, remembering. She opened the cabin door, stepped outside. Sometimes, when the memories became too much for her, she found a sort of a peace by staring into the night sky, tracing the very different star patterns taught to her by her mother, her father, and her teacher.

She listened. There was nothing to hear but the usual night sounds. She reached back inside for the shabby woolen coat she had found in the cabin. Then she saw the shadow, black on black.

Before her scream could shatter the night, a big hand covered her mouth, a hard body pressed her back against the cabin wall. In an instant she was back in the gold basin, fighting for her life. They would not hurt her again, would not rape her again. This time they could kill her, but they would not defile her.

Stop yo' fightin', gal! The hoarse voice was punctuated with grunts as the huge man fought to hold her hands away from his face, her teeth from his throat. He caught her threshing legs between his with terrifying ease.

Still she fought. She would force him to pay dearly for his pleasure.

But it was no use. His sheer size gave him advantage, control. Panting, still fighting to pull her hands free, she glared up at the dark face looming over her. His eyes gleamed whitely in the dark and starlight glinted deep bronze on his sweating brow.

I figured you'd fight me, he said, panting slightly, if'n you didn't run soon's you seed me. Else wise I'd a' come up to your door jest like a white man. His teeth shone white as his eyes as he pushed her back against the cabin wall.

Will...? She swallowed, feeling the rawness of her throat from those minutes of stifled screams. William?

You gonna be still?

Not believing it was really William, Flower continued to glare.

He gave her a little shake. Woman, I ask you a question.

No one else had ever called her woman with that peculiar combination of gentleness and desire. Finally she believed. I will not fight, she said. Let me go.

He released her, pulling her to sit beside him on the split-log bench. I been seekin' you a long time, he said. Went clear up there to the Clearwater, thinkin' you mighta' gone to your ma's folks. He shook his head. That there preacher, he tol' me he'd not seed you since you took off last spring. So I come here, not knowin' where else to look.

You came over the Blues? In winter? It could be done, she knew, but few were brave--or that foolhardy--enough to make the attempt.

I don't know what the Blues is, but if it's between here and Lapwai, I reckon I did. I climbed me some pretty big mountains, crossed a couple of fair-sized rivers. She saw him shrug. I knowed...knew I needed to come south to get here, so I did.

You came south... Flower could not believe her ears. Even in the summer, her mother's people considered that journey a major endeavor. You didn't go west first?

Naw. I jest come straight. He rose to his feet and she saw again what a tall man he was. Tall and strong.

She remembered how he had first come to the valley of the Boise River, and she believed him. If anyone could cross the mountains between here and the Clearwater River in the middle of winter, it would be this man who had walked three thousand miles without shoes, without a gun, and without any idea of where he was going.

You got any food? I laid there and wondered how's come you didn't hear my belly rumblin'.

She went inside, knowing he was right behind her. Only some jerky and some dried berries.

Woman, I'll eat anythin' right now. It's been a spell since I had more'n what I could pick off the bushes.

But if you came south from Lapwai, why didn't you stop at Cherry...? Oh, William, is Hattie all right? Did Emmet stay, then? Perhaps she had abandoned her friends, but she still cared for them.

He went, all right. Him 'n Silas, they took they...themselves off 'long about first frost. They was goin' to catch 'em a ship and go off to Chiny or somewheres. He sat on the cut log that served as her only chair and accepted the wooden trencher she handed him. But Mist' Em, he changed his mind. William's smile glinted again in the firelight. Reckon he couldn't stay away from Hattie like he thought he could.

So there were some happy endings despite the cruelty of the world, Flower told herself. She sat on the floor before the fire. As long as she was between him and the door, she didn't feel trapped.

She watched him wolf down the jerky, his strong teeth tearing and chewing the stringy dried meat easily. He disposed of the dried huckleberries in two mouthfuls.

How long did you watch me? she said when he had eaten her cupboard bare. That he had spied on her, that he had so easily concealed himself right outside the cabin, made her wonder who else had watched. Her belly clenched. I thought...the reason I fought... She took a deep breath. I would have killed you if...

His big callused hand closed over hers. I stopped at the Injun camp, he said, gesturing with his chin, and talked to that there Goat Runner. He tol' me you was bein' mighty shy. Said you was apt to hide if'n you saw a body comin'. He shivered. Mighty cold out there, woman. Mighty cold.

This time she heard the ghost of a chuckle in his voice. Had she ever heard him laugh out loud?

William refused to sleep inside, not wanting to endanger his reluctant welcome. I ain't been under a roof for so long I wouldn't know what to do with myself, he said. You sleep good, gal, an' I'll see you in the mornin'.

The relief in her eyes showed him he'd done the right thing. For her.

The right thing for him would have been to take her into his arms and show her how much he wanted her.

Someday.

He retrieved his pack and his spear from among the cottonwoods and made his bed against the cabin door. He wasn't exactly afraid she would try to run from him in the night, just cautious. Now he'd found her, she'd not get away again. Not 'til he had a chance to show her how he loved her.

* * * *

He woke to a scream. Leaping to his feet, William shoved the door open. Flower was crouched in the darkest corner, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. He knelt beside her, wanting to hold her, to protect her. Knowing he must not.

Please. Oh, please, let me go. Please. Please. Please...

Each time she said it, her voice got weaker, until the last word came out on a whispery moan. Then she collapsed into a limp mound on the sandy floor. William reached to touch her, to gather her to him. Her hands beat weakly against his chest. He breathed in the scent of her, woodsmoke and sagebrush and her own fresh, clean odor.

Hush, gal. Hush now. He stroked her sleek black hair, wondering why she had cut it so short. It's all right. You're safe. Hush.

Her body shook, like a reed in swift water. He continued to stroke, until the shudders slowed, almost stopped. Yet she didn't relax, but leaned stiff against him.

No, she whispered, finally, I am not. She twisted, trying to escape, but he held her tight.

He picked her up, feeling how slight she was. She must have near starved these last months. William silently cursed the fate that had kept him from coming to her before this.

She stiffened even more. Put me down!

Instead he carried her over and laid her on the lower bunk. He knelt beside her. Now supposin' you tells me what you ain't, he said. An' whilst you're at it, you tell me why you up an' left us, me'n Hattie, when we needed you.

He knew if he mentioned how she must have needed them just as much, she'd deny it. He'd lost track of the times last summer she'd turned away, keepin' all her pain to her own self. It was as if her heart had frozen into a solid block of ice when those bastard renegades laid hands on her.

She didn't answer for a long time. Her breathing got even and regular as the shudders stopped shaking her body. Her eyes were open, though, for he could see them gleaming in the dim light from the half open door. He forced himself to be patient.

I could not stay, she said at last. Do you forget what I did? Another shudder. Twice. Her fingers curled into claws, then clenched into fists.

William ached to hold her close, even as he knew she would not allow it. Instead he sat, dumb, seeking the words to give her peace.

I killed them. Again the jerky motion of her left hand, as if she clenched a slender object--a knife's shaft. "And I would do it again.

"I would...do...it...again!"

Even in the dark he could see how empty her eyes was, as they stared at scenes invisible except in her memories.

Not ever'body's like them renegades. He wanted to promise her that he would keep her safe for always. Except that William knew that he couldn't ever make that promise, knew he'd not be able to keep it.

He said the only thing he could. I wants you to be my woman. As he heard his own words, he knew they were weak, when she needed strength.

Oh, William. Her words were soft. She stretched out a hand and patted his arm.

Reckon I'd like you to come with me, he told her, back to Cherry Vale. Now that he had found the home he'd sought for so long, he wanted to live there the rest of his life, to raise strong sons in the rich valley where he had already begun building the first home he'd ever really had. He belonged there, as he had never belonged anywhere before. It was where he was meant to live out his life.

Oh, William, she said again, and buried her face in her hands.

Didn't reckon you'd want the likes of me, he said, fighting to contain tears of his own. Silas had told him a man didn't weep like a babe. But I had to ask.

He waited for her answer a long time, until her breathing grew even and slow. He reckoned she wasn't gonna give him an answer. Wiping a hand across his face--he didn't want her to see what a weakling he was--he stood up. With a deep sigh, he left her alone, pulling the door closed behind him.

He'd knowed, all the way up to Lapwai and back down here again, that it was a fool's errand. Even if all that was hurtin' her got itself healed, she wasn't for the likes of him. A fine woman like her wouldn't ever want an ignorant Nigra like him.

Maybe his mammy had wanted him, but he couldn't even remember her. And his marse had wanted him, for he was a strong young buck, able to work all day in the hot sun. He'd heard Marse once, talking about the price of slaves--five hundred dollars for a good field hand.

Five hundred dollars had been more money than he'd even been able to imagine, he who'd rarely had more than a few pennies to his name.

Now he had riches more than he'd ever dreamed. Land. Gold. Freedom.

But without Flower, what difference did it make? He'd found his kingdom, but he'd have no queen to share it with.

* * * *

Flower woke in the dark cabin, alone.

Alone? Of course she was alone. That was why she'd come here, to be alone with herself, to learn to live with her great shame, with the suffocating guilt that she had not been able to escape, no matter how fast or how far she'd run. But no! She wasn't alone, not any more.

William. He'd come for her. He wanted her to marry him.

The ache in her heart was much like when her mother had died. Her father had left her with friends, advising her to go to Lapwai, where her mother's family was. Time you was to learn yore roots, gal, he'd said. I cain't take care o'you like I should, and yore grandpa, he allus wanted you to know where your ma come from, afore she got took by the Bannock.

But Lapwai had been one more place where she did not belong, for she was neither red nor white. Her mother's people had been strangers, her father's had called her pagan.

She lay, dry-eyed and hurting, in the lower bunk. The fire had died, for she'd slept heavily and deeply, and the cabin was cold. She would need to bring in more wood before rebuilding the fire, for only kindling lay on the hearth.

With a sigh she rose and pulled on the ragged wool coat she had found forgotten in the hidey-hole at the back of the cabin. If only William had not come. Or if he would go away, back to Cherry Vale where he belonged. He wanted from her more than she could give. More than she would ever be able to give.

Flower bit her lip, determined not to yield to the self-pity sitting in a painful lump at the back of her throat. If she ever gave way to it, she would probably not stop weeping for days. Thus far she had controlled her tears, not shedding them since the day she'd first lain beaten and bleeding, after Pyzen Joe and his five vicious companions had finished with her.

She had come closer to a sense of belonging in Cherry Vale than she had in any of the many places she'd lived. Perhaps if her soul had not been so wounded, she would have made a home there, with Emmet and Hattie, Silas and William. They had not seemed to notice the color of her skin, unlike most of their countrymen, who saw the union of white and red as the vilest of sins, who saw the offspring of those unions as subhuman, beneath contempt.

The isolated little settlements inhabited by men of the Hudson's Bay Company had not been typical of the civilization they represented. At Fort Vancouver, her parentage was the norm. She had known no children with white mothers. There had been many like her at the Rendezvous she'd attended as a child, light-eyed or pale-skinned children with mothers of the Bannock, Paiute, Lacota, or Nez Perce. She had been practically grown before she learned that not all white men loved their Indian children, not all white men respected their Indian wives.

The first time she'd been called a half-breed, she'd not even known she'd been insulted.

Still shivering from the iciness of the water she'd used for her ablutions, Flower opened the door. Nothing moved except a few juncos, hopping about in the debris under the willows. There was no sign of William. She pulled the door closed and went toward the tall cottonwoods that extended down to the river. The trail through the woods was almost overgrown and, as usual, she avoided following it. Each time she went this way, she chose a different path, not wanting to leave traces of her passing.

After setting her snares--three among the woods, three more along the riverbank where tall rushes and sedges were a favorite refuge of the ducks and geese she hoped to capture--she pulled her fish traps out from the clump of willow where she'd hidden them. Whether William had left her--the thought brought a strange, empty feeling to her belly--or whether he was simply off hunting, she had to restock her larder.

In a few weeks she should be able to depart. The buds on the cottonwoods were fat and sticky and the willows had a green mistiness to them, as if their emerging leaves were shining of their own accord.

The length of her journey would be the same, whether she walked or rode. Riding, she could carry supplies and not be so dependent on what she could snare, pick, or scavenge as she traveled. Goat Runner still had Windchaser, the spotted mare she'd ridden from Lapwai, so she must go to the Bannock village to ask for her mare's return. To do so, she would have to speak to Goat Runner.

She was not certain she could do that, without showing her fear. So perhaps she would walk to Fort Vancouver. Even if her will was weak, her legs were strong. They could carry her a long way.

The fish traps were quickly set. She would return tomorrow and see if the big, silver fish had taken the bait of fat grubs she'd dug from under the remnants of her woodpile. Flower slipped among the thick cottonwood trunks, careful to watch both the path ahead and her back trail. Still, she was taken unawares when William stepped from behind a tree.

Her knife was in her hand before she realized it.

Lawd a'mighty, woman! He stepped back, well out of her reach. What for you pull that pig-sticker on me? I ain't meanin' you no harm.

She glared at him. Didn't he understand the danger to her, here alone in the woods? You startled me, she said, jumping out at me like that.

Wal, I figured you'd be more skairt if I was to come up and knock on your door, he said, falling in beside her.

She noticed that he walked as carefully as she, avoiding open soil where his moccasins might leave a track. He walked as the men she'd known all her life, putting his toes down first, testing the ground before trusting it with his full weight. He watched his sides as well as ahead of him and frequently cast quick glances behind. Flower relaxed her constant vigilance slightly, knowing that four eyes always saw much more than two.

They walked together in silence until they were almost to the cabin. Then William stepped aside and bent, picking up two jackrabbit carcasses. They ain't much meat on 'em, he apologized, but they was all I could get with the sling. He touched a leather strip dangling from his belt. I didn't see any cottontails, only a skunk, an' I didn't figure you'd want that for supper.

Had he almost smiled again? Flower found herself wishing he would.

She quickly skinned the gutted hares, cutting them into pieces to fit in her cooking basket. William's shoulder-slung pouch yielded cat-tail root and succulent greens--the tiny plants Hattie called miner's lettuce. He went to his pack, dug about, and pulled out an oiled paper packet, which he handed to her.

She unfolded it. Salt! Oh, William, how I have missed salt! Dipping a finger into the white crystals, she licked it, closing her eyes with the pleasure of it. Carefully she added a pinch to the water covering the hare.

Using two flat sticks, she retrieved a large stone from the edge of the fire and dropped it into the water. Steam exploded upwards, and when it cleared, she saw, with satisfaction, that the water in the basket was close to simmering. She nudged more stones close to the coals to heat, for the stringy flesh of jackrabbit took a long time to cook.

William stayed outside, coming in only when she called him to eat. Even though she did not feel threatened, Flower wondered if he understood how crowded she found the cabin with him in it.

No. He had never liked being indoors. That was all.

After supper he sat for a while, staring into the fire. Flower watched him, once again struck with how very still he could be. She had finished cleaning up and was preparing for her bath when he finally spoke.

I'll be stayin' with you, he said, his voice gentle but full of certainty. Least 'til you decides what you is gonna do.

No! The word exploded from her before she could stop it. A few days--that was all right. But to be constantly with him--never! She did not need to be reminded every day of all the renegades had stolen from her.

"Yes'm, I reckon I am. Or if you don't want