FLAT NOSE EMORY YARNS A YARN
Chapter 3
When they arrived at the clearing that he had chosen for his home, she found a barn-like shed for the horses, a corral, and a half-built cabin. While Vincent took care of the animals, she put his gear in the finished section of the cabin and then wandered around the clearing, heeding his warning not to stray too far afield. The forest pressed in on three sides, while the east side opened onto a long sloping meadow dotted with clumps of berry bushes and groves of trees. A small lake sparkled in the bottom of the vale. On the north side of the cabin, a narrow stream of ice cold, crystal clear water tumbled noisily over its rocky bed. She turned to examine the cabin. Unlike the usual one-room shelter that was normally built in the mountains, it looked to be a large two-room cabin facing the sloping meadow. Three walls of the building, with spaces for two windows, were already erected. It seemed that he liked to have the fresh breezes off the mountain wafting through his home. All that was needed was one more wall, the roof, and the door. It would need caulking with mud and that was something that she could do. She needed to earn her keep.
That afternoon he went out hunting and returned with a brace of rabbits, a deer, and an elk. He showed her how to skin the animals and then how to smoke the meat so that it would last through the winter. Any other animals that he downed in the cold weather that was coming would be hung in the trees in their own open air freezer. For many days they worked at their separate tasks. He had enough logs to finish the east side and the roof of the cabin, and she worked hard at filling the cabin larder full to brimming with smoked meat and fish. The cold, mountain stream was filled with trout, and she had fashioned a net that she used to catch what Vincent thought they would need. With that done, she picked berries and greens and dried them. They were busy from sunup to sunset and barely two dozen words would pass between them.
Sitting in companionable silence, they ate their main meal at sundown. "Better get to bed, Catherine," he said one night, puffing on his daily bowl of tobacco, "tomorrow’s another busy day. It I don’t miss my guess, we’ll have snow in about two weeks. The geese have already flown south and the bears have begun to den. We’ll need to work steadily to be done by then."
"I can start caulking tomorrow. That should help," she offered.
"Very much so. Thank you," he answered, pleased that she pitched in and worked so hard beside him. He was beginning to change his opinion of city girls . . . well . . . of this city girl anyway.
Pleased, she ducked her head. He really was a gentleman, and she was startled to realize that she had lost all fear of him. In fact, she felt remarkable safe with him. "I think I will retire," she agreed, yawning hugely, "I am tired."
As she moved toward the pallet that he had fixed for her in the half-finished cabin, he said, "Good night, Catherine."
She turned back to smile at him. "Goodnight, Vincent." Then she slipped into the darkened cabin and into her pallet.
***
Striding into the clearing with the wooden boards that he had made from a tree that he had felled this morning, Vincent could smell the bear grease that she used for cooking. Breakfast was already made and warming in pans set close to the fire. But Catherine was nowhere to be seen. Listening carefully, he heard splashing noises coming from the crick and Catherine humming tunelessly. As he came around the corner of the cabin, the sight of her half-naked body stopped him in his tracks. Her back was to him, and he quickly ducked behind the cabin not wanting to embarrass her, but the vision of her smooth, white skin stayed with him as he walked back to the fire.
When she returned, all rosy and glowing from the icy water of her half-bath, he was sitting in his usual place, eating breakfast. "Hope you don’t mind that I started without you," he asked, covering his mortification by burying his nose in a cup of coffee.
He certainly has manners, she thought, not like so many of the mountain men she had met in her father’s store. "No, I was hoping you would. I needed to clean up and wash my hair."
Without a thought, she sat next to him and began to squeeze the excess water out of her hair. He was so startled that he choked on a piece of biscuit. Eventually the spasm subsided after much pounding on his back by Catherine and she said, "There! Are you all right?"
Dumbly, he nodded. "Yes," he croaked, wiping his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Taking a deep breath, he gave her a soggy smile. "Thank you."
She returned his smile and asked, "Do you have a comb I could use?"
He scrambled to his feet, and looking through his possibles, he found the fine, ivory comb he had bought the last time he traded his pelts. At the time he had no idea why he had bought it as it was much too finely made to be pulled through his mop of hair. His own was made of heavy whalebone and had been given to him by his father three Christmases ago. Now he was pleased that he had the ivory comb to offer to her. Returning to the fire, he settled next to her and held out the comb.
"Oh Vincent, this is beautiful," she exclaimed as she took it and, turning it around in her hand, examined the workmanship
"I don’t really know why I bought it, but it was such a pretty foofaraw that I couldn’t resist it. I’m glad I had it for you to use."
She combed and braided her waist-length hair then got her breakfast. In silence they finished their meal. She because she was comfortable with him, and he because he couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say. Her actions completely dumbfounded him.
As they rose to go about their various chores, he finally found his voice, "If you would like, we can go to the lake for a swim. It’ll be chilly, but we can take soap with us and make it into a real bath."
"Oh, that sounds wonderful, Vincent. Maybe we could quit a little early while the sun is still high."
He nodded his acquiescence, gratified that he had pleased her.
He called it quits about two in the afternoon, and after an hour’s walk, they arrived at the lake. Looking at the cold, blue water both of them came to the same conclusion: they would have to bathe in separate parts of the lake or swim in their undergarments. Haltingly, they talked around the subject until Vincent declared, "Dang it, I’m going in . . . in my longjohns." And he immediately stripped down to his reds and dove in.
Uncertainly, Catherine slowly removed the deerskin shirt until she was clad only in her ragged camisole and drawers, all the while, keeping a wary eye out to see if Vincent was looking. She stepped gingerly into the cool water and gasped with shock. Quickly, she ducked into the water and stroked out to where he was swimming. "You were right when you said it would be chilly," she said, her teeth chattering.
"Keep swimming, you’ll warm up soon," he urged.
For half an hour they swam, floated, and bathed in the lake then dried off with a blanket he had brought. As Catherine left the water, Vincent tried to keep his eyes off her, but her wet undergarments clung enticingly to her womanly curves, outlining every one of them in glorious detail, her soft white skin peeked through the holes in her ragged undergarments. She was beautiful, and he had to make a concerted effort to keep his passion from rising, thankful for the icy water. He knew it would frighten her. He had bedded a few young fillies in his time and had almost married one, but reason had prevailed, and he had left her to one of the other trappers. But this woman would have to come to him.
On the way to and from the lake, she noticed how Vincent looked cautiously around as if he expected someone or something to appear. She knew it would pain him, but her curiosity was high, and she wanted to know why no one seemed too afraid of him. Her father had told her that the mountain men considered him one of their own and that the Indians left him strictly alone. He gazed up at the rocky heights of the mountains for a few seconds before responding and then told her of his life with the mountaineers: how they had accepted him and trusted him as one of their own and how he only had to be wary of meeting a stranger in the forest. As for the Indians, they had two different opinions about him. Some of the tribes thought he had been cursed by the Great Spirit, and others thought that he was under the special protection of the sun. But either way, they left him to his own devices.
Arriving back at the clearing, Catherine fixed a quick supper for them, and they spent the rest of the evening in cozy conversation as they did at the end of every day. As they talked, he was either scraping or tanning hides, making clothes or footwear–Catherine was in dire need of wearing apparel and shoes–cleaning his guns, making musket balls, or repairing his traps. Vincent’s hands were never still, and she was amazed at their dexterity and strength. Not long after that, she thought of them as beautiful with their long, tapering fingers that ended in sharp, strong nails. She loved to watch them nimbly stitching deer hide into moccasins. Soon her fingers were moving as nimbly as his as they sat by the fireside talking.