Wilderness Days by Jennifer L. Holm Read Free Book Online Page A

and the china was all smashed to bits except for the butter dish, which somehow lodged itself in a buffalo chip.”
    The image of proper Mrs. Frink brandishing a broom at stampeding buffalo in order to rescue her china was too much. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I think I had not laughed since receiving word of Papa’s death, and it felt so good, like a sneeze after being tickled.
    Mrs. Frink looked affronted for a brief moment then giggled herself. “Mr. Frink was very vexed with me for jumping off the wagon,” she confided. “‘But Mr. Frink,’ I said, ‘good china is worth being trampled over!’”
    “At least you rescued the butter dish,” I said, wiping a tear away.
    She nodded seriously and giggled again, “Yes, although I must confess, I have no desire to use it. I cannot seem to rid myself of the sight of it lodged in manure.”
    After we had finished our coffee, I offered to give Mrs. Frink a tour. At last, another lady! I had so many questions for her.
    “It is so wonderful to be back in civilization!” Mrs. Frink declared happily.
    I bit my tongue. The settlement was hardly civilization, unless you considered a pack of unwashed men who debated the finer points of chewing tobacco good company.
    She turned to me. “I should very much like to meet the other ladies.”
    “Well,” I hedged, as we stood on the porch surveying the cabins and tents that dotted the landscape. “I’m rather afraid that I am the only young lady present.”
    One elegant eyebrow raised slightly. “I see.”
    I rushed to reassure. “But the Chinook women are very kind, and quite a few speak English. They live that way,” I said, pointing at the stream.
    “Chinook? Do you mean Indians?”
    I nodded.
    “I see,” she said again, an inscrutable expression on her face. “And who exactly lives in this cabin?” Mrs. Frink asked, wrinkling her small nose.
    I twisted my hands. For all her stories of the trail, Mrs. Frink seemed a very proper sort of lady. Her gloves were spotless. I imagined she would be horrified to learn that I had been living unchaperoned in a cabin with assorted men these many past months. It would be utterly inappropriate behavior for a respectable young lady under ordinary circumstances.
    I swallowed hard. “Well, myself, and Mr. Russell, and Mr. Swan, and sometimes Keer-ukso, and, and … and sometimeswhatever men are passing through,” I finished in an awkward rush.
    She eyed the cabin coolly. “My, but what a luxury to have a proper roof over one’s head,” she said with real longing.
    My mouth fell open.
    “I have been sleeping under the stars or in our wagon for the past six months. The canvas covering our wagon is in a very sad state, I fear.”
    I was taken aback by her candor.
    “Although,” she said, her voice softening, “I must confess to growing accustomed to falling asleep with stars over my head. The most beautiful sight I have ever seen was when I lay on the plains at night, the starry sky stretching above us like a quilt.” She blinked and laughed. “Of course, I was worried to death that Indians would steal our horses.”
    “Did they?”
    “Once, but they let us buy them back.” She eyed the well-worn trail leading away from the cabin. “Shall we meet your neighbors?”
    “Of course,” I said. “Right this way.”
    “So do you think, Miss Peck, that there will be much call for a hotel out here?” she asked in a serious voice, as if she truly valued my opinion.
    “There are many men around here who would be happy for a proper bed and a cooked meal. A hotel might be quite popular, actually. I imagine I’d be the first to stay there. Especially if there were a bathtub.”
    She laughed, a bright tinkly laugh that made me smile. “We are going to be such great friends, Miss Peck. I just know it.”
    We followed the stream down past a small, neat building with a cedar plank roof. A cross jutted from the ceiling.
    “That is Father Joseph’s chapel. He’s a