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Authors: Joan Johnston
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her alone with Dennis. An hour ago, Dennis had dismounted and tied his horse to the back of the wagon so he could walk beside her.
Hetty would have preferred to avoid the attractive man entirely. Dennis was as talkative as Karl was quiet. She kept hoping to find something offensive or boastful in his behavior that would make him unlikable. But Dennis didn’t talk about himself. He told funny, engaging stories about Karl.
Hetty couldn’t help noticing the way Dennis’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. How his laugh created deep creases around his mouth. How white and straight his teeth were. How the hint of a beard darkened his cheeks and chin and made him look ruggedly handsome. How he stood head and shoulders above her, making her feel protected by his size and strength.
The result was that she felt awful. Guilty and ashamed. She shouldn’t be admiring Dennis Campbell so much. She shouldn’t be wishing she was married to him instead. She shouldn’t be wondering what it would have been like if
he
had been the one to take her in his arms last night and kiss her. Why did he have to be so charming and funny and amiable? Why couldn’t he have told mean stories about Karl, so she could detest him for being disloyal to his friend?
“We were at this fancy dress ball in New York, and Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a pressed pink and white flower,” Dennis said. “Karl said it was a bitterroot blossom. Apparently, it’s what this valley we’re headed to is named for, because so many of them grow there.”
“Why would he take something like that to a ball?” Hetty wondered aloud. What she really wanted to know was
for whom
Karl had brought a pressed flower to the ball.
“Who knows?” Dennis said. “Karl proceeded to give us a lecture about the dried-up thing. He said Meriwether Lewis had collected a bunch of bitterroot specimens in 1806, which is why this famous botanist, Frederick Pursh, gave it the scientific name
Lewisia rediviva.
And you won’t believe this. Karl said that the Flathead and Kootenai and Nez Perce eat it!”
“Are you sure he said the Indians
eat
it?” Hetty asked. “With a name like bitterroot it can’t taste very good.”
From behind them, Hetty heard Karl say, “They remove the inner core—the heart, if you will—before they cook it, which is supposedly the bitter part. Or they let it sit for a year or two, which makes it less bad tasting.”
Hetty turned and stared up at Karl, who’d ridden up behind them, but she kept walking backward to keep up with the wagon. “How did you end up behind us? I thought you rode out to check the trail ahead of us.”
“I was looking for a stream that’s supposed to be north of here, so we’ll have water when we stop for supper.”
“Did you find it?” Dennis asked.
“It’s a mile or so ahead,” Karl replied. “Would you like to take a ride and see it?” he asked Hetty.
“What would I do for a horse?”
“You can ride behind me,” Karl suggested.
“Take mine,” Dennis offered, untying his horse’s reins from the back of the wagon and handing them to Hetty. Instead of asking her if she could mount on her own, he simply put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her so she could throw a leg over the buckskin.
The instant she was in the saddle, Dennis removed his hands. There was nothing disrespectful about what he’d done. She might have been his sister or some stranger he was helping. Nevertheless, Hetty felt breathless. Her skin felt scorched where his hands had touched her. She glanced quickly at Karl and saw that his lips had become a thin, censuring line.
I didn’t ask Dennis to help me,
she felt like saying.
What was I supposed to do? Complain? I’m on the horse, so let’s go.
Hetty realized the reason she felt compelled to defend herself against that look of disapproval was because she was, in fact, guilty of finding Dennis attractive. Of feeling something when he touched
Hetty would have preferred to avoid the attractive man entirely. Dennis was as talkative as Karl was quiet. She kept hoping to find something offensive or boastful in his behavior that would make him unlikable. But Dennis didn’t talk about himself. He told funny, engaging stories about Karl.
Hetty couldn’t help noticing the way Dennis’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. How his laugh created deep creases around his mouth. How white and straight his teeth were. How the hint of a beard darkened his cheeks and chin and made him look ruggedly handsome. How he stood head and shoulders above her, making her feel protected by his size and strength.
The result was that she felt awful. Guilty and ashamed. She shouldn’t be admiring Dennis Campbell so much. She shouldn’t be wishing she was married to him instead. She shouldn’t be wondering what it would have been like if
he
had been the one to take her in his arms last night and kiss her. Why did he have to be so charming and funny and amiable? Why couldn’t he have told mean stories about Karl, so she could detest him for being disloyal to his friend?
“We were at this fancy dress ball in New York, and Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a pressed pink and white flower,” Dennis said. “Karl said it was a bitterroot blossom. Apparently, it’s what this valley we’re headed to is named for, because so many of them grow there.”
“Why would he take something like that to a ball?” Hetty wondered aloud. What she really wanted to know was
for whom
Karl had brought a pressed flower to the ball.
“Who knows?” Dennis said. “Karl proceeded to give us a lecture about the dried-up thing. He said Meriwether Lewis had collected a bunch of bitterroot specimens in 1806, which is why this famous botanist, Frederick Pursh, gave it the scientific name
Lewisia rediviva.
And you won’t believe this. Karl said that the Flathead and Kootenai and Nez Perce eat it!”
“Are you sure he said the Indians
eat
it?” Hetty asked. “With a name like bitterroot it can’t taste very good.”
From behind them, Hetty heard Karl say, “They remove the inner core—the heart, if you will—before they cook it, which is supposedly the bitter part. Or they let it sit for a year or two, which makes it less bad tasting.”
Hetty turned and stared up at Karl, who’d ridden up behind them, but she kept walking backward to keep up with the wagon. “How did you end up behind us? I thought you rode out to check the trail ahead of us.”
“I was looking for a stream that’s supposed to be north of here, so we’ll have water when we stop for supper.”
“Did you find it?” Dennis asked.
“It’s a mile or so ahead,” Karl replied. “Would you like to take a ride and see it?” he asked Hetty.
“What would I do for a horse?”
“You can ride behind me,” Karl suggested.
“Take mine,” Dennis offered, untying his horse’s reins from the back of the wagon and handing them to Hetty. Instead of asking her if she could mount on her own, he simply put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her so she could throw a leg over the buckskin.
The instant she was in the saddle, Dennis removed his hands. There was nothing disrespectful about what he’d done. She might have been his sister or some stranger he was helping. Nevertheless, Hetty felt breathless. Her skin felt scorched where his hands had touched her. She glanced quickly at Karl and saw that his lips had become a thin, censuring line.
I didn’t ask Dennis to help me,
she felt like saying.
What was I supposed to do? Complain? I’m on the horse, so let’s go.
Hetty realized the reason she felt compelled to defend herself against that look of disapproval was because she was, in fact, guilty of finding Dennis attractive. Of feeling something when he touched
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