nights after she’d cut her hair, he presented her with a hat made of rabbit skins. A week later he tried to make her moccasins out of more hides. As soon as he left camp the next day, she finished the job with much more skill. For the first time since she’d outgrown her boots, she had new shoes. Fur-lined. Warm. A perfect fit. Over the years she’d made many, but they’d always been taken away.
Canyon Man was a good provider. Millie hadn’t gone hungry since he’d traded for her, but hunting wasn’t the reason he was going out each morning. James was looking for something.
As the days passed she took on more of the cooking, finding that she liked being alone all day and didn’t mind his company at night. She wasn’t sure what she was to him. If a Comanche had traded for her, she might have been a slave for his wife or mother, but James had no wife or mother, and he never treated her like a slave. She thought that maybe she was his wife, but he never touched her. Besides, a man like him could find a better wife than her.
The moon made its second cycle over the big, empty sky and Millie felt her mind calm. Her favorite time was at night when he’d lie on his back and point out the stars. He’d sometimes say that his father had known many of their names and that someday he’d know them all.
Each week she watched James wash in the creek but she never joined him. The habit seemed strange, but she remembered years ago being clean. She’d washed in a house with a fire, warming the air even in winter. Slowly the memory of her mother, her father, her little brother, drifted into her mind and for the first time in years, she let them settle there for a while. Another time. Another world. Her world once.
One warm morning, after James had left, she took his soap and went to the water. Slowly she removed her blanket and stepped out of the bloodstained shift she’d worn for years. She remembered she’d had a dress once, until it had fallen off, piece by piece. Then she’d had a petticoat and shift. Now she only had a shift.
As she walked into the cold water, she almost ran back to the shore, but a bath was long overdue. There was no reason for the mud anymore. No one would try to touch her now.
Slowly, one limb at a time, she washed. Her body was so thin. A girl’s body, she thought, not a woman’s. She’d started her bleeding three maybe four years ago. The mark of a woman. Two months later the flow did not come back. That winter had been hard. Food was short and she was always the last one in the tribe to eat. The bleeding that made her a woman had never returned.
As she scrubbed off the dirt, she realized she was no longer the last to eat. James always ate with her, and he cut each portion in two as if they were equal.
Cleaning her inch-long hair with the terrible-smelling soap, she decided she could not put on the shift again, so she walked back to the campsite nude and cut a hole in a blanket James had tried to cover her with several times. Poking her head through the hole, she tied her waist with a rope and pulled on her moccasins.
When he returned, she would have a stew of meat and a potato cooking.
Whirling, Millie felt grand. She was clean and dressed in clothes no one else had tossed away. She couldn’t wait for James to see her. Her name was no longer Mud Woman.
An hour later she watched James climb off his horse downstream from her. He studied her, shaded his eyes as if to make sure what he saw, then yelled, “Millie, is that you?”
She looked down. “I washed.”
As he walked toward her he continued to talk. “You look great, Millie. I almost thought someone else was in our camp when I rode up. Without the mud and that old blanket, you seem half as wide.” His hand lightly brushed over her clean hair. “Your hair is chestnut brown, not mud color. I’m telling you, Millie, in that clean blanket you are quite stunning.”
She moved away from his touch, but didn’t jerk in fear as she had before. Over the weeks together, she’d learned not to be afraid of him. If he had planned to hit her, he would have done so when she’d spilled coffee on him one morning or when she’d forgotten to start the fire one afternoon, or when she wouldn’t answer him no matter how many times he said her name. But he never hit her. James just kept talking as he smiled and shrugged off his frustration. Her canyon man was a good man.
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