Marna by Norah Hess Page B

cabin window. A flutter of
excitement swept through him. That small candle welcomed him to his home. Inside it would be warm and
clean, with good smells coming from the fire.

    He pulled the mount in. With this new glow of wellbeing, he slid eagerly to the ground.
    But before entering the cabin, he pulled his fresh kill
from Sam's back and swung it high in a maple sapling.
He had spotted the marks of a large mountain cat not
too far away. The scent of the fresh meat might lure the
animal toward the cabin, but the slender whip of tree
would never bear its weight, and the meat would be
safe. If the frosty weather held, they would have fresh
meat for a long time. Well into the trapping season.
    Stripping the saddle from the stallion, Matt staked
Sam only a few feet from the door, just in case the cat
was hungry enough to try to attack the horse.
    Stepping upon the porch that Marna had argued for
also, Matt propped-the saddle against the wall. He
stood at the entrance, suddenly unsure of himself.
Should he knock? he wondered. Irritably he reminded
himself that the cabin was his home.
    Still he didn't go barging in, but opened the door
quietly, the leather hinges barely squeaking. Moving
inside, he carefully wiped his feet on a dressed deerskin
placed there. His eyes swept the empty room, and it
was as he'd imagined. The fire burned brightly, casting
leaping shadows on the hearth and a bearskin rug a few
feet from it.
    A fresh candle lit the table, and his glance took in
the two plates and mugs sitting opposite each other.
Moving to the fire, he lifted the lid off the kettle and
took a long sniff. He heard Marna's door open, then
heard her ask in a shy voice, "Are you hungry?"
    "I could eat a bear," he replied.
    Silently, and avoiding his eyes, she brought the plates
from the table. With a long-handled ladle she filled
them with tender pieces of meat and fresh vegetables
bartered from an Indian. She placed the plates on the
table and returned to the oven to pull out a pan of
golden corn bread. Returning to the fire once more, she picked up the coffeepot and announced quietly, "Supper is ready."

    The stew was delicious, with a flavoring of herbs
Matt had never tasted. The coffee was fresh and strong.
    At first he attacked the food in the manner he was
used to doing with the hunters. He forked great chunks
of meat into his mouth and chewed loudly. But gradually he became aware of the disapproving looks shot his
way. From under lowered lids he watched Marna cut
her food into small pieces, then chew slowly. Stubbornly he persisted in chomping and slurping. After a
while, though, the noisy consumption of his food became obnoxious even to his own ears. By the time he
was on his third cup of coffee, he was sipping as quietly
as Marna.
    Later, as Marna cleared the table, Matt filled his pipe
and stretched out on the fur rug. Leaning on an elbow,
he puffed contentedly as he stared into the flames. How
long had it been since he had felt such well-being?
    Marna finished tidying the kitchen area and pulled a
bench up to the fire. From a wooden pail turned into a
sewing basket, she pulled out a shirt of Matt's and
began mending a rip in the sleeve. The fire snapped
cheerfully, the dirge of a cricket somewhere around the
hearth blending in. A comfortable silence existed between them.
    Matt lay on his back, his arms pillowing his head
His eyes traveled often to Marna's rich curves. He wondered what it would feel like to have that ripeness lie
beneath him, rising to meet his thrusts. Without warning, desire was shooting through him, burning like a
fever. His gaze rose to the face bent over the sewing,
and he jerked his eyes away and stared moodily into the
fire.
    Damn her and her strange notions, he fumed inwardly. And Hertha was just as strange. Otherwise she
would get after the girl, make her take more pride in herself. If the old woman could come up with something to cure snakebite, surely