His brows lowered in a frown as he studied her, and she met the look with another glare. If he was going to force his will on her, she would tell him to leave.
Maybe he realized that, for he finally turned away with a sigh. "If you insist."
He started downstream with a whistle. A jaunty tune she couldn't place. Before, she'd known all his songs. He whistled them often and had tried to teach her how. She'd never been able to manage more than a breathy squeak, even when he used his hands to position her jaw and wrenched his mouth in all manner of contortions to show her how to hold her tongue.
She’d finally learned how to whistle with a blade of grass, and that seemed to suffice for him. She couldn't carry a tune with the grass though.
He was almost out of sight behind a cluster of box elder trees before she let herself watch him go. How had he become so broad through the shoulders? And that lean waist begged for her to wrap her arms around him.
His hugs had been a balm, even when they were little. When her puppy had been kicked by a passing mule and the doctor couldn't do anything for it, Jean-Jacques had wrapped his nine-year-old arms around her and held her through her tears.
He’d done the same when she’d lost other pets through the years. And that final farewell…she could still feel both of their shoulders shaking with their tears. That good-bye had been awful. So much worse than losing a pet, and after the final ripping away, she no longer had his arms to wrap around her.
She’d tried to run away once—the second night on the trail from Montreal to Fort York. Mama must have had an inkling of what she planned, for when Colette had slipped out from under the wagon where they bedded down, she'd nearly screamed at the form standing over her. Not that she was afraid, once she realized it was mama. But the tears had started anew. They’d not stopped for weeks. Maybe even months, but that time was all a blur.
Then three years later when Mama told her Jean-Jacques had married…had taken another woman to wife…she'd been a little more careful to hide her tears. But they'd come.
She forced the memories back as she sprinkled grass over the steel trap. Hopefully, this one would catch a beaver too. Hawk Wing had shown her the best way to conceal a trap for a beaver. And how to find their trails. He knew the business well, as the stack of furs he'd showed Jean-Jacques attested to.
Grabbing up her supplies and her catch, she started back toward the creek crossing. As much as she hated this part, it had to be done. She just had to make sure she didn't cast up her accounts in the doing.
The sun had risen halfway to the high noon position by the time French finished setting out his traps and exploring the countryside a bit. Beaver Tail would've said the sun was three fingers high, the Indian’s way of marking time.
He came back toward the creek, crossing by way of Colette's traps so he could see if any had sprung. She'd snared a beaver that he removed, and one of the other traps had been sprung, but had no animal inside. If he remembered correctly, this was the same set that had been like that this morning. Had a predator discovered the snare for an easy meal? There wasn’t an obvious sign of blood or fur at the trap like something had been wrenched free, but he inspected the area a little farther out, doing his best not to leave a print or tramp down the bushes.
There. In the midst of a section of tall straw grass lay a flat bloody spot, littered with bones and scraps of fur. Something had ripped the furbearer from the trap and feasted on it. The predator was definitely an animal, the way it left the scraps littered about.
Colette would do best to move this trap, but he'd let her know and leave the decision to her. It was the right of the trapper to choose the best location, based on game trails and features of the land. Did Colette really know what she was doing out here? Her traps were set in decent locations. He might've shifted one or two a step to the right or left. But that was individual preference. She seemed to know at least the basics, more than many men who started out in this business.
Leaving that trap sprung so she could come and move it, he picked up the beaver and his supplies and headed back to the creek crossing.
When he reached the stone path across the water, Colette and two Indians were working on the far bank. All of them fleshing hides, from the look of things.
He paused long enough to watch her with her tongue clamped sideways between her teeth, her face in a grimace, eyes intent as she used a carving knife to scrape bits of flesh from the underside of the hide.
The two men, Elk Runs and Left Standing, had their own fleshing stations set up, but they were going about the job in a much more subdued manner. No fierce expressions, just steady scraping, their arms flexing with their efforts.
He knew well how much effort fleshing a hide required. Firm scraping for a solid hour, sometimes longer, depending on the size of the hide. His arm muscles would protest by the end, even if he was in regular practice of scraping several hides a day. For a woman, the effort must be exhausting.
But Colette went at the task with a vengeance. Surely the others saw how much harder she had to work at the job. They couldn't really be so blind as to think her a man, could they? If he squinted really hard—enough to make her only a fuzzy outline—maybe he would believe her an over-eager lad. A tall one, with an awful lot of grace for his gangly limbs.
But a man? So why didn't they tell her they knew her secret? Maybe the men possessed protective instincts. Maybe they realized she must be in danger and the best way to help her was to let her keep up the ruse.
He needed to know how much she’d told them about herself. That would give him clues about the men's behavior and also might be a way to get her to open up a little about the years since they'd last seen each other.
He started across the river toward them, taking care from one rock to the next to keep from slipping as he’d done that first time. Hopefully, he'd be able to speak with Colette alone later in the afternoon to ask what she’d told the Indians about herself. But for now, he’d better make himself useful.
Approaching Colette, he held up the beaver. “On my way back through, I noticed your trap by the rocky point had caught this fellow. I pulled him out and reset the teeth for you. I can skin him if you'd like me to.”
She didn't meet his gaze and only flicked a quick glance at the beaver. "Thanks. Just lay it there, and I'll take care of it." She wiped her brow on her shoulder and went back to scraping.
"I don't mind. I've sure skinned a lot of animals these past years. I'll take care to keep the hide whole." She'd been too squeamish to pierce a worm with a hook back when they were kids. Was it his help she didn't want now, or any help in general? Maybe she thought it would make her look like less of a man.
He sent a glance around the group, then spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Since I don't have as many traps as you all, nor furs in need of scraping and stretching, I’m happy to help where I can. I can be the camp keeper and help skin and scrape when I'm done with my own furs."
Elk Runs acknowledged his words with a nod, and Left Standing added a smile. "Is good."
French turned back to Colette and did his best to keep his grin from turning smug. He’d found a way to help her without her losing face.
She met his gaze long enough to arch her brows at him. Then she nodded toward the beaver in his hand. "Suit yourself."
He'd never thought he'd be happy about the bloody job he’d just won. But this was a different kind of pleasure. He was taking the load from her overburdened shoulders.
As Colette turned back to her work, memory of his other bit of news slipped in. "One other thing." He waited until she looked up. "That first trap across the river had been sprung with no catch again. I didn't see anything there at the trap, but in the tall grass about ten strides past it, I found a kill site. Looks like we've got a predator stealing from the trap. I didn't move it. Thought you might want to."
She finally met his gaze and even offered a weak smile, though there was weariness around her eyes. "Merci." The word of thanks sl
ipping from her mouth in their native tongue eased through him like a warm drink on a cool morning. The word and tone together reminded him of the Colette he’d once known.
Chapter 5
After skinning and fleshing the hide, French built up the campfire and started roasting the meat from all their catches.
These men were bringing in a great deal of meat each day, more than they could eat. They likely traded the food along with the pelts and saved some for days when hunting wasn't as good. He applied salt liberally as he roasted to make the meat last longer. Some of this he would smoke instead of roasting, as that was the best method to preserve meat for the long term, if done correctly.
No one said anything about the midday meal, so by the time the sun had fallen two fingers past the noon mark, he ate his fill from what he'd cooked. Maybe the others carried food with them to eat during the day, as many a trapper did.
He checked the horses hobbled in the meadow and led each to drink in the creek. He'd not seen Colette in at least an hour, so perhaps she was by herself and they could have a few minutes to talk.
Aside from everything he needed to know about her situation, he had questions about the evening meal. He wasn't certain they would take him up on his offer to be camp keeper. They likely had an established routine they may not want to change. The last thing he wanted was to step in where he wouldn't be welcome.
Young Bear was the only one at the campsite when French stepped through the trees. The older man sat by the fire with a piece of meat in one hand and a pipe in the other.
French approached him. “I'm looking for…Mignon.” He caught himself just before he used Colette's given name again. Where had she come up with Mignon? He'd have to make sure he asked that when he finally found her. "Have you seen…him?”
The man shook his head, then nodded across the fire. "Sit. Smoke."
No. French fought to keep his groan from leaking out. This was one of the Indian customs he liked the least. But Beaver Tail had made it clear that refusing to smoke the peace pipe was a strong offense against a brave. Especially an elder. He couldn't offend this man, the leader of the group.
After settling cross-legged on the ground where Young Bear motioned, he accepted the pipe. The tobacco filled his lungs, nearly choking him with its pungency. Some pipes he'd been forced to smoke had a sweeter taste, but not this.
He handed the tool back to Young Bear, and the man inhaled with a peaceful expression.
Maybe this was a good opportunity to clarify the cooking duties. "I told the others I’m happy to be keeper of the camp while I'm here. I can cook, if you’d like. See to the horses." He didn't mention the skinning. He'd volunteer for what work he could fit in among all these other jobs he was acquiring, in addition to his own traps.
Most trappers considered six sets to be a healthy line, since they were checked twice a day, and a man could reasonably skin and flesh twelve small hides each day. Since he only had two traps, he would, in theory, have some extra time.
After a slow, smoky exhale, the man nodded. “We all have turns. You have turn for all now."
All right then. He'd have to see if he could find herbs to throw in the stew pot. The fare he ate this morning filled the empty places but did little to satisfy his pallet. And salt could only go so far.
He acknowledged his new role with a nod. "You have food supplies?"
The man pointed his pipe at a leather pack against the rock wall lining one side of camp. "Hang in tree when sleep."
Again, French nodded. "I'll make sure I hang it high away from animals. Have you seen many bears yet this season? I've only seen one so far." And he'd been a hungry one. Caleb still healed from the wounds gained in that scuffle. But he'd saved the lives of Otskai and her son, so the claw marks and broken ankle had been worth the outcome.
"Only bear sign." The man bit into the roasted meat.
French rose to standing. "I'll take a look in the food pack, then do a bit of scouting in the area before I start the evening meal."
And hopefully he could still find Colette and get a few answers.
The warmth of sunlight soothed Colette’s face as she opened her eyes. How long had she slept? She'd been forced to take these afternoon naps more often of late. Scraping hides hadn't exhausted her as much in the first weeks. Her arms had been fatigued of course, but this overwhelming weariness hadn't assaulted so strongly until the past couple weeks. Maybe the babe was responsible for this change too.
The little one growing inside had altered her body so much. What she wouldn't give for a midwife or doctor to tell her what was normal. What she could expect, and what should worry her.
But she had no one. Eventually, her condition would be impossible to hide. Hopefully by then, she'd have followed these braves back to their camp and met women who would take her under their wing. Of course, Young Bear and the others wouldn’t appreciate that she'd lied to them about being a man. Maybe they’d feel taken in and send her away. Surely they wouldn't do worse.
If she did find herself stranded again, she'd simply have to make another plan. This was the best idea she could come up with for the present.
A rustle in the grass jerked her attention sideways. A man's form stepped around the nearby trees, and she scrambled to sit up, reaching for her hat. She planted it on her head even as recognition slid through her.
Jean-Jacques.
Relief nearly stole her strength. At least he wasn’t one of the braves, finding her napping in the daytime. But still, she struggled to her feet.
He sent her a grin. "Seems you have the right idea." He motioned to the flattened grass where she'd been lying. "The sun’s warm this afternoon. Can I sit with you?"
The last thing she wanted was to talk alone with Jean-Jacques, but he was already settling himself on the ground. Her body seemed to still be gathering strength from her midday nap, her legs barely strong enough to hold her up.
So, she took the easiest route and sank back to the ground beside him.
Jean-Jacques rested his wrists on propped knees, but she struggled to find a good position. There really wasn't a ladylike way to sit in trousers, nor should she be looking for one, if she was going to keep up her ruse. But it seemed completely indecent to sit cross-legged without a skirt to cover herself. Especially since he knew she was no man.
She stretched her legs in front of her. With the position of the baby, she had to brace her hands behind her and lean back a little. Hopefully, that didn't show the bump she was gaining at her middle. Her jacket was loose enough to cover the small swell—mostly.
Jean-Jacques glanced sideways at her. "Do you ever take off the hat?" He eyed the leather brim with his brows dipped in a frown.
She shook her head. "Keeps the sun out of my eyes." And she could tug the brim down to cover part of her face if she met strangers. The entire thing made her look more like the man her companions expected.
Jean-Jacques reached toward the hat. She fought the impulse to jerk. She didn’t move, even when he gripped the brim and eased it off her head. She shouldn't have allowed him—both the intimacy in the action and the removing of part of her disguise.
But this was Jean-Jacques. By her side again, feeling so familiar—and so very foreign. His nearness stole her breath, the familiar action almost intimate. She couldn't bring herself to move away.
After laying the hat in the grass behind them, his eyes still lingered on her hair. Her short locks must be a soiled mess. She'd only found a few opportunities in these past weeks to scrub her hair in the river when the others weren't around.
But the frown had left his expression, replaced by a tenderness in his eyes and a curve of his mouth. He reached toward her head and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. When his fingertips brushed her skin, a tingle slid all the way through her. She had to fight to keep the shiver from showing.
Her body ached to lean into his touch. But he pulled his hand away and draped his wrist over his knee again. His eyes found hers, and the smile li
nes at their edges deepened. "I forgot how much I love your hair. As white as an angel's."
Those last words brought her to her senses. She was no angel—she’d proved that fact irrefutably.
"That's what first made me suspect it was you." Jean-Jacques's words tugged her focus back to his face. He was still smiling. "Your hair so pale. It's the same color your father's was, just a shade darker than when you were little. I'd never seen another man with hair that fair. Even though you were all covered up"—he motioned toward her clothing—"your hair started me thinking. The longer I thought, the more I had to know for sure if it was you."
Disappointment pressed through her. She'd not thought to try to color her hair. But how could she? Rub soot into it? That would make her a mess for sure. Maybe she should simply pull her collar higher when they met strangers on the trail. Or perhaps she could sew a hood onto her coat to wear underneath the hat.
Silence settled between them, and Jean-Jacques was watching her. She worked for a smile. Something natural.
He didn't return the look. Instead, his eyes turned sober. "How is your father, Colette? And your mama? Do they know where you are?"
She let herself drop the smile and pulled her gaze away from him. "Papa has been gone five years now. He died of a wound that festered. Not long after, mama sailed to old France to see my sister. Her ship went down on the voyage over." She'd not let herself think about her parents often. That all seemed like another lifetime. The life before Raphael.
Maybe the ache surging up her throat, stinging her eyes, came from telling Jean-Jacques the news. He’d known her parents well, had eaten more meals around their table than she could ever count.
She focused on the river that could barely be seen through the tree branches. The flowing current shifted and swayed, but never ceased.
"I'm sorry." Jean-Jacques's voice held much more than sympathy. Pain clouded his tone.
Silence stretched again as memories tried to press in. Probably, he was remembering. But she couldn't let herself do the same. Sinking into happier times would only weaken her ability to face the present.
Faith in the Mountain Valley Page 4