[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm

by Janette Oke

  “What should he have done?”

  “He saw the guy had a knife—and he knew he would use it.”

  “Are you saying he should have shot the fellow?”

  It was Christine’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able to sort it out. But it doesn’t seem right that he couldn’t protect himself. That crazed idiot would have cut him up into little pieces if he’d been able—”

  “He was drunk.”

  “Drunk or sober—what’s the difference? Dad still lost his leg.”

  “Well ... not totally. He’s always saying how thankful he is that he still has it.”

  Henry thought back to the awful day of the incident. They’d been sure they were going to lose their father. When that fear was finally put to rest, they were sure he would at least lose the leg. But that didn’t happen either. He’d been pulled from the North where he loved to work and had been given an office job instead, but he could still walk, although with a limp. They had all thanked God for that many times.

  “Does he really hate being caged behind a desk instead of being out in the air and sun?” Christine wondered aloud.

  Henry laughed. “Last time he talked to me he didn’t sound at all envious. Said he was getting a bit old to enjoy nights huddled in blankets in a bank of snow, or trekking forty miles behind a dog team to check on some trapper’s line.”

  “I think it’s a bluff,” said Christine.

  Just then Teeko managed to flush a partridge. He set off at a run, barking at the bird winging its way above his head.

  “Silly old dog would chase anything,” laughed Henry. “Never knows when he’s licked.”

  Christine smiled but made no comment.

  “So ... this here Boyd guy,” ventured Henry, “you been out with him?”

  Christine swung around to face him. “You mean—on a date?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Not me. He scares me.”

  “Scares you? In what way?”

  Christine quickly said, “Well ... not scares me. But ... I don’t know. He ... he sort of has a dark side. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Is he angry? Violent?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. At least not that I’ve seen. ’Course I haven’t been around him much. Just a ... a closed-away feeling I get sometimes. Brooding. I don’t know.”

  “Has he ... asked you for a date?”

  Christine hesitated. “Not really.”

  “Not really? Come on, Chrissie—yes or no.”

  Christine turned away, kicking at a clump of snow-covered grass as she passed by. “No,” she said with more force than needed. “No—he has not asked me for a date.”

  Henry was not to be so easily put off. “But ...” he prompted.

  She turned back to him again. He’d always had a way of pulling forth her thoughts. Her feelings. But this time she seemed closed away herself as she said carefully, “I don’t know. I sort of ... sort of get the feeling that he has thought about it. That he might ... if I gave any encouragement.” She turned to walk on.

  “And you haven’t given encouragement?”

  “No,” she answered over her shoulder.

  “Why?”

  She stopped and faced him. “I’m not sure,” she said, now sounding more forthright. “I’ve thought about it. I’d love to invite him to church. I worry about his attitude. He needs fixing—and that’s for sure. But I don’t know if I’m the one—if there is anything ...” She paused, then burst out, “I wish you could meet him. You’d know what to do. There’s just something about him that ... disturbs me. But I can’t just walk away, can I? What If—?”

  Henry reached out and drew her close. “I trust you, Chrissie,” he whispered softly. “If you ... if you are unsure ... then keep out of it. Stay away. Don’t let him fool you into ...” He did not complete the thought. He was sure his beloved sister understood his words and his feelings.

  CHAPTER Four

  Christine had difficulty getting back into the rhythm of city life. After the joys of once again walking in snowy white fields and along frosted trails, after spending long evenings before a warming fire with a favorite book and the peaceful security of family, she felt the city to be harsh and demanding. Trolleys clanged. Auto horns blared. Streets sloshed with muck after every snowfall. Christine had to adjust to the city environment all over again.

  It did help some that she now knew her workmates—though certainly in a different way than she knew her childhood friends. There were a host of acquaintances right in her own office building—women who worked at desks close enough to touch, men who entered each morning and took their places through doors down the hall—the majority of whom she would not have thought of claiming as friends. She nodded to them when she arrived at her station in the morning. She exchanged courteous words throughout the day when her duties demanded it. At the end of the day she watched them shrug into their respective coats and turn back to the streets. She did not know where their homeward steps led them—nor did she particularly care. They were simply people who occupied a little space in her environs for a few hours of her day.

  But there was one girl in the office who did capture Christine’s interest as more than a casual acquaintance. They were about the same age. Though they were nothing alike in looks or temperament, Christine felt drawn to her. Jayne Easton had come from the farm. Christine felt sure Jayne was as out of her element in the city as was Christine herself. The young woman was not a plain Jane. Not by any means. In fact, her flaxen head of curls and her bright china blue eyes turned many heads for a second look. But Jayne seemed to be totally unaware of the attention she drew. She was quiet and withdrawn and seemed to be very unsure of herself. For some reason Christine could not define, she felt the need to shelter, to protect, the girl. She found herself making an effort to establish a relationship.

  “How long have you been in the city?” she began as they munched their sandwiches in the lunchroom.

  “Eight months, one week, and two days,” replied Jayne.

  Christine smiled. She had not kept such an accurate account.

  “Where are you from?”

  “A little community about seventy miles west.”

  “You miss it?”

  The blue eyes shadowed. “Oh brother, do I ever.”

  “So why did you leave?”

  She stirred restlessly and dropped her eyes. “Wasn’t a job there.”

  Christine thought she heard a catch in Jayne’s voice and felt the girl needed some time to regain her composure. She picked up her apple and took a bite.

  Jayne eventually explained, “The folks needed help with medical bills. I’ve a little brother who hasn’t been well. You don’t make a lot of money on the farm. Pop always says it’s a wonderful place to live—but that’s all you get to do, just live. If it wasn’t for the big garden, the chickens and all, I’m not sure one could even do that.”

  Christine felt her heart go out to Jayne.

  “Is there just your little brother?”

  “There are seven of us. The oldest two are married. Then there’s me. Four younger.”

  “That’s a big family.”

  She nodded.

  “I just have one brother,” volunteered Christine, then added, her voice full of feeling, “He’s wonderful. Almost ten years older than me.”

  “Did your mother have other—?”

  “I’m adopted. We both are.” Christine’s words sounded a bit abrupt. She hadn’t intended them that way. She hurried on. “Our folks always wanted a family—so they took in kids whenever they found opportunity. First Mom took Susie—for a short while when her mother was ill—but as soon as the mother improved, they moved away and took Susie with them. Mom still keeps in touch with her, though. Mostly at Christmastime now. She’s grown up. Has kids of her own.

  “Then there was Samuel. They thought they were going to get to keep him when his mother died and his father brought him to t
hem. But the man remarried and came back for his son. It nearly broke my mother’s heart. She still cries when she talks about it. She has no idea where he is now.

  “Then came Henry. He was just—sort of abandoned by his family. It took Dad years to finally track them down and be able to arrange for legal custody of Henry. Henry says he was scared every day that they’d come back for him. My family really had a party when the papers finally came through.

  “Then they had a little baby, Louis, whose parents were sick and stranded in a cabin in the North. By the time Dad found them, they were all too weak to move. In fact, the mother had already died. The father died soon after. Dad bundled up the baby and took him home in the front of his parka. But it was too late. He lived only for a short time. Henry remembers him.

  “I was the next one. I lost my folks in a cabin fire. They managed to push me out the window into a snowbank. The window was too small for them to squeeze through. Dad took me home. It was several months before he was able to track down kin and get things finalized for my adoption. When it arrived, Henry wanted another celebration. So we did.”

  Jayne had been listening to every word, a shocked expression on her face. When Christine stopped, the other girl shuddered. “That’s ... that’s horrible.”

  “They’ve been wonderful parents,” Christine defended. “I feel so—”

  “No, not that. The ... the tragedies. The sickness ... and fire.”

  “That’s all part of the North,” said Christine frankly.

  “You lived there?”

  “For most of my life.”

  “Where in the North?”

  “Various places. The RCMP doesn’t leave a man at one posting too long. When one is an officer, it’s almost as dangerous to make friends as it is to make enemies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An officer has to uphold the law and bring lawbreakers to justice. That’s harder to do if one’s personal friends are involved.”

  “I suppose,” Jayne admitted.

  “What’s it like in the North?” Jayne queried after a moment.

  “You mean the Indian villages? Or our cabins?”

  “You lived in Indian villages?” The girl’s eyes were wide now.

  Christine merely nodded, taking another bite of her apple.

  “Weren’t you scared half to death?”

  “Of what? Almost every man was armed. Besides, wolves and bears rarely came close enough to cause damage. A few dogs were raided when the food supply was low but—”

  “I meant the Indians.”

  “Indians?” Christine did not understand the other girl’s question. When it finally dawned on her what Jayne intended, she shook her head. “The Indians were my friends. My playmates. We were one big family. Oh, there were a few of them who could get out of hand, especially if someone brought in whiskey. But that happens here in the city among white people. For the most part I was welcomed into any home in the village. They all looked after me.”

  “Do you ... do you speak Indian?” asked Jayne, sounding very much in awe of Christine.

  “Cree. My father speaks it well, plus a bit of four or five other dialects. Mother speaks Cree—beautifully. Every once in a while we still speak it in our family—or sing it—just to hear it again.”

  “My,” said Jayne, crumpling up the brown bag that had held her lunch. Looking directly at Christine, she asked, “Are you glad to be back?”

  “Back? Oh, you mean in the city? I’m not ... back. I’m away. Only now am I beginning to realize that I really am out of my element. Out of my community. Out of my homeland. Away from my people.”

  “You’re not Indian, are you?”

  “No. No, I’m a mixture of Scotch, French, and Irish. But I wish I were Indian. Then I would really belong there.”

  “My goodness,” said Jayne again. “I thought I had a tough row to hoe. All I left was my family and ...”

  Christine’s eyes prompted her to complete the sentence. When Jayne said nothing, Christine asked, “There’s a special someone?”

  Jayne blushed. “Not really,” she answered. “I was ... I was just hoping there would be. He’ll forget all about me now. Likely already seeing Bessie Tellis,” she finished, her voice low.

  Christine again felt sorry for Jayne but thought that any comfort she might offer would seem trite.

  “Is Henry Indian?” Jayne wondered.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, “I don’t think I know Henry’s roots—but, no, he isn’t Indian.”

  “It must be—seem strange—not knowing your family. Mine is Swedish and German. Believe me, they never let one forget it. My father jokes about it all the time. If we’re good, we’re Swedes. If we’re not, it’s our German mother’s fault.” Jayne laughed, so Christine knew the teasing was all in fun.

  Christine noticed the hour on the wall clock. It was time to get back to their desks. She was reluctant to close the conversation. Jayne was not nearly so shy when one had time to spend with her.

  “Would you care to join me for church on Sunday?” Christine asked impulsively.

  “Where do you go?”

  “There’s a little congregation that meets—”

  “I’m Lutheran.”

  “Oh. No, this church isn’t Lutheran.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know ... really. Just ... just a little mission group. But they’re great.”

  “I go to the Lutheran church on Forty-sixth Avenue. It’s great too.”

  Christine was disappointed. It would be so nice to be able to share the service with a friend.

  “Maybe you’d like to come with me ... sometime,” ventured Jayne.

  “Maybe ... sometime.” But Christine knew she would miss her own congregation if she went elsewhere. She supposed Jayne would too.

  They were on their way back to their desks when Christine thought of something. “Easton doesn’t sound Swedish,” she said.

  Jayne nodded in agreement. “My father was an orphan too,” she said. “He took the name of the folks who raised him.”

  “Oh.”

  It seemed that the West had its share of splintered and restructured families.

  Though the two girls did not attend one another’s churches, they did develop a friendship. It was nice to have a real friend in the city, Christine decided, even though she rarely saw Jayne other than at work. Still, their lunch hours were shared, along with many thoughts and feelings about life.

  For Christine the long evenings were spent mostly with books. If there was one thing about the city that she approved of, it was the library. Christine made good use of it. Each Wednesday after work and again on Saturday morning, she made the trek to the big square building and exchanged her stack. Then she spent her evenings curled up in her small boardinghouse room, poring over the pages. It was her only escape to a bigger, more interesting world. There are no prison walls if one has books, she had read someplace. But even so, her days and nights often were lonely.

  She had learned to like Mr. Kingsley in spite of his gruff-ness and his growl. She was convinced that under the rough exterior there was a heart that truly beat in tune with human kindness. The challenge was to find some way to unearth it. The big man seemed to treat her with favor. This did not sit well with Miss Stout, who, in Christine’s opinion, nursed a secret, longtime crush on the boss.

  Mr. Kingsley did not seem to notice Miss Stout’s devotion, so the poor woman was viewed as merely efficient office help. Christine could not help but feel Miss Stout would have made a very good Mrs. Kingsley. Her primness and rigidity might have brought some order to the boss’s rather chaotic life. On the other hand, his casual attitude and brashness might have loosened up the matron a bit. Christine was not the only one who had noticed more than passing interest on the part of his receptionist.

  “Someone needs to do something,” Christine mused one evening as she walked home after work. She was later than usual. Mr. Kingsley had called her into his office to dis
cuss a typing project, and Miss Stout had hovered near the door on the pretext that she was anxious to close up shop and go home herself.

  If I had my own place, Christine reasoned, I would invite them both for supper.

  Well, she didn’t have more than a single room, so there wasn’t much she could do. Then a new thought hit her. Mr. Kingsley does. She had no idea where he lived or what it was like—but she’d find out. Perhaps with a bit of maneuvering, he would allow her to cook supper in his kitchen and invite the lady from the front desk. It was worth a try. She decided that she’d take the risk and ask.

  The very next morning, she mustered up the courage to knock on Mr. Kingsley’s door. “I was just thinking as I was going home last night,” she began, “I would love to invite you and ... and Miss Stout for supper. You’ve both been ... so kind to me.” She stopped for breath. He had raised his head, and she thought she saw a glimmer of interest under the bushy brows.

  “I have only a small room. No ... no cooking facilities.” She thought she could detect a look of disappointment. “But I ... wondered if you’d mind if I ... if we used your home ... for the meal. I’d purchase the ingredients and ...” She drew to a stop. “Of course if it’s an imposition—”

  “No. No imposition. I’ve a kitchen. I never eat there. Always grab something at one place or another. Don’t even know what’s there. Cleaning lady is the only one who goes in there, and I’ve no idea what she does when she’s there. But if you want to check it out, that’d be just fine. Yes, yes. Just fine. Haven’t had a home-cooked meal since I don’t know when. You can cook too?”

  Christine wasn’t sure what he meant by “too,” but she nodded her head.

  “That’s great. Just great,” he blustered on, rubbing his hands. “When would you like to do this?”

  “Whenever it fits your schedule—and Miss Stout’s.”

  “My schedule. My schedule isn’t hard to fit—where meals are concerned. I’ve no idea about Miss Stout’s calendar.” He hesitated and rolled his pencil between two beefy fingers. “You sure you want Miss Stout? Isn’t she a bit sour?”