The man sent a stream of dark liquid into the dirt between them. “River out back.”
Ah...should have expected that, what with the appearance of this trader. “Much obliged.”
He strolled along the row of buildings toward the end, pulling the horses with him. When he reached the corner structure, the door was open, but the dim interior made it hard to distinguish the view past the splash of sunlight on the threshold. He knocked on the frame. “Anyone home?”
Something rustled inside, like the sound of thick fabric. Had he awakened Mr. Bergeron? That didn’t seem likely in the middle of the day, but maybe the man was much older than his cousin and had lain down for a nap. If that were the case, he wouldn’t be a good fit to live in this wild country.
Footsteps came closer, along with the increased noise of the rustling fabric. Leaning forward, he peered inside as a figure stepped into the light streaming from outside. A flash of yellow pulled him back a step. Then his eyes focused on the image, his mind not quite believing what he saw.
A woman?
Chapter Two
So far have I come, I can scarcely recognize my old self.
~Monti’s Journal
MONTI BERGERON SQUARED her shoulders and stepped forward to greet the man standing on her threshold. With the way the men at this fort all wore the same buckskin uniform—complete with thick beard and dirty hat—she couldn’t tell for sure if she’d met this one before or not.
She raised her chin and forced a confident, yet pleasant, expression. “Bonjour.”
He startled, his eyes growing as wide as the round hand mirror tucked in her trunk. Apparently, she wasn’t whom he expected.
“May I help you, monsieur?”
He stroked his beard, which was shorter than the long scraggly hair the other men wore. His appearance might be a touch more groomed. And cleaner.
The amber brown of his eyes pierced her as confusion churned in their depths. “I...was looking for a Mister Bergeron. I must be at the wrong place. My apologies, ma’am.” He reached up as if to tip a hat, but he wore nothing on his wavy mop of chestnut hair.
She allowed him a consolatory grin. Antoine must have forgotten to tell him the new missionary was a woman. It would be just like Papa’s cousin to consider a detail like whether she was male or female irrelevant. After all, weren’t all people loved equally by God?
The man started to turn away, so she spoke quickly. “You seek Monti Bergeron?”
He looked back. “Yes, ma’am. Do you know him?”
She raised her jaw another notch. “I am Mademoiselle Monti Bergeron.”
He nodded, a polite gesture. “Hello, ma’am. I didn’t realize he was married. Father Bergeron sent me to take you and your husband the rest of the way. Is he around? Your husband, I mean.”
She pursed her lips against a smile. The man apparently didn’t know his French well enough to understand that Mademoiselle meant she was not married. “You misunderstand, Monsieur. I am Monticello Bergeron. My family prefers to call me Monti. I am the new missionary.”
If his eyes had been wide before, they grew round as plates now. Then narrowed. His head cocked.
She held her tongue, waiting. But the silence stretched farther.
Finally, “You?”
Was the man dim-witted? Or had it been so long since he’d seen a female? She fit a hand at her waist. “Oui. When should I be ready to depart?”
He straightened as if he were trying to pull himself together. “You are Father Bergeron’s cousin then?”
Now he was becoming irritating. “Oui. Of course.” She glanced behind him to the horses standing with heads drooping. “I can be ready to leave in a half hour. Will we be traveling by wagon?”
She could endure a few more days riding in the same kind of rough wooden structure that carried her the last few weeks. But it would be a relief to finally settle in at the mission.
The man’s eyes dimmed, and he seemed to close up a little. “We’ll be on horseback. I’ve some trading to do, and the horses need a rest. We’ll leave out at first light.”
Horseback? A wave of concern swept through her chest, and she stepped forward as he started to turn away. “Monsieur.”
He stalled, then looked at her with brows lifted.
“Will my trunk fit on the horse’s back?” She’d consolidated all her belongings into one trunk when she’d first joined up with the freighter back in Fort Walsh. But everything in that box was essential. Bibles and other writings to help their ministry to the Indians. Her clothing and personal items. Pictures of Papa and Mama. She’d let go of everything else, but these... These precious mementos she would not part with. All she had left of her family. Everything except God and a cousin she’d not seen in fifteen years.
The mountain man eyed her with a dubious expression. “No, ma’am. The trunk won’t fit on the horse’s back.” The tone of his voice rose with the last sentence, almost as if he mimicked her words.
Her hackles flared. “Then how do you propose we carry my trunk?” She would give him the opportunity to work it out himself before she demanded he hire a wagon.
His gaze ran over her—not indecently, but as if he were trying to calculate something. Maybe how much room she’d take up? Then he turned to eye the three horses behind him. “I brought the bay mare for you to ride. I need the pack horse for supplies. I suppose I might be able to trade for another horse to carry your things. It’d be a sight easier if you could tie ’em in bundles instead of a trunk, though.” He turned back to face her then, his hand coming up to rub his beard. “You sure Father Bergeron knows you’re a lady?”
The statement was so ludicrous she probably should have been offended, but the slightly bewildered honesty with which he spoke...she couldn’t help the laugh that popped out. It rubbed her funny bone as it escaped, and she couldn’t contain the mirth.
He tilted his head at her, one corner of his mouth quirking up as if she were an oddity he couldn’t decipher.
The sight only increased her giggles, and she grabbed at her waist and fought to get ahold of herself. Maybe it was the stress of the long journey or the two expectant weeks she’d waited here for Antoine, but her shoulders shook, and she doubled over with uncontrollable laughter. Tears stung her eyes, and she finally released herself to the emotions bubbling inside her, freeing herself to let the mirth flow.
At last, she struggled to catch her breath, wiping away the tears that trailed down her cheeks. “Excusez moi.” She gasped for air and sniffed, forcing herself to meet the man’s gaze. His eyes had softened, a bit of cautious pleasure in their depths. Not the scorn she’d been afraid she’d find there.
Pressing a hand to her chest, she exhaled a long breath. “I am sorry. You must be wondering what kind of unbalanced female you’ve been settled with. I assure you, I’m not so unstable, I just...” She waved a hand, searching for the right words. “It’s just been...” Oh, pity.
Sniffing, she pressed both hands to smooth her skirts, then cleared her throat. “Anyway. Monsieur...” She paused. “What did you say your name was?”
He raised a brow, still eyeing her as though she might turn into a horse before him at any moment. “Joseph. Joseph Malcom.”
“Well, Monsieur Malcom. I’ve consolidated all I own to one trunk. I would be thankful if we could find a way to transport my things.” She offered a smile as a sort of truce. The fit of laughter had released tension she hadn’t realized she carried. And now, her heart went out to this frontiersman. He’d thought he was coming to pick-up a man and had planned the transportation accordingly. The least she could do was work with him to find an alternate solution.
He nodded. “I’ll see what’s available.” Then he turned away again, but paused for the second time and looked back. “Can you be ready to head out first thing in the morning? I’ll come for you at first light.”
She dipped a curtsey. “I’ll be ready.”
AS JOSEPH LED THE HORSES toward the trading post store—a
way from Miss Bergeron’s scrutiny—his mind still struggled to catch up. He’d been sent here to pick-up a woman? How could he have missed that detail?
He replayed Father Bergeron’s words in his head and couldn’t remember anything that would have tipped him off one way or the other. He’d just assumed.
But why? Why would an elegant young woman like the one he’d just met come out to this wilderness? And to preach to the Indians? Bile churned in his gut. He didn’t want to imagine all the ways that could end. What had possessed her to come this far? And unprotected? It was a wonder she’d survived here at the trading post without a guardian. What had her family been thinking to allow her to come?
No matter what the reason, a young woman on her own clearly didn’t belong in this brutal wilderness. Did Father Bergeron plan to take her into the Indian camps? How did he expect to protect her? As far as Joseph knew, the priest didn’t even own a gun.
Joseph tied the horses to the rail in front of the trading post, then stalked inside. For now, the woman was his responsibility. Her and that trunk he was supposed to find a way to tote.
But when he’d finished bartering for a fourth horse and supplies to trade with the Indians, he couldn’t help but ask the old trader, “So how long has Miss Bergeron been staying at the fort?” He stacked a bag of cornmeal on top of his pile, careful not to make eye contact with the man.
“Purty thing, ain’t she?”
Joseph didn’t look up or agree with the old timer. Her beauty had almost overwhelmed him, especially in that yellow dress, but discussing it with this fellow wouldn’t do her any favors. In fact, the more they could keep her from sticking out like a tree in the middle of a meadow, the better chance he had of keeping her alive and unsullied out here in this wild country full of even wilder men.
He pinched his mouth. Should he ask her to wear something a little less...flattering while they were on the trail? That bright yellow would stand out for five hundred yards. But probably, they wouldn’t run into anyone once they got out of town.
It was likely she’d need better clothes once she was in the Indian camp. Buckskins would be the best thing, like the squaws wore. Although he couldn’t envision the French princess he’d just met wearing buckskin. He glanced toward the stack of cloth on one of the shelves. Brown was the only color there. Should he purchase some for her to make up a new dress? Would she be insulted by the idea? It shouldn’t matter as long as it kept her alive and safe. He pursed his lips. How much would he even buy?
Striding toward the material, he lifted a folded piece from the top. The heavy stuff formed a sturdy handful. Turning back, he carried it to the pile. “Add this to the tally.”
MONTI WAS READY WHEN the knock came the next morning. She set her mug on the table and rose from her chair. When she pulled open the door, the sight that greeted her was not quite what she’d expected.
Monsieur Malcom stood with a cluster of horses behind him. Yet he looked nothing like she remembered from yesterday. In the dim light of early morning, his clean-shaven face nearly sparkled. His skin was a healthy bronze, even where the beard had been, giving proof to the fact that the overgrowth he’d worn so comfortably yesterday was not his usual mien.
And his shaven face only added to the intensity of his amber eyes and the brown lashes framing them. He stared at her, those eyes scrutinizing. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A hat dangled from his hand, and the crease in his damp hair meant he’d doffed it for her. At least he’d shown decent manners thus far.
The thought of traveling alone with this man for the final leg of her journey had coiled her stomach in a knot all morning, but surely Antoine would have sent someone trustworthy. Right? Her cousin tended to look for the good in everyone. But Mama had always trusted him implicitly, which meant surely Antoine would have ensured the honor of anyone he’d sent to retrieve her.
She had to believe that. Although, if this man did prove less than honorable, she could handle that as well. In addition to the handgun affixed under her skirts, she’d been thoroughly trained in the oriental arts of self-defense, ever since the night of her fifteenth birthday.
Men, she could handle.
“Bonjour.” She dipped a slight curtsey, then stepped back and motioned to the trunk she’d dragged beside the door. “I am ready, as you see.”
His gaze pulled from her to the box, and a line creased his brow. “We’ll have to unpack it.”
She nodded and stepped forward to open the lid. She’d expected as much, which was why she’d tied her possessions in tight bundles inside.
The man retreated to one of the horses, then returned with an oil cloth. He knelt beside the trunk and started wrapping the bundles in the waterproof material. There was something about the way he handled each. His motions weren’t awkward exactly, but he seemed to use his left hand in an odd way.
Or...as she studied his motions, it seemed like he didn’t actually use that hand at all. Just the wrist and arm to brace things as he wrapped the oil cloth around her belongings. Did his gloves conceal an injury?
He glanced up at her and caught her staring.
She averted her gaze and strode to the table. “I’ve packed a few tidbits for us to eat as we travel. I assumed you’ve planned meals for us, or should I purchase food before we leave?”
“I have food.” He almost grunted the words, then pushed to his feet and carried her things out to the animals.
There was nothing left to do but stand and watch as he secured her belongings onto the pack saddle of a brown horse. The saddle was really more of a platform, and her bundles heaped higher and higher as he tied them on. His broad shoulders shifted as he moved, drawing her eyes to the ropy muscles just visible above the edge of his buckskin collar. From the thickness of his chest, that muscle was only a small sample of what lay beneath.
She ripped her gaze away. What was she doing imagining such things? She glanced around the little fort, the sight that had worn at her weary nerves for days now. Suddenly, this tiny village of dirty, bearded traders felt like home. Familiar. The men had been respectful, if a bit uncouth.
And now she was leaving. Heading out into the unknown wilderness with a man she’d hardly spent more than a quarter hour with. Had she taken leave of her senses?
Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine. The words whispered into her thoughts, lacing themselves through her chest, relaxing the knot in her stomach. God had called her to this place. He had planned this trip long before the idea took root in her mind. And He had work for her at her destination. His work.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. Those words from Isaiah had held her together after her fifteenth birthday, and every other moment since when fear tried to nip at her resolve. She’d clung to them more than once on this arduous journey. Now, she’d almost reached her destination, and then her work would truly begin.
“That should do it.”
She jumped at the voice that pulled her from her reverie.
Monsieur Malcom spared her only a quick glance as he left the pack horse and stepped to the animal at the front of the line. Then he turned to face her directly, scrutiny narrowing his eyes. “I’d planned for this mare to be yours. I’m still not sure I should take you into the wilderness country. It won’t be anything like you’re used to. No stores or ready-made anything. And between the animals and the elements, there’s a good chance you won’t live past your first year. Would you rather turn back?”
The question was enough to slough off the last of her mental wanderings. She narrowed her gaze at him. “Of course I’d rather not turn back.” Raising her chin, she strode forward, focusing on the saddle—not the man watching her every movement. Under his scrutiny, it would be harder than she’d anticipated to keep from revealing that she’d never ridden a horse before.
Stopping in front of the animal, she surveyed the leather contraption. “How do I get on?”
/> He moved beside the horse’s side and dropped to one knee, cupping his hands in front of him. “I’ll boost you up.”
Was she supposed to put her foot in his hands? Her knee? No, letting him touch her leg was out of the question. Gingerly, she stepped into his grip, then grabbed onto the leathers and started to climb. It was an awkward business, more so than she’d expected from watching the men in this fort step aboard their horses so effortlessly. The ruffles of her skirts didn’t help the matter either.
Using every bit of the strength in her arms, she finally hauled herself into the saddle, then grabbed onto the handle in front while she tried to make the world right itself around her. The height of this beast was almost dizzying. It hadn’t looked so tall from the ground.
As the frantic pace of her heart slowed, she forced herself to look at the man, pasting on a confident smile. “Ready when you are.”
He studied her with an enigmatic expression. Scrutinizing. Wary.
She held the smile as firmly as she could, but it wavered a bit under his intensity.
Then he finally turned to pat the mare. He picked up the leather straps that rested on the horse’s neck and held them up to Monti. “Use these reins to steer her. Pull right to turn right, left to go left. Tug straight back to stop. To make the horse go, squeeze her with your...um...around her girth area.” His gaze flicked to her legs, and heat crept unbidden up Monti’s neck. At least he had the decency not to name parts of her person.
She took the reins in one hand, keeping the other clamped around the saddle’s handle. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Three
I’ll never understand this life that’s been thrust upon me.
~ Joseph’s Journal
This Wilderness Journey Page 2