ANOTHER SURPRISE. COULD she be less prepared for life in the wilderness? Every interaction with this French princess handed out something new.
Joseph swung aboard Copper and checked the strap that tethered his to the first pack horse. Everything secure. He glanced back at the woman mounted on the horse behind him. She did a decent job of masking her apprehension, but the way she clutched the saddle proved she was more than a little nervous. How had she never ridden a horse before? It was almost inconceivable. She must truly be a princess, must have been sheltered away in a French castle somewhere, safeguarded from the need to learn skills her serfs would consider critical to survival.
So, what was she doing out here in the Canadian wilderness? No wonder she’d seemed surprised when he hadn’t had a wagon. She didn’t belong out here any more than the King of England.
Turning Copper around, he eyed the woman, then spoke the words he should have said when he first met her. “You need to go back home, Miss Bergeron. The mountain country is no place for a lady. I’ll arrange a ride back east for you, or I’ll take you myself.”
She straightened a good six inches, every hint of nerves replaced with the pluck of a mama hen protecting her brood from a skulking dog. “I will not, Monsieur, I assure you.”
He glared back at her. “You will, ma’am. I don’t think the priest knew exactly what he was agreeing to when he said you could come out here. It’s not safe, and I won’t be a party to it. I’ll find you a safe ride, and you can go back to your family.”
“I have no family.” She fairly spat the words in her French cadence. “My papa is dead. My mama, as well. There is nothing for me to return to. So, Monsieur Malcom, I will go to serve with Antoine, and you may assist me in my journey or not. But I warn you—do not stand in my way.”
The fierceness in her gaze made him—just for a moment—want to sidle back away from her. Although he barely knew this woman, he had no doubt she’d do exactly what she’d said. After all, she’d come this far on her own. He had no idea where she’d traveled from, but the place had to be weeks away, at least. She might have been exposed to men of all sorts in her journey so far, but she’d probably not experienced the wild animals and fierceness of nature she’d meet on the final stretch of her journey.
He couldn’t let her face that alone.
Narrowing his gaze at her, he met those eyes that still sparked with anger. “I’ll take you. But let me be clear, Miss Bergeron. The country we’re about to face is no trifling matter. To survive, I expect you to do exactly as I say, when I say it. Do we have an agreement?”
She nodded—a single curt dip of her chin. “I will do as you say.”
He let out a breath, studying her one final moment. He should be hanged for even thinking about taking her into this wilderness. But it didn’t look as if he had a choice.
“WHAT’S MY HORSE’S NAME?”
Joseph straightened at the lilting accent of the delicate voice behind him. A small part of him wanted to learn more about her, but he wasn’t accustomed to conversation breaking the silence on the trail. Maybe he could handle a question or two, though. Silence left him alone with his thoughts, and that too often sent him in a downward spiral of melancholy.
“Doesn’t have a name. At least I don’t think so. She’s part of my uncle’s stock. One of the breeders.”
“I think I’ll call her Velvet. Her fur is so soft here on her shoulder.”
He kept his focus straight forward. “With horses, they call it hair.”
“Her hair is so soft on her shoulder.” A hint of mirth touched her voice. At least that was what it sounded like. The way her accent lifted each word made them tinkle in the air like the clear tones of a bell. He could easily get sucked into their cadence. He’d have to guard against that.
Silence settled back over them as the trail rose up a gently rolling hill, and Joseph let the sounds of the grassland weave their way through him. The coo of a mourning dove called in the distance, and a breeze swept across his neck. It was good he’d let Emma give him a trim before he started out on this journey. The French princess probably thought him enough of a barbarian as he was.
“I confess, I thought there would be more mountains, from the way my cousin described this country in his letters.”
Joseph swept a glance at the gentle swells around them. “We’ll get to the peaks. Have about a day’s ride in this part of the country, then we’ll reach the foothills. After that, the mountains.”
“How far away is the mission?” Her tone sounded surprised, but that might have been only the lift of her accent.
“About three days.” Although if she wasn’t used to riding, they might need to take it slower, with shorter days in the saddle. “Or more, possibly. Depending on how far we travel each day.”
Silence eased over them again, and Joseph was just settling into it when the bright voice sounded again.
“Do you know my cousin well, Monsieur Malcom?”
Did she plan to talk the entire way? He cleared his throat and adjusted the brim of his hat. “Call me Joseph. We’re not so fancy out here.” She may as well get that settled in her pretty head. “And I’ve known Father Bergeron for about a year, off and on. He seems like a fine man. He’s doing well with the Indians, I hear, although he’s got his work cut out for him.”
“What can you tell me about the Peigan tribe? That’s their name, right?” An excitement entered her voice, as if she were eager for news of home not of a tribe of natives.
“Well.” He measured his words. “This particular band stays at the edge of the mountain country, where they have good access to water. They keep to themselves pretty well, not really fighting with the other tribes.”
“Have any been converted to faith in Christ?”
He gripped his reins tighter. “I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
That must have satisfied her, because she let the silence take over again.
But this time, he didn’t let it immerse him. She would break the quiet soon, so he might as well keep himself from getting lost in his thoughts.
Except she didn’t speak. And the longer he waited for it, the more tension tightened his shoulders. Maybe this was a good time to ask some of his own questions.
“So...Monti. That’s not usually a girl’s name, is it?” Let her think him impertinent. That name was the source of all his confusion over her gender, which surely gave him the right to ask about it.
“My father loved great French architecture, and he saw Mr. Jefferson’s Monticello plantation on a business trip right before I was born. Mama said it was all he spoke of for weeks.”
Joseph turned to study her over his shoulder, easing back on Copper’s reins to slow the gelding until they rode side by side. “Your father named you after Thomas Jefferson’s home?”
This dainty princess had been named after a building? Sure it had been a majestic structure, but still... What father would name his daughter such? She should have been Rose or Camille—some name befitting an elegant French flower.
She gave a half-shrug, and her gaze wandered to her hands. “It was something he loved, I suppose. My papa was...unique.” She looked up then and met his gaze. “Eccentric, some said.”
She’d said her father was dead, but the tone in her voice didn’t sound like fresh mourning. Didn’t really sound like grief at all. Sort of like longing.
“You must have been dear to him.”
She held his gaze, despite the jostling from the rolling gate of her horse. “Maybe.” The word wasn’t much more than a breath, and she looked away, out over the low valley and the swell of the next hill.
“How old were you when he died?”
“Five.” She said it without preamble. “I don’t remember much of him anymore, but I do have a memory of touching his moustache. He would hold me on his knee and laugh so big his belly would bounce. I remember his laugh.” Her voice faded with the last sentence, as though the reminiscence swallowed her up.
“A laugh is a good thing
to remember. I can’t think of a time my father laughed. Not like that.”
She studied him, and Joseph looked away. Why had he brought up his own past? He’d only wanted to discover the reason behind her unusual name. He’d not planned it to turn into this...deeper sharing.
“Your father lives near your home here?”
Joseph shook his head, focusing on the line where the grassland met the horizon so he didn’t have to look at Miss Bergeron. “He’s buried in Texas with my mother.” Something brown took shape in the distance. “Look, there’s a deer.”
She followed the line of his finger and made a little cooing sound. It drew his gaze to her face, where her delicate lips formed a soft bow. She was exquisite. Every bit of her looked like French royalty. Yet, the longing in her tone when she’d spoken of her father gave him the feeling her story wasn’t exactly a fairytale.
More deer came into view as they drew closer. But the animals must have heard them, for they jerked their heads from the grass, then leapt away.
Silence took over again, although not a true quiet. The covey of doves that landed in the distance, the faraway cry of a whooping crane, and the steady blow of the wind that had grown as the day progressed helped him settle into the natural rhythm that soothed his nerves. And riding beside Miss Bergeron didn’t seem quite so foreign as it had only hours ago.
They didn’t share much conversation the rest of the morning, except for the times he pointed out an animal or some unique feature of the land. She seemed to soak it all in, as though hungry for each detail. Not the spoiled snob he’d suspected when he first met her yesterday.
He stopped them early for lunch at a stand of lodge pole pines. They’d not paused at all before that, and nature was calling him in a most persistent way. Besides, she would likely be sore after so many hours in the saddle. She’d appreciate a chance to stretch her legs.
After slipping from Copper, he strode around to assist her down. She looked a little uncertain, and he gripped the mare’s reins. “Just move your right...um...foot behind you, then lean forward over the saddle and slide down.”
She darted a warning glance at him, those dark brows arcing. He’d only said foot. She didn’t have to wear a look as though she suspected he’d planned to touch her bare leg.
He narrowed his eyes back at her, trying to push down the sudden images his mind formed of him carrying out that last thought. “My apologies, Miss Bergeron. But if you haven’t noticed, we’re not in a ballroom.”
Those expressive brown eyes narrowed, mirroring his look. But she didn’t say anything, just straightened her ruffly blue skirt and obeyed the directions he’d given.
When she landed on the ground, she stumbled back a step. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, but the moment she stopped wobbling, she spun to face him, jerking from his touch.
He took his own step back and almost raised his hand to shield himself from the vehemence sparking in her eyes.
“You will keep your hands to yourself, Monsieur. Do I make myself clear?” She spit each word like an angry cougar, and he took another step back.
“Of course. Sorry for trying to help.” He turned away, more to get away from the arrows in her glare than anything. Surely his assistance didn’t merit this level of anger.
He stretched his lanky legs into long strides as he moved deeper into the patch of trees. She could fend for herself if she wished it.
MONTI DRAGGED IN DEEP breaths as she struggled to steady her ragged pulse. She’d not meant to display that spurt of anger, but the pressure of his touch had loosened a fear that still coursed through her veins. She should have known better than to let herself travel alone with a man. The week she’d spent with the freighters had been different, but at least Mrs. Holland had been with them.
Out here, alone in this barren country with a man... He’d not meant anything by his touch, she was fairly sure of that from the flash of confusion in his eyes before they dimmed in anger. It didn’t matter though. There was a reason she now required the strictest level of propriety from her male acquaintance. She would never, ever let that barrier down again.
It seemed her anger had set him straight. She could hope so anyway. She took a step forward. Needles shot through her ankles, and a steady burn started in her calves, working its way up her legs and into her lower back. Who would have thought riding horseback would be so painful?
By the time she’d paced two laps along the edge of the trees, her muscles were easing and Joseph reappeared from the woods.
He didn’t look at her but headed straight for his horse and rummaged in the pack. Hopefully, he’d brought something substantial for their midday meal. She’d not expected the morning ride to make her so hungry.
And then another thought stilled her. Would he expect her to prepare the food? After all, when a cook couldn’t be employed, that role was the woman’s duty, wasn’t it? Surely she could muddle through whatever had to be done.
“About lunch...” She took a tentative step toward him, but the man pulled a bundle out of his pack and turned to face her.
“I had Cookie make sandwiches so we could get back on the trail.” He opened the leather wrapping and held it out to her. Two sandwiches sat on the leather as though on a serving tray.
She took one and eyed him. He’d still not met her gaze, and his manner was stiff, as though he’d rather be anywhere than conversing with her.
“Merci.”
He nodded and turned away, still not looking at her.
She bit into the sandwich as he strode toward the horses with his own. The food was a bit dry but more than enough to sustain her through the remainder of the day. She should be thankful she’d not had to put the meal together. Yet, part of her felt almost affronted. Had he assumed she wasn’t capable of preparing the food, so he’d purchased the meal ready-made? She could have handled it. She could accomplish anything she set her mind to.
Perhaps tonight, she would have the chance to prove that to him.
Chapter Four
Once again, God has brought me to the place I least expect. Yet He must believe I can handle it. I shall not let Him down.
~ Monti’s Journal
SURELY, HE’D NOT FORGOTTEN the biscuits.
Joseph rifled through the bundle of food supplies on the new pack horse’s back, but the leather-wrapped parcel wasn’t there. He’d paid half a month’s wages for this ready-made food back at the fort so Miss Bergeron wouldn’t have to eat his gruel for two meals a day. But somehow, he’d either misplaced the bundle or left it behind.
He had the dried venison pulled out already, and the cornmeal was easy to access. Looked like mush it would be. She might as well get used to the simple fare they ate in the mountains.
The only halfway-fancy meals she’d get would be from his sister, Emma. She’d become a pretty decent cook this past year, and her food was as tasty as anything they’d eaten back east. But then, she had Simeon’s hunting, and her garden, and a real cookstove Simeon had hauled hundreds of miles for her.
After gathering enough wood, Joseph knelt to start the fire, using the wrist of his injured arm to help move the largest logs into place. The burn of Miss Bergeron’s gaze seemed to pierce the glove protecting his useless hand. His skin itched under the leather, but he didn’t dare rub it. Did she have to stand there and watch him?
He’d prepared the tinder and was ready to strike the flint, but she still hadn’t moved. He sat back on his heels, barely suppressing a glare. Instead, he nodded toward the packs of food. “There’s cornmeal in the leather sack. If you’ll fetch a pan of water from the creek, you can mix up a mush. I’ll have the fire ready to heat everything shortly.”
She moved to do his bidding, the rustle of her skirts an odd sound mixed with the call of a distant whip-poor-will. While he coaxed a spark to catch on the tinder, he couldn’t help the way the edges of his vision tracked her to the stream flowing a dozen strides away from their camp. Even with all his practice starting campfire
s, he was still so clumsy without the use of his left hand. Thankfully, she kept her focus on the ground ahead of her as she carried the pot of water back to the supplies.
“How much cornmeal should I add to the water?”
A spark landed on the tinder, and he knelt low to blow a gentle stream of air toward it. The light grew and finally broke into a tiny flame. He added another small breath, and the flame increased. When he paused to let the fire take hold on its own, he glanced over at Miss Bergeron. “Just enough to make a paste.”
Over the next few minutes, he was able to coax the flame into a fire, and he sat back on his heels and looked around.
Miss Bergeron stood watching him, the cast iron pot in her hands and an uncertain expression on her face. “Here you go.”
He took the pot and glanced inside. Clear water swam around the edges, while lumps of cornmeal seemed to weigh down the center. Apparently, she hadn’t thought it necessary to mix the two. There was far too much water, also. When he added more cornmeal to get the mixture right, there’d be enough for the evening meal, and tomorrow morning, besides.
He slid a look at her. “You must be hungry.”
A blush crept into her cheeks, and he turned away from the sight. She’d obviously never cooked corn mush. Which wasn’t surprising, since she probably came from a high falutin’ house where they employed a cook. He’d have to give better instructions next time.
Carrying the pot back to the food pack, he added more meal and stirred the mixture, then set it to heat in the fire. Now, he had a good bit of work to do settling the horses and making camp.
With a glance back at Miss Bergeron, he motioned toward the pot. “Keep an eye on the food. When it’s warm, you can eat.”
No need for her to wait for him. Hopefully, she’d keep from scalding it before he finished for the night.
SHE’D BURNED THE PASTE.
Monti held her breath against the acrid odor as she let the crude wooden spoon fall back against the rim of the pot. She was starving, but it would take strong willpower to keep this stuff down. She toed the heavy dish farther away from the fire.
This Wilderness Journey Page 3