Glancing around into the darkness outside the perimeter of firelight, she pulled her coat tighter around herself and tried to decipher what each foreign sound might be.
Joseph had been moving to and fro between the campsite and horses for a while, but as darkness settled securely—bringing with it a bone-chilling cold—he’d stayed out with the animals. Only the steady rustle of movement and occasional horse sound broke the eerie quiet of the night. What was he doing for so long out there? Avoiding her presence?
His behavior had bordered on brusque all afternoon, almost irritable. Or maybe that was her imagination, but he’d definitely not been talkative or easygoing like she would have expected after riding together all day. And although he’d not said as much, she could tell she’d failed at her attempt to make the cornmeal paste, or whatever this food was supposed to be.
But how could she be expected to complete the task well when she’d barely been given any guidance? The one instruction he had said to her—to eat without him—she’d not obeyed. After all, they might be in the middle of the western wilderness, but she didn’t need to forsake all her manners. But if he didn’t return soon, she might just follow his order. Her midsection had been making unseemly noises for what felt like hours.
At long last, a figure emerged from the shadows. She jumped at his sudden appearance, but as Joseph’s face came into the light, she let out a long breath.
He plopped a stack of blankets on the ground, then turned to scan her and the fire.
She tried not to look eager as she motioned toward the pot. “I’ve been keeping the meal warm.”
He nodded, then turned back to the blankets and started spreading them out.
“Are there bowls and spoons somewhere? I didn’t see any in the food satchel.”
“Don’t usually bother with them.”
Monti tried not to show her surprise, although he wouldn’t have seen it with his back to her. “Do you plan for us to eat directly from the pot?” Using what? A common serving spoon? Their hands?
She knew he was a mountain man, but for some reason, she’d not expected him to be...crude. Or at least she’d not thought he’d expect it of her. Traveling with the freighters, Mrs. Holland had handled the cooking and provided basic serving ware.
Here, it seemed she’d have to fend for herself.
She moved to the pot and knelt beside it. “I suppose if we’re to share utensils, I’d best speak a prayer over the food and start eating.”
That finally brought his attention around to her. “I told you to do that already.”
She didn’t grace him with a look. “I thought to be polite and wait for you. I see now that manners were unnecessary.”
It might be her imagination, but it sounded as if he growled as he turned back to his work.
“JOSEPH. WAKE UP.”
Joseph forced his eyes open as the voice registered. A rustle of movement sounded near him, and he bolted upright, reaching for the rifle beside him.
Miss Bergeron. Her worried face was just visible in the shadows of the fading campfire.
“What’s wrong?”
She wrapped a fur tighter around her. “I heard something howling. I think it might have been wolves.”
He set the rifle down, then reached for a log from the stack he’d gathered. After settling it on the fire, he added a second and a third. “How far away did they sound?” She probably had heard wolves, but the horses weren’t snorting or making restless sounds, so the predators must not be near enough to worry over.
“Close enough to wake me up.”
Before he could respond, a howl sounded. Distant, but not so far that he could go back to sleep without a care.
“I think that was louder.” Miss Bergeron’s hushed voice seemed to echo in the silence following the wolf’s cry.
They must be coming closer. If the animals were on the hunt, that was likely the last time they’d howl.
He tossed another log in the flames. “The fire will keep them away. Nothing to worry about.” At this rate, though, he’d need to hunt for more wood as soon as dawn arrived so they could heat food for breakfast.
Then a thought filtered through his mind. One that instantly brought a surge of longing, then a swift stab of bitterness. Simeon’s guitar. He’d carefully placed it atop the packs. The sound of a guitar would keep the wolves well away.
But with no feeling at all in the fingers of his left hand, the only sounds he could make would be rough, off-tune strumming. Although maybe he could play an easy chord or two if he used the heel of his left palm to hold down the strings. Perhaps.
In truth, the idea started a craving he could feel all the way to the tips of his fingers. Even in the lifeless fingers of his left hand. Like the phantom pain experienced by those who’d lost a limb, he could feel the yearning in his useless digits.
He glanced at his guest, who’d lain back down amongst her blankets and furs. The light flickered off her wide-open eyes as she stared at him. He settled himself against the tree beside his bedroll, keeping the rifle across his lap. “Go back to sleep, Miss Bergeron. I’ll watch for a while and make sure there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. He waited several minutes as her eyelids occasionally flickered open to watch the flames dance in the fire. Then they would drift closed again, only to repeat the pattern a minute later. The chance to watch her, even across the distance the fire created, was a pleasure he shouldn’t enjoy so much. She was such a beauty, with each delicate feature proportioned perfectly. Her skin seemed as creamy as fine china. Completely unmarred.
At last, her eyes stayed shut, and her perfectly formed lips parted to allow the steady breathing of sleep. He let a few more minutes pass, then eased up from his pallet and crept into the darkness.
The wooden guitar case sat exactly where he’d left it, and he cradled it as he crept back into the ring of firelight. He tried to position himself so the sound would drift away from Miss Bergeron, but he still had to make sure he had enough light to see the frets and strings.
He had to remove both gloves, and the night air pricked at his skin. His first attempt at an A chord was off-key, although close enough that the correct notes were discernable. Working his good hand between the strings and the knobs, he tuned the guitar, letting the familiar sound of each string soothe the knot in his chest.
At last he had them right and strummed once over the loose strings, producing the usual discordant sound. Even that familiar noise eased the muscles through his shoulders. It had been far too long since he’d wrapped himself around a guitar. Felt the music through the wooden body and into his soul.
He worked his hand back between the frets and formed the A again. A little better. He worked at it more, transitioning into an E chord. He picked out an easy melody with his good hand while he tried to form some portion of the chords with the side and base of his left hand. Twisting the limb was awkward, but it seemed he was always bending into unnatural positions as he compensated for the limp fingers.
There was so much he had to compensate for. All because of that one horrendous day on the mountain. And the icy patch that had nearly been the death of him.
Some days he almost wished the rocks and snow had finished him off. But here, with the faint aroma of balsam wood drifting up to him, his good fingers resting on the strings... In this moment, a small part of his old self seemed to seep back in.
He bent over the guitar, letting his head hang limp as he focused on breathing. Feeling. Inhaling the memories of a life he could barely remember.
MONTI EASED HER EYES open, barely daring to breathe. The sound of Joseph’s movements had stilled for several minutes now. She had to know what he was doing.
As her vision focused on his form, she saw that he was bent over the guitar. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath. Had he fallen asleep?
As quietly as she could, she pushed upright and moved the blankets aside. Should she whisper his name to wake
him again? If he was this exhausted, she probably should let him sleep as long as there was no danger lurking nearby. They’d not heard the wolves again, so that threat seemed to have passed. If he slept in the slumped over position the rest of the night, though, he’d awaken with all manner of aches.
She crept toward him, although what she planned to do exactly, she wasn’t sure. Wake him, maybe? Perhaps extract the guitar from his clutch so he could relax. She stopped in front of him, taking in the strong shoulders that had slumped forward. His entire body seemed to rise with each breath. His left arm draped over the neck of the guitar, his hand dangling in his utterly relaxed state.
She reached for that arm to move it off as she began to extricate him. Something caught her gaze though. The hand glared white in the moonlight, as if it didn’t often see the sun. Not an unlikely thought in this cold land where he probably wore gloves most of the time.
But what snagged her notice was the jagged red line running across the back of his hand from one side to the other. A scar? The wound must have been recent, at least within the past year, for the angry line glared up against the white of his skin. Skin that had probably been concealed in a bandage for weeks following this injury.
Reaching forward again, she took the hand in her own, stroking the red with her thumb. His fingers seemed more slender than she’d expected, perhaps from lack of use as he allowed the hand to heal.
As gently as she could, she rested his hand on the blanket beside him, then turned to focus on the rest of him. The guitar seemed to be supporting much of his weight, so she eased him sideways onto the blanket as she slid the instrument away.
Wonder of wonders, he didn’t seem to awaken during any of the shifting. His breathing stilled when his head sank onto the blanket, but then he shifted to a more comfortable position, and the steady breaths came in regular succession again.
Only then did she begin breathing again, too. She took up the guitar and studied the instrument. It was much bigger than her violin, but the coarseness of the strings and the smooth grain of the wood made her long for the feel of her old friend. She was tempted to play a few chords, but she didn’t dare wake Joseph. Besides, it wouldn’t be the same.
Easing away from him, she settled the instrument in a safe place at the foot of her blankets, then laid down and pulled the covers up to her chin.
But as she closed her eyes, she couldn’t blink away the image of the crimson scar spanning the back of his hand. What manner of adversity had he experienced in this wilderness? She longed to know more.
Tomorrow, she would find out.
Chapter Five
It’s not often I’m surprised in this wearisome existence. Maybe because I fear the lack of control. Yet the irony of that thought mocks me. When have I ever been truly in control?
~ Joseph’s Journal
MONTI HAD TO PRY HER eyelids open the next morning as the sound of metal clanging forced her awake. She tried to sit up, blinking against the bright morning light, but every limb in her body screamed against the movement. Had the single day on horseback caused this much pain?
She’d thought she was getting tougher after all those weeks on the train, then in the wagon. If that were the case, though, every inch of her body wouldn’t protest so thoroughly. She clamped her teeth around her lower lip to hold in a moan.
Joseph knelt beside the fire, his back to her. He must have heard her movements as she finally reached a sitting position. Or perhaps the moan stuck in her throat had slipped out.
When he turned to look at her, his eyes seemed brighter than the day before. His face softened and...perhaps that was her imagination but...did the corner of his mouth tip up in the makings of a smile?
She stroked a hand over her hair. What a sight she must look. She’d not bothered to uncoil her chignon before retiring, so her hair must be a mass of loose strands. It was awkward enough sleeping with only this man mere feet away. Back in Montreal, her reputation would be in shreds by now. But out here, there didn’t seem to be anyone to see or care.
A frightening thought in itself. She pulled the blankets up around her waist, even though she was fully clothed and wrapped tightly in her coat. At least she had ways to protect herself. Skills she’d worked hard to learn. Although, Joseph didn’t seem like the type she’d need to guard against. She could only pray her instincts were true.
“Coffee?”
She glanced back at him.
He held up a tin cup, his brows raised as he awaited her response.
“Oui. Thank you.”
He set the cup on the ground, then poured from the pot into the cup. After returning the pot to its original position, he handed the mug to her. She couldn’t help but notice how he hadn’t used his left hand for any of it. Not fully anyway. He’d rested the base of his palm against the pot as he poured, and once held his arm out for balance. Had he been using only his right hand the day before? She hadn’t noticed.
She took the warm metal from him and cupped her hands around the base to savor the heat. “Shall I make breakfast?” She probably shouldn’t ask, since she hadn’t the first notion what to make or how to prepare it.
She didn’t miss the glance he slid her as he returned the pot to its resting spot. “Thought we’d heat up that corn gruel you made last night.”
Her stomach threatened to heave up what little it still contained of the stuff. She couldn’t bite back the groan this time and pressed a hand to her middle. “Please no. Anything else.”
He chuckled. Actually chuckled. Then he stood, raising to his impressive height. “Maybe I’ll whip up some corn cakes then.”
By the time she’d returned from a short walk into the trees down the creek, he had a shallow pan on the fire and round pancakes sizzling inside it. Her stomach gurgled in hungry appreciation of the aroma wafting up. “What can I do to help?”
“Let me do the cooking.” His mouth quirked up on one side as he shot her a glance.
She laughed. This lighter side of Joseph was a pleasant change
He used their lone eating utensil—the large wooden spoon—to flip the cakes over. “Just need to roll up the bedding. After we eat and clean up, we can hit the trail.”
She straightened her blankets and rolled them in a tight bundle, then tucked her Bible inside the roll. Next, she packed his blankets. As she worked, a faint scent wafted from the covers—the scent that was his alone. Man and nature in an aroma more pleasing than she would have expected.
The guitar was missing from where she’d placed it the night before. Did he realize she’d helped him to bed? He must.
While she blessed the food and then ate, he loaded the last of their belongings onto the horses, which were already saddled and waiting. It still seemed strange to sit and eat alone, when there were two of them who needed to partake.
Once they were on the trail, the morning passed in relative silence, although the scenery had begun to change. The low rolling hills grew to steeper inclines, still covered in the brown of winter grass. The sun broke through the low clouds, warming the air enough that her breath no longer formed a white cloud.
At one point several hours into the day, she nudged her horse forward, past the two pack horses that trailed Joseph’s mount so she was even with him. “Are these as big as the mountains get?”
He gazed around at the terrain. “These are just hills. We’ll get to the mountains tomorrow.”
She took another look at the landscape growing steeper by the hour. “Have you lived here long?”
“About a year.”
She couldn’t help a sideways glance at him. He seemed so comfortable here, as if he’d grown up in these hills. “Where did you live before coming to this land?”
“Texas.”
Ah. A land she’d heard stories about. Where cattle ran wild and men of every breed escaped to start new lives. So, what other life had Joseph lived in that place?
She didn’t quite have the nerve to ask. She’d already pushed into his personal a
ffairs, and his succinct answers seemed to ward her off.
More than anything, she wanted to ask about the scar on his hand. Would that be too personal? Would it anger him?
Joseph stiffened beside her, as though he could read her mind. But a glance at him showed his attention focused in front of them, far into the distance.
Something moved in that direction. A herd of animals? As she studied them, she could see tall figures atop the animals. Men. As they moved closer, they seemed to be clothed in buckskins, so perhaps a group of trappers or freighters.
“Ease back behind me. No sudden movements.”
Whoever it was, their presence had Joseph on edge. She obeyed his order, tucking in beside the first pack horse. And when she looked again at the cluster of strangers, she caught sight of long black braids and feathers protruding from their hair.
Indians.
She couldn’t seem to take her gaze from the group as they neared, although still at least a hundred yards away. Her horse began to dance beneath her, and she clutched tighter to the saddle and her reins.
“Relax. Your horse can smell your fear. Try not to pull back on the reins.” Joseph’s soft cadence drifted back to her.
Relax?
They were riding straight into a band of Indians and he wanted her to relax? She exhaled a long breath and forced her arms and legs to loosen. “Are they friendly? What do they want?”
“We’ll see shortly.”
The Indians were near enough now that they might hear if she spoke again, so she held her tongue. Reaching down, she felt for the garter holding up her stockings. Should she remove the pistol and have it ready? Or wait, relying only on her trust in God and Joseph?
He reached for the rifle in the scabbard attached to his saddle.
A thought slid in that slowed her racing heart. The Lord had sent her out here to minister to a tribe of Indians just like these. In fact, it was possible these were the very Indians who Antoine served. The idea made her sit straighter.
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