This Wilderness Journey

by Misty M. Beller

  She studied the group again. About a dozen and all men, from what she could tell. They didn’t wear paint on their faces like she’d heard stories about. All wore buckskins, and some had furs wrapped around their shoulders.

  Joseph reined in his horse when the group was about a dozen strides away, and the Indians did the same. He raised a hand in greeting and spoke a string of words she didn’t understand.

  The Indian in front nodded and raised his hand in response. Then he answered with another string of words and hand gestures.

  Joseph’s face grew uncertain, as though he couldn’t decipher the rapid fire of language. She didn’t blame him. The words seemed to be a mixture of clipped sounds and long vowels. Enchanting, but very foreign. Certainly nothing like the French she’d learned from her earliest days.

  Joseph responded to the man with both his hands and voice, but he seemed to stumble through a mixture of English and Indian words.

  She nudged her horse forward. If this was the tribe she’d be serving with Antoine, she should introduce herself instead of hanging back like a sullen child. Even if they weren’t, it would be best to learn how to interact now.

  “How do you say hello in their language?” She murmured her question just loud enough for Joseph to hear.

  He jerked his face to her for a split second before turning back to the Indians. In that fraction of time, his look had been a mixture of shock, warning, and...something else. “Kitsiksíksimatsimmo.”

  It was the whole string of words he’d first said to the Indian. All she wanted was a simple hello, but she’d have to trust him on it.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the group of natives and offered a pleasant smile. “Kitsiksíksimatsimmo.” She’d probably butchered the phrase, but hopefully her intent was clear.

  The Indian who seemed to be the leader studied her. His impassive expression looked to be covering a hint of amusement. At least it wasn’t anger.

  He responded with a slew of sounds in the same cadence as before, then raised his hand to Joseph. He then glanced at Monti once more with that same touch of amusement, raising his hand to her as he turned his horse to the side. The braves behind him followed his direction, and the group moved northward, slightly off from the direction they’d been traveling before.

  Joseph nudged his horse, and the other three followed. Monti’s pulse raced in her throat, and she took a moment to simply relish the fact that she was alive. She’d just encountered her very first Indians. And spoken to them.

  “What did he say?” A giddy feeling bubbled up in her chest as she pushed her horse up beside Joseph’s. She’d actually spoken to an Indian, and he’d answered her.

  “He said you talk a lot.”

  A giggle slipped out before she could stop it. “What? No, he didn’t. What did he really say?”

  Joseph slid her a sideways glance. “Close to that. I’m not real good with the language yet, but it was something about courage and speaking.” He shrugged. “That translates to talks-a-lot in my book. I tend to agree with him.”

  She let out a huff. “If you think I speak overmuch, you should have heard my mother.”

  The silence settled back over them, which was fine, because it gave her mind time to replay the scene with the Indians and remember how each had looked.

  “Did your mother speak English or French?” Joseph’s question pulled her attention in a wholly different direction.

  “Both. English was her first language, but she learned French when she met my papa.”

  “Did she remarry? I mean...after your father...” He seemed to struggle with the best way to word his question, and she rushed into her answer to save him.

  “No. Mama was good with business and kept food on our table by selling Papa’s inventions. She loved business and could sell anything to anyone. She was a remarkable woman.”

  “Inventions?” The curiosity in his tone was the first unveiled interest she’d heard from him.

  “My papa was an engineer. A genius, they say. He invented several things, but the most famous was a kind of electromagnetic relay that could be used for sending messages along a wire.”

  “Really? The wire carried notes?”

  She shook her head. Mama was much better at providing an understandable explanation, but she’d heard it enough to give the basics. “Pulses could be recognized through the wire. The sender and receiver only needed to work out a code between them, and they could communicate effectively. Lots of businesses found it useful for communicating from one building to another. She sold the system all over Europe through her agents there.” It was a wonder what Mama had accomplished. “People said my father was a genius, but I think Mama might have been the smarter of the two.”

  He didn’t respond, just rode on quietly. Perhaps she’d talked overlong on the subject, but the memories of her parents were all she had left. She held on to those memories, especially those of Mama.

  THE MORE JOSEPH LEARNED about her, the more of an enigma she became. This little French princess had obviously been raised in a comfortable life. Yet she seemed to possess more nerve and tenacity than he’d given her credit for.

  Her mother must have been tough to continue her husband’s business after his death. And Miss Bergeron had obviously learned some of that same skill. She’d faced the Indians without quaking in her boots and with an equal measure of kindness and spunk.

  That was good, because she’d be faced with plenty more opportunities that would test her mettle the longer she stayed in this wild land.

  They were moving closer to the mountain country now, and patches of snow littered the grass, especially where clusters of trees gathered. The temperature seemed to be sinking, and the low, gray clouds signaled snow coming soon. Probably tonight. Which meant they should camp early enough to prepare for it.

  A patch of snow ahead caught his notice. The barren spot in the center of it seemed an odd color. Not the tan of winter grass or the brown of mud. This spot was crimson. Must be a recent animal kill. Perhaps from that wolf pack they’d heard the night before.

  He slid a glance at Miss Bergeron. She was stroking her mare’s mane as she rode, apparently not seeing the remains of the slaughter.

  Should he steer them away so she didn’t notice the gory sight? If she were going to remain in this land, she’d need to resign herself to not only see it, but be willing to prepare meals from the flesh of animals. Of course, perhaps they should start with a lesson on how not to burn the food first.

  Keeping them on the same trajectory they’d been traveling, he didn’t comment about the patch of blood, fur, and bones until Miss Bergeron sucked in a breath.

  She pointed to the spot. “What happened there?”

  “Looks like an animal kill.” He tried to keep his voice casual, letting her know this was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Do you think it’s from the wolves we heard last night?” So she’d put the pieces together too. Good.

  “Hard to know. I hope that’s the case. If their bellies are full, they won’t search out more prey for a while.”

  She nodded, but another glance at her revealed faint indentations above her brows, as though she were thinking hard, or maybe troubled about something. At least she didn’t squeal or act squeamish.

  Yet, even though she could ride by a bloody carcass without swooning, how would she manage the rest of the savage wildness of this land?

  Chapter Six

  Lord, make me attentive to the needs of those around me. Let me hear their silent longings and be the instrument of Your blessing.

  ~ Monti’s Journal

  MONTI TOOK IN STEADY breaths of the cool—nay, icy—air. Her exhale swirled around her face as she burrowed into her coat. “I’m going to need warmer clothing than I anticipated. It didn’t get this cold in Montreal.” The sun had dipped past the far tree line, causing all warmth to evaporate as if it feared the coming darkness.

  “I bought you fabric at the fort.” Joseph’s warm vo
ice rumbled beside her. “Figured you might need something warmer. Brown was the only color they had, but it’s wool, so it’ll be better than that flimsy stuff you’re wearing. Buckskin would be best, but it’ll take a while to tan hides for a set of clothes.”

  She looked at him, letting a smile slip onto her face. “Monsieur Malcom. I do believe that’s the most you’ve spoken to me yet.”

  His neck and cheeks darkened a bit. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  She nodded. “Merci beaucoup. I appreciate it.” This man was full of all manner of surprises.

  He motioned toward a small cluster of trees. “We’ll stop there. It’ll probably snow tonight, so we’d best set up a cover.”

  Brrr. Just the thought of sleeping out in the open air while snow fluttered down around them sounded frightfully cold. She pulled the coat tighter around her neck. “Just tell me how I can help.”

  She’d watched Joseph all day and hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the way he did or didn’t use his left hand, but riding a steady saddle horse didn’t offer many situations where he would be required to use that particular appendage.

  But as she assisted with small tasks to help set up the oilcloth covering over their campsite, it became clear he went to great lengths not to use the muscles in his left hand. Not that he was obvious about it. He compensated well with the wrist and palm on that side. But every so often she would see a flicker of frustration cross his face. Not pain, just an obvious irritation with himself.

  She was dying to ask what had happened, but she’d seen men become angry when faced with their limitations. She’d have to wait for the right opening.

  After he unloaded the packs from the horses and started pulling supplies from their wrappings, she approached. “Can I help prepare the evening meal?”

  He looked up at her. Really looked, not the sideways glances he’d been sending all day, as though he was trying to pretend he didn’t care about her existence. This was a full-on scrutiny, like he was weighing whether he should trust her with the task again.

  She forced herself to hold his gaze, no squirming. “I’ve not cooked much before, but I’m a fast learner. If you show me how, I won’t let it burn again.” She hated to feel like she was begging, but this was a skill she needed to learn. And he’d already done so much for her—coming to fetch her and handling almost all the chores himself—the least she could do would be to take on this one task for herself.

  “I thought we’d put on a pot of beans for tonight and the morning. If you’re extra hungry, we can fry corncakes to hold us over while the beans cook.”

  That sounded heavenly. The meager leftover corncake and dried meat they’d eaten midday had left her hours ago.

  She knelt beside the pack of cornmeal and pulled the pot from the stack of supplies Joseph had piled. “What else goes in the corncakes, and how much of each?”

  Lord willing, she’d get it right this time.

  THE SNOW BEGAN JUST as darkness settled securely over the land. Monti sat before the fire, tucking the fur tighter around her as she stared up at the silvery flakes floating down. The ones over the fire disappeared when they neared the flames.

  Joseph sat on his pallet, staring out into the same white-specked darkness. Their blankets were positioned a bit closer this time, out of necessity. There was only so much oilcloth to stretch above them, and not even she would force him to sleep in the falling snow just to ensure the fire separated them. As it was, the bedrolls formed the shape of an L.

  “I guess this isn’t the first snowfall of the year, since we’ve seen bits along the trail. Does the snow ever completely melt through the winter months?”

  He glanced at her. “Didn’t last winter.” Something dark tinged his voice. “The ice stayed all the way through May. And in the mountains, some of it never melted.”

  She studied him. Why did he speak of the winter as if he hated it? “You don’t like snow?”

  He stared off into the distance again. “Snow and ice are a fact of this land. You have to make peace with them, or winter will eat you alive.”

  Such ominous words. Maybe ice had contributed to his injury. But the hard look in his expression kept her from asking.

  Perhaps a change of topic would help. “Do you have any family in the area?”

  His face softened a fraction. “A sister and her husband.” The corners of his mouth tipped. “A niece who’s just learning to walk. My aunt and uncle live across the valley from them.”

  She took a moment to picture the scene he’d described. “I can’t even imagine having that much family. Much less all in one place. Do they live near you?”

  He sent her a sardonic look. “I suppose. Sometimes. There’s a cave I use a few hours up the mountain.”

  “You don’t have a home?” She shouldn’t let her tone sound so incredulous, but...he had nothing?

  His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. “I don’t need one. I keep a few supplies in the cave. Emma insists I stay with them when I come to visit. But mostly, I prefer to sleep on the trail.”

  She took in this new bit of information, working to transform her image of him. She’d imagined at least a quaint cabin somewhere. Maybe nestled at the base of a mountain, beside a stream where he caught fish and beaver.

  He was truly a nomad, though. No wonder he seemed so deeply entrenched in this land, even though he’d been here less than a twelve-month. Would she be the same after her first year? With God’s strength, she hoped she would feel a little more equipped for the work ahead than she did now. His work.

  After several more moments of quiet, both of them studying the falling snow, an idea struck her. She turned to Joseph. “Would you mind if I play the guitar you brought along? I’ve played the violin for years, but haven’t ever tried a larger instrument. I’d like to see how different it is.”

  His brows came low, as if the idea angered him. But then he seemed to reconsider his reaction, and his expression turned blank. “That instrument belongs to my sister’s husband. It’s a Christmas present, and she asked me to bring it back for her.”

  A stab of disappointment filtered through her. The guitar had seemed like something special to him last night. Like something that might help him open up some. But if it was a gift for his relative, she couldn’t press him to bring it out.

  She nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. “I see.”

  The silence threatened to settle over them until Joseph pushed to his feet. “I suppose ’tis not a problem if we’re careful.”

  He disappeared into the darkness, then returned a moment later with the guitar. The firelight danced on the sleekness of the dark wood as he crossed to her and nestled the instrument in her lap.

  She settled it, the bulk of the base so much larger than she was accustomed to. She had to work to lean over far enough to see the strings. Her hands found the chords easily, especially since the guitar had frets to guide her. Much easier than her violin, where precision was so important.

  She tried a simple strum. A nice sound, but nothing so difficult as a song. The sonatas she’d memorized wouldn’t work on this instrument, and her mind went blank as she struggled to summon other music she might be able to adapt.

  A glance at Joseph showed he was sitting on his bedroll again, watching her. Perhaps... “Could you teach me a song? I can’t think of any music in my violin repertoire that could be played on this.”

  His gaze turned wary. “I can’t play it.”

  She tilted her head at him. Was he just saying that so he wouldn’t have to teach her? She’d heard him last night, and the easy way he’d carried it to her showed he was quite familiar with holding such an instrument. Not to mention the hint of longing that had shadowed his eyes as he’d handed it to her.

  What song might they both have heard? She raised her brows at him. “Do you know ‘The Green Willow Tree?’” It was a fun old ballad. A bit jaunty, and would certainly liven up the evening.

  His brow lowered. “Maybe.
”

  “Can you teach me? I know the tune and words, but not the chording nor how to strum.”

  He studied her for a long moment. Or perhaps he was thinking through the song. His face held such a contrast of expressions it was hard to tell. Then at last, “The chords are simple.” He gave her the progression, which was, indeed, simple.

  She formed each chord with a strum, then added the words their cook used to sing as she baked pies. For some reason, this long-winded ballad had been the woman’s favorite pie-baking accompaniment.

  “There was a ship that sailed on the Northern Sea.

  She went by the name of the Green Willow Tree.

  I’m afraid she’ll be taken by the enemy,

  For she sails on the lowlands low.”

  She paused after that first verse to see Joseph’s response. The faint glimmer of a smile touched his eyes, giving her the hope to push a little further. “What rhythm should I be strumming with my right hand?”

  He squinted, his hand tapping his leg as he must be replaying the verse in his mind. “A simple, dat, dat-da-dat, dat, dat, for each line.” He tapped his leg with his right hand as he spoke the rhythm.

  She tried it, stroking down with each “dat.” It sounded clumsy and rushed, certainly not right.

  “No, it goes down, down-up-down, up, down.” He spoke the words with the same tapping rhythm.

  She tried again, but this time her strumming seemed to have no rhythm at all. Blowing out a breath, she pursed her lips. “It’d be so much easier if I could just glide a bow across the strings.”

  He chuckled, then shifted. Before she realized what he was doing, he stood and came to crouch in front of her. He slipped the glove off his right hand, revealing the strong, muscled grip of a man accustomed to working hard in the elements.

  Resting his left hand—still gloved—on top of the guitar, he positioned his right hand over the strings near the round opening in the body. He didn’t meet her eyes, but nodded toward her hand on the frets. “Start from the beginning.”