“All right.” Minnie outlined everything she should do, and Faith nodded several times. It didn’t sound too complicated, and the actual baking process sounded quite a lot like chicken. She could do this—she knew she could.
Before she left, Faith sat down with Olivia and told her a little story, using her fingers as shadow puppets. The little girl loved trying to mimic Faith’s movements, studying the wall intently.
“You’re going to be a wonderful mother someday,” Minnie told her, and Faith just barely managed a smile.
When she reached her own cabin again, she added a bit more wood to the stove, then stood in front of the rabbit and studied it. She could do this—Minnie had made it sound so easy. She placed the meat in her roasting pan, then rubbed it down with a bit of butter and sprinkled it with some dried herbs. Then she placed the pan in the oven. She’d come back in a little while and flip the rabbit over, buttering the other side as well. She hoped she had enough on hand to make a difference.
Calvin’s grin was wide with appreciation when he came in and saw what she’d been doing. “I never expected rabbit for dinner,” he said, crossing the floor and kissing her cheek. “It’s one of my all-time favorite meals.”
“It is?” Faith’s chest clenched. What if she’d made a horrible mess of it?
“My mother makes a fantastic baked rabbit.” He washed his hands, then sat down and looked at her expectantly.
She forced a smile. “I’ve never actually made it before. We didn’t live in a place where it was plentiful.”
“My mother grew up in a less-populated area, and her father hunted quite a bit. My parents live in town now, but she still cooks up rabbit whenever she finds it available.”
Faith gave him an apprehensive look. “Minnie told me what to do. You’ll be patient with me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
Faith lifted a piece onto his plate, then watched for his reaction. He cut a bite with his fork, chewed a few times, and then swallowed, reaching for his water glass.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, the panic rising.
“Nothing, nothing,” he replied. “It just needs a little more time in the oven.”
She dropped her face to her hands. “I served you undercooked meat? And you swallowed it?”
“I was raised never to spit at the dinner table.” He reached out and took her hand, gently pulling it away from her face. “Sweetheart, you’ve done nothing wrong. We’ll just put it back in the oven.”
“But you’re hungry . . . and it’s your favorite . . .”
“Yes, I’m hungry, but there’s bread on the table, and I see some jam, and did you know that bread and jam is my second-most favorite meal ever?”
She dropped her other hand. “No, it’s not. No one’s second-favorite meal ever is bread and jam.”
“It is too. And I wouldn’t lie—I’m a Mountie.” He stood up, opened the oven door, slid the roasting pan inside, and sat back down. “I’d be perfectly content to sit here at this table with my beautiful wife and eat bread and jam forever.”
She couldn’t help it. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. “You’re too good to me.”
“What? Too good to you? Impossible.” He brushed the tear away. “What’s the matter? Why are you so upset tonight?’
“I don’t know. I think I’m overly tired. Going to the village and learning to drive a sled both on the same day was likely too much for me.”
“Then let’s do this.” Calvin stood again, took both her hands and tugged her to a standing position, then led her into the bedroom. “Lie down and have a rest. I’ll wake you up when the rabbit’s done, and we’ll eat dinner together then.”
That sounded absolutely wonderful, but it seemed so . . . lazy. Shouldn’t wives be up and doing and useful? “I don’t know . . .”
“I do know.” He took her elbow and eased her to sit on the bed, then bent down and unlaced her shoes, which he pulled off and set side-by-side on the floor. “The rabbit won’t be done for about an hour. Take a nap. I think you’ve more than earned it.” He stood, kissed her forehead, and left the room, pausing in the doorway only long enough to smile at her.
She stared after him in surprise. He’d just tucked her into bed—well, as much as he could, with her still sitting up and all. What a kind thing to do. She slid her legs under the blankets, not caring that her skirts were cumbersome, and leaned back on the pillows. Had any husband ever been so sweet?
When he came in a little while later, he woke her by kissing her forehead. “Hey,” he whispered. “Would you like some rabbit, or would you rather stay asleep?”
Her eyes were sleepy as she looked up at him, and she felt utterly content. “I’ll come taste the rabbit,” she said after stretching. “After all my worrying, I need to see how the story ends.”
He laughed. “That would be a shame.” He made to stand up, but she reached out and touched his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said. “Having this rest was exactly what I needed. Thank you for seeing that and encouraging me to take it.”
He stroked her hair back from her face. “I hope I always encourage you to have the things you need.” He bent down and kissed her lips, and then again, and it was quite a few moments before the rabbit was eaten after all.
***
Calvin sat at the desk inside the Mountie station, supposedly doing some paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, his mind kept wandering to his sweet wife and the hard work she’d put into baking him the saddest little rabbit he’d ever seen. She’d wanted so badly to please him—that touched his heart more deeply than he could say. To have someone at home who loved him and cared about his wellbeing—he could go out into the world and do just about anything that would be asked of him, knowing she was waiting for him and depending on him.
It had been so hard to wake up that morning. He’d stared at her for several minutes, memorizing every detail, admiring every curl. He didn’t stop until she said, “Do I need to be concerned?” Then she’d laughed, and he felt a little silly, and they’d kissed again before getting up to start breakfast together.
It was the perfect start to the day, and he hoped it would be repeated often.
He finally brought his attention back to the work in front of him and was working on a report detailing a fistfight at the saloon when the door opened with a bang. He shot up from his chair as a man staggered in, supporting the weight of another in his arms.
“Found him out on the trail, Corporal,” the first man gasped. “Must have been out there for hours.”
Calvin stepped to the other side, and between the two of them, they laid their burden down on the cot in the corner of the jail cell. He wished there was another bed available, but there wasn’t—at least he could prop the door open so no one felt as though they were under arrest.
He looked down into the face of the man on the bed. “Henry?” He felt for a pulse—it was there, but weak. He glanced back up at the other man, someone he’d never met before. “What’s your name?”
“Haskell, sir. Bob Haskell.”
“Go for the doctor, Mr. Haskell, and hurry.”
The man gave a nod and left.
Calvin turned back to Henry, trying to figure out what was wrong. Exposure was definite—his skin was far colder than it should have been, and his skin looked gray. Calvin stepped over to the stove—yes, there was still coffee in the pot, and he’d give some to Henry as soon as he was awake enough to swallow. Calvin threw more wood into the stove and left the front open, trying to force more air into the room, then returned to Henry’s side and unfastened the buttons of his coat. It seemed he’d be doing that often for this man.
As he lifted the wet material away from Henry’s chest, he saw something this time that brought him up short. A massive amount of blood had come from a wound in his side and had frozen or congealed to the fabric, and as he removed the coat, he had started the bleeding up again.
Cal
vin swore under his breath, promising himself that he’d apologize to his mother for it later, and grabbed for the first aid kit by the desk. He pulled out a bandage, pressed it to the wound, and held it there. The gauze was soaked instantly, and he went through every bandage in succession, piling one on top of the others, trying to create a large-enough pad to contain the bleeding, but there was just too much.
The door to the station opened and Robert came in, followed by Mr. Haskell. “Doc’s out of town,” Robert said, ripping off his coat and stepping up next to Calvin. “I’m the next-best thing, I guess.”
“He’s been shot in the side, has uncontrollable bleeding, and has exposure,” Calvin explained. Then he turned and called over his shoulder, “Mr. Haskell, I need you to run over to the mercantile and get me as much muslin as you can. Just grab the whole bolt.”
He nodded and headed back out.
Calvin glanced at Robert’s face. His fellow Mountie’s lips were set in a thin line as he examined the wound the best he could without dislodging the gauze. “Even if the doctor were here, I don’t think he’d make it,” Robert said. “Look.”
Calvin bent over. “I’m not sure what you’re showing me.”
“That’s not fresh blood. This blood was frozen onto his skin and is now melting onto the gauze in the warmth of the room.”
“No fresh blood . . .”
“Means he’s running out of blood to lose,” Robert finished for him. “This man is going to die.”
Calvin stepped back. He’d known that on some level, but he hadn’t pieced together that the blood wasn’t fresh. It was bright, like fresh blood would be, but because it had been frozen, of course it wouldn’t have lost its color.
Malcolm entered the station next, his coat not buttoned yet. “What’s going on?”
Calvin outlined the situation, and Malcolm nodded. “I’ll speak to Mr. Haskell and find out where he found this man. Then we’ll ride back and see if we can find a blood trail, which will hopefully lead us to a culprit. I’ve got Colton with me. Carry on.”
Mr. Haskell delivered the muslin and then left again with Malcolm and Colton. Robert and Calvin kept applying pressure to the wound, even though it seemed hopeless. After about an hour, Henry took a long, stuttering breath, then went perfectly still. Robert didn’t move for several moments, then released his hold on the muslin and stepped back.
“You did a good job, Calvin,” he said. “You did everything you could have done.”
Calvin lowered himself into one of the chairs in the office, feeling every last bit of strength leaving me. “I wish I could have done more.”
Robert clapped him on the shoulder as he sat in a nearby chair. “This is the life of a Mountie—sometimes we’re able to save lives and be heroes and make all the difference in the world, and other times, despite all our best efforts, the worst happens anyway, and we feel helpless to do anything about it. It’s at those times when we realize how much of a difference we really are making. That man didn’t die alone. Mr. Haskell brought him here and did everything he could to help. You began his care right away. Malcolm and Colton will track down whoever did this. We couldn’t save his life, but differences were made.”
Calvin rubbed his hands over his face. He could hear the truth in the words Robert was saying, but he was too numb to understand them. “Faith will be so sorry to hear this,” he said. “She and Henry were friends.” That rabbit meal seemed so long ago, even though it had just been the night before.
“That’s too bad,” Robert replied.
They sat in silence until Calvin got up the strength to stand and pour them each a cup of coffee. He wanted to step across the way and go see Faith, but that would have to wait—he was still on duty, and he couldn’t turn to her every time he was upset. That would definitely slow down his work. He’d share everything with her when he got home.
It seemed like a wait of a million years before Malcolm and Colton returned. They flopped into the remaining chairs and unbuttoned their jackets, looking entirely done in.
“We followed the trail backwards, using some drops of blood we found here and there,” Malcolm said. “We followed it back into the woods for about a mile—tied up the horses and went on foot. We saw boot prints pretty clearly, and those were easy to follow, even when there were gaps between the blood drops. After a while, we came to a clearing, and found a rather large amount of blood, like someone had been shot at that location, and we also found this.” Malcolm reached into his pocket and pulled out a short length of metal tubing. “They left in a hurry and forgot this.”
“Part of a still,” Calvin said, not asking a question, but stating a fact. “So, what happened? Was Henry part of it, or not?”
“We didn’t find any evidence either way,” Malcolm replied. “All we found was the blood splatter and the tubing.”
Calvin pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “And so there’s obviously no way to know who killed him.” He remembered what they’d heard at the Ojibwe village, how Jane’s husband had been killed and no one would speak up. Was Henry to have no justice either?
“Men, we’ve just arrived here,” Malcolm reminded them. “We’ve only barely begun to investigate. We’re not sunk—we’re not defeated. We’ve been collecting pieces of information, and we’re going to continue on with this until we learn who’s behind the moonshining and how the Ojibwe are involved. We’re not giving up.”
Calvin nodded. He wasn’t going to let this dampen his fervor to serve the people of this community. He would use it as fuel to push forward.
***
Faith stood in her doorway, watching Finnegan play. It was snowing again, but lightly, and he was trying to catch the snowflakes in his mouth. His tongue lolled as he jumped up and down, looking so much like a puppy.
“Mrs. Montrose?”
The shopkeeper was crunching his way toward her, his collar turned up. She wondered what could have brought him away from the warmth of the mercantile—it was too cold for much else beyond watching a happy fox enjoying his environment.
“Yes? You’ll catch your death—why are you out?”
“I thought you’d want this.” He held up a letter. “The mail finally came through.”
Her breath caught. The letter from her mother. Everything she’d been doing over the last few days—dog sledding, visiting, even cooking—had been to keep her mind off this letter. She accepted it with a smile, offered the man coffee, and as soon as she was alone, she sat down and stared at the envelope, tracing her mother’s familiar handwriting with the tip of her finger.
Now she just had to be brave enough to read the words.
She slipped her finger beneath the seal and broke it, telling herself that no amount of lollygagging would change the information inside. It was what it was, and she might as well know the truth of it.
Dear Faith,
I’m sorry if I confused you or caused you alarm with my last letter. I didn’t realize that you weren’t aware of your condition. How could you be, though—I don’t think we spoke of it much afterwards, and I apologize to you for that. I truly do. I did you a great disservice.
Do you remember the abdominal surgery you had when you were thirteen? That’s likely a foolish question—I’m sure you do remember it. You were in a great deal of pain beforehand, and the recovery was quite long. The doctor believed at first that it was your appendix, but when he operated, he found that you had a massive tumor on your uterus. It was necessary to remove it entirely to save your life.
We believe that we’ve come so far as a society—speaking out more on the subject of women’s rights and other things that are important to us, but we’re still rather shy when it comes to discussing women’s health. My dear, I’m so sorry that I wasn’t bolder in telling you what was going on inside you. I fear that my sheltered upbringing has caused you more pain than you otherwise would have gone through had you known.
Please ask if you have any other questions. I’ll do my best to ans
wer them without letting my shyness be an impediment.
All my love,
Mother
Faith’s hands fell into her lap, and she stared at the wall. She remembered that surgery very well, and in fact, she’d believed ever since that it had been her appendix. No one had even hinted that was the wrong diagnosis. To learn, now, after all this time that it was something quite different . . . she didn’t know what to think or feel. Was it too late to start missing something she didn’t know she’d lost?
When the door opened, she almost didn’t realize Calvin was home until he was standing right in front of her. She blinked. Had she made anything for dinner? She couldn’t even remember.
“Faith, I need to tell you something,” he said.
She nearly replied that she needed to talk to him too, but the look on his face told her that something was seriously wrong. Her news wouldn’t change—it could wait. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
Calvin sat across from her and pulled off his gloves as he told her of Henry being brought into the Mountie station, the struggle to save his life, and his eventual death, after everything they could do. Faith couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was too astonishing to be real. “But he was here just last night,” she said, trying to comprehend it. “He . . . he brought us a rabbit.”
Calvin reached out and placed a hand on her knee. “We did everything we could, sweetheart, but he was too far gone.”
She met his gaze with hers and saw that he was just as upset as she was. “Oh,” she whispered. “You’ve never lost someone in your care before, have you?”
Calvin shook his head.
She stood and wrapped her arms around him. He brought his arms up and entwined them around her waist, and together, they mourned the passing of a man who might have been anything—an outlaw, an innocent bystander, the ringleader. Whatever he might have been to the rest of the world, to them, he had been a friend, and that’s how they would think of him.
It was full dark before they thought of anything else. Faith went into the kitchen and pulled together a light meal from the remnants she could find, wishing she’d taken the time earlier to put together something nice. She placed it on the table, then sat, her hands on the table in front of her. She was hungry, but she didn’t think she’d be able to eat.
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