Over the next three days, the woman became an elusive shadow, Buck catching a glimpse of her now and then, but only fleetingly and not face to face. The morning after she’d invaded his private room, he’d found someone had refilled the kindling bucket next to his cookstove. After he’d returned from killing a deer yesterday, someone had split firewood and brought it into the house; that’s when he began to question her motives.
Apparently he’d put a scare into her, enough to keep her out of his way, but not enough to keep her away from his cookstove. If she thought by doing a couple of piddly chores she’d get around him, well, she had another think coming. Out of principle, even though she shared everything she cooked, he couldn’t help resenting her intrusion into his private domain.
It irked him that her cooking tasted better than his. He’d forgotten what a woman’s cooking could taste like. Her stew, just the thought of it, made his mouth water. She’d done something, added something—a spice, an herb, or something. Whatever she’d done, he didn’t know how to do it. Bless her, she made fresh biscuits every day. They were light as a feather, tender and golden brown. Her apple pie tasted like no apple pie he’d ever had before. She’d found some walnuts and raisins in his larder and added those to the filling, and the crust…flakey, so light it barely held together.
The smell of her clean laundry wafted into every corner of the house like smoke. He imagined her and the kid’s laundry drying, draped all over the upstairs rooms. He did prefer a clean woman, but this one washed something every day.
Daily he reminded himself he didn’t need a woman to cook for him. Hell, he didn’t want a woman to cook for him. He liked living alone. He liked his own damn cooking. He hated the smell of wet, clean laundry, and he wanted to live in his house by himself.
Working himself into a lather, he complained to the fates about the squalling, puking, pooping brat living under his roof. The woman kept the kid quiet most of the time, which irritated him, knowing his complaint lacked substance.
He’d caught a glimpse of the little fella whenever the woman made a dash for the outhouse. Her skittering around, avoiding him, sneaking in and out of his house, had Buck grinding his back molars, because he really did want to get a good look at the baby. Much to his surprise, he even wanted to touch it and hold it, and that disturbed and disgusted him.
This morning, going out to the barn like usual, he vowed to take action. He only had to wait a few minutes before she made a run for the outhouse. Not giving himself time to think about it, he dashed back to the house, headed for the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. He stood in the doorway to her room, looking around. She’d pulled one of the bureau drawers out and had it on the bed, fixed up with a pillow and a blanket to create a makeshift crib for the kid. She’d moved the bed closer to the window, and on the bed he found several of his books.
Damn the woman to hell!
Cursing, he moved to the bed and touched his beloved books. She had two medical books. One lay open to the section on conditions of the inner ear. The other medical book lay open, the pages dog-eared to mark the section on infant care. He hated people who dog-eared the corners of a good book. It ruined the book.
She’d ruined his book.
He had to smile though. A romance novel lay on the floor beside the bed, and next to it a book on ancient history, another on Greek myths, and another on navigating by the stars. Pissed off she’d absconded with his books, impressed by her choices, he found himself more intrigued than angry.
Here, all this time, he’d thought her some dumb, ignorant piece of trash. Now he really had to know, and know right now, today, who she was. Where she’d come from, and what the hell had happened to her that she’d ended up wandering around out in the back-end of nowhere, pregnant, half-dressed, half-starved. The problem, how in the heck could a fella have a conversation with someone who couldn’t hear? For all he knew, maybe she couldn’t talk either.
Hearing the door open downstairs, and feeling the wash of cold air as it swept up the stairwell, Buck experienced a few seconds of overwhelming guilt for skulking around in her room, then reset the chalk-line on his conscience. This woman had intruded—she had invaded his private quarters and absconded with his private property—damn it.
»»•««
When Petra came up the stairs, the giant waited. That’s how she thought of him. The hairy beast filled her doorway with his breadth, his ominous presence. And by the steely, predatory glint in his silver eyes he wasn’t pleased. If he meant to send her packing, then Petra could accept that. But she worried about her son, about Gabriel. The time had come to find out if the man had brought her here to recuperate or to keep her as his prisoner.
With her gaze locked to her jailor’s scowl, Petra stumbled on the landing, her arms instinctively tightening around the baby strapped to her bosom. The giant stepped forward, his arms lashing around her waist like steel bands. His embrace prevented her from falling, while crushing her into his solid body and panic overrode reason.
He smelled of wood smoke and coffee. His beard brushed against her hair. A rush of cool air filled her mouth and, in her head, Petra screamed, No. Please, no. Don’t, don’t touch me!
With one arm crossed in front of her to guard Gabriel, she slapped the man’s big arms to little avail. He jerked away, a surprised look on his face. With his hands up, he shook his head back and forth in denial. His eyes conveyed the unspoken promise of good behavior as a lock of his busy auburn mane fell across one heavy brow.
A man’s promises, she’d learned, couldn’t be trusted; promises often preceded pain and betrayal. Looking where his mouth should be, the man’s beard quivered and shook. She couldn’t read the words on his hidden lips. He held up one finger, then both hands.
She understood. He wanted her to wait. With his hands out to his sides, he moved around her, careful to maintain his distance.
Filled with uncertainty, she stood at the top of the landing, staring after him as he took the stairs in three short leaps to the room below. Moving quickly, she entered her room, then laid Gabriel down in his bed. Resolute, she turned back to the opened door to face…she didn’t know what. Whatever happened, she intended to go down fighting, her knife unsheathed, hidden in Gabriel’s sling.
Taking her by surprise, even though she knew he would reappear, the giant rushed back into her room with two slate boards, one in each hand. His beard parted, revealing a wide, white-toothed, crazed grin. When he thrust one of the slates toward her, along with a piece of chalk, she instinctively backed away. In this room, she had nowhere to go but into the corner.
Before her eyes, his demeanor changed from angry jailer to Father Christmas. She didn’t know which persona to believe. A bubble of a nervous giggle formed in her throat, teeth chattering. When he took a step toward the bed, arms outstretched, bending down to where Gabriel lay peaceful and quiet, the familiar vibrations of terror rushed through her body like a tidal wave.
Shaking her head, scurrying out from her corner, Petra put her body between the giant and her son. If she screamed, she didn’t know, but in her head she pleaded, No. Not Gabriel, you can’t have him.
Soon, Petra hoped, she’d awaken from this nightmare that alternated between terror and pure insanity, and find herself home in Missoula, safe and warm in her bed.
The man stopped, just slightly more than an arm’s-length from her. His hand over his heart, he motioned toward Gabriel’s bed, asking for something. Motioning again, he tilted his head, his gaze asking for something—her trust?
Impossible. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone, ever again.
Uncertain of what would happen next, she looked down to her son, relieved he’d fallen asleep. Keeping her eyes on the giant, she moved around the end of the bed. In a futile attempt to insulate her son from the ugliness of their situation, she bent down and tucked his blanket more tightly around his little body.
Gathering her courage, she turned to face the giant and caught him frowning. He’d looked disappointed. Straightening his sagging shoulders, he hid his wounded expression behind his beard.
Putting up her chin, Petra kept up her guard. Although he’d rescued her and her son, she couldn’t trust his motives.
Unexpectedly, he reached out and put his hand on her arm. It startled her. When she jerked away, she found herself back in the corner. Her eyes darted to Gabriel, who squirmed but didn’t waken. The man waved his hand in front of her and tapped the chalk on the slate board, then quickly wrote something and turned it toward her to read.
Name?
Confused, it took a second for Petra to deliberate with herself, ask herself if she should give him her real name, or lie. If Kurt was after her, then lying might be the kindest thing she could do for this man, and the safest thing she could do for herself and her son. On the other hand, because of the giant’s kindness and generosity, she felt obliged to stay as close to the truth as possible.
She took her chalk and wrote, Petra Yurvasi.
Buck Hoyt, he wrote back.
If he meant to be civil, then she would relent, but cautiously. She offered him a tentative smile, nodding as he scribbled another message.
Husband?
Without thinking, she shook her head.
Family?
Again she shook her head.
Virgin Mary?
Her nerves on edge, Petra caught herself smiling, and felt the tickling itch in the back of her throat, perhaps the beginnings of a giggle.
She used to giggle a lot. Back then, a foolish, ignorant, careless girl, back then, only a few months, and yet, a lifetime. No, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down; she must never forget the lessons she’d learned.
Shaking her head Petra wrote, Fool.
Unable to hear him, she watched the man’s mouth open wide, his deep-set, silver-gray eyes crinkling up at the corners, giving him a kindly, less threatening aspect. Then he sobered, his bushy brows drawing together over the sharp planes of his crooked nose, writing out his next question. Born deaf?
She shook her head, and scribbled, mine explosion.
Explosion? Your fault?
She shook her head vigorously.
Running, why?
Fool.
Obviously dissatisfied with her excuse, he shook his head at her.
Frustrated with her inability to communicate, finding her situation impossible to explain in small words, impossible to explain period, Petra tossed the slate board on the bed.
Day in and day out, all night long, she now lived with what sounded like a turbulent waterfall pounding away inside her head, the sound drowning out her own voice. Taking care of the baby, doing chores, she could keep her mind off it, but at night, in the dark, the sound wouldn’t let her sleep and threatened to send her over the edge of reason. Today she felt a squeezing pressure, a pain that wouldn’t let up, right behind her eyes, and her throat felt dry and raw.
She wanted to speak, say the words, explain—she had to try. After taking a deep breath, she balled her fists, closed her eyes, imagining her voice, the words she needed to say, forming them without thinking, without hearing them.
A nagging ache vibrated behind her ears and shivered down her neck. She rolled her head from side to side to shake it off and formed her first word, then the next. “Fool. Gave money to man I thought loved me, marry me. Didn’t want me, wanted money.”
Panting, breathless, perspiration forming on her upper lip, she swallowed down what felt like a cupful of glass. Squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp edges, she shivered, then opened her eyes to gauge the man’s response, wondering if she’d made any noise at all. Meeting his scowl, she sighed, closed her eyes again and tried to remember to breathe. “Man wants my baby to hold as hostage for money. He will take him, keep him; steal his soul.”
Her heart racing, thudding against her ribcage, she tried to block the sounds of the slosh and sizzle inside her head. Without thinking about how to form the words, she added, “Kurt will kill me. Or he might keep me alive to watch him destroy my child.”
Petra hadn’t thought of her future in words until this moment, and it sickened her—the future, what little she had to look forward to, sounded like hell.
Mr. Hoyt’s penetrating eyes narrowed and he held her gaze for a long second, his jaw sawing, his beard switching back and forth before he quickly wrote, Coming after you?
She shrugged, her neck cramping, and a heavy, cold pain settled over her eyebrows, making her think if she tried to say one more word her head might explode. “Might be dead,” she managed to mouth. Impatient, wanting the giant to go away and leave her alone, lips moving, air rushing over her tongue, the voice in her head shouted, “I don’ know. Didn’t stay to find out.”
Eyes open, Mr. Hoyt’s mouth moved; if she had to guess what he’d said, she would say he’d uttered a swear word. With a shake of his head, he quickly scrawled the question, Where were you going?
Pressing her lips together, Petra felt them tingle before she opened her mouth. “Mmmissoula. Mmmy home, could live there.”
This man, he’ll follow?
Nodding vigorously set off an unexpected explosion of pain at the base of her skull. Pulling in a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back before attempting to speak further. “If alive, yes, hunt me down. I…I know his secrets. He is monster, he is evil.”
His gaze leaving her face, Mr. Hoyt glanced out the window before writing on the slate, snowing.
At first Petra didn’t understand, then she followed his gaze. “How long?” she asked, watching the cascading flakes flutter by the window.
Till April, he wrote, looking as dismayed as she felt.
“Have to go, have to.”
Won’t make it, he wrote.
“Pay. Have money. Mmmissoula, have money. Pay you.”
He shook his head at her.
Too late. He erased.
You stay here. Erase.
Safe here. Erase.
With a shake of her head, her throat burning, Petra closed her eyes, causing them to water. Tears blurring her vision, she put all her effort behind her plea. “Don’t want us here. Wwwould have died…son would have died. Sure of it. Thank you. But can’t stay. Ready. Strong. Travel. Son healthy—strong, too.”
One word, in big letters, NO, that’s all Mr. Hoyt wrote before holding up the slate for her to see.
By the stubborn set of his jaw, and the piercing look in his eyes, Petra knew she would not budge Mr. Hoyt on this issue. She would keep trying. Of course she could follow through with her plan to steal a horse and light out as soon as he left the house.
His gaze went beyond her to the bed. Don’t dog-ear pages, he wrote and pointed to the books.
Embarrassed and flustered, Petra quickly picked up a book and tried to smooth out the corners. The word sorry formed in her mind, but she didn’t know if she’d spoken the apology aloud or not.
Curious, she gave a sideways glance and hoped her thoughts came out in the form of recognizable words, “You have a lot of books. Should have asked to borrow. Sorry.”
He nodded, then moved around her, going over to look down into Gabriel’s bed. Name? Mr. Hoyt wrote on the slate and showed it to her.
With her fingers, cool upon her burning lips, Petra formed the word, “Gabriel,” as a tear slid down her cheek. She came to stand beside the giant, positioning herself to protect her son if needed.
Watching Gabriel breathe in and out, so peaceful, so sweet and serene, Petra vowed to do everything in her power to give her son a chance. One way or another she had to find a way.
Gabriel, the messenger, Mr. Hoyt wrote on the slate before reaching down to stroke her son’s forehead.
“Yes,” Petra hoped she said. Nodding, nervous to have him touch her baby, she tried valiantly to stay calm, even though she couldn’t help but mistrust this man’s kindness.
Her lips moving, she thought the words and imagined the sound of her voice. “He has message for me.”
Mr. Hoyt nodded and smiled, one of his big fingers trailing along her son’s pink cheek. Gabriel’s lips moved in a sucking motion, then he squirmed and squeezed his eyes tight.
Petra put out her hand to stop Mr. Hoyt from any further contact, but quickly withdrew it.
Mr. Hoyt stepped back, withdrawing his hand, reverting to his usual sullen and surly self before he scribbled on his slate, My stove. Erase. No one touches.
Petra nodded with understanding, feeling the same way about her son, and her chin went up defensively.
Mr. Hoyt had a lot of rules. He reminded her of her Aunt Jean. Living here could well turn out to be as bad as dealing with that old fusspot.
Petra’s mother had wanted things, which the petulant, spoiled young Petra had understood. To get them, her mother married a rich white man who’d given her a fancy house, carriages, gowns, fine china and jewels, everything her mother thought she deserved.
Petra’s Aunt Jean, also stubborn, but ignorant, to Petra’s way of thinking, had stayed on the Kootenai reservation, doing things the old way. After her mother’s death, Aunt Jean had stepped in, living in the fine house Petra’s father had built, working as housekeeper, becoming a surrogate mother and teacher to Petra, the then thirteen-year-old girl. Strict and wise, Aunt Jean had surreptitiously instructed Petra in the ways of the Kootenai. If not for the teachings of her Aunt Jean, Petra realized, she might not be here, and certainly her son wouldn’t be here.
Petra found it amazing how much she’d remembered, so many things her aunt had shown her, and every one of them had served her well, kept her alive, given her the instinct to survive.
Her father had spoiled her, given her anything and everything she asked for, except his love and attention. Aunt Jean’s way, the Kootenai way, seemed the hard way, the primitive way. But it hadn’t stopped her aunt from teaching and insisting Petra know something of her mother’s people and how they lived.
Bringing Petra out of her reverie, the man held up his slate to her, tapping it. Good pie, he wrote. You cook, you clean, were his next words. Shiny clean, he added with a nod.
Having to purse her lips together or giggle, inexplicably delighted he’d liked her pie, she hazarded a guess he’d liked her stew, and her biscuits too, or he wouldn’t let her near his stove.
“Like to cook. Something I’m good at. Will take good care of stove. Promise. Want to help. Need to earn keep. Stay busy.”
He started for the door, stopped, and wrote, Bad Weather. Erase.
Can’t leave. Erase.
Safe here. Erase.
Stay. Rest. Erase.
Writing on both sides of the slate, Steal my horse. You’ll wish you had died.
Standing in the doorway, giving her time to absorb what he’d written, he nodded, looking pleased with himself, then he turned and left her standing there staring after him.
Petra shivered. She didn’t think she’d said anything aloud about stealing his horse. She couldn’t be sure, but surely she hadn’t spoken the thought. Maybe he could read minds. It wasn’t possible. He had to be guessing. Which brought up her original question, was she a guest or a prisoner in this strange place?