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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 campfires, 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.
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.
