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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 affairs, 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.
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?
