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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 voice 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.”
He was so close, even though almost a foot separated their shoulders. She could feel his strength with every fiber of her being.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced herself to ignore his overwhelming presence and focus on the chords. When her hand was positioned, he tapped out the rhythm once, then strummed it.
She was a bit slow on the first chord change, but settled into the flow easily as he strummed a lively tune. After a couple lines, she started singing the first verse again.
As she moved into the second, she could hear the rich vibrato of him humming, and it swelled an ache in her chest, not unlike what she’d experienced in the midst of an emotional sonata. Music always had a powerful effect over her, but playing with this man moved it to a deeper level.
As the third verse moved into the chorus line, his humming turned into singing. Harmony that perfectly accented her melody. He sang in a low tenor. A deliciously rich sound.
As they entered the tenth short verse, where the words told the story of the ship’s cabin boy drilling holes in the underbelly of an attacking enemy ship, she slid a glance at Joseph.
He met her smile with a happy glimmer in his gaze, not breaking the rhythm of his singing or playing.
After the last line of the closing verse, they ran through the chord progression a final time, Joseph ending with a rapid strum for the finale.
She couldn’t help the thrill pulsing through her as she turned a grin on him. “That was perfect. The best rendition I’ve ever heard.”
His mouth tipped in an off-kilter grin. “I suppose it wasn’t half bad.”
The power of that grin set off a flurry in her chest. Enough to make her yearn for much more.
