Epilogue

 

 

Rainy Lake, May 1672

The male beaver chewed on a fresh poplar branch as he basked in the sun near his lodge. Another beaver, a female, waddled along the shore of the shallow lake, with two kits following in her wake. The male beaver started and stretched up on his hind legs, showing the full length of his dumpy body. His brown eyes fixed upon Genevieve, where she sat in the shadow of a small copse of firs.

Genevieve smiled. Her pet had disappeared into the woods last year, only a few days after she, André, and a small group of men had arrived at this lake beyond Chequamegon Bay. Since her pregnancy was advanced and a village of Cree Indians was nearby, André had decided to settle here and build a new post. The beaver had threatened to eat through every log they cut, so André never regretted his disappearance, but Genevieve had worried. Only a few months ago did they find him again, when André and two of his voyageurs discovered a beaver lodge and a family of beavers in this stream. Her pet had found himself a mate.

“He sees us, Christian.”

She glanced down at her breast. Her nine month old son was asleep, a trail of milk drying on his cheek. Easing him away from her, she laid him on the thick caribou pelt, making sure that the bright sun dappling the gray fur did not shine in his eyes. She was glad he was sleeping. Soon, she'd have to strap him into an Indian cradleboard and carry him on her back. Now that he was learning to scoot about, he didn’t like being confined on the flat, carved board, but it was the best way to carry him whenever she traveled. Today was the day they would leave Rainy Lake in order to set up another post on some more distant lake.

She supposed it would always be like this. She, André, and their contingent of canoemen would stay in a place long enough for her to know the hills and valleys, long enough for her to understand the new dialects of the natives, long enough to form a bond with the land, and then they would move on again, always westward. Genevieve had come here today to say her own private goodbyes, not just to her old pet, but to the land where her son had been born, to the lake that had given them water and fish, to the land that had given them berries and corn, and to the creatures that had given them meat. There was sadness in the farewell, but it was mingled with a sense of hope and excitement.

“I knew I'd find you here.”

She looked up and saw André striding through the trees. He had shaved his winter beard, and his teeth gleamed white against his tanned face. His tawny gaze slipped over her hair, then fell lower and clung. She realized she hadn't laced up her dress after breastfeeding their son.

She stood up, smiled, and made no move to hide her body from him. Her gaze fell upon the pouch at his waist. “Do you have any tobacco?”

“Deciding to take up the pipe, Taouistaouisse?”

“No, this is for something else.”

He opened the pouch, pulled out a twist, and cut off a hefty chunk. She curled her fingers over the leaves, and then walked to the edge of the lake. She held the tobacco to her breast, and then ceremoniously spread the leaves upon the waters.

When she had finished, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I'm glad there's no Jesuit to see you do that. You’ve turned completely heathen.”

“It's been a long time since I've seen a black robe, so maybe I have.” She hugged his arms to her. “I suppose everyone is waiting for me.”

“The men from Chequamegon Bay are anxious to get back there. They've been too long without their Indian wives. They're waiting in their canoes to wish you farewell before they return to that post with our furs.”

“And your men?”

“They're still packing up the new merchandise brought up from Montreal.” He glanced at the beaver lodge. “Your pet seems to be doing well.”

“Yes.” She bit her lower lip. “I hope he doesn't return to us as a pelt.”

“You've convinced the Cree that your old pet speaks to you in dreams. They won’t kill a spirit animal, and no other tribe will hunt these grounds.”

They watched the sun glitter on the shallow lake. They listened to the warblers singing in the boughs of the trees. In the distance, she heard the voices of the canoemen as they worked by the wooden stockade. Genevieve glanced at their son, sleeping peacefully in the thick caribou pelt. She sighed, breathing in the fragrant air.

“It won't be so bad,” he murmured. “The lake the Indians call Winnipeg is said to be full of fish and surrounded by fertile ground.”

She leaned back into his warmth. “That wasn't a sad sigh, it was a contented one.”

“You'll miss this place.”

“Of course I will. Christian was born here.”

“Someday, he might return.”

“It's more likely he'll follow his father, blazing trails westward.”

“Yes,” he laughed. “He'll do that. Maybe he'll find what eludes me.”

“The China Sea?”

“Mmmm.”

“Perhaps he will.”

She tightened her grip on his hands. He had taken several trips into the interior that winter and had discovered that the “Big Water” the Indians had told him about the winter before was nothing but a large lake. He wasn't disappointed, however, for he had soon found a mighty river that poured into the lake from the west, a river the Indians called Saskatchewan. She knew that this time next year, they would head up that river in search of the sea.

It was an enormous country. Still, it couldn’t be endless. Someday, they would find that sea. She could only hope that she and André would be very old and very gray when that happened. She could no longer imagine a world where there were no more trails to blaze.

He slid his hand beneath the open edge of her deerskin dress to cup her breast. Her eyes fluttered open as he teased the peak into attention. His warm lips settled behind her ear.

She murmured, “You said that the men are waiting for us.”

“We have one more ritual to perform.” With his free hand, he swept her hair out of his way and kissed the nape of her neck. “It's a way of christening a place and making it sacred.”

Her laughter dissolved into a moan as they sank to the ground, their son sleeping fitfully nearby. André stripped her of her deerskin clothing and made long, leisurely love to her under the open sky.

Much later, she rose from her husband's side and dressed. She picked up her son and held him against her breast, watching as her husband brushed the nettles from his hair and clothing.

“Come, love,” he said, holding out his hand. “The world waits for us.”

They walked westward, following a trail of sunshine.

 

 

THE END

 

 

I hope you enjoyed HEAVEN IN HIS ARMS! With every historical romance, I try to deliver to you what I crave in every novel I read: A sense of being swept away on a great adventure with a strong and wonderful man. My greatest wish is to make your heart beat faster, make you gasp, and, in the end, make you sigh with satisfaction.

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