Chapter Thirty-Eight

There had been no sign of any other pursuers since they’d managed to ditch Sergeant Lancaster, but Sterling still insisted they maintain a night watch. He wasn’t worried about Lancaster. Mouse O’Brien would steer him down the trail, and they’d soon find themselves back in town. Lancaster would pretend to be annoyed, and then head off to the mess to relate how he’d gone in pursuit of the fair Mrs. MacGillivray and, after giving orders to Sterling, had reluctantly decided his duty was at the fort with his men.

Richard Sterling sat by the fire, smoking his pipe and listening to the soft breathing and snores around him. Not too far away, a wolf howled and the undergrowth rustled. Firelight flashed on a pair of small yellow eyes. He was sorry to have lost Mouse. The man’s size alone could be counted on to pretty much put the fight out of anyone so inclined. He wasn’t much for the wilderness, none of them were, but he had a good head on his shoulders.

Despite his earlier attempts to sound positive in front of the others, they were not making good enough time. Sheridan was moving faster than Sterling had expected, and if Fiona was riding the horse she wouldn’t be slowing him down. He’d have to hope Sheridan would take a wrong turn and double back or at least stay put for a while so they could catch up.

Hope. Was that all he had? Even if he did catch up to them, it might be too late. The wilderness was not a safe place for people who didn’t know how to use it. He thought about Fiona’s soft voice, the way she said his name — always very proper, with rank and surname. About the way she kept her beautiful face stern and impassive as she went about her business, but sometimes she’d look at him out of the corner of those amazing black eyes and the ghost of a smile would touch the edges of her mouth, and he might even think she had winked.

He loved her. He’d never dared to express the thought before, but now it came into his head fully formed. He loved her. And he couldn’t bear to lose her before he’d had the chance to tell her so.

Foolish thoughts. Half the men in Dawson wanted Fiona MacGillivray. Sergeant Lancaster had asked her to marry him and she laughed and barely tolerated his attentions. What did he, Richard Sterling, a preacher’s son, a farm boy from Saskatchewan, a corporal in the Mounted Police, have to offer a woman such as her?

He would save her life, if he could. That would be enough.

He tapped out his pipe on a rock, stirred the embers of the fire, and woke Donohue to take the next watch. Sun-up these days was around four o’clock; he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.