The Fur Trader’s Lady (Ladies of the Wilderness #1)

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

R eid had not slept all night. From his room in Joseph’s home, he had a view of the St. Louis River Bay and massive Lake Superior beyond. The windows were made of real glass, and he was able to watch the day approach, though the low-lying clouds hid the rising sun.

Below him, several voyageurs were already awake, building fires, hauling wood, and carrying water. Beyond the stockade, near the bay a small party had gathered to begin a long voyage back to Montreal. This was the group that kept him near the window.

As winter set in, it was inadvisable to travel—but a good guide would have no trouble navigating the landscape. Reid just prayed that the guides Rutherford had hired were the best.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass as he watched Charlotte enter a canoe with Rutherford. She glanced behind her at the stockade—but she was so far away, there was no possibility she could see him, especially with the lake’s reflection on the window. He could see her, though. She was still dressed in her clerk’s clothing for the journey, and she carried her bag. Had she taken her pictures? Did she have the one of him? Or had Rutherford made her leave that behind?

Reid felt helpless, locked in this room, unable to save her from a life of unimaginable pain and unhappiness. He had thought about his options last night and had found no other course but the one set before them. If he had escaped with her, they would be tracked down and returned to this same spot—but with more speculation as to their innocence. She was so close—yet out of reach in every way possible. His own uncertain future meant little to him compared to hers.

“Mr. McCoy?” Someone called to him as the door was unlocked. “Mr. McDonnell would like to see you.”

Reid hated to pull himself away from the window—to not watch Charlotte for as long as possible. But he did not want to anger Joseph, so he looked at Charlotte one more time and then stepped through the open door to follow the clerk down the hall. They came to a set of stairs, which they took to the lower level, and walked through another hall to Joseph’s office. This room also faced the St. Louis River and the pier where Charlotte was about to leave with Rutherford.

Joseph sat at his desk, his face lined with fatigue. When Reid appeared, he motioned for him to have a seat and excused his clerk to allow them some privacy.

“You have brought me a great deal of strife.” Joseph steepled his hands together and touched his fingers to his lips. “I believe you when you say you dinna kill the XY man—but your honesty is now in question because of the lass.”

“Aye.” Reid glanced out the window. Charlotte’s canoe was just leaving the pier. His chest felt as if it would split open from the wrenching pain that jarred him at seeing her leave. It was one thing for him to never see her again—that alone was the greatest sorrow of his life—but it was another entirely to know she was with Rutherford and Reid could no longer protect her. He’d failed Charlotte, and that was something he couldn’t bear.

“I have sent two couriers to nearby posts where shareholders are wintering,” Joseph said. “I have also sent couriers to two XY posts to ask for representatives, since the man who was murdered was in their employ. When everyone arrives, they will help me oversee your trial.” Joseph dropped his hands into his lap. “I canna be impartial. Hopefully they will arrive within the next week or so.”

A week or more before his trial? He’d been hoping that if he could have his trial sooner and prove his innocence, maybe there would still be time to go after Charlotte and save her from Rutherford. “Until then?”

“Until then, you will be on house arrest. You canna leave this building under any circumstances, but you will be free to move about.” Joseph leaned forward. “I am allowing you this privilege because I believe you are innocent. Do not make me think otherwise.”

Reid appreciated his friend’s offer. It would help speed his week if he was not confined to a room—or worse. But it didn’t matter where he resided. With Charlotte gone, it would be the longest, hardest week of his life.

“I also sent my fastest courier to your post.” Joseph stood and walked to the window. “I sent him to look for other witnesses who would speak on your behalf about this incident.”

“You will not take Lachlan at his word?”

Turning, Joseph gave Reid a scathing look—hopefully it wasn’t meant for him but rather for the XY man who had accused Reid.

“I am hoping that my courier will arrive at your post within a few days and will come back with one or two men who can shed more light on this matter.”

“I received an anonymous letter from someone who claimed they saw Lachlan shoot Charlotte. I have the letter with me.”

“That will not prove your innocence.”

“No, but it will prove he is heartless and a liar.” Reid clenched his jaw. “What if your courier can find no other witnesses to speak on my behalf?”

Joseph put his hand on the window frame and leaned against it while he watched his small kingdom beyond the house. “Then I will only have the statements from Lachlan and his voyageurs to take into consideration.”

Reid prayed it would not come to that. Lachlan would say and do anything to see Reid hang.

A northwesterly wind whipped at the canoe, which hugged the shoreline of Lake Superior. Charlotte bent her head low, dipping her chin into the top of her coat, trying to stay warm. The four voyageurs who paddled the canoe had fought against the strong wind and waves all day. Though it had been almost nine hours since they had left Fond du Lac, they had not gone far. The guide, Bernard, was an old, wrinkled voyageur. He had tried on several occasions to get Roger to pull to shore, but Roger had adamantly refused, wanting to make as much progress as possible.

Whitecaps formed on the lake, and the gray clouds overhead started to let loose the snow.

“We will camp,” the guide called out in Chippewa.

Charlotte understood his order, but Roger did not, so when the boat started to move toward shore, he yelled at the men to keep going.

None of them listened.

“Our lives are in danger,” Charlotte said to Roger. “The guide has told them it’s time to camp.”

“But there is still daylight.” Roger turned to address the guide, who sat behind them in the small canoe. His movement caused the vessel to tip from side to side, and Charlotte held on to the edge, trying to help balance it, so they wouldn’t turn over in the deep, frigid waters.

“He will not be swayed,” Charlotte said. “It’s too hazardous to stay on the water. The waves are only getting worse.”

Roger didn’t listen to her but started making demands of the guide—who completely ignored him.

Charlotte was thankful that they would make camp and get out of the wind. Her fingers and toes were numb from the cold, and her teeth had not stopped chattering since they’d left early that morning. She had tried to dress for the elements but found very little to keep her warm sitting for hours on end in the canoe.

She didn’t mind being numb. She was afraid that if she allowed herself to think about Reid and everything he faced, she would start crying and never stop. Her own dismal future paled in comparison to the thought of him being found guilty of murder. So she had sat, almost lethargic, as the canoe had plied through the tumultuous waters of Lake Superior.

They found a pebbly beach with a steep cliff hanging overhead, creating a sheltered alcove away from the wind. As before, the voyageurs would not land the canoe on shore, for fear of puncturing the thin birch bark, but this time—since they knew Charlotte was a lady—they did not allow her to step out of the boat into the water. The voyageurs stepped out first, and without their weight to hold it down, the boat floated higher on the water, allowing them to pull it closer to shore, so she could jump out on a nearby rock. She thanked them for their thoughtfulness, conscious that her treatment toward them could go a long way in how painful or pleasant her journey might be—if pleasant was an option.

Roger’s wrath had been simmering all day, and every time he met her eye, she saw the promise of retribution within their depths. He would not let her behavior go unpunished—but what did he plan to do to her? She didn’t want to care about him or anything else.

“You two start a fire, while you two pitch my tent,” Roger demanded of the men. He’d hired them, so they were at his command.

One of the men produced a steel and flint, while another gathered bits and pieces of tinder from the driftwood scattered around the pebbly beach. Charlotte started to help, but the voyageur shook his head. “No, my lady. I will gather the wood.”

For the first time that day, she noticed how the men glanced shyly at her.

“Are you a real lady?” the one with flint and steel asked.

“Do not speak to Lady Charlotte unless absolutely necessary,” Roger snapped at him.

Obviously embarrassed, the man returned to the growing pile of wood and struck the flint against the steel, creating sparks, which soon caught the tinder on fire. Slowly, and patiently, he fed that small flame until it was a roaring campfire. Charlotte and Roger stood beside it, drawing heat, while the men started a second fire for themselves.

The tent was also pitched in record time, and their few belongings were brought inside. Charlotte had taken all her pictures and carefully rolled them and tied them with a piece of string. They were in her one bag, which the second voyageur moved from the canoe to the tent as if it held the most precious jewels in the world.

“I want you inside the tent,” Roger said to Charlotte when the men had finally moved to their own campfire to begin the evening meal.

“Now? Before bed?” She didn’t want to be in the tent with him—didn’t know what he planned to do with her once they were out of sight. Memories of the night she had fled Blissfield Manor returned, and she shook from more than just the cold.

“Do not test my patience, Charlotte. We are in this godforsaken place because of you.”

She nervously moved away from the warmth of the fire and glanced over her shoulder at the other fire. All five men watched her.

Frowns and uncertainty met her gaze—but none of them tried to interfere.

Roger followed her into the tent and tied the flaps closed. It was much like the tent she had shared with Reid, though there were no cots within—just several layers of furs and blankets on the ground.

When he finally turned to her, his entire body was rigid, and he breathed heavily. “I cannot begin to tell you how much money this little foray has cost us.”

Us? It was her money he was using. He was as poor as a tenant farmer—and might be reduced to one if he did not marry her.

“You have stolen nine months of our lives—months we could have been enjoying at Blissfield Manor as husband and wife.”

“I would never enjoy being your wife.”

He struck her with the back of his hand.

The sting was so sharp—and so sudden—it took the air out of her lungs.

“You will never address me with such disrespect again—do you hear me?”

She stared at him, her hand holding her burning cheek.

“We will not wait for England—in case you try to run again. I will be your husband the moment we arrive in Montreal.” He came close to her, his foul breath burning her nose. “You will obey me, or I will be forced to punish you.”

“I will not obey you,” she said in defiance. “I will do everything in my power to escape again and again.”

He struck her again, harder, and this time she stumbled over the blankets. She fell with a thud, jabbing her elbow and hip into the frozen ground, and cried out in pain.

Tears stung the back of her eyes. “I will despise you until the day I die.”

“I don’t care if you despise me—I hope you do. It will make it more enjoyable for me if you hate me.”

“Let her alone,” a voice called out from the other side of the tent.

Someone grabbed the flaps and tried to tug them loose, shaking the whole structure.

“Leave us alone!” Roger yelled. “This is between me and the lady.”

“Exactly,” someone said, tearing the flap open. “She’s a lady.”

All the men, including the guide, stood outside the tent. Bernard reached inside and pulled Roger out by the nape of his neck. “You will not hurt the lady,” he said in French.

“Unhand me!” Roger’s face was red, and his eyes bulged with anger. “It’s none of your business what I do. I’m paying you to transport us and nothing more.”

“It’s our business if you hurt the lady.” Bernard was old, but he was thick in the chest, and Roger would be no match for him. He turned and looked at Charlotte. “Do you wish to go with this man?”

Tears streaked down Charlotte’s face as she shook her head. “I want to go back to Fond du Lac.”

The guide nodded. “I will take you back in the morning.”

“No.” Roger struggled to get away. “She is my ward and will do as I say.”

“We are not in England anymore,” another voyageur said with a smile. “We are in the northwest wilderness, where there are no laws, and women are free to come and go as they please.”

Everything Charlotte had learned about the Indian women told her he was right—and these men would honor that culture, even though she was an English lady.

“Merci,” she said to them, her tears falling unchecked, though she wished she could say and do more.

“I will guard him during the first watch.” Bernard still held Roger by the back of his coat. “And you will rest, Lady Charlotte.”

“I will take the second watch,” said another.

“In the morning,” the guide told Roger, “we will leave you here with your tent and some food and take the lady back to the fort.”

Roger stopped sputtering in anger. The color drained from his face. “You cannot leave me here alone! You are my employees.”

“Not anymore.” The guide went to his belongings and found a rope, which he brought back to their small gathering. “We have no respect for a man who mistreats a lady. You will spend the night tied to a tree, so you cannot harm her anymore.”

Charlotte’s mouth fell open at the plan.

“The lady will have the tent,” the voyageur said. “Alone.”

The men carried Roger off to the nearest tree, where they tied him. He yelled obscenities and threatened to have them all hanged—though the men just laughed. They were courier du bois—independent fur traders and voyageurs who answered to no man but themselves.

Charlotte sat around their fire as they prepared her a meal. They were sheltered from the worst of the wind and snow in their little alcove. Though she was dressed like any number of clerks they must have met over the years, the men continued to treat her like royalty.

But now that her identity was known, Charlotte didn’t try to hide her femininity any longer. On the way from Fort McCoy, she had quickly reverted to her old mannerisms, and she found herself enjoying the men’s attention, given the circumstances.

Best of all, the thought of returning to Reid in the morning made her almost happy. Though, the only way she would be truly glad was if he was free from Lachlan’s accusation.

Just as they were about to eat and Roger had finally quieted, a lone canoe paddled toward them, hugging the shoreline. Snow and wind continued to beat against the lake, but the canoe made good time.

Two men sat in the canoe, both paddling.

Bernard stood and called to the men to join them on shore.

When they were finally within sight, Charlotte’s breath stilled, as her heart skipped a beat.

There, sitting in the bow of the canoe, was a man she would recognize anywhere—though she hadn’t seen him in five years.

“Stephen.”

He saw her at the same moment.

Their gazes connected, and she suddenly felt faint. He had finally come to marry her—and it wasn’t too late.

She stood on shaky legs, the voyageurs hovering around her, and walked toward the shores of Lake Superior.

When the boat was close enough to land, Stephen jumped into the water at the same time as the other man, and they hoisted the canoe over their heads to bring it on shore. Water dripped from the sides of the canoe, raining down around them as they walked.

Stephen was no longer the boy she remembered. He carried himself with confidence and authority. He was broader and more muscular than she remembered, and his face had matured into that of a grown man. Though she wouldn’t call him handsome, neither was he unpleasant to look upon. His blue eyes were like that of the lake on a clear, bright day, and his hair had darkened, though most of it was covered under his hat.

He wore the clothes of a bourgeois. Tight trousers, tall black boots, a dark wool coat. Once he set the canoe on the ground, he moved toward her, his powerful legs steady and sure.

“Charlotte.” He said her name like a prayer—one she was sure he had breathed countless times in the past two years.

Though he felt like a stranger in some ways, in others, he was as real and familiar and dear to her as he had been when they were children. She ran to him and threw every precaution aside. When she entered his embrace, it was not romance or protection she sought but familiarity and understanding. Besides Reid, Stephen was her greatest ally, coming all this way to marry her and keep her from Roger’s grasp.

He smelled of campfire and cedar, and though it was good to finally be with him, it also felt awkward to be in his arms. He felt nothing like Reid—and he did not elicit any of the same feelings she had when she was standing in Reid’s arms—but he was the man who had promised to marry her and save her from Roger.

“Am I too late?” he asked.

She pulled away and looked up into his worried face. “No. You’ve come just in time.”

He tried to smile—but the concern in his eyes was far too great. “Just in time to marry you?”

“Yes—but just in time to help me prove Reid is innocent as well.” Because she knew of one way she might gain Reid’s freedom—though it would take another miracle—one she prayed she would receive.