Chapter 6
Fritha
Rowan’s already up with the kettle heating when I wake up the next morning. Rain pounds the roof, and there’s no let-up in the weather.
Rowan gets on the radio to check in, and the road is still washed out above and below us. We can’t get back to Hope, and we can’t get to Rowan’s cabin further up the mountain.
We’re stuck for at least another day, and I try to hide how pleased I am about that.
After a breakfast of muesli bars and black coffee, we settle in to play another round of poker.
“Where did you learn such a good poker face?” I ask after he wins yet another hand.
My beginner’s luck from yesterday has deserted me, or maybe Rowan was going easy on me last night.
“In the military.”
Of course it’s a military type skill, being able to shut off your emotions so no one knows how you feel. My dad was good at it. My mom too after he died.
“You served with my father.”
I say it as a conversation starter. I want to know about Rowan’s time in the military, but like most of the ex-soldiers I know, he probably doesn’t want to talk about it.
“He was my sergeant. He was a good man.”
Which is what I’ve heard countless times about my father and his military career. He was a good man, the best. A good man who got himself killed.
I shuffle the cards, deal two each, and then deal the flop.
“What was he like in the field?”
At home Dad was always joking. He made me and Mom laugh so hard. But then he’d go quiet, and more than once I crept down the stairs after waking in the night to find him drinking alone in the living room.
Whatever darkness was inside him, he always put on a bright face for me.
He built me a treehouse, and we’d sit up there for hours when he was home. When I was a little girl, I’d have tea parties up there with him. As I got older, I’d show him my collection of acorns and leaf sketches.
I saw the best part of my dad, I know that now, but I don’t know what he was like when I wasn’t there. In that huge part of his life that was his military career.
“Your father was the best.”
Rowan checks his cards and frowns, which means he’s distracted; he usually doesn’t give anything away.
“He was like a father to us young recruits. Stern but friendly. He looked out for us, and after I was discharged it was your father who put me in touch with your grandpa.
“I had no place else to go, so I came to Wild Heart Mountain and looked up Rodney. He gave me a job on the spot.”
Rowan makes his bet, and I match him before dealing the turn.
“It’s a shame what happened to him,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I swallow hard, biting back the memory. Dad was killed in action, and his body was flown back to us in a coffin.
My mom never recovered. She died two years ago.
The doctors said it was cancer, but I know it was a broken heart.
She gave up living after dad passed, and when the cancer was diagnosed, it was almost a relief. She was ready to join him.
“It was his idea for me to go to law school,” I confess. “He thought I was smart, and he wanted me to make something of my life. He started a college fund for me when I was six years old. In his will he stipulated that I should have the money from his estate for law school.”
Rowan’s looking at me closely as I speak.
“Did you want to go to law school?”
He’s watching me carefully, and I stop jiggling my leg and practice my poker face.
“Of course.”
The words roll easily off my tongue from years of practice.
Law school was dad’s dream for me, and it became my dream because I wanted to please him.
But I’ve done one year of college and it’s hard to keep up, and the reading is boring, and it takes up all my spare time so I can’t get out to walk in the parks, and this is the first visit I’ve had with Grandpa even though I love Wild Heart Mountain more than anything because we used to vacation here when I was little and Dad was alive.
But I don’t tell Rowan any of this, because I can hardly admit it to myself. Dad wanted me to be a lawyer ever since I was six years old, and I can’t let Dad down.
Rowan grunts and lays his cards on the table.
“I fold.”
I gather the cards up and start shuffling. Rowan stands and rummages through the cupboards. The rain’s eased off, and I almost miss the sound of it pounding the roof.
“You hungry?” he asks, holding up a pouch of God knows what.
My stomach rumbles in reply. I’m used to a fridge stocked with food, and living on pouches of slimy meat and muesli bars is my least favourite part of this experience.
I wrinkle my nose. “Not for more of that.”
He smiles. “It’s the finest beef and potato stew. What more could you want?”
“Some food that I actually have to chew.”
“Civilians,” he mutters. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “We lived off these things in the military when we were on tours.”
“No wonder you left,” I say teasingly.
Rowan peers out the window and looks up at the sky. There’s a patch of blue with a break in the weather.
“I might be able to catch you something to eat.”
He shrugs on the coat that’s been hanging by the door drying. There’s some wire in one of the cupboards, and he curves it into a circle.
“Stay here. I’m off trapping.”
I stand up quickly. “You can’t go out in that. The path might be washed away.”
“Are you worried about me, Fritha?”
His eyes dance and I look away, embarrassed my feelings are so obvious.
“I’m worried I’ll be left alone here and have no one to play cards with.”
He opens the door and cold air blasts in, making me shiver.
“I’ll set the trap and then come back.”
Then he’s gone. I close the door behind him, wondering where someone learns those kinds of skills. How to trap and skin a rabbit. I’d rather be learning something useful like that then be at law school.