Chapter 9 #2
“We have to stop. You’re wet through.” Joshua hadn’t considered the possibility that she’d reject the idea of seeking shelter.
Not for the first time, he glimpsed an iron will under her delicate prettiness, unexpected but not unwelcome.
At least he didn’t have to worry she’d succumb to a fit of vapors or collapse into hysterics.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her teeth chattered. An iron will was well and good, but now was the time to see reason. She’d be frozen through in another hour.
“Bess is tired.” He tried again. She seemed fond of horses. Maybe that would convince her.
“Oh.” She straightened. “So we’ll pause here. Let her get a drink, rub her down.” She listed tasks as though she repeated instructions in a calming litany. “Then we can continue on.” She looked up with a forced smile. “Maybe the rain will stop.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Maybe.” He sought the words to tell her the truth. They’d likely be spending the night here, and the sooner she got used to the idea, the better.
They reached the barn behind the log cabin. Half the roof had caved in, but there was still a corner that would do as a stall for Bess, and he had a nice pile of hay from Mrs. Norris in the back of the wagon under another oilcloth.
“It won’t let up.” He guided Bess to the entrance. The door was gone, leaving a space wide enough for the wagon to enter.
“How do you know?”
He pulled Bess to a halt, the wagon and its contents safely in the barn. “I’ve been living in the bush for years. I know when rain has settled in to stay.” He surveyed her shivering form. “Dry and warm. Those are the keys to survival out here, and we are neither.”
Bess stomped a hoof in impatience. Now that she was this close to a dry stall, the horse resented every second she stood in the traces.
As he worked, Miss Fulton followed behind him with a handful of old hay, rubbing Bess down, crooning to her as she went.
Her arms moved, sure and quick, as though she were well used to the task.
Strange. He would’ve thought she’d have a groom to attend to such things.
The thought gave him pause. What was her position?
What society lady would dress like a boy and ride pell-mell into the wilderness?
She talked like a lady yet could work like a stable boy.
She was such a muddle of contradictions he couldn’t make her out.
With Bess settled, he grabbed a box of provisions from the wagon and moved to the door.
“Where are you going?” There was a quiver of fear in Charlotte’s voice that stopped him in his tracks.
“Inside.” He jerked his head toward the cabin. Surely she didn’t think they would stay in the barn?
“Do you know the people who live here?” She hadn’t budged from her spot beside Bess.
“No one lives here. Not now.” He’d have thought that was clear from the look of the place, but she was new to the bush.
He sighed as she sent him a doubtful glance.
“It’s an abandoned homestead. They’re not uncommon.
” He grabbed the sheet of oilcloth and draped it over her.
“Keep this on and follow me.” He turned, hurrying through the rain to the cabin, hoping she’d follow.
She did.
It was dark inside, the only light coming from a small window. He dug through his box until he found the flint and steel.
“Are you sure no one lives here?” Charlotte walked farther into the room.
“Aye.”
“Then why is there a fire laid in the hearth?”
“That’s how it’s done in the bush. A shelter like this could save lives. We leave them ready for the next traveler.” He gestured to the neat stack of wood by the door.
Soon a small blaze was burning, illuminating the meager furniture. He saw the room through her eyes, walls black from countless fires, table coated in dust, and a pile of straw in the corner that made a dubious bed.
Chancing a look in Charlotte’s direction, he found her wandering around the room, examining the small signs of life he hadn’t noticed.
Straightening a tin cup on its side on the shelf, adjusting a broken lantern that hung on the wall.
Even the stub of a candle held upright on the table with a pile of melted wax came under scrutiny.
What did she think of such a simple home?
Had she known whole families lived like this, sleeping side by side before the hearth, their lives encased in these four walls through the long winter months?
“Someone went to all the work of building the house and barn, and then they just left?” Her fingers trailed along the rough edge of the table. “Why would they do that?”
Joshua shrugged. “Lots of reasons. Crops failed. They miss home.” He bumped his toe along the floor as he debated what to tell her about the Collins family. The truth, maybe. The sooner she realized the reality of life in the bush, the sooner she’d head back to civilization where she belonged.
“Mr. Collins lost his foot in an accident. Clearing a field, I heard. The wound festered. He didn’t last more than a week. His wife couldn’t make a go of it without him, not with her children so young.”
Charlotte looked around the room, her former interest turning to a blend of horror and sadness. “How awful.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“That’s how it is here,” he said, in case she’d missed the point of his story.
“It’s beautiful country on a clear winter’s morning, or at sunset in summer.
But it’s a hard, cruel place for those that aren’t strong enough to survive.
” Or lucky enough. Da was strong as an ox, but that hadn’t saved him when the ice gave way.
Joshua forced his thoughts away from the dark time that surrounded Da’s death.
“I hope my brother is well,” she said. She’d gone pale. Blast. He’d been so eager to make her understand the danger she was in that he hadn’t realized how his words would affect her.
“I haven’t heard of any trouble out this way.” It was the best he could do to reassure her.
She gave a tight nod, accepting his meager comfort, though the tension in her body remained.
He picked up the rickety chair, gave it a cursory swipe to remove the dust, and set it before the fire. “Here. Warm up while I get us something to eat.”
He half expected another protest, but she sat and stared into the fire, seeming too lost in her worries to argue.
Rummaging in his box, he found his small cooking pot and added a handful of oats and the contents of his canteen before setting them over the fire.
It wouldn’t be tasty, but it was warm and filling.
He pulled out a wooden bowl of rich brown walnut. One farmer he’d worked for had owned a lathe, and Joshua had spent every spare minute learning how to turn a bowl. Someday he wanted a workshop for himself, a few tools, maybe even a lathe of his own. That dream seemed further away than ever now.
A telltale sniff interrupted his thoughts, and his eyes flew to Miss Fulton’s face. Tears had left glistening trails down her cheeks. Seeing his attention on her, she pressed her fingers over her mouth to stifle a sob.
“What’s wrong?” It was an idiotic question. He could list ten things that might make a woman cry after a day like today. Yet he felt bound to acknowledge her tears in some way. He hated how she averted her face, swiping at the moisture as though it was a shameful secret.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Her face crumpled with the effort of holding in the tears and his arms twitched. He stifled the strange impulse to go to her side and put a comforting arm around her. He hardly knew her.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said instead, his voice gruff. “Today was . . . hard.”
“I never cry,” she said, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Not even when—” She broke off and sent him a self-conscious glance. “Perhaps you’re right. I am rather tired.”
It was far more than exhaustion, but he made no comment. Instead, he filled the bowl with porridge, added a wooden spoon, and passed it to her. “Here. I always feel better once I’ve had something to eat.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was stronger now and he let out a relieved breath. Seeing her cry had filled him with a strange panic he didn’t want to experience anew. “I suppose I am rather hungry.”
He crouched on the floor and ate his porridge with a fork, right out of the pot. He felt her gaze on him and looked up to see her watching him in surprise. He paused, suddenly embarrassed at his lack of manners. Nothing like those smooth Toronto gentlemen she was probably used to.
Well, he was the one keeping her alive, wasn’t he? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He rose as though he needed something from the box and retreated to the other side of the room to finish his meal.
Rain drummed steadily on the roof. Joshua rose to add a few logs to the fire. Charlotte shivered still despite the growing warmth in the room.
She looked so young and unhappy in that rickety chair. He wanted to do better for her. He wanted to see her smile as she had that afternoon, when she’d asked to see the walnut tree.
“That’s black walnut.” As a conversation starter it left much to be desired.
“Pardon me?”
Her blank stare made the heat rise up his neck. He cleared his throat. “The bowl there. It’s made of black walnut.”
“Oh.” She examined the bowl, and he was happy to see his clumsy attempt at conversation achieved one goal. She’d stopped crying at least. “It’s lovely.” Her gaze shot to his. “Did you make it?” At his nod, she smoothed the wood with her thumb. “I love the color. So rich.”
A shiver shook her body before he could launch into a description of the variation in the grain that would probably bore her to tears. “You’ll never be warm unless you get those wet things off,” he blurted out.
Her eyes flew to his face in shock, and he could have kicked himself. A fine gentleman wouldn’t have embarrassed her. Then again, he’d never pretended to be a fine gentleman.
He glanced at the door. Escape. “I’d better go check on Bess.”