Chapter 8 #2
He let out a sigh and returned the handshake.
“All right.” The thought of taking her into discomfort and likely danger should have frozen the blood in his veins, but all he felt was relief.
Relief he could save Henry. Relief that she wasn’t heading off into the bush alone.
Relief that he’d see her and talk to her again.
Oh, she was dangerous. He’d have to watch himself every minute to keep his eye on the goal.
“I need to get to the Nassagaweya tract. Line 5. Do you know where that is?” she asked.
Line 5. He froze for a moment. Was it possible . . . ? He gave his head a shake. Of course not. He was after a hired hand named Carruthers. Her brother must be the owner of a considerable tract of land. Probably had a fine house and hired hands of his own. “I know of it. I live up on Line 7.”
“Perfect.” Her hand popped up from the other side of the wagon and he realized she wanted his help.
He reached out and, for a moment, her hand rested in his.
Even through the gloves they both wore he could feel it, slender yet surprisingly strong.
He must have held on a moment too long, for she tugged.
He released her and turned his attention back to the road.
His hand still felt warm from where his fingers had clasped hers.
Joshua glanced behind him. “Where’s your horse? I thought you’d tie her on behind.”
Her eyes dropped. “Scarlett won’t be coming. I sold her.”
“Sold her?” He looked around the clearing.
She shrugged. “Mr. Ogden seemed keen, and now I won’t have to worry about finding a smithy.”
Joshua studied her profile. Did the horse really mean so little to her? “What about her shoe?”
“He’s promised not to ride her until he gets to a smith.”
There was a wobble in her voice that made him wonder if she regretted the parting. Then again, the way she threw money around, she probably had a dozen horses in her stables.
Nearby, Ogden mounted his gelding, her mare tied on behind. He headed to the road, calling out his farewell with a cheerful wave. Joshua turned to return the gesture, but Miss Fulton looked straight ahead, her face pinched and set.
Her mare whinnied, high and short, as though she was asking a question. Miss Fulton didn’t move, but he saw her eyes squeeze shut.
“Please,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Let’s go.”
He cleared his throat. Go. Right. He slapped the reins and Bess jolted into motion. He risked a glance at Miss Fulton and saw a tear slide down her cheek. She must have felt his regard, for she turned her head sharply away.
They continued on like this for a few miles. By degrees, the tension left her shoulders until she took a deep breath and turned her head to study him.
“Who’s Henry?”
The question was so unexpected that Joshua nearly dropped the reins.
“Pardon me?” Perhaps he’d misheard her.
“I heard you mention the name. I wondered . . .”
Had Miss Fulton overheard his conversation with Mrs. Norris? Joshua’s ears burned, thinking of what else she’d overheard. His refusal to help her. The names he’d called her. “He’s my brother.”
She turned sharply. “Your brother,” she repeated. “But why would he—” He leveled a stare at her. A flush rose in her cheeks as she seemed to realize the impertinence of her question and changed tack. “Does he live with you? In the bush?”
He should have known she wouldn’t be satisfied with the minimum of information.
“No.” Perhaps it was churlish of him to answer so abruptly.
Still, he had no intention of baring the details of his desperate financial situation and the complicated ties and obligations that hemmed him in.
Maybe she’d get the hint and change the topic. To the weather, if possible.
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t, if the line across her brow was anything to judge by.
They hit a stretch of particularly rough road where the logs were older and rotted in spots. He’d never had cause to be grateful for a corduroy road, but the bumps had Miss Fulton more worried about keeping her seat than interrogating him.
The constant jostling brought them closer, her shoulder bouncing off his upper arm and making him aware of her shape beside him.
Small and delicate, but with a strength that belied her size.
She didn’t complain, though her fingers tightened on the bench until he thought her arms might snap with the pressure of it.
“What is wrong with this road?” she asked, after a mile of relentless jarring.
“Be thankful,” he said. She sent him an incredulous look in response. “If these logs weren’t here, we’d sink axle-deep in mud.”
Miss Fulton chewed her lip. “Is that why that man said rain was worse than snow?”
He nodded, relieved they’d finally gotten to the weather. “That’s it. There’s two seasons when travel is all but impossible in the bush. Spring and fall.” He paused. “Come to think of it, summer isn’t comfortable, either. Not with the bugs.”
“So that leaves winter as the best time to travel.” She looked up at him, a smile playing around her lips. “Even if you freeze before you arrive?”
Joshua returned the smile, glad they’d left the prickly subject of his personal life. He wanted to paint her a picture of the beauty of a winter’s day in the bush when the air was sharp and the sun glinted off the snow. The world so quiet you could hear your heartbeat.
But he’d never say such a thought aloud. She’d think him foolish. “Won’t freeze if you’re dressed for it.”
“Hmmm,” she murmured, pulling her coat tighter around her. It was a man’s coat, the one she’d worn yesterday. He wondered whose coat it was, then chided himself for the unspoken question. It was none of his business.
“What’s this?” Miss Fulton held up a small piece of wood. The jostling of the wagon had opened the sack at his feet and one of his carvings had tumbled out.
“It’s a carving. Or, it will be.”
“Of what?” She turned the wood over in her hand as though trying to guess its future form.
He shrugged. “A wolf cub.”
“Yes, I see it now.” She traced the lines of the snout. “What kind of wood is this?”
“Butternut. Not my favorite for carving, but I liked the look of this piece.”
“What is your favorite?”
If only he could prepare himself for her questions. “For carving?”
“Yes,” she said, with exaggerated patience. She swallowed as they bumped over a log and might have fallen off the bench if Joshua hadn’t reached an arm around to steady her. She sent him a severe glance, and he dropped his arm. “You must have a favorite,” she continued.
He did, but he’d never thought of telling anyone. Wasn’t certain he wanted to tell her, either, but at least she’d stopped asking about his family. “Black walnut, I guess.”
“Why?”
He should’ve known a simple answer wouldn’t satisfy her. “Black walnut trees are useful.” She looked up at him, expectant, and he sought words to explain what he’d only felt before now. “And beautiful. Make the best furniture.”
She seemed disappointed in his answer. “So, you cut them down?”
“Some,” he said, defensive. Cutting down trees was survival in the bush, as much as each downed tree felt like a loss. “If they’re in the field I need to clear. Walnuts are good eating. Make a good dye, too, or so Mrs. Norris says.”
“And are the trees beautiful, too?”
Not as beautiful as you. For a moment, he had the horrible sensation he might have spoken the words aloud.
But her expression was unchanged as she waited for an answer and he took a breath, forcing his thoughts back in order.
“They are,” he said finally, picturing the fine specimen beside his snug cabin.
“Deep green leaves, rough, rippled bark. And strong. It would take more than a fierce storm to knock them down.” There was something about their permanence that he loved.
“You don’t find them everywhere. White pine and maples grow thicker and faster.
But once a walnut takes hold, there’s no moving it. ”
She looked at him, silent for a long moment, and he wondered if he’d made a fool of himself, rambling on about a tree.
“Show me one when we pass it,” she said, her voice soft.
“Leaves are all off now. Not much to see.”
She looked up at him, a slight smile about her mouth. “I imagine it’s still beautiful.”
He nodded, words of agreement stalled by the look on her face. He’d seen her fearful, worried, angry. But he hadn’t seen her soft like this, as though she’d understood everything he’d said and even what he’d wanted to say but couldn’t get into words.
“Almost there,” he said, turning his eyes back to the road by sheer force of will.
“We’re almost in Nassagaweya?” She sat straighter, looking around with renewed interest. “But I thought—”
“We’re almost at the turn,” he corrected.
“We’ll be in the bush soon and we can leave these dratted logs behind.
” He only hoped that the weather would hold.
It had been growing steadily warmer as the morning advanced and already he could hear the telltale squish of logs pressed down into the soggy earth under the weight of the wagon.
Clouds built to the southwest, which always meant rain or snow.
He looked down at the girl beside him, her eyes sweeping from side to side as though she expected some wonder to appear behind every turn in the road.
He felt the responsibility still, the need to get her safely to her brother.
But now he also felt the joy of it. Someone to talk to.
Someone who listened as though he had something important to say.
He’d treasure that feeling for as long as he could.
Ahead lay a long winter alone in his cabin with only Bess for company. The memories he made today would have to last.