Chapter 10 #2
He entered the cabin and sensed at once that something was different. Charlotte stood at the hearth, stirring a pot over the fire.
“How’s the road?” she asked without preamble, her gaze sweeping over him and resting on his boots. He’d scraped off what he could, but they were still caked in a layer of mud.
He shook his head. “It’s tough going. The wagon will never make it.” Her face fell. “We could try on foot,” he added, gesturing to his muddy boots, “but that was near impossible, too.”
She turned away, stirring the pot with unnecessary force. “We can’t stay here forever.”
“Of course not.” He resented her irritated tone. Did she think he’d ordered up this rain? He wanted to get this trip over with as much as she did. “A hard freeze is all we need, and at this time of year, that’s not too much to ask for.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I see.”
Joshua busied himself removing his boots.
No easy task when they were coated with mud.
Then he took a moment to examine the room.
It wasn’t just Charlotte’s cooking. Something else was different.
Then a glimmer caught his eye, and he looked closer.
A beaded reticule lay on the table, next to a beautiful fox pelt.
“You had some company, I see,” he said, setting his boots by the door.
She tensed. “Yes.”
Had they frightened her? “I should have told you there’s a family living close by. The Wilkies. Their mother died.” The details of her steady decline and death were well-known in the vicinity. “I hear the children run wild. Must’ve seen our chimney smoke.”
She pursed her lips. “I was surprised.”
And none too pleased, if he read the look on her face correctly. Most city folk had little understanding of the ways of the bush. “No one waits for an introduction out here. There are too few people to stand upon ceremony.”
“I’m not so easily offended.” She crossed her arms. “And by the look of things, they could use all the neighborly concern I can offer. Those children I saw today were”—she swallowed—“starving.” The last word came out low, as though she could scarcely believe it.
Suddenly, he realized why the room looked different. He scanned the wall where he’d stacked his flour and oats. Gone. “Where are the sacks of grain?” His stomach dropped in anticipation of her answer.
She straightened her shoulders as though facing an unpleasant truth. “I traded them.”
“You traded my grain?” He didn’t hide his outrage. “All my supplies for the winter?”
She bit her lip, looking stricken. “I didn’t realize . . .”
He took a step closer. “You didn’t realize those sacks weren’t yours to trade?” He’d sold the rest of his grain, and it would be months before his next harvest.
She shrank back, and he realized he towered over her. She probably wasn’t used to anything more than a gentle scolding. But this wasn’t a social faux pas or a crooked seam in her embroidery. This was survival. His survival.
She inhaled, her fear seeming to disappear under a mask of confidence. “You have funds,” she said. “Remember the money I’m paying you?” He wasn’t likely to forget it. “I’m sure we can replace your flour and still have enough to make this trip worth your time.”
He wasn’t sure why her words made him so angry. Maybe it was her assumption that her coins were the answer to every problem. Maybe it was the reminder of the gulf between them. Not once in his life had he had the money to make his problems disappear.
“You think your money solves everything?” He turned away, frustrated with her and half ashamed of the emotion in his voice.
“It’s not that easy in the bush,” he said, working to moderate his tone.
“Where am I going to buy flour and oats out here? I’ll have to go back to the city or find a neighbor who has some to spare.
That was my winter supply!” He paced the few steps to the small window and gestured to the outdoors.
“And in case you haven’t noticed, neighbors are few and far between.
” He watched her face, not sure what he expected. An apology was unlikely.
She drew in a shaky breath. “You’re right. I didn’t think about that. I didn’t know . . .” She broke off and took a step toward him. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it.”
He nodded, surprised at how quickly she’d accepted the blame.
He’d thought she’d defend herself and dismiss his worries.
Maybe even point out how pretty her new trinkets were.
“At least you’ll have some new baubles to display when you go home.
” Her actions still rankled, and he couldn’t be gracious just yet.
“Souvenirs of your adventure into the wilderness.”
Fire sparked in her eyes. “Do you really think I traded your grain because I wanted to impress my friends at home?” She huffed and turned back to the pot, giving the porridge a few energetic stirs.
“I traded because those children were hungry and the youngest—” She broke off, her voice cracking.
“There was something wrong with the little one.”
An answering lump of emotion clogged his throat. Children died every day in Irish Town, but he’d never gotten used to it.
“We should fetch the doctor,” she continued. “Perhaps there is something that could be done.”
He almost smiled at her ignorance. “There’s no doctor out here.”
“Then what happens when someone gets sick?” A shadow crossed her face. Was she remembering the story he told her the day before about the ill-fated Collins family?
“I imagine sick people here aren’t so different from those in the city. Sometimes they get better.” He stared at her, willing her to understand what he didn’t put into words.
And sometimes they don’t.