When would the snow stop? With the lake below, she couldn’t tell how deep the flakes might be piling. If it still fell when morning came, should she head out anyway?
But it wouldn’t still be snowing by then, especially not as the day progressed. She would be able to leave here in the morning, later when the sun rose, if not at first light.
With the pot full, she turned back inside the cave and took care not to spill a single flake as she crawled forward.Tonight, she should be thankful for the dry shelter God had led her to. Tomorrow would be a new day, hopefully with a bright sun to guide her path.
She had nothing to worry about. Except maybe the man waiting for her back at the campfire.
6
Being alone with this woman in a secluded cave didn’t sit right with Damien. If this had been his sister holed up in a cave with a strange man, he’d have hunted the fellow down and strung him up the nearest tree. Even if the man hadn’t done anything untoward. Just being alone with a woman in a vulnerable position was all kinds of wrong.
And as pretty as Miss Durand was...
Across the fire, she settled with her supplies after the meal, sorting through her pack. He rose, making his way toward the outer fringe of firelight to examine the paintings again. Anything to put space between them. Of everything in this place, the artwork had the best chance of distracting him from her presence, especially when he had his back turned to her. Not a position he usually allowed around strangers, but the more time he spent in her presence, the more she drew him.
Which meant he had to do whatever necessary not to think of her.
He scanned the less detailed set of paintings first this time. Though the outlines were rough and some of the figuresnot more than a single brushstroke, the three scenes told a thrilling story. A hunting party had gone out on foot, seen a group of animals on a mountain—maybe antelope or goat, it was hard to tell from the indistinct figures—and had taken large bundles of meat home to their happy families. That last scene showed women and children celebrating around the carcasses. A village of hungry people, no doubt. A much more noble reason to hunt than the uncountable number of eastern dandies willing to pay high prices for beaver hats and fashionable furs.
He pushed the thought aside and focused again on what the art told him. The hunters didn’t ride horses. Miss Durand also traveled on foot. Were there not horses or mules in the area? Surely these people had some kind of mounts to make their hunting and travel easier.
He would find the chance to ask, but not now.
Moving across the cave to the other section of paintings, he allowed himself only a glimpse toward Miss Durand. She was looking at him in that same moment. Had she been watching him? He’d felt her presence so strongly, he couldn’t have said whether it was her gaze that weighed so heavily or simply his need to keep from thinking about her. From wondering what she was doing. What she thought about their situation.
What she thought abouthim.
He concentrated on the paintings ahead, swallowing down the urge to look her way again. These images weren’t as clearly divided into scenes as the others. The story took a moment to decipher, but this section seemed to show a single man on horseback—yes, riding—with various obstacles stretching before him. Snow covered the ground in one area,a wide river crossed his path in another, and a mountain rose up at an angle that showed a steep cliff. How had the horse managed that ascent?
Or had it? The painting only showed the traveler at the beginning of these obstacles, not having overcome them.
At the end of his journey, just past the cliff, a group of people stood with happy faces. His family? Or perhaps his village. There were a dozen figures, some of them smaller like children and one a babe cradled in the arms of a long-haired adult. The artist had added more detail to this person than the others, giving form to her face and even tucking in her clothing at the waist. The traveler’s wife?
His chest tightened as he shifted his gaze back over the entire painting. He could relate to the man and his journey. All the obstacles he’d overcome. But there would be no family or village at the end of Damien’s travels. No wife and babe waiting for him.
That familiar burn climbed up his throat. Michelle no longer anticipated his return. No one from their village expected him to come back. He’d cut off all ties. And the fur company certainly wouldn’t miss him if he never showed up again in Fort Versailles. He was considered a free trapper, not officially in their ledgers unless he came to the fort to trade. They would never know if he disappeared into the wilderness forever.
“Do you think he made it to his people?” The soft voice behind Damien tensed all his nerves. Yet at the same time, the gentle murmur called to him, making him want to lean into the sweet tones.
He swallowed down the unwanted feeling. Forced his attention back to the painting. “I don’t know.” Too much emotionscraped in his voice, so he attempted to clear it away. Better to change the subject.
And put some space between them.
He moved back toward the fire, then settled on his fur. A glance around the space showed nothing he should be doing. She’d already put the food away, and he’d brought in plenty of wood for the fire. This would be a good time to work on the knife handle he’d been carving. Maybe Miss Durand would sit by the fire, and he could glean a bit more information from her.
As he chipped tiny bits of wood to form the mule’s head at the bottom of the handle, she did indeed take up her place across from him. He let silence settle for a while, but the weight of her gaze on him made it impossible to relax. She didn’t have any handwork to keep her busy, but she didn’t seem inclined to fill the air with empty words like most women would.
If there was to be conversation, it looked like he would have to be the one to begin it. “I don’t often see a woman traveling alone. Or anyone alone, really. You have business at Fort Versailles?” Perhaps he should have handled the question more tactfully, started off with small talk about the weather. But they’d already discussed the weather, and he hated coyness, both in himself and others.
A frown marked her brow. “I do have business there.” Then she clamped her lips shut, the echo of stubbornness in her tone lingering in the air between them.
Perhaps he should have tried harder for subtlety. Now he’d have to work to ease her prickles. “Have you ever been there? It’s not a very big place—only a trade store, the factor’s house, and a few other cabins. No women at all, just a few rough men.”
When he slid a glance to her, a bit of interest lit her eyes. “How far is it from here?”
Now it was his turn to frown, as the image of her trekking over the snow-covered terrain flicked through his mind. She’d been so exhausted when he’d found her by the lake. She couldn’t make the rest of the journey on foot. No woman should be forced to endure that hardship. Which begged the question, why did she attempt it? What drove her through this wilderness in a snowstorm? Alone?
He tried to concentrate on her original question. “On foot, about two days. On a mount, probably a bit over a day if the weather’s good. And if you don’t get lost. Like I said before, there’s not a road between here and there. You can’t just go due east, as you have to skirt a couple mountains.”
