She squeezed her eyes shut as she scrambled to find the words to show him just how impossible it would be for her to find happiness with Hugo.
But before she could manage them, a knock sounded on the front door. Papa clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Our guests have arrived. And please, Charlotte, give Hugo a chance. I really think he would make a good match.”
She couldn’t speak past the roiling in her belly as her father stepped around her to answer the door. She turned back to the stewpot hanging over the fire, sinking to her knees on the stone floor as the strength in her legs gave way.
Her father wouldn’t force her to marry Hugo, would he? He had the right. Often marriages in Laurent were planned by the parents. But the potential bride and groom were usually allowed a voice in the process.
Yet even if Papa finally let go of this ridiculous notion that she should marry Hugo, what other man lived in Laurent whom she could possibly love? Their little village had been separated from the rest of the world for so many years—more than a century. Brielle’s and Audrey’s husbands were the only two strangers who’d joined their numbers during that entire time, and that had only happened in the last two years.
“Charlotte, whatever you’re cooking smells good enough to bring a weary traveler home.”
She turned to smile at Erik, one of her father’s good friends and a leading member of the council. “You returned a day sooner than we expected. I’d like to think it’s my ragoût,but I suspect your haste has more to do with your sweet wife.” Erik was nearly her father’s age, so he didn’t often go on the trading journeys to the fort. There must have been a particular reason he’d left Madeline and their warm home just as winter’s chill had begun to set in.
He sent her a wink. “You know me well.”
Erik turned to speak with her father, and Charlotte slipped into the background, placing bread and dried fruit on the table, then filling bowls with the stew and mugs with tea. With so much to do, she managed to avoid catching Hugo’s eye, though she could feel the weight of his gaze at times.
When everything was ready, she nodded to Papa.
He sent her a smile of thanks, then motioned to the neatly spread table. “Please, my friends. Be seated and fill your hungry bellies before we hear the news from the fort.”
She stayed by the fire, perched on a stool to scrub the utensils she’d used in cooking. But mostly she listened to the sounds of pleasure as the men ate. At last, as she polished the grooves in the fir trees Papa had engraved on her cooking spoons, he sat back in his chair. “Now that we’re warmed from that wonderful meal, what news have you learned?”
Erik wiped his mouth on the cloth and placed it on the table. “Not much seems to have changed since Thayer and Gaume went in the spring. Most of the trappers have already set out for the winter season, but a few stayed behind to work on the fort. I heard there were some skilled artisans in the group—metalworkers and carpenters, mostly—but we didn’t get to meet them. The North West company is sending an assistant for the factor, and it’s said he’ll be bringing his wife with him.”
Charlotte paused in her cleaning. A white woman? Dineebands that included women and children sometimes camped outside the fort for trading, but this was the first time she’d heard of a white woman coming to the area. Would she be from the Canadas or the United States?
As much as she wanted to ask these questions now, this conversation was Papa’s to lead. She could ask him or Erik for more details later. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to draw Hugo’s attention—more than he already looked at her, anyway. Had Papa told him she would be interested if he made an effort for them to spend time together?
A twinge niggled in her chest. She didn’t want to hurt Hugo. He really seemed to have changed from who he had been as a lad.
But there was no way she could marry him. She’d rather die as the favorite spinster auntie to Brielle’s children, whenever they came, and even to those her younger brother Andre would produce when he grew of age to find his own bride.
That would be far better than sacrificing her life to a man she didn’t love.
Damien Levette’s mule rocked back on its haunches as they plunged down the slope. Gulliver had done this so many times the past few months that the mount no longer balked at going straight down an incline. If he weren’t so surefooted, Damien would never ask the mule to charge down a mountainside like this. He didn’t mind risking his own life, but he had no desire to jeopardize his faithful friend—the only companion he had left.
But Gulliver seemed to enjoy the challenge as much asDamien did. And the rush that came when Damien’s body dropped before his middle could catch up, when the base of the mountain loomed far below, made him finally feel alive. For a few moments, at least.
Then the truth would catch up with him. He had no right to feel so vibrant. Not when Michelle, his other half, the twin who’d always brought out the best in him, lay buried under six feet of mud and a block of carved stone.
He slowed Gulliver partway down the slope, guiding him to the left so he could descend the rest of the incline at a safer angle. If something happened to him because of Damien’s recklessness, well . . . he already couldn’t live with himself.
For now, though, he had to keep pushing on. That’s what Michelle would have wanted. One day at a time. One hour at a time. These next few weeks would be the worst as he passed the first anniversary of her death, but at least he’d come far enough into the mountain wilderness that his misery wouldn’t affect anyone else.
Gulliver didn’t seem to mind his ill humor. Just stayed by his side faithfully. Exactly like Michelle had done for all those years.
A glance up at the sky showed the dark clouds descending lower than they’d been earlier. A few snow flurries had fallen yesterday but not enough to stick to the ground. The first real snow looked ready to fall soon, though. That might make tracking easier, but he needed to set some beaver snares before the rivers iced over.
Now that he’d left the main trapping party, it was up to him to find the best locations. No seasoned trapper like Arsenault was there to glance around and say a particular region seemed promising. But he also didn’t have anyonetelling him when he had to pull up his snares and move on. He would be making his own decisions, then living with the consequences.
A bark jerked his attention to the base of the mountain. A doglike animal trotted from rock to rock, sniffing, then it raised its snout in the air and loosed a short yip. Coyote. Not big enough to be a wolf, even a lean one. Though this animal certainly was skinny. Bones poked up at its hips and shoulders, and very little flesh covered its ribs. Did that mean there wasn’t much game in this area? The meat-eaters should be at their healthiest this time of year, having scarfed down plenty to prepare for the winter.
As the slope began to level out, Damien aimed the mule toward a line of trees that signaled water. A small creek, probably, but it might lead to a larger river prime for trapping.
When he rode past the coyote, the animal eyed him but didn’t leap away. Daring fellow. They had that in common.
The creek contained only a small stream of water, but he turned Gulliver to follow it downstream. The larger rivers and lakes were fed by many such trickles.
