She turned toward the food pack and held her breath against the pain of each careful step. When she reached her destination, she eased herself down beside the supplies. Even sitting in the snow would be better than torturing her feet any longer.
Only then did it register that Damien hadn’t answered. She braved a look at him. He was watching her, brows lowered over dark eyes, so she couldn’t read his thoughts. He didn’t look happy, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t like whatever he was considering.
At last he spoke, his tone lower than usual, almost gentle. “Charlotte...” His voice trailed off, as though he wasn’t sure what to say.
Perhaps she should correct him for using her given name. She’d heard him speak it once or twice during the hazy hours after the river crossing. But the sound of her unique name in his deep rumble—not to mention the way it felt so natural for him to speak it—well, perhaps they knew each other well enough now to justify using Christian names. They’d certainly endured enough harrowing events.
That deep rumble broke the quiet of the morning again. “Let’s take it slow today. I think we pushed too hard yesterday. We can have a hot meal here in camp, then set out when we’re ready.”
She shook her head before he’d finished. “I have to get to the fort. I’m already far behind schedule.” She turned her attention to unfastening the pack and quickly pulled out enough food to last them the morning.
When she lifted her gaze back to Damien as she held out his portion, his lowered brows had turned to a full frown. He stepped near enough to take the food. “It’s not just you I’m considering. Walking through all the snow is hard on Gulliver, too.”
A pang pressed in her chest. He was right, and she’d already felt guilty about riding so much the day before. “I’ll walk then. He shouldn’t have to carry such a load.”
A noise came from Damien—a half-grunt, half-moan she’d never heard him voice, and it drew her gaze back to his face.
His eyes flashed. “That’s the last thing I want, woman. You could have frozen to death last night, and you still might have damage to your feet. I can tell walking pains you. There’s no way I’ll let you hike through the snow when there’s a perfectly good mule to ride.”
He seemed to be working to calm himself. And his voice did come out with a softer tone. “We can take some time this morning to recover. There’s no sense in arriving half-dead.”
Arriving? Hope surged through her. “Will we reach the fort today?” They’d been traveling long enough. If they put in a full day’s journey...
He shook his head.
Then they needed to get going. There was much ground to cover.
But as she opened her mouth to say so, he raised a staying hand. “And killing ourselves by riding an extra hour or two won’t help, either.”
Frustration needled through her. Perhaps his words held some wisdom, but the heavy-handed way he spoke them made every part of her want to resist. And how could they possibly not reach the fort today? They’d been traveling for so long already.
His brows dipped in another frown. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and going to the fort is a bad idea. You don’t know how the men there are going to react to seeing you, but I do. Nothing good will come of it. I can take you back to your village. Or back to the lake so you can go on by yourself. Whichever you prefer.”
Not this again. At least once a day, he’d raised the idea of her turning back. She leveled a glare on him. “Are you certain you know exactly how to reach Fort Versailles? My people are able to get there in two days. It’s been three already, and you say a fourth won’t even be enough?”
Albeit one of those days, they rode through a snowstorm and stopped early. But despite that, the facts stood for themselves.
Damien blinked twice, the only sign her words bothered him. In fact, his ire from moments before seemed hidden behind a careful mask. “I do know the way to the fort, and I’m certain we won’t reach it tonight, no matter how hard we push.” He turned toward their supplies. “I’m going to cook some of this bear meat.”
If the man were closer to her, she might have shaken him. He was truly denying her request to start out now. She would leave on her own if she thought she could possibly manage it. But he was right about her pain. In all honesty, a few hours walking through the snow would likely bring her to her knees.
Though she might be dependent on him to help her travel—for now—she certainly didn’t have to sit here across from him in the camp.
She used her hands to help push herself to her feet, then turned and limped through the trees. Perhaps it was her frustration that made each step more bearable than the last.
13
When Damien did something this kind, it was hard to be angry with him.
Charlotte stared at the sketch Damien had presented her when she returned to camp, taking in every remarkable detail. “It’s ... so good, Damien.” Those words didn’t come close to the excellence of the simple charcoal drawing. Had he done it all in the hour she sat by the river? She lifted her gaze to his face. “How did you make Gulliver look so real?”
The man only shrugged. “I suppose I’ve seen him often enough. Thought you might like to keep it as a memory.”
Damien’s embarrassment made him look adorable, brawny mountain man though he was. She hid her smile by dropping her gaze back to the sketch. Gulliver’s curious face stared back at her, long ears pricked and head tipped in exactly the way she’d seen him look so many times when she greeted him.
The drawing showed only her side, and just the top half at that, stretching out her hand for the mule to sniff. Though her face was hidden by the fur of her hood, even the detail of her coat looked almost more realistic than in real life.
Once more, she raised her focus to Damien. This time she kept her commendation to herself, but she couldn’t help studying him. How could a mountain man trapper possess this much skill in the finer arts? “Have you been drawing all your life?”
