“It’s daylight, and I thought you would want to get startedsoon. You’re not ill, are you?” His hand still lay on her shoulder, but he should pull it back.
When she turned under her furs, he did remove his hand. Yet the way she covered a sleepy yawn made him want to move in again. This woman ignited things in him he’d never felt toward anyone. It was a good thing they would reach her village in a couple days, for this new closeness between them was testing his self-control.
She glanced at the sky, and her eyes sharpened as though she finally realized how late it was. “I’m ready. I just need a minute to pack up.”
While Charlotte slipped away from camp for her morning privacy, he rolled up her bedding and strapped it on the saddle with the rest of the gear. As she returned, he was just tightening the cinch on Gulliver. “I left some food on that rock for you. It’s not the warm goodness you normally serve, but hopefully it will stick with you for a few hours.” He sent her a wink, though perhaps he should have refrained.
Yet the pink that crept into her ears was too alluring not to enjoy. With the food in hand, she approached the mule and extended a hand for him to snuffle. The exact pose Damien had captured in his drawing. Maybe he would redo the sketch and include more of her than simply her hand and coat. He’d been too reluctant to capture her face or form before. That had seemed intrusive, something he’d be better off keeping only in his memory.
Or not at all.
But after what she said last night about a woman from Laurent marrying an outsider, possibility had arisen within him that he’d not been able to squelch. Not that he wasready to propose marriage, but maybe Charlotte wasn’t as forbidden to him as he’d told himself from the beginning.
As she settled in Gulliver’s saddle, he tightened the straps on his snowshoes. He wasn’t nearly as sore as in past days, despite how long they traveled yesterday. Maybe his muscles had finally accustomed themselves to this mode of travel.
The chirp of winter birds sounded around them as they set off, and an hour or so into the ride, the sun finally broke through the haze of clouds. They spoke occasionally of things they noticed along the trail, but at least five minutes of silence had settled before Charlotte spoke up. “When did you first start drawing?”
He straightened, glancing back to her. Her sweet face held nothing but innocent curiosity, a look that meant he’d be hard-pressed to refuse anything she asked. As much as he hated talking about himself, and as hard as the memories from before were to speak of, he’d determined to do his very best to be open and honest with Charlotte. After his earlier deception, she deserved this.
Turning back to the trail ahead, he thought through his youngest memories. “I don’t know. As far back as I can remember. I would go through times when I sketched everything I saw, but then I wouldn’t draw again for months.”
“Did you stop during hard times, or times you were busy, like with school or hunting?”
That question required a bit more thought. “I didn’t draw much when we moved during my seventh summer. Nor at all for a year after my parents died.” He shrugged, doing his best to keep his voice casual. Both of those had been hard seasons but were far enough in the past that he could speak ofthem without emotion. But this path of conversation could become far too dark if they didn’t stop now.
He glanced back at her once more, making sure his tone came out light. “Any particular reason you ask? Are you studying the drawing habits of artists?” The moment that last word slipped out, he nearly bit his tongue to bring it back. “Not that I’m an artist. Far from it.”
She offered a muted smile in response, its meaning impossible to decipher. “What do you think makes one an artist, Monsieur Levette?”
Though she spoke his formal name, the title seemed to ease the tension between them, not create more distance. Perhaps the softness of her voice helped, too.
Once more, he shrugged. “Someone with real talent, I suppose. Someone people recognize as an artist. A person who’s paid for their work.” Not a lonely boy in a small French village who needed a distraction from the rest of life.
“What are your favorite things to draw?”
Why did she press this topic so far? Her questions dug deeper than he wanted to think right now. Couldn’t they just trek along in silence? Settle for pointing out unusual rock formations they passed?
But he wouldn’t be rude to her. Not only did he owe her honesty, but part of him wanted her to understand, the part that wasn’t too wary of diving into all these feelings.
He blew out a breath. “I suppose I like to draw life. Things I see that strike me. Memories I want to keep.” Perhaps that was why he’d stopped sketching when his parents moved him away from the few friends he’d finally made, and again when Mum and Dad succumbed to the fever. And why he’d not been able to open his sketchbook thislast year. Carving the knife handle had seemed less like art and more like necessity.
Then he’d met Charlotte, and taking up a pencil seemed possible again.
She was silent, and at last he braved a glance back at her. She offered him that same muted smile, though maybe it lacked the hint of sadness it held before. “I like the idea of keeping memories. I wish I could do that, too.”
Part of him wanted to question the meaning behind her comment. As much as he hated talking about feelings and digging up the aches he’d buried deep, he wanted desperately to know more about Charlotte.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mule’s stride falter. “Ho!” Damien jerked the rope up to keep the animal from stumbling, but Gulliver had already dropped to his knees. Keeping tight pressure on the lead line helped the mule keep his head up, and with another attempt, he rose to all four feet.
Gulliver stood with hooves spread, heaving in gulps of air as though he’d just galloped up the slope. And from the angle of his legs, something looked very wrong indeed.
18
Damien’s heart thundered as Charlotte slipped from Gulliver’s back. “Is he hurt?” She ran her hands down the animal’s shoulder and leg.
“The snow padded his fall. Not sure why he stumbled, though.” As Damien’s heart rate eased, he took a step back and tugged on the lead. “Come, boy. Walk on.”
Charlotte moved away so Gulliver could step freely. The mule hesitated, then took a ginger stride forward. But with the second step, his head bobbed, and he nearly went down to his knees again.
