She woke before dawn, and by the time the sun lit the snow enough for her to see the path, she’d already set out.
Damien’s map ended at the lake, so she had to rely on her memories from that first day to guide her. Before she’d met this man. Another lifetime.
She reached the base of the first mountain, the tallest one she’d climbed that day. The snow had begun partway up the other side, and she foolishly thought it would end once she descended from the heights.
No snow fell this time, though the trek upward stole her breath. She had to stop more than once to find enough air and rest her weary body.
At last, she reached the peak and dropped to her knees for another much-needed break. Her pulse stuttered in her ears, and every breath burned. Her lungs couldn’t drag in enough air to satisfy her aching chest. She let herself slump against a rock for long minutes, eyes closed as her mind wandered to Damien once more.
Was he still encamped in that same place, nursing Gulliver’s injured hoof? Or had the mule recovered some in the day and a half since she’d seen them? Maybe they’d started out and would reach Laurent only a day or two behind her.
Lord, let that be the case. Let all be well with them.
The thought of trouble sent her mind conjuring every possible scenario. What if wolves found the mule while Damien was away from camp hunting or gathering wood? As he’d said, Gulliver was weak and an easy target in his current condition. Or a mountain lion might sniff out the two of them. She couldn’t think of any other animal large enough to be a danger to the mule. As long as the bears were all hibernating.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head from the stone. She’d caught her breath enough now, so she should be ready for the downhill slope.
But as she peered over the crest, her gaze scanning to find the route she should take, a dark figure appeared on the lowerpart of the slope. She squinted to make out its shape. The sun hid behind the clouds, so the snow wasn’t as blinding as it could have been. But the vast canvas of white often played tricks on her eyes.
That was definitely a person. Or no ... Maybe two people. A person and an animal? Nay, two people, she was almost certain now.
They might be a search party from Laurent. Should she hurry down the mountain to meet them? The sooner she could put their worry to rest, the better.
But they might also be strangers. After all, she’d first met Damien not far from this place. She could no longer be so naïve as to think she wouldn’t meet another person.
And this time, strangers might not be so respectful as Damien. They might be the rougher sort he’d feared she would meet at the fort.
She waited there, kneeling behind the sharp stone that marked the peak of the mountain. At least this would allow her a longer rest as she waited for the strangers to come near enough to make out their features.
Their climb took longer than she anticipated. Though she couldn’t make out faces yet, she could determine they were white men, not any of the Dinee natives. One seemed older, for he used a walking staff and hunched more than the other.Hewouldn’t be a danger to her.
But that other fellow ... She didn’t dare make her presence known until she was certain he didn’t intend harm.
More time passed, an hour maybe. Or perhaps it only felt that long. At times she rested, but her mind sank too easily into thoughts of Damien. What he might be doing. What he might want for a future between them. What it would belike to introduce him to her father. The rest of her family. The entire village.
When that line of thought churned worry inside her, she peered over the rock at the coming men. They’d reached halfway up the mountain, and she could more plainly see the facts she’d already deduced. Two men. Pale skin, though plenty tanned from the sun. One older. The other could be anywhere in his twenties or thirties from the way he moved. There was nothing unusual about him—at least, that she could tell from here.
The aged fellow . . . Something in his bearing seemed familiar. Or maybe it was simply the rounded shoulders that often developed more when a person grew older.
But the longer she studied him, the more it felt as though she knew this man well. Then he pointed at something on the mountainside, and that gesture, the lift of his face, she knew beyond a doubt.
Papa.
21
Springing to her feet, Charlotte may have squealed as she threw on her pack and scampered over the sharp rocks. Down the other slope, she slid and skidded, glancing up every so often to make sure she was staying on course toward the men.
Her father had found her. He’d come searching, which meant he’d discovered her duplicity. She had much to explain and apologize for. But seeing him here and healthy . . . Too much pleasure bounded inside her not to run to him.
Papa’s voice sounded through the crisp mountain air, but she didn’t slow to decipher the words. When she closed half the distance between them, she glanced up once more. She could see the other man better now.
Hugo Lemaire.
Her chest pinched. She couldn’t worry about him now, wouldn’t let it distract from the meeting with her father.
When she finally reached them, Papa straightened, arms out, and she stepped into his embrace. He clutched her tight, those strong arms that had wrapped around her so manytimes from her earliest days. They didn’t seem as stout as in her memories. A fresh spear of guilt stabbed her.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” She pulled back, but her father only allowed her to go far enough that he could grip her upper arms. Moisture glimmered in his eyes, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen that. When Mama was killed, certainly. But maybe not since those dark days of mourning.
