Chapter 2

Two

C arson mentally kicked himself. Had he really said such unkind things? It wasn’t like him at all. Or at least he wanted to believe it wasn’t. But he’d been an idealistic young man who quickly formed conclusions about those who didn’t live correctly in his opinion. He’d changed, hadn’t he?

“I like to think being on my own and being a Mountie for three years has taught me to be less judgmental in my opinions.” Was his tone gentle and placating? Or was there a hint of protest? In his defense, Angela had been rough around the edges when she joined the Woods family.

“One would hope so.” She showed more interest in Bertie’s play than in his words.

Why did that bother him? Except…couldn’t she look at him and see he was no longer the brash young man she remembered? Even if she’d had reason.

“It must have been—” He meant to say something about losing her parents and acknowledge how difficult her move must have been. But a yell from Bertie interrupted.

“I find arrow.” He held an object over his head. “See.”

Carson jumped to his feet. Angela stood seconds after him. She looked around. “Indians?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Blue-green eyes like some kind of precious stone he couldn’t remember the name of. He’d never noticed that before.

Her gaze went past him, swept the area. Her breath came and went in short jerks.

Out of caution, he, too, took in their surroundings even as he murmured words of assurance. “I rather doubt it. Besides, they now use guns, but I’ll have a look.”

She scurried after him as he climbed the hill to where Bertie examined the ground for more treasures.

“Look, Carson.” Bertie shoved the arrowhead toward Carson. “I keep it?”

“It’s yours.” The ground was scuffed almost bare. A prickle when up Carson’s spine. If this spot had been used a few years ago, shouldn’t the grass have grown back? He dragged his boot heel along the soil, moving aside the dirt. Rock underneath. That and the lack of recent rains could explain the shortage of grass. “No one has been here in years.” Did his voice sound more certain than he felt?

“We should get back to the camp.” Angela’s words were thin as if squeezed from a tight throat. “Bertie, time to go.”

“Alice, Limpy, come.” Bertie patted his leg, and both the goat and dog loped at his side as Angela hustled them toward the wagons. Carson fell in step with her.

Nervousness and fear came off her like dust wafting up from each of their steps.

“Angela, the Natives are peaceful and on reservations.” Though it had entered his mind that they might not enjoy the limitations of the treaties.

“I haven’t forgotten the uprising of 1885. Your parents were so concerned about you.” The look she tossed him was full of accusations as if to suggest he should have done something besides join the force and prepare to defend his country.

“I was never in any danger.” Though they only knew that in hindsight. He didn’t intend to tell her how frightened everyone was. Nor how the pioneers and ranchers had formed militia groups should the conflict reach them. It hadn’t. “Besides, I felt called to serve and protect.” Would she acknowledge that as a noble motivation?

“Hmm.”

The sound told him nothing. Perhaps he was better off not knowing what she thought of him. Besides, he’d have plenty of time on the way to the fort to prove he wasn’t the rash young man he’d been back then. After all, he’d only been seventeen going on eighteen. Overly impressed with his status as an adult with plans to become a Mountie and head west.

“How old are you?” The question came without forethought.

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business.” Besides, he could ask one of his sisters. “I was merely wondering how old you were when you joined the family.”

Her blue-green eyes narrowed and flashed. “I was almost fourteen.”

“Ahh.” That made her almost eighteen now. “You’re about the same age now as I was when you came.” Their footsteps ceased moving, and she studied him. He tightened his muscles and tried not to squirm under her examination.

She shifted her gaze past him, allowing him to draw in a deep breath. “I suppose that’s true.” Her gaze returned, intense and burning. “I hope I am kinder.”

“Angela, I’m sorry. Can you let it be in the past? I’ve changed. I swear.”

Turning to watch Bertie and his pets, she breathed in so long, he worried something was wrong. He was about to pat her back to get her to let the air out when it whooshed from her lips.

“I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” His relief was measured. But he had the trip to prove himself.

Limpy growled, jerking Carson’s attention that direction. The dog’s ruff stood on end.

Bertie grabbed Alice and drew back, fear pouring from him.

They were almost back to the camp. Had someone invaded it? Bertie crouched behind a thicket.

He listened. Something in the camp rattled.

Angela squeezed her hands into a knot.

Moving slowly, quietly, Carson edged toward Bertie. When he was at the bushes, he indicated Angela should come forward. “You stay here with Bertie while I investigate.”

She knelt beside his brother, and Carson crept onward.

“Be careful.” Her whispered words of caution brought a warmth to his chest which chilled at the increased noise from the camp. Thuds. Rattles. Clangs. Whoever made the noise had no concern about how loud it was.

His gun withdrawn, he inched forward, keeping to the shelter of the trees. When he could make out the camp, he stopped and stared. A grin widened his mouth. He holstered his gun and backed up enough to signal the others forward, holding his finger to his lips to warn them to be quiet.

Angela rose and spoke to Bertie who shook his head. She waited a moment before making her way toward Carson.

Together, they tiptoed along the trees until they could both see the camp. His attention wasn’t on the intruders, but on her.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth to silence a chuckle, but her eyes sparkled. Three fox kits played with the bucket they’d overturned and the baking pans that made a loud clatter. The sound seemed to amuse the kits for they darted to the pans, touched them, and jumped away when they clanged.

One climbed to the table, grabbed a biscuit, and dropped it to the ground. All three sprang at it.

“No.” Angela leaped forward. “You rascals get away from my baking.”

The three kits stared at her. When she waved her hands, they abandoned the biscuit and trotted off, glancing over their shoulders several times.

Carson laughed. “You’ve spoiled their fun.”

“I won’t have them ruining my baking.” She scooped the untouched biscuits into a tin and jammed the lid on top.

“Look.” He pointed the direction the foxes had gone. All three sat on the hill watching. “I expect they hope to sneak in and get a free meal.”

She stood, arms akimbo, and stared at them. “They can get their own food.” She picked up a clump of dirt and threw it at them, yelling, “Go away.”

Bertie had followed. Limpy, seeing the kits and hearing Angela’s order, ran toward the foxes, barking.

“No, Limpy. You get hurt.” Bertie took several steps in that direction, then stopped. “Carson, you tell him get back.”

Carson put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle that had the foxes turning tail and racing away.

Limpy, no doubt thinking he’d succeeded in scaring them off, trotted back.

Angela burst out laughing, the sound trilling through the air. The sound went on and on.

Carson stared. Yes, it was amusing to watch the little critters, but it wasn’t that funny.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Look at Limpy. He’s almost grinning. Thinks he’s the conquering hero.”

Bertie studied Angela as if trying to make sense of her words, then sat on the ground, and hugged Limpy. “You good dog.”

Wanting some of that attention, Alice butted Bertie on the shoulder, prompting Bertie to wrap an arm around the animal. “You good goat.”

Chuckling softly under her breath, Angela wiped the table, picked up a big spoon, and set it in the washbasin.

Her amusement tickled Carson, even though he hadn’t been responsible for it in any way. But it eased his conscience over how his unkind remarks had hurt her enough that she remembered them four years later. He bent to retrieve a pot lid that had rolled under the table and straightened to find himself almost nose to nose with her, both of them holding a lid.

Something flashed through her eyes that made him think of sunlight dancing on water while people laughed and played. She ducked her head, splashed the lid in the washbasin, and moved away. She changed direction midstep and went toward the woodpile. Without picking up anything, she turned to the fire, grabbed up a potholder, and lifted the lid on the beans.

“They should return soon.” Her back to him, she studied the direction the others had gone.

“I could use a cup of coffee.” He emptied the pot and sauntered to the creek to fill it. Coffee would be good. Perhaps she’d relax if she had some.

When he returned, she had beans ground. He held out the pot, and she dumped them in.

While the brew simmered over the coals, he hunkered down on a log stool.

She put two pieces of wood on the fire, raising a shower of sparks. She removed the lid on the beans again and stirred them. Something on the table seemed to require her attention, though he couldn’t see what and all she did was dust her fingers along the surface.

“Angela, is something wrong?”

“What?” She jammed her hands into her apron pockets. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He pushed to his feet. “I’ll go check on the livestock.”

Angela twisted her apron. She’d offered her forgiveness, and she meant it. But forgetting was far more difficult. What was it Father had said on more than one occasion? “Feelings will always follow actions. Do what is right, and the feelings will follow like the caboose on the end of the train.” For Father, she’d make the right choice. And for God, she added, knowing Father would expect it. No more than she expected it of herself. “No, wait. You haven’t had coffee. Let me get the cups.” She plucked two off the table.

Carson lifted the pot and filled the mugs she held. “Thanks.” A note of caution dulled the words and his eyes. Brown eyes, unlike the blue of the rest of his family. His hair was brown too while his siblings all had blond hair. Hmm. He was the odd man out. Not unlike her.

A brisk shake of her head stopped her silly musings. “I’ll get cookies too.” She put the tin of oatmeal and raisin cookies on the log stool closest to him and sat on the next one over. Not so close as to make her uncomfortable, but not so far away as to fill his eyes with that uncertain look.

“Thanks.” He bit into one. “These are good.”

“I made them.”

He ate one and took a second. “Did you know these are my favorite kind?”

“I remember you telling your ma molasses cookies were your favorite.”

His expression sober, he nodded. “Them too.” He leaned closer, glancing around as if to share a secret. “The truth is, every cookie is my favorite.”

Her laughter slipped out. “Guess that makes you easy to please.”

“Indeed.” He scooted back, contentment relaxing his face.

She narrowed her eyes. Was he teasing? Or bragging? Going with the first, she fluttered an airy wave. “At least when it comes to cookies.”

“Oh, in other ways too.” He grinned.

“Really? Do tell.”

“I’ve been known to live for days—weeks, even—on cold beans and hard biscuits.” He gave a shrug. “Even made do with pemmican for many days while I was tracking a man.”

Those words crashed her to reality. “A Mountie must encounter a lot of bad things.”

A dark cloud crossed his face.

She tipped her head upward. The sky was a sunny blue. The shadow on his face came from inside him.

“It’s safe to say that life is often laced with unsavory things.”

The coffee had cooled. Nevertheless, she curled her fingers around the cup, seeking warmth and comfort.

“You shuddered.” He swallowed coffee. “Why?”

She shook off the feeling. “It’s true. Life is full of things I’d like to avoid.”

“Being an orphan is one I suppose. I’m sorry that happened to you.” The gentleness in his voice edged through her struggle to keep the past locked away.

But she must not open that door.