Dawn on a Distant Shore (5 page)

Nathaniel saw all this
moving on the boy's face, anger and shame and the regret for his part of what
had happened. But it was Liam's battle and he could not fight it for him, so
Nathaniel went to work.

"Lend me a hand
with this." He gestured with his chin to the largest of three old chests,
squat and battered. Nathaniel kept his voice easy, but he watched Liam from the
corner of his eye, saw the flicker of interest and surprise.

The chest was heavy,
and they put it down with a grunt near the fire in the front cavern.

"The Tory
gold?" Liam asked. His tone had a studied evenness, his voice cracking slightly.

Nathaniel snorted.
"You've been listening to Axel's tall tales again," he said,
hunkering down. He gave the lock a twist and the lid opened smoothly.

On the top was a
bundle of papers rolled in oilskin and tied: the Deed of Gift that had transferred
the land patent to Elizabeth, their marriage lines, a sales agreement for the schoolhouse
Nathaniel had built and then sold to her at her insistence, other papers that
would argue louder and longer in a court of law if they had to fight again to
keep Hidden Wolf. There was a wooden box of his mother's things, which he put
to the side. Underneath, a faint shimmering, and Liam drew in his breath.

"Silver," he
breathed. "Pure?"

"Not
exactly." Nathaniel reached for the empty pack he had brought with him.
"It's hard to work it here, but we do the best we can."

Liam's blue eyes
blinked. "There is a mine on Hidden Wolf, after all."

"Aye," said
Nathaniel. "There is."

"The north
face?"

Nathaniel nodded.

"Does the judge
know?"

"No. Guess he
never went looking for it."

Liam was silent. At
his sides his hands clenched and unclenched convulsively.

Nathaniel said,
"I'm only bothering with this now because I may need it in Montréal. The silver
ain't mine, though."

The boy's head snapped
up. "It ain't? Whose is it, Elizabeth's?"

"The mine belongs
to the Kahnyen'kehâka," said Nathaniel. "So does the silver. But they
won't mind me using what I need to get Otter and Hawkeye out of trouble."

Liam crouched down,
his eyes fixed on Nathaniel. "But the mountain sits on land that used to
belong to the judge. He bought the patent at auction."

"True."
Nathaniel continued working, but he watched Liam's face from the corner of his
eye.

"And he passed it
on to Elizabeth, and then you married her."

"That's true,
too," Nathaniel agreed. "Although it didn't seem nearly so simple as
that at the time. What's your point?"

Liam stopped and
studied his hands. It was a habit he had that made him seem older than his years:
thinking through what he had to say before he let it go. Another thing that
distinguished him from his brother Billy.

"Hidden Wolf
belongs to you, and so does the mine. You have legal claim and the silver is yours--"
Liam faltered, seeing the expression on Nathaniel's face.

"There's more
than one kind of law," Nathaniel said. "The way I see it is, if anybody
has a claim to the mine, it's the Kahnyen'kehâka."

Liam stared through
the waterfall toward the place where the cabins stood. "Does Elizabeth see
it that way, too?"

"She does. We'd
sign the mountain over tomorrow, if the court would allow it."

The boy swallowed so
that the muscles in his throat rose and fell in a wave. "My brother would
get out of his grave to stop you from giving Hidden Wolf back to the
Mohawk."

Nathaniel shifted his
weight back on his heels. He could almost see Billy in Liam's face. He had the
same low, broad forehead, high cheekbones, and narrow-bridged nose. On his
upper lip and the backs of his hands was the red-gold down that marked all the
Kirbys. One day soon Liam would be as big as Billy had been, and as strong. But
there was something in Liam's eyes that his older brother had been lacking. Nathaniel
said, "And you? What would you do?"

"It ain't none of
my business," Liam said.

"Ah, but it
is," Nathaniel said. "If you're one of us, it's your business.
This--" He looked at the chest, and then out through the falling wall of
water, his gaze taking it all in: Lake in the Clouds, Hidden Wolf. "This
is Hannah's birthright, and Many-Doves, and their children's. It's my business
to keep it safe for them, and it's your business, too. If you're one of
us."

The boy flushed, color
moving up his throat. He stared at Nathaniel, and then at the silver.

"I'm one of
you," he said hoarsely.

"Then let's get
to work," Nathaniel said, handing him a pack. "It's too damn cold to
talk."

Not quite sunrise, and
Elizabeth was wide awake. The babies had nursed just an hour earlier and were
resting easily, but she lay unwilling to sleep. She had lit a candle, willfully
putting away the small voice that chided her for this extravagance, and she lay
on her side watching the first colors of the dawn through the ice-crusted panes
of the single small window. The window was another luxury, and at the moment it
was one she regretted. Soon the sun would come over the crest and Nathaniel
would wake, and then he would get up and be gone.

She had encouraged him
to go; she had insisted on it. And still the idea of his going was suddenly overwhelming.
Elizabeth was filled with dread, with vague worries about Montréal and the
troubles there, with more detailed imaginings of the things that might come to
pass--that often came to pass--in the endless forests, and with irritation at
herself. She would not make this leave-taking harder on him.

But she must study his
face now. This face she knew so well. He would be thirty-six years old in the
spring and already there was a single strand of white at his hairline. Straight
brows, a scar beneath his left eye. The strong lines of nose and jaw. His
mouth, the curve of it. The groove in his chin where the shadow of his beard
was darkest.

The sun had not yet
risen, but she sensed a change in the rhythm of his breathing. There was a small
tremor in the muscle of his cheek. She held her breath, hoping that he would
settle again, hoping he would sleep until noon if it would keep him here one
more day.

His arm came up and
around her, and pulled her down to him.

"You're so edgy,
Boots," he said softly. "Come, rest with me."

Elizabeth put her face
against his neck and said what she had been determined not to say. "I wish
you did not need to go."

His arm tightened
around her shoulders.

They were quiet
together for a moment like that, the only movement between them his fingers on
her temple, gently stroking. Under her hands his chest was as hard as oak. She
drew in his smells and felt her pores opening, her nerves waking.

"I wish--"
she said finally. And stopped. She felt him waiting. When she turned up her
face to his, Elizabeth found his eyes open and calm with knowing. He knew, he
always knew. Nathaniel kissed her, and then she did cry. Just a little, enough
to flavor the kiss with salt and regret and longing. He made a comforting sound
against her mouth, his hands cradling her face.

She held him to her,
and kissed him back. It was all they could have now, in this little bit of time
left, and with her body still so raw. But it was good to hold him, to feel that
he wanted her, and to know that she could still want him back. In spite of the astonishing
range of aches her body presented to her, still Nathaniel's kiss made her
breasts pulse and tingle, and in the pit of her belly there was the blossoming
of nerves she had discovered on that winter morning when she had first learned
the feel of him.

There was a tightening
and then a trickle of milk. She broke away with a sob of surprise.

"Shhh." He
caught her up again, pulled her back to him. "Never mind, never mind. That
happens. Never mind." With one hand he raised her chin. He was smiling, a
small smile. "I'm just sorry I can't take you up on the offer."

She pushed against his
shoulder with the palm of her hand, but he wouldn't let go. With his mouth
against her temple, he whispered to her.

"I'll come back
to you, Boots, and you'll be healed and we'll be together. It'll be warm enough
then in the cave. We'll get to know each other again where we started, you and
me. How does that sound?"

Elizabeth brushed the
hair away from his face. "It sounds as if you should be up and away, so
that you can come home again. "Journeys end in lovers meeting," after
all."

"That's one quote
I'll remember." Nathaniel laughed. "It'll serve me well on the long
road home."

The March winds came
off the St. Lawrence in a rush, nosing up Montréal's narrow lanes to seek out
Nathaniel where he stood in the shadows of the Auberge St. Gabriel. Most of the
city's residents had retreated over slick cobblestones to their dinners by the
time the seminary clock chimed four, but Nathaniel stood motionless and attentive,
oblivious to the icy snow that rattled on roofs of tin and slate.

The door of the tavern
opened and a servant clattered out, bent to one side by the weight of her basket.
Behind her followed two redcoats, shoulders hunched. Nathaniel pressed himself harder
against the wall, relaxing even as they went past. Their eyes were fixed on
their boots, and their minds on the duty that had drawn them away from hearth
and ale. He was invisible to them.

Nathaniel continued
scanning the darkening street. Between the houses opposite there was a small
flash of movement. A child, underdressed, searching the gutter as he slipped
along in the shadows. For a moment Nathaniel watched, and then he stepped into
the lantern light and held up a coin. The boy's gaze snapped toward the faint shimmer
and he angled across the lane in three bounds, to follow Nathaniel into the
shadows.

Perhaps ten years old,
Nathaniel guessed, and small for his age. Eyes wary, one crusted red; his skin
covered with filth and bruises. But he grinned. "Monsieur?"

Nathaniel held out the
shilling and it disappeared between quick fingers.

"What's your
name?"

"They call me
Claude," said the boy. "For another coin I will tell you my family
name."

Nathaniel exhaled
sharply through his nose. "There's another coin if you get a message to
the big Scot inside." It was a long time since Nathaniel had used his
French, but the boy's nod was encouraging. "Tell him to meet Wolf-Running-Fast
at Iona's, and make sure nobody hears you," he finished.

"The
auberge
is full of Scots," the boy said. "All Montréal is full of them. Will
any Scot serve, Monsieur Wolf-Running-Fast?"

"The tallest one
in the room," said Nathaniel. "White haired, answers to Rab MacLachlan.
With a red dog, almost as big as you."

There was a flicker of
interest in the boy's eyes. "A coin for each of them, the man and dog?"

"If they show up
alone, you'll get a coin for each of them."

"And one for
showing them the way."

Nathaniel laughed
softly at the idea; Robbie could find his way to Iona's purbl. "You'll get
your coins if you do your job. And a plate of mutton stew, too, I'll
wager."

"Wolf-Running-Fast,"
repeated the boy. "Iona." And at Nathaniel's nod, he disappeared into
the darkened alleyway.

Nathaniel had been
trained too well to take anything for granted, and so he waited patiently in
the shadows opposite Iona's cottage, in spite of the wind and the rumbling in
his gut. Now that he was here, finally, he remembered why he had stayed away
all these years. At seventeen he had given up both his innocence and his virginity
in Montréal. The first had been lost watching merchants and priests angle for
the peltry and the souls of the Huron and Cree, Abenaki and Hodenosaunee. The
second he had surrendered with less of a struggle to the lieutenant governor's
daughter. The thought of Giselle Somerville left a strange taste in his mouth, as
if he had bit into an apple that looked sound but was inwardly foul. He had
thought she could not touch him anymore, but it was her at the bottom of this trouble:
twenty years, and she had still managed to reach out and put a cold finger on
his cheek.

The snow picked up,
whipping into his eyes. He pulled his hood down farther and sought the warm center
of himself, as he had been trained to do as a boy. At home both hearths would
be blazing. There might be venison and corn bread and dried cranberry grunt.
Finished with her work, Hannah would be bent over sewing, or a book if she had
her way. Nathaniel imagined Elizabeth close by with a child at her breast. He could
see her quite clearly; the heart-shaped face, the first worry lines at the
corners of her eyes, her mouth the deep red of wild strawberries. By evening
time her hair had worked itself free to curl damp against her temple, falling
over the angle of her neck and shoulders bent protectively around the child in
her arms.