A Most Unsuitable Match (23 page)

She woke suddenly, still terrified, gasping for breath, holding her hands out and flailing madly against what proved to be only air.

Someone grasped her hands, and an unfamiliar male voice soothed, “It’s all right, Miss Rousseau. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Wherever she was, she was no longer at the mercy of
them.
She opened her eyes. The man who’d just spoken had a slight accent. Curly dark hair and a well-trimmed beard framed hazel eyes. She blinked in the dim light. She was lying on . . . a table? And the stranger was standing next to her, although at a respectful distance. “Where’s Samuel?”

“He’s just outside,” the stranger said. “I’ll get him as soon as you’re fully awake . . . and ready.”

Ready? What was there to get ready about? She wanted Samuel. She sat up and looked around the room. Some kind of framed certificate hung on the far wall above a desk sporting overflowing cubby holes and a mountain of papers. Another wall boasted a shelf cluttered with glass bottles in various sizes and colors, mortars and pestles, and a small scale.

“Where am I?”

“In my clinic, such as it is,” the man said. “Dr. Edmund LaMotte at your service,
mademoiselle
.”

French.
That was the accent. “Clinic? H-How did I get here?”

“You fainted and Mr. Beck carried you here after your unfortunate . . . encounter.”

It all came back. When she reached for Mother’s locket, the doctor said, “It fell free when Mr. Beck picked you up. He told me you’d be worried about it. Your friend Mr. Davis has it. It’s safe.” He motioned to the mirror hanging on the wall near where Fannie sat. “Once you take a moment to fix your hair, you’ll be good as new. There’s a brush and comb in the holder on the wall by the mirror. They’re clean. Feel free to use them.”

Her hair.
She reached back to feel what was left of the neat bun, shivering as she remembered how those men had treated her.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with my hovering,” the doctor said, “until I’m certain you aren’t going to faint again. It wouldn’t do for you to be rescued only to fall and break your neck in my clinic. Very bad for a doctor’s reputation.”

Scooting to the edge of the table, Fannie dangled her feet over the edge as she removed what was left of her hairpins. As her hair tumbled down her back, the doctor said, “They didn’t mean to hurt you. Sadly, they were drunk, or they would have been much more respectful. They merely wanted to see your hair. It really is lovely, and as you can imagine, blond hair is something of a rarity here.”

Reaching out to cup her elbow in his palm, he said, “Now get up slowly. If you don’t feel faint, I’ll retreat and occupy myself with that mound of infernal paperwork over on the desk while you put yourself back together. Your friends will be greatly relieved to see that you’re no worse for the wear.”

“The way my hands are shaking,” Fannie said as she stood up, “I don’t know that I’d agree about not being any the worse for wear.” She pressed her lips together to keep the tears back. What would have happened if Samuel and Lamar hadn’t heard her scream?

“They didn’t mean any harm,” the doctor repeated. He caught her gaze in the mirror. “I know those three, and”—he shook his head—“it’s terrible for them. Smallpox has killed half their friends and family, and interlopers are killing off game at an alarming rate and telling them to stop the very behaviors that have measured their manhood for generations.”

“Is terrifying women part of the way they measure their manhood?”

The doctor sighed. “Of course not,
mademoiselle
. As I said, they didn’t mean any harm . . . and even if they had, they were too drunk to cause any.” He retreated to his desk.

Fannie’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “It makes me feel so much better to think they were too inebriated to follow through with . . . whatever they might have wanted to do.” With a shiver, she tucked the last hairpin in place and turned away from the mirror.

“Enfin,”
the doctor said with a maddeningly charming smile. “It’s obvious you’re fully recovered.” He shrugged. “As to my ability to read minds, it isn’t necessary.” He nodded toward the door. “Lame Bear is waiting outside to apologize for his sons’ behavior. And their fascination with your hair? It’s true. But he’ll tell you that himself.”

Samuel and Lamar rushed in the moment the doctor opened the door. When Samuel opened his arms, Fannie went to him gladly, reveling in his warmth while he scolded her mildly for going off on her own. Fannie glanced at the doctor. “Dr. LaMotte assures me I was never in any real danger.” When she asked the smug physician about a fee, he shook his head.

“It was my pleasure to be of service. And I didn’t really do anything but reassure your young man here that he could expect a full recovery.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “And now, I believe you have someone waiting to see you.” He led the way outside, where an imposing Indian with gleaming black hair waited astride a beautiful gray horse. As Fannie approached, he dismounted.

“This is Lame Bear,” Dr. LaMotte explained. “I’ll translate for him.”

“I have come with a gift to show the sadness I feel at what my sons have done. They were blinded by whiskey and your golden hair. They only meant to see if the gold would wipe away and make their hands shine in the sun. They meant no harm. But they frightened you with their drunken dance. I wish peace. I offer you this gift.” He stroked the pony’s sleek neck. “When my sons have slept away the drink, they will come to you and offer gifts of their own. They will not harm you. I, Lame Bear, say it is so.”

Speechless, Fannie turned to look at Dr. LaMotte, who explained. “He doesn’t want you to file a complaint with the army. He’s well-known here in Fort Benton, as are his sons. The boys are rabble-rousers, but harmless. They’re related to Mrs. Culbertson, a true lady of the Blackfeet Nation, whose husband is one of the most respected traders in this part of the country.” He paused before saying, “Lame Bear is a good man, Miss Rousseau. He’s too proud to beg with words, but that horse is his way of begging you not to make trouble for Owl, Eagle, and Bear.”

“That’s a fine animal,” Lamar murmured.

Lame Bear spoke again.

“The animal’s name is Smoke,” the doctor translated. “Lame Bear says he is sure-footed and gentle. A good horse for a woman.”

Fannie didn’t accept the hackamore Lame Bear tried to hand her, but she did step down off the porch and go to the pony, which snorted and danced away. Lame Bear spoke to the horse, and soon Fannie was running her hand over the horse’s cheek and, finally, down to his muzzle.

“I won’t make trouble for your sons,” she told him, “but I have no need for a horse.” When Lame Bear’s voice changed and he began to gesture and shake his head, Fannie didn’t need the doctor to translate. She glanced his way. “He clearly thinks I need a horse. What should I do?”

“Take the horse,” the doctor said. “It’s an insult to refuse a gift. I’ve been trying to talk Lame Bear into selling me one of his ponies for weeks now.” He grinned. “I’ll happily take him in trade for perpetual medical care as long as you’re in Fort Benton.”

Fannie spent the rest of the day, after her encounter with Lame Bear and his sons, ensconced in Honest Abe’s dining room reading through Aunt Edith’s letters and drinking endless cups of coffee. She wanted to write a letter for Samuel to have on hand in the event he actually found her, but she didn’t know what to say. How did one answer twenty years of letters? After several false starts, she came up with a letter that she hoped would lure Aunt Edith to Fort Benton before too much time passed.

Dear Aunt Edith,

If you are reading this, it is because Samuel Beck and Lamar Davis have found you. I’ve dreamed of meeting you, and I’ve come to Fort Benton in hopes that you will want to meet me.

In last year’s letter you wished for Mother to share your greetings with me. Sadly, she never did. She rests beside Papa now, beneath a weeping stone angel in the church burial ground. In my efforts to gather up some of her things and put them in Mr. Vandekamp’s safe, I discovered both your letters and the cabinet portrait you had taken in Paris. Mother may not have shared them with me, but she treasured them. I know this because she kept them all together in her dressing table. I don’t know why she never shared them with me, but I’ve read the letters so many times now that I almost have them memorized.

Is it too much to ask you to come to Fort Benton before the last steamboat of the season leaves in October? I should be on it, returning home to attend to what is left of Papa’s estate and to resume the life I left. But first . . . can we make amends for these twenty years?

Fondly and with hope, your niece,

Fannie LeClerc Rousseau

Samuel and Lamar met Fannie in the candlelit dining room at the hostelry before dawn. Much to Samuel’s amazement, Fannie had made coffee and breakfast.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “Abe gave me coffee and egg lessons just after sweeping lessons yesterday afternoon.” She forced a smile. “By the time I see you again, I may have graduated to piecrust and corn bread.” She held out the letter she’d written to her aunt. Samuel tucked it into his mother’s Bible, and then he and Lamar sat down to breakfast. He did his best to force the eggs down. They were surprisingly delicious, but he didn’t have much of an appetite that morning.

Their good-bye was . . . awkward. Just when he intended to take her in his arms, Fannie remembered that Abe had suggested she send a couple of loaves of bread with them on the trail. She skittered into the kitchen. When she returned with a towel knotted around the loaves, she tucked them into the carpetbag Samuel had left sitting on one of the tables, then handed him the bag. She hugged Lamar first, then stood on tiptoe and kissed Samuel on the cheek.

“I don’t want to cry,” she said, and physically propelled him out the door.

They were halfway to the levee when he turned back to see Fannie silhouetted in the hostelry doorway.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Lamar said.

Samuel took his hat off and raked his fingers through his hair. “That doesn’t make it easy.”

“Nothing much worth doing is easy, son,” Lamar said. “You’ll write her. She’ll write you.”

“I don’t understand why God would let me fall in love with a girl like her.”

Lamar chuckled. “I can’t imagine, either. A man’d be crazy to want a woman that beautiful and smart.”

“Citified . . . afraid of the wilderness . . . high-toned . . . downright stuffy at times.”

“Be careful, Sam,” Lamar chided. “It’s good to be holy. Holier-than-thou? Not so much.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“—you wish she wasn’t what she is. I know. Maybe she wishes you were different, too. Last I knew, only God changed hearts. So you be who you are and do what you need to do . . . and let her be who she is and do what she needs to do. And trust God with the rest.”