A Most Unsuitable Match (29 page)

Fannie had just opened her mouth to protest when Lame Bear headed past the clinic and toward the small shed out back. Smoke whickered a greeting and nosed Lame Bear’s arm, while the old man whispered something in the pony’s ear. Finally, fashioning a hackamore from the woven lead he’d used when he’d tried to give the pony to Fannie, Lame Bear led Smoke into the moonlight and gestured for her to climb aboard.

Fannie looked about in desperation. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . ride,” she said.

Lame Bear repeated the gesture. Fannie hesitated. This was insane.
But it might work.
Edmund was there . . . and if they met him coming back, she could just climb into his buggy and learn whatever news he had the way he had intended in the first place. He’d be surprised, perhaps angry, but Patrick would be a buffer. How dangerous could it be?

“You won’t let go, will you?”

Lame Bear grasped the hackamore firmly in hand. Fannie searched about for something to climb up on. Motioning to a stump by the woodpile, she went to it and, lifting her skirt, stepped up. Lame Bear walked Smoke up beside her, and she scrambled aboard, her heart pounding.
You’ll tell your grandchildren about this someday. They’ll think you’re lying.

“Go slow,” she said to Lame Bear. “And thank you.”

The Indian smiled. “You’re welcome.” He began walking west.

A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.

P
ROVERBS 16:9

Oh, dear God. What have I done?
When Fannie realized what Lame Bear had in mind, she panicked. They were still within sight of Fort Benton, and she very nearly slid off Smoke and ran back, but at that moment a wolf howled. And so she stayed on the pony, trembling with fear as Lame Bear loped ahead and ducked into one of the handful of tepees pitched in a clearing.

When Lame Bear emerged, he was accompanied by three other Indians . . . the same three who’d tried to rub the gold from her hair. Fannie took in a sharp breath. Smoke must have sensed her terror. Snorting, he danced sideways. Somehow, she managed not to fall off.

“Please, Lame Bear,” she croaked. “I—” She looked back toward Fort Benton.

Lame Bear held up a hand to silence her. He gestured to the others, and Fannie realized they were armed. With rifles. But they were also standing at a respectful distance. “They guard the way.” Taking Smoke’s hackamore in hand, he headed off again.

The wolf howled again. Another animal screamed . . .
screamed.
Fannie shivered, realizing once again how stupid she was. How could she have thought they would just walk across the landscape at night, undefended? She should have known. She didn’t think. Once again . . . she didn’t think. Thankfully, Lame Bear did. He’d promised that his sons would bring her gifts to apologize. They never had. Lame Bear had just seen to it that they made amends.

As the sky grew light, Lame Bear turned around and gestured to his sons, and together, the three turned around and headed off at a lope. Up ahead, in the midst of a stand of trees, stood a two-story log structure surrounded by half a dozen smaller buildings. Edmund’s buggy was parked next to a large corral, and his old horse stood inside it, looking off toward something in the distance.

Smoke whinnied and the horse turned its head and answered. When Smoke began to dance, Fannie grasped his mane, suddenly aware of just how sore her legs were. Lame Bear spoke to the horse and motioned for Fannie to put her hand on his shoulder and slide off. She obeyed, but lost her balance when her feet struck the earth and landed on her backside instead of her feet. A combination of exhaustion and raw nerves helped her laugh—much more loudly than she should have. Smoke snorted.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

Lame Bear shook his head and motioned for her to go. She was halfway to the house when she turned to look behind her. Astride the pony now, Lame Bear waited. Watched. Fannie raised a hand in thanks. Lame Bear returned the sign.

As Fannie picked her way toward the front door of the log house, smoke began to curl into the sky from one of the two stone chimneys. A rooster crowed. One of the outbuildings was a substantial chicken coop, its yard enclosed in wire. There was a large barn and what had to be a bunkhouse. Or . . . maybe . . . not exactly a bunkhouse in the traditional sense. Fannie’s stomach clenched.

Now that she was there, she wished she were anywhere else. This might have been the worst idea of all the horrible ideas she’d ever had. Maybe she should have just climbed into Edmund’s buggy and gone to sleep and waited for him to come out. She had no business— A door slammed and a man emerged from the back of the house and headed for the necessary. It wasn’t Edmund. Fannie’s heart thudded. She’d just about decided to hide in the buggy when movement at the window to the right of the front door caught her attention. She’d been seen. There was nothing to do now but follow through with her plan.

She glanced behind her one more time. Lame Bear was gone. Shivering and rubbing her arms, she wished for a shawl to wrap herself in . . . something to do with her hands, at least. She picked her way to the door. It opened just a crack and a husky voice said, “Who are you and what d’ya want?”

“I . . . I’m looking for Dr. Edmund LaMotte and his son, Patrick. They . . . he—Dr. Lamotte—sent a message telling me they were coming here. I’m Fannie. Fannie Rousseau.” She thought she heard someone stirring about inside. Voices? Someone swearing. “They aren’t exactly expecting me, but . . . could you please tell the doctor . . . or Patrick . . . that I’m here?”

After a long silence, a voice said, “Wait,” and the door closed again.

Fannie waited. And waited. She looked around at the place again. Was it—had it been—a ranch? It seemed so far from town. It didn’t make any sense, actually. It was too far from town to get any business, wasn’t it? Pondering the “business” brought new dread. She should never have come. Where was Edmund? What was she going to say?
Oh, God. Do you see me? I think I’ve made another mistake . . . and it’s too late to take it back. Help! Please help!

She had stepped away from the door and was staring at the horizon sending panicked prayers toward the heavens when the door behind her opened. She turned around and with a sharp intake of breath, looked at . . . Mother. Not Mother, of course, but still . . . the resemblance removed any possibility of Fannie’s saying a word. She stared, speechless.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother’s hair down. Had it been this pretty? Except for gray at the temples, the cascade of hair around this woman’s shoulders shone like spun gold. But this clearly wasn’t Mother. This woman was smoking. A cigar. Odd that in spite of the cigar and the somewhat annoyed expression, there was also something regal about her. She looked Fannie up . . . down . . . and then up again. And then she removed the cigar from between her pale lips and said, “I don’t think you’re really here to see Edmund. Or Patrick.”

The voice wasn’t anything like Mother’s. Husky. Almost masculine. In fact, Fannie realized, this was the same person who’d told her to wait at the door. She’d thought it was a man. Amazing. And, Fannie realized, probably alluring to the kind of men—
God in heaven. Help. Help me get through this. I’m so sorry I came.
How could she be sorry and fascinated, regretful and excited all at once? The emotions racing through her made Fannie tremble. She clutched at her skirt with both hands, then let go. Reached up to smooth her hair. Finally, clasped her hands before her. And all the while, the woman in the doorway watched.

Finally, after what felt like a millennium, the woman’s expression softened a bit as she said, “Hello, Fannie. I’m Edie.”

Edie didn’t invite Fannie in, but when she stepped back and retreated into the room behind her, she left the door open, and so Fannie assumed she was meant to follow. The moment she crossed the threshold, Edie said, “Edmund said you have a photograph of me.”

Edmund had known all along . . . and hadn’t said a word. He let Samuel and Lamar go on a wild goose chase . . . and he never said a word. Anger with Edmund LaMotte distracted Fannie for a moment. She only managed to nod in reply.

“It was a good likeness at the time,” Edie said. “I must admit I’m surprised Eleanor kept it.”

“I . . . I f-found it in her dressing table.”
Do I smell . . . roses?
She glanced around the room. A glass bowl on a small table brimmed with dried rose petals. Mother had one just like it.

Edie arched one eyebrow. “You found it, you say? In her dressing table?” She waggled a finger in the air. “Snooping is naughty, Fannie.”

Who did she think she was to waggle a finger? She had no idea. Fannie lifted her chin. “I wasn’t snooping. I was gathering up her jewelry for safekeeping. To take it to Mr. Vandekamp.” As she said the name, Fannie looked for a reaction. There was none. She flung out the words, “Mother’s dead.”

Something changed in Edie’s expression. Her voice softened. “I see. I’m sorry.” But then the icy façade returned. “And Louis? How is he managing without his beloved Eleanor?”

The edge of sarcasm in Edie’s voice made Fannie angry. She’d come thousands of miles to this? “Papa’s been gone for three years.” Was it a coincidence that, when Edie put her cigar out, she kept her hand on the table? Had news of Papa’s death finally broken through? Fannie realized that the aroma of the cigar reminded her of Papa.
Cigars and roses.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s your loss, too,” Fannie said. Where was the woman who’d written those letters? She hadn’t come all this way to be held at arm’s length. Again. “When I was gathering up the jewels, I found your letters in Mother’s dressing table.” She paused. “All twenty of them.”

Edie blinked. “If your mother wasn’t going to let you know I existed, I can’t imagine why she kept them.” She fingered her cigar. “There doesn’t seem to be a point to it, does there?”

“I think . . . I think it means she cared. About you.”

Edie pursed her lips. “A lovely sentiment. Do you find comfort in fairy tales, Fannie?” She paused. A realization seemed to dawn. “Ah . . . I see. You read
my
fairy tales. Kings. Princes. Gold.” She gestured around. “Well, here it is. What part of my ‘happily-ever-after’ would you like to share?”