Heart of the Wilderness (5 page)

When she lifted her head again there was strength and determination in the little face. “They don’t have many birds in the city anyway,” she informed her grandfather. “I don’t think the birds like all those houses and all that noise and stuff.”

He wondered how
she
felt about all the houses and all the noise— and stuff. He felt his own chin tremble.

“I guess we should be going,” he said to her to break free from the pain he saw in her face. The pain that spilled over into his own heart.

She nodded and climbed to her feet, but much of the excitement of the morning seemed to have left her.

In the afternoon, she slept, her rag doll, Dollie, held closely to her chest. He worried about the sun shining down upon her and managed to make a shelter of sorts to shade her face. He also worried about the mosquitoes that buzzed endlessly about her, but there was very little he could do about them.

He still wondered if he had done the right thing. Should he be bringing her on this journey of sorrow? Could he hide his own pain enough to be a source of comfort for one lost, bewildered, heartbroken little girl?

Many times during the day of paddling, he felt a strong urge to turn the canoe around and beat a hasty retreat back to the city. He wondered if he could face the pain that lay ahead in seeing Mary’s grave. It was too much. Too much to add to the pain of the past. The pain of losing Mary’s mother. He had to get away. He had to brace himself against all the anguish he was feeling. He had to get back to the mountainous wilderness where he was sure he could find some measure of calm and serenity and begin to heal again.

But what of Kendra? He looked at the slight body, the pixie face, as she slept. She still clutched her worn rag doll that Mary had made for her. She had called him her trapper grandfather. She had also dubbed him with Mary’s pet name. They were linked together as surely as they would be if actual chains bound them. It brought him joy—and deep sorrow. What would he ever do about Kendra?

The two stood, heads bowed, hands clasped tightly. Before them were two mounds of scarred earth. At the head of each a small cross stood, carved from the nakedness of a forest tree. No words were on the crosses, just simple initials. On one was carved M.M., on the other, S.M.

The lump in his throat was so intense that he feared he would choke. He did not even dare let his gaze rest on the silent little figure beside him. She was so still—so quiet. Even in his own grief he was thankful that the child did not understand—could not possibly grasp the meaning of the two mounds.

“Which one is Mama, Papa Mac?” a small, trembling voice whispered.

His body gave a start. Perhaps she did understand. He swallowed, trying to gain control of his voice that he was sure wouldn’t work properly. “That one,” he managed to answer, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Can I hug her?”

“Hug her?” He did not understand.

She pulled her small hand free, moved from him, and with one quick motion fell beside the mound, reaching out with little arms to embrace the dark, bare earth. Tears came then. Not just the tears of the little girl, but the tears of her grandfather as he dropped down beside her and gathered her close. They cried together for the mother, the daughter, they had lost. They cried until they were finally able to whisper a goodbye and move on to the next silent grave to cry and whisper again.

When their tears were spent, he picked her up in his arms and cradled her close. She put her arms around his neck and held him tightly. At last he turned from the two graves and carried her down the hill the short distance to the small cabin that had been her home. They did not speak. He longed to say words of comfort. To ease her pain. But what could he say?

He did not know what the little girl might be thinking. She could not share her thoughts of loneliness and sorrow with him. But he knew what he was thinking.
They belonged together
—the two of them. There was nothing that could change that. He should have known it from the first time he looked into her large green eyes. She was his. He was hers. There was no way he could ever turn his back and walk away from her. Not if he found the best home in the city. No, she would never be alone again if he could help it. She was going with him—back to the wilderness. Back where she could hear the song of the birds. Away from the “many houses and noise—and stuff.” He would teach her to identify the bird songs. He had taught her mother Mary.

He held her tightly and wiped the final trace of tears from her cheeks.

“We need to have our supper and get a good sleep,” he said softly to her. “We have a big trip to make tomorrow. And then—after that, we have to get ready for an even bigger trip.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?” she asked him.

“Home,” he said simply. “Home.”

She looked at the little cabin they were about to enter.

“A new home,” he hurried to tell her. “A new home—with me.”

For one moment she looked at him and then her arms tightened about his neck. He couldn’t see her face, but he had the feeling that some of the pain had left the large green eyes.

“Are you sure you are doing the right thing?” Maggie asked in a hushed tone. Kendra lay sleeping on a makeshift bed nearby. The days since their return from the trip upriver had been busy. There were always supplies that were needed when he visited the city, but now that Kendra was going home with him, there were so many more things he would need.

They had gathered up her few possessions that had been left behind at the small cabin. The remainder of her clothing, her toys, and a few reminders of her mother and her father. It had made a cumbersome load for the little canoe on its return trip, but he would not have denied her anything that she had wished to take. She needed all that was available to keep her parents’ memories alive in her mind.

As the mound of articles from his daily shopping trips grew and grew, he knew his trip back home was going to be slow and costly. He would need to hire another boat or two. There was no way the supplies could be contained in his own small craft when he reached the end of the freight line.

But he did not worry about it. There were always trappers or Indians willing to make a little extra money by paddling freight upstream. He’d have no problem finding someone to share the load.

So he continued to pile up supplies, and Kendra continued to chat excitedly about the long trip she would soon be making with her grandfather and the fact that she would be living with him in his wilderness home.

He had feared that he might have to fight it out with Mrs. Weatherall. She did question him.

“Do you think that is a good place to raise a child?” she had asked soberly.

“No. No, likely not,” he answered honestly. “But her own folks gave her a good start in the wilderness. And I can’t abide the city— besides, my livelihood is out there.”

“And Kendra—?”

“I won’t leave her behind,” he said firmly. “She needs me.”

He didn’t say what he could have said quite honestly. That he also felt a need for the little girl. He knew he would never be able to stand being separated from her now.

“And her schooling?” asked the woman.

“I bought books,” he replied. “I can teach her for the first years— and then—then she can come out to one of them girls’ schools.”

The woman had not argued further. He was surprised at how easily he had won. “I’ll have her ready,” was all the matron had said.

And she had kept her word. When the last of the purchases had been added to the collection and arrangements made for them to board the big paddle boat, George McMannus went for his small granddaughter and found her bag packed, ready for the trip ahead.

“Goodbye, Kendra,” said Mrs. Weatherall, and she put her arms around the small girl and held her close. She did not say, “I will miss you.” She had far too many other small children who needed her love and attention. She did not say, “I hope you will be happy.” She seemed to know as she looked at the two of them together that the best way for Kendra to put her past behind and find a measure of security and happiness was with her grandfather. So she just said again, “Goodbye, Kendra. Whenever you return to the city, I would love to have you visit me.”

“I will,” promised the little girl, then solemnly added, “but we might not come for a long, long time. Papa Mac doesn’t come very often to the city.”

The good woman smiled. George McMannus held out his hand.

He knew that his eyes were about to betray him again.

“Words can’t say what I’m feeling,” he said. “But I do thank you for taking her in. Easing her pain. Hugging away some of the hurt.”

The woman blinked hurriedly, not wishing to show the depth of her feelings.

“That’s why we are here,” she said, her voice steady and her eyes direct. “I wish—I wish that all of our children had such a—such a happy ending to their days with us.”

He gave her hand a slight squeeze and turned to pick up Kendra’s little suitcase.

The long, long journey began with the paddle-boat trip up the broad river. Kendra’s excitement ran high. Her grandfather, more accustomed to the quiet of his wilderness, was chatted at and led about until he felt exhausted. Relieved when it was time for her to be bedded for the night, he tucked the blankets around her and the rag doll she clutched to herself.

After three days of river travel, they docked and hired a wagon to haul their belongings overland. This meant a four-day journey with frequent stops to rest the team, but the pauses only served to agitate the man. He was anxious to get back home. He had been away far too long.

At last they reached their own river and the group of small shelters that had been built close to the stream.

“Is this our city, Papa Mac?” Kendra asked him.

“We don’t have a city,” he answered. “This is an Indian settlement.”

She looked about with candid curiosity. Children ran back and forth on the riverbank, yelling at one another with strange-sounding words. Dogs barked and women peered shyly from behind draped doorways. In the shade a few men lolled and whittled, looking up now and then to study the wagons that had pulled up in front of the small outpost store.