But tracing the untraceable was second nature to a Mountie. As was every part of keeping one’s kit and schedule. Rise at dawn as the first bird begins its chatter. Lay out kit in perfunctory order, having dressed for the day. At the top of the palliasse* near the pillow were brushes for boots, hair, and horse. Gloves on either side of the blanket with armbands. All items of clothing neatly folded. In winter, if moccasins worn, ensure spurs are shiny and shown on long boots.
A Mountie’s dress was his identity; it was his emblem of pride. Jonathan was always far more efficient at keeping his kit bright and shiny and without the slightest crease. Under Grandfather’s watchful eye, they polished and ironed, folded and tucked. Jonathan was better at tucking sheets with military precision into all four corners of the bed. Jonathan was better at tying the lanyard’s exhibitive Turk’s knot. Jonathan was better… Jonathan was better…
Having hired detectives did not deter his desire to keep tracking. To keep moving. It was like any hunt: One needed patience and stamina. To always be encouraged by a paw print or a scent or the carcass of a dead animal. To understand that if one’s prey remained elusive, a trek in the woods must still not be wasted, and one should focus instead on a different target.
Tracking was in his blood.
But Toronto, now, Toronto was a new experience. In Fort Glenbow, the only police presence was the one in the lone cabin at the edge of the village, smoke drawn from the chimney and pulled up into the sky. Here the police guided traffic and rapped their sticks on the street. During dinner at the Empire he leafed through old editions of the Hog propped up in one hand while balancing his fork in the other. Toronto had a Morality Squad, of all things.
… often done in private with no formal trial or charge. A woman you know may be with you at work one day and gone the next. Any crime, perceived or realized, from drunkenness to petty theft, are all punished by the city’s undying concern about moral cleanliness. Where is the line drawn between penalizing women who intentionally break the law and watching for women in a vulnerable position, be they penniless or immigrant?
Benny had little experience with the members of the fairer sex. In the Yukon, he was most familiar with Indian women who were respected as a great asset to their tribes. They offered healing, medicine, and wisdom. They ensured that the homes were kept clean and smelled of herbs and flowers during ceremonial moments of the year. They raised children to be strong warriors. They were as brave as the men, often having to balance the responsibilities of their home sphere with the harsh nature of the elements.
What would they think of a woman like Merinda Herringford? At the thought, Benny blushed the color of the tunic he had laid out on his hotel bed with regimental precision.
After leaving Merinda’s flat, Benny had spent the better part of the day in the pulsing heat, taking the city in stride in search of Jonathan. An unnecessary waste of time. Did he honestly think Jonathan would appear when he turned a street corner? After hours of talking to the construction workers, the men repairing the trolley tracks, and the police, he’d returned to the Empire for two plates of stew and half a loaf of the homemade soda bread from the kitchen. It wasn’t a high-end establishment, but he enjoyed the luxury of having someone cook for him and not subsisting on the beans and coffee he made for himself, the frozen, salted meat that saw him through lean winters, and the hard crackers he purchased in large quantities from the mercantile at Glenbow.
Night in Toronto greeted him no more easily than it had the day before as he took an after-dinner stroll.? He tried to blend with the throng, sidling into their stream and falling in with their quick steps. He was easily caught in as they knew their destination and he wasn’t quite sure of his. Until he made out a silhouette under a streetlight: long cotton coat, trousers that stopped above the ankle, boots, and a walking stick. He followed the line up to springy bobbed curls peeking out from under a bowler hat.
Merinda Herringford.
She leaned on her stick, looking quite striking as the light haloed her from behind. But the movement of the crowd hurried him along before he could speak to her. People funneling out from a stopped trolley barred his movement in her direction. He stepped back before he could be rammed into a wall.
Once the throng had dissipated, he wandered a little farther south, making out Lake Ontario beyond the buildings sloping down to the harbor. A strange juxtaposition of the nature he loved with the booming commerce of Canada’s busiest street. Nearing Wellington, he thought he made out Merinda again—and who was that with her? He squinted in the dark, wondering if she was out with a beau. He shook his head. What was it to him if she had one beau or a dozen? Theirs was a professional relationship. More likely than not, she was out investigating with Jem.