“I thought you liked it.” He was teasing her now, trying to change the mood, and she let him.
“Not for every meal. My jaws ache”—and she opened and shut them to make the point. “We’ll be able to forage, though? It’s not as though plants can turn tail and run.”
“All the bitterroot and lamb’s-quarter you can eat,” he promised, knowing full well how much she hated lamb’s-quarter. “And this time of year, odds are we’ll find berries, too. But better to be prepared.” He glanced up across the clearing, studying the tiny garden visible from where they were with a dubious expression, as though not expecting them to have much to share.
“Lamb’s-quarter and soaked beans,” she said, trying to work up some enthusiasm. “Maybe trout?” Fish were limited in how far they could flee, after all. Although her previous attempts at catching trout had been less than successful, so maybe she’d make sure they packed?—
“Oh.” In the shock of everything, she had nearly forgotten. “There was a packet for you.”
“What?”
She took an obscure pleasure in having surprised him. “At the waystation,” she said, reaching over to pull at her pack, dragging it within reach so she could dig the envelope out and hand it to him. “For you.”
Gabriel had taken the letter from Isobel, his fingers near numb with unhappy surprise, but there’d been no time to open it before several of the children ran up to them, wanting to see the horses, and he’d shoved it into his bag before putting the two youngest on the mule’s back and leading him around in a small circle, while Isobel showed the others how to offer Steady a handful of grass in their open palm until he lowered his head and let them pet him to their heart’s content. And then one of the women came to chase the children away, inviting them to join them for the afternoon meal.
Isobel’s brief telling of their story, as much as she knew of it, had made him curious as to where they came from or why they’d settled here, without kin or tribe, but he pushed his curiosity as far as possible without giving offense, and they merely smiled at him, closed-mouthed, and took another bite of bread, or a drink of water, then turned to someone else and spoke in another language, closing him out until he relented. Isobel was likely correct: wherever they had been was no longer an option for them.This was all they had left, and they would not let go of it, not even to admit that something was wrong.
Foolishness, he thought, but it wasn’t his call to make.
Gabriel had not exaggerated when he told Isobel he knew nothing of this region; the Territory was massive, and even he could not expect to ride all of it. But listening to them speak a dialect he did not recognize beyond a few shared trade-words was a reminder to pick up Isobel’s language lessons again. English was the preferred trade language, particularly to the east and north, but she couldn’t always count on that. This might not be the only time the Left Hand rode beyond the pale.
Their hosts were more forthcoming after the meal, however. He negotiated for supplies with the one called Four Wolves, who quickly separated him from a handful of half-coins left from what the devil had given him. Four Wolves drove a tight bargain, fully aware that they had no other options, but they both walked away reasonably satisfied.
With all that, it wasn’t until he was curled into his bedroll, the last flickers of a wood fire warming his backside and Isobel asleep nearby, the horses and mule sleeping with their heads lowered together, that he had time to think about the letter Isobel had given him. Or, Gabriel owned, that he couldn’t avoid thinking about it any longer. There were few people who would write to him, and even fewer who would be able to direct a letter so that it would reach him.
Part of him wanted to toss it onto the fire until it was nothing but crumbled ash.
Instead, he slowly reached for his pack, catching the envelope between two fingers and pulling it out. The moon wasn’t quite bright enough to read by, so he pulled the coalstone out as well, pressing it down until it began to glow. Without tinder, it wouldn’t spark a flame but gave off enough light that Gabriel’s eyes were able to make out the lettering on the paper.
Gabriel Kasun, Esquire.
The weight of the honorific pushed at him, reminding him of the obligations he still carried, that had nothing to do with the girl—the young woman—sleeping on the other side of the fire. The obligations that made him slit open the envelope and pull the enclosed letter out to read rather than set it aflame.
Gabe,