Dead of Winter (7 page)

Tom was thankful Chris had gotten the blond hair and Welsh blue eyes from his mother’s side. The freckle-faced boy was growing into a young man way too fast. In a couple years he would reach six feet like his father.

Chris gazed at his grandmother’s drawing, his eyes bright. “Do you wish you had grown up with your tribe?”

“Enough questions. Now, off to bed.”

“Okay…” Chris grumbled and headed toward his bedroom. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Straight to bed, I mean it.” Tom stared down at the drawing of his father and the Indian woman. Orson Hatcher’s voice echoed inside Tom’s head.
Your mother was the biggest mistake I ever made. You were the only good that came out of it.
Be thankful I brought you back to Quebec and raised you to be a civilized Christian.

19

Tom trekked across the square of snow-covered ground in the center of the village. During the day, the courtyard was bustling with Indian trappers bringing furs to exchange for guns, powder, supplies, and rum. At night, the fort was locked down, and only the families of the employees who worked for Pendleton Fur Trading Company were allowed to stay inside. Tonight, with the fierce snowstorm thrashing the log cabins, Tom was the only colonist who dared to venture outside. Holding his hat against his head, he forged through the whipping wind, feeling pinpricks on his exposed skin. Last he checked, the temperature had fallen to twenty below.

At the rear of the fort stood Noble House, Fort Pendleton’s center of commerce. The massive, four-story log structure, modeled after Fort Edmonton’s Rowand House, loomed like an English manor over the other single-story cabins. Each of Noble House’s four levels had eight windows spaced evenly apart. Some windows glowed with amber light. The fourth level, where Avery and Willow Pendleton lived, had a balcony and six dormer windows.

Tom climbed the dozen steps and knocked on the main door at the second level. A Cree woman in a servant’s dress answered. Her round, reddish-brown face scowled.

Tom tipped his hat. “Good evening. I’m here to see Master Pendleton.”

The squaw’s frown remained. “He in meeting.”

“Can you tell him Inspector Hatcher needs to speak with him?”

She let him in then wandered up the stairs without another word.

The second floor was a large fur-trading room with stalls for stacking pelts. They were empty now, for the furs were locked away in the cellar. A long table and chairs sat in the middle of the room. That was where the clerks sat and figured how much each pelt was worth.

Remaining at the doorway, Tom removed his black hat and glanced into an oval mirror on the wall. He wet his fingers and matted down a stubborn cowlick. The brown hair on the side of his head was starting to grow over his ears.

I’m past due for a cut.

Someone tapped on the front door. Tom opened it. Brother Andre stood on the porch, hugging his chest and shivering.

“Good, Andre, you’re right on time.”

The Jesuit missionary stepped inside, dusting snow off his overcoat. “This is our worst blizzard this year. It was a miracle I made it here.”

A woman’s voice said, “Well, my lucky stars, look who the storm blew in.”

Tom and Andre both turned, speechless, as Lady Willow Pendleton entered the foyer. She wore a red velvet gown that formed her narrow waist and torso into a voluptuous V. As usual, she was showing off plenty of cleavage. Most of the women of the fort colony wore drab cotton dresses and bonnets. Each time Tom had seen Lady Pendleton about the village, she wore a colorful dress, fur coat, and makeup. From afar she had been easy on the eyes. Up close, Tom felt like he was staring into the sun. Her sparkling blue eyes made him want to look anywhere but into them.

What was it about this woman that caused him to shift in his boots? She wasn’t just an ordinary woman. God had molded Lady Pendleton after an angel and blessed her with the life of high society. Even though Tom stood head and shoulders above her, he felt small in her presence. Ordinary. He could feel his cowlick rising again and wished he had run a comb through it.

“What brings you two to Noble House?” she asked.

Tom blinked. How long had he been staring? “Uh yes, Mrs. Pendleton, Brother Andre and I are here to meet with your husband. I assume you heard about the lost girl we found in the woods.”

“Ha! Avery doesn’t tell me anything.” Willow touched Tom’s wrist. “But I heard the whole story from the servants. The news has created quite a stir. She’s Pierre Lamothe’s half-breed daughter, Zoé, am I right?”

Tom nodded. “Do you know her parents?”

“Of course. Pierre and Wenonah. He’s French and she’s Ojibwa. They also have a teenage daughter, Margaux.”

Tom pulled out a small pocket journal and jotted down the information. “What can you tell us about Pierre?”

“He used to be the fort’s chief factor working for Hudson’s Bay. When my husband bought the forts, Pierre was moved to Manitou Outpost. Any news on his whereabouts?”

“We only came across the girl.” Tom returned the journal to his coat pocket. “But I’m assuming Pierre is looking for her. Andre and I need to speak with Master Pendleton as soon as possible.”

“Sorry, but all the officers are still in their meeting.” Willow touched Tom’s arm again, making him feel uncomfortable. “The rule here at Noble House is when the men are behind closed doors, they are not to be disturbed.” She offered them her arms. “We can wait in the ballroom.”

Andre immediately took one of her arms. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Pendleton.”

Tom hesitated, wondering if it was proper to escort the chief factor’s wife.

“Oh, don’t be bashful.” Willow slipped her arm around his. “It could be midnight before the officers adjourn.”

She led Tom and Andre into a large, open ballroom where native women were hanging greenery and red fabric over the windows and fireplace. Other servants trimmed a tall Christmas tree with hand-carved wooden ornaments.

“We’re a week away from the annual Christmas ball,” Willow said with enthusiasm. “We invite all the local Indians and trappers over to celebrate the holidays. All the chiefs come. It will be a marvelous occasion. You both will be coming, too, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss the party, Willow,” Andre said, his tone a bit too zealous. If Tom didn’t know better, he might have thought the Jesuit brother was smitten. Then again, what man wasn’t under Willow’s spell?

Tom merely nodded. As the fort’s appointed peacekeeper, he and the twelve soldiers under his command would be on duty the night of the Christmas party, making sure the heavy drinkers didn’t demolish the place. Upon Tom’s arrival, he had been informed about the annual Christmas ball. The party would be a mix of Ojibwa trappers and French Canadian
voyageurs
, English and Scottish fur traders, and countless native women. The men and women drank rum and danced all night. Acts of lust would surely follow, as many of the men chose their wives at the annual ball. The Indians were known to sell off their teenage daughters for the low price of a keg of rum or even something as small as a coat or a top hat they fancied. Just about every man Tom had met out here had an Indian wife. The British officers had married the daughters of the Ojibwa and Cree chiefs. The only exceptions were Master Avery Pendleton, who transported Willow from Montréal, and Doc Riley, who brought his wife, Myrna, all the way from Ireland.

One of the garlands fell from a window.

“Oh, dear,” Willow said. “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

Tom and Andre watched Lady Pendleton move about the grand room, showing the servants exactly how she wanted the decorations hung. Despite her petite frame, Willow commanded orders like a British Navy captain.

“I hope my wife is not holding you two hostage.” Avery Pendleton’s deep voice echoed off the wood floor. The chief factor was coming down the stairs with Lt. Hysmith and Walter Thain in tow. They entered the ballroom and gathered behind Master Pendleton. The wealthy tycoon from Montréal stood like a regal statue with his hands gripping the lapels of his tailored suit. At age forty-five, he had dark hair with silver at the temples. The company officers all looked a bit haggard, as if ready to turn in for the night. Lt. Hysmith seemed peeved that Tom wanted to talk with the chief factor.

Tom said, “Gentlemen, I know it’s late, but Brother Andre and I need to meet with you about the matter of Zoé Lamothe.”

20

As the tower guards were changing shifts, Chris Hatcher sneaked between two cabins. The wind had died down. Snow continued to fall but he could see, thanks to the light of a full moon. His shadow stretched long across the white dunes in front of him. The shin-deep snow thwarted his efforts to get out of sight quickly.

A sentry up in the watchtower whistled down. “’Ey, kid, what are you doing outside past curfew?”

Oh, bugger!
“I have to deliver a message for my father.” That sounded believable enough. “Be back before you know it.”

“Did Lieutenant Hysmith approve this outing?”

Chris sighed. He couldn’t go anywhere around here without getting approval from the fort’s head of security. Fort Pendleton was like living in a bloody prison, and Hysmith walked the grounds like he was some high and mighty warden. “He’s in a meeting with my father,” Chris said. “With all the commotion about Sakari going missing, it’s been topsy-turvy around here, eh mate?”

“You ain’t shittin’, kid.” The guard above the gate spat tobacco. “I’m not even supposed to be on duty tonight. Goddamned clerk should have known better than to venture off with his missus.”

“Ain’t life a bloody tosser,” Chris said, repeating an expression he’d heard among the soldiers.

“Sure enough, mate. Ey, better get back soon. If Hysmith sees you out, he’s gonna have your arse.” He laughed hoarsely.

Chris ran past a cemetery. Several crosses were made from canoe paddles. They were painted with French names. It seemed the
voyageurs
and laborers died in greater number than the British clerks and officers. Beside the graveyard was a shanty. From around back came a familiar sound of flute music. Tonight it carried a melancholy tone. Dogs barked as Chris rounded the shack’s corner.

The music stopped. Inside the dog pen, Anika Moonblood was seated on the ground among her huskies. She silenced her dogs with a command. “Who’s out there?”

“It’s just me.”

“Your father know you’re out this late?”

“He doesn’t mind. Can I come in? I brought you something.”

Anika opened the wire-mesh door. Chris sat beside her in their usual spot in the hay. Recognizing the familiar visitor, the dogs settled into their protective circle. A small fire pit with crackling birch wood kept them warm.

Anika was dressed in deerskin pants and a frayed coat with a fox-fur collar. Her long, black hair hung across her shoulders. Her green eyes looked especially sad tonight.

Chris offered her a bundle wrapped in rabbit fur. “I made you something.”

Anika loosened the binding and opened the pelt. Inside was a block of wood with smooth edges. She flipped it over and her eyes turned glossy. Chris beamed. He had whittled eight dog faces, one for each husky that she owned.

“Your whittling skills are improving.”

“Do you like it?”

Anika held it to her chest. “Very much.”

As they sat there, petting the dogs, Chris asked for a drink from her rum flask.

“Will your father mind?”

“Nah, he won’t care. I’m fourteen now.”

She handed him the horn flask. He gulped it down too fast and coughed. Anika smiled. She continued playing her flute. The high-pitched notes fluttered upward, like birds taking flight, a happier tune. But it wasn’t long before the low notes seemed to sink into the earth with an eternal sadness. Chris sat back against the wall feeling the melodies connecting him to Father Sky and Mother Earth. Anika’s flute music was the only thing in the past two years that eased his grief.

21

In Master Pendleton’s study, a fire crackled and popped in a stone hearth. Above the fireplace hung a drab gray painting of an upper class family—a bearded man in a dark suit, fur coat, and Wellington top hat standing beside a woman in a ball gown with a fox stole around her neck. The gentleman’s hands rested on the shoulders of young Avery Pendleton, who was holding a red violin. A shelf behind a large oak desk displayed a collection of violins and fiddles.

Master Pendleton lit his pipe as he stood at the study’s window, facing out at the falling snow. “This is a bloody awful mess.”

“It’s a matter we need to deal with quickly, sir. Zoé is near death.” Tom glanced around the long conference table at Brother Andre, Lieutenant Hysmith, and Walter Thain. They all seemed to wait for Master Pendleton’s response. He took his time, puffing on his pipe.

The study smelled of tobacco and leather, and, not surprisingly, fur. A menagerie of mounted animal heads adorned the walls: bucks, antelope, mountain goats, and wild boar. Tom sat next to a stuffed wolverine. The ferocious beast was the emblem on the company flag. There were also numerous pelts draped on the walls. On the floor was a tiger-skin rug that looked out of place with the rest of Pendleton’s collection.

Puffing his pipe, the chief factor sat down at the end of the table. “With Pierre Lamothe’s sick daughter in our possession, we clearly have a problem on our hands.”

“Doc thinks he can save her.” Tom accepted a tumbler of brandy from a red-skinned man wearing a butler’s uniform. “But Father Jacques’ letter suggests something may have happened to the other colonists.”

Hysmith said, “You discerned this from a brief address to a Montréal priest?”

“The letter suggests urgency,” said Brother Andre. “I’m afraid Father Jacques and the others are in need of our help.”

Tom added, “Why else would he send a young girl twenty miles to deliver the diary?”

Pendleton picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “What are you proposing, Inspector?”

“That Brother Andre and I and a few soldiers ride out to Manitou Outpost tomorrow. Explore the matter and inform Pierre we have Zoé.”