Page 7 of Wagon Train Dreams
“It sure would.” She sat up, wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees, and rested her chin there—the pose of someone deep in thought.
What would she be thinking? Did the idea of home remind her of things she’d left behind? A husband she’d buried? Or did plans for her future fill her with anticipation?
“Joe?” Her voice jarred him to attention. “Earlier I heard you mention your parents for the first time. Tell me about them.” Her laugh seemed cautious as she held up a hand. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“I don’t mind.” Would she still want to hear about them, or was she only making conversation?
Hazel tried to quell the questions pressing to her tongue. Why did she want to know more about this man? Where he’d come from? What kind of upbringing he’d had? So many times, she’d tried to imagine it. Had his life been nomadic? Did his parents love each other? Were they married?
But she always hit a blank wall with no door or window.
He’d said he didn’t mind, so chin on her knees again, she tipped her face toward him. “Please tell me about them.”
Petey found a stick and poked at the ground.
Joe watched, and then slowly, his dark eyes rose to Hazel’s. He began to speak, his words soft and low. An echo of the waterfall’s distant rumble.
“My father was a trader at Fort Qu’Appelle.”
Hazel had read how many traders took country wives. That must be what he meant. But she didn’t say anything.
“My mother was a Cree, raised by the missionaries when her family died.”
His monotone didn’t allow her to guess whether that was a good thing or not. He picked up a stick and helped Petey dig a hole.
“They were married in the church where she was raised.”
Ah. So, a legal marriage. Not that it mattered to Hazel, but surely, it mattered to Joe. She couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t sound judgmental or condemning, so she said nothing.
Joe’s hands grew idle. His gaze returned to the deer, who were so unconcerned about their presence.
He must’ve said all he meant to on the subject. She plucked a blade of grass from the ground and dragged it between her fingers. What had it been like to grow up with a Native mother and a white father? Did he get the best of both worlds? Or?—
“My father died when I was fourteen. That’s when I became a man.”
The way he said those words made Hazel shift to study his expression. The corners of his mouth drew in, hinting that becoming a man meant more than taking over the role for his mother’s sake. He wouldn’t have found that hurtful.
“I’m sorry.” Would he understand her words to be about his father? Would he hear that she also cared how things had shifted for him in an unwelcome way? Though she didn’t know the what or how of it.
“My mother went back to the missionaries to work for them. Another trader took my father’s place at the trading post.”
Wordless, she pressed her cheek against her knee, letting him take his time, hoping he’d say more.
“No more father. No more home. No more family.”
His quiet words indicated a fractured heart and a suffering young man. Fourteen was old enough to work, but that wasn’t what had hurt him. Something more had wounded him deeply.
“What you had cannot be taken from you. It remains in your heart. It is part of who you are.” Her words, so unplanned, surprised her. Heat stole up her neck. Not wanting him to notice it, she studied the graceful deer, seeing his movements superimposed on theirs.
Silence fell upon them except for Petey’s babble.
Was he offended? She couldn’t look at him. Didn’t want him thinking she was idly curious.
“My father was a good man.” His voice was always deep, his words always softly spoken, but she detected something different in his tone.
“I would not think otherwise. He’s raised a good man.” More heat rushed up her neck and stung her cheeks.
His dark gaze flicked her way and paused long enough to make more heat burn her cheeks. Then, focused across the river. “Why?—?”
