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Authors: Janette Oke

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BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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His father no doubt picked up on it now when he said, “Is it something to do with the Force?”
The younger man heaved a deep sigh. How could he answer that? It wasn’t—yet in a way it was. He ran one finger over the length of the lip again and turned back to the fire. The husky at his father’s feet stirred restlessly, looking from one to the other as though waiting for some kind of exchange to take place.
“Sometimes I hate the Force,” Henry muttered and then stiffened, his face flushing guiltily as if he had just committed treason.
The older man did not respond. Just nodded toward the chair opposite him before the open fire. The dog lifted his head, a soft whine coming from somewhere deep in his throat.
With a heavy sigh, the young man lowered himself to the seat.
“I’m sorry,” he began slowly. “I didn’t mean to bring my ... my discontent with me. I have looked forward to this little break for so many months. I ... I have no wish to spoil it for—look, can we just sort of keep things, you know, between us? Mother has been looking forward to having this Christmas together. I don’t want her hearing about my problems.”
The older man smiled. “Your mother asked me to speak with you.”
Henry’s face showed his alarm. Then he reached up to tug on his mustache again. “It was that obvious?”
“I thought you hid it very well. Almost had me fooled. I assumed that you might just be tired. One gets that way after months of duty. But your mother—she’s not so easily fooled.”
The young man leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Now that it was out in the open, he felt relieved.
“It’s not the Force, Dad. I still ... still love being part of the RCMP. I can’t imagine being anything else.” He ran a hand through thick brown hair. “It’s just—well, some of the tasks we are called upon to do. It’s almost a mockery of our motto. ‘To protect and to serve.’ That’s a pretty tall order. To serve isn’t so difficult. But how does one—can one—protect, in complex circumstances far beyond our control?”
Wynn Delaney stirred. “I think your mother will be relieved. She thought—we both feared it might be rumors of war that had you concerned.”
Henry turned in surprise. “You really think we’ll be involved?”
Again Wynn shifted in his seat, his eyes turning to the flames in the fireplace as though seeking an answer in the blaze. “I’d like to think not, but things are looking worse all the time.”
He looked toward his son. “Have you been able to keep up with news of what’s going on with Hitler in Europe?”
Henry shook his head. “Only smatterings—now and then—and I never know how accurate those bits and pieces are.”
“Sometimes I wonder about their accuracy myself. But it is looking more and more like they might need our help over there.”
“And Mother thinks I may consider going?”
Wynn nodded.
There was silence for many minutes before Henry spoke again. “I don’t know ... at this point. If—and when—it happens, I’ll have to do some praying about it. I admit it would be hard to stay if I felt my country needed me over there. I’ll be praying,” he said again.
Wynn’s eyes stayed focused on his son. Henry was pretty sure his dad was thinking about how many other Canadian fathers and mothers were facing the heart-wrenching possibility of watching sons—and daughters—march off to fight. And how many would return home again at war’s end?
Wynn finally broke the silence. “But we’ve been side-tracked,” he said to Henry. “You were speaking of a difficult assignment with the Force.”
Henry stood again and moved to lean against the fireplace mantel. Just thinking of it brought deep, troubling memories. He could hardly bring himself to speak of it.
He looked over at his father, realizing he would have to talk about it. “Do you know what my last official duty was before I left my post?”
His father’s expression reflected deep empathy with the emotion in Henry’s voice.
“I had to take word to a woman that her husband had been killed. It’s not the first time. In fact, I guess the hardest part is that it opened up an old wound I had hoped was healed. It brought back all the horror of four years ago at my first posting. The first time I had to deal with a death. It was a robust-looking young Swedish logger. His company reported he didn’t come in with the crew at the end of the day. I found him—pinned under a fallen tree. Crushed.”
Henry stopped a moment and shook his head. “I thought I had finally worked it through. The faces didn’t haunt my days—my nights—like they once had, though I’ll admit I still thought about it. But this new incident—this time an older trapper—brought it all back. The nightmares. The haunting memories. Finding that young logger was bad enough. But taking word to his widow—that was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I remember it all like it was yesterday.”
The older man nodded in understanding.
The son began to pace again, the anguish in his heart nearly overwhelming him. He appreciated the fact that his father did not try to fill the silence with solicitous, empty words. This was something Henry would have to work through on his own.
“When I arrived, she ran out from the little cabin as soon as she heard my team approaching. She thought he was coming home. The minute she saw me—the uniform—her face went pale. She looked so ... so lost, so broken. I thought she would faint before she even heard my message.”
He whirled around to look intently at his father. “She was little more than a girl,” he said, his voice full of his anguish, one hand thumping gently but firmly into the palm of the other. “Just a girl. Way up there in some logger’s cabin. All by herself. She ...”
He made an effort to calm himself, but his chin was trembling.
“I ... I suggested to her that we go back inside. A cold wind was blowing and the temperature—she would have suffered frostbite in no time and would have never even realized it. She let me lead her by the arm. By then she was already staggering. I’m sure she knew what I was going to say. She just kept repeating his name over and over in a ... a little whimper.
“I tried to lead her to a chair, but she refused to sit down and ...”
For a long moment he could not go on. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire and the sympathetic whine of the dog.
He swallowed. “After I told her, she just sort of went to pieces. She clung to me and sobbed and sobbed. I have never heard such ... such absolute heartbreak in all my life. An animal caught in a trap doesn’t make such a pitiful sound. And she hung on. Just grabbed my jacket like she was drowning. I don’t know how long I held her, praying silently, trying somehow to ... to calm her ... to ease her terrible pain. Dad, I’ve never felt so ... so totally helpless in my entire life.”
He lowered himself to the chair again and stared into the fire, his jaw working as he fought to control his deep emotions.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it,” he finally went on. “I had just managed to calm her somewhat when ... when I heard a new cry. She had a baby. Not more than a few months old. I wanted to run. To get out of there. And at the same time I knew I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t. But I didn’t know what to do with them. How to help them.”
He stood to pace again. The dog rose with him, his eyes passing from one to the other as though wanting to do something about the heaviness in the room.
“But when the baby cried—she suddenly changed. She immediately was rational. All ... all mother. Like she knew she was needed. She passed that ... that little one to me while she went for dry diapers. I’d never held a baby before. And he just lay there in my arms and looked up at me. I felt like weeping. I had just come to bring the news that his daddy had been killed ... and he looked up at me and smiled. I felt like ... like some kind of traitor.”
He brushed at his lip again, agitation causing his usually broad shoulders to droop.
“She came back, and I asked her what I should do. What she would do. She told me to go over and get her neighbor, Mrs. McKinnon. I didn’t know if I should leave her alone, but I knew I couldn’t just stay. Nor could I leave. Someone had to be there with her. I looked at her and the way she was holding the baby and decided it was the only thing I could do. Go for Mrs. McKinnon and pray that the woman—whoever she was—would come.
“I didn’t know how long it might take. I made sure she had lots of wood for the fire, and I ...” He hesitated and flushed slightly. “I sneaked the man’s rifle out of the house. She had been so distraught I didn’t want to take any chances. Then I headed for the McKinnons’. The woman agreed to go on over—without question. I was going to escort her back, but he—her husband—said he’d take her over. He was a big, burly fella. I figured the two of them, being neighbors, would be in a better position to help the young woman than I was.”
Silence again.
The older man was the first to speak. “And that was the last you saw of her?”
Henry nodded.
“So you don’t know—?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Surely the McKinnons—somebody—would have seen to her.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“What about the body? The young logger?”
“The logging company was looking after the details. I was off the case.”
“They’d see that she was cared for. When you get back—if you are still worried, you can check—”
“I’m not going back. I got my new posting just before I left. They are sending me down south for a while.”
“South? How do you feel about that?”
He shrugged again, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’ll be a change.” He sighed deeply, then continued, “Although I understand they are still struggling to survive the drought. A number of the farmers have given up. Moved on—or out. Others are barely hanging on. It’s been tough.” Thoughtful silence followed. “It’ll be a change.”
Henry leaned over to throw another log on the fire. Bright sparks sprinkled over the grate, popping like miniature fire-crackers.
“But you can’t get her off your mind.” It was not a question.
Henry merely nodded his head. “I pray that she was properly cared for,” he said, “that the logging company did their duty. But that doesn’t take away my—I don’t even know how to put it into words, Dad—but I’ve never been so affected by grief—tragedy—before. Duty. Duty isn’t enough at a time like that. You see another person so ... so crushed, and there is nothing—
nothing
—you can do to ease the pain. To just walk into a life with such tragic news and then not do anything to help ...”
He found no more words.
The older man stood, lifting himself from the chair with his strong arms to give support to the leg that could no longer do its job alone. He stepped forward to join his son before the fire, and for several minutes they stood shoulder to shoulder watching the flames devour the rich pinewood.
“Son, have you considered the fact that you
did
help?”
The younger man’s head swung around. “I did nothing. Just ... just left her and—”
“No. No, you didn’t. You ... held her. That was what she needed ... at the time. Just someone to be there. To hold her while she wept. And you prayed.”
He turned slightly, and Henry stared into the familiar face nearly level with his own.
“And, Henry, if I’m not mistaken, you haven’t stopped praying. Have you?”
Henry almost lost control, and he brushed at tears. Perhaps it was unprofessional for a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to cry. But even a law officer was human.
Slowly he shook his head. “No,” he admitted honestly. “No ... I haven’t stopped praying.”
“When is Chrissie’s train due in?”
Elizabeth lifted her head to look at her son. She was much relieved that after the talk he’d had with his father, he seemed to be more relaxed, even though his dark eyes still carried shadows. She was anxious for the opportunity to talk with Wynn to discover what it was that had Henry so troubled. Now she answered evenly, her words deliberately kept light. “Tomorrow. Five-o’clock train.”
“She’s liking her job?”
BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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