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You’re no better than that bastard who fathered you.
Alex cursed under his breath. He’d left his family, or what little there had ever been of one, behind six years ago, and for good reason. His old man was a drunkard who violently beat his mother. Even though he could never prove it, Alex knew without a doubt that his father had killed his mother in a drunken rage. Many times, Alex had walked away with bruised ribs and black eyes while trying to defend his mother. Back then, he’d been too young and scared to do anything other than absorb the blows that were meant for her.
He tried to push the painful memories of his childhood aside. He should have just killed the bastard when he had the chance. Instead, he’d left St. Charles to make a new life for himself in the wilderness. His mother had always begged him not to become like his father whenever Alex spoke of seeking revenge. After her death, he’d respected her wishes and simply walked away. He’d found his escape by joining the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.
Alex clenched his jaw and kicked at some dried clumps of dirt in the grass. He’d acted no differently with Evie than how his father had always treated his mother. He could have easily broken her arms. A shudder passed through him. Determined not to become like his bastard father, Alex had never touched a drop of alcohol, even though it was available in abundance among his comrades. Last evening had been proof that he was just like the old man after all when his temper got the better of him. Violence had been the old man’s answer to everything.
Alex scoffed. The life he led now was more violent than anything he could possibly encounter in St. Louis or St. Charles. In order to survive in the wilderness, he had learned how to kill, and he had learned it quite well. Be quicker and more brutal than your opponent. That was the law of survival in these untamed mountains. But to lose control so quickly with a defenseless woman? A woman he wanted to protect, and who stirred foreign feelings deep within him; one who planted thoughts of a home and family in his head. All the things he’d never considered before.
A loud plop followed by a splash in the water several feet from where he stood startled him from his thoughts. Alex wheeled around, his knife drawn. He relaxed instantly and sheathed his weapon. Sarah Osborne strode toward him with a determined look on her girlish face. She tossed another rock in his direction into the water. Was there something going on with Evie? She wouldn’t try and attack Aimee, would she?
“Walker,” Sarah called.
She’d grown since he’d last seen her more than a year ago. She had to be about the same age now as Evie had been when he left St. Charles to start his new life. Long-legged like a young deer, Sarah walked with the proud confidence of her father.
“Good thing you’re here, Walker.” Sarah stopped right in front of him. She glanced past him toward the creek.
“Is Evelyn causing problems?” Alex’s eyebrows furrowed.
Sarah stared at him for a moment, her own forehead wrinkling. “No, but Mama asked me to come find you.”
There was only one other reason Aimee would want to seek him out that he could think of. “The stitches are fine,” he said.
“It’s not about the stitches.” Sarah turned her head to the side and studied his face. “Do you know what this is, Walker?” She held out her hand, displaying a rectangular cake of soap.
Alex glanced at it, then back at the girl’s face. She behaved more like her mother all the time. She had the same determined look about her when she set out to do something. The fact that Sarah was up to something was quite apparent.
“’Course I know what it is.” He frowned.
Sarah thrust the soap at him. “Then use it,” she said firmly. She nodded with her chin toward the creek. “I suggest you take off your shirt and britches first, though.”
Alex raised his eyebrows.
“Well, you can’t bathe properly with your clothes on, now can you.” She expelled an exasperated breath of air. “I won’t look.”
“What the hell do I want to bathe for?” Alex argued.
Sarah held her hands to her hips. “For starters, you smell worse than a grizzly that’s been wallowing in bison dung,” she said. “I’m sure Miss Evelyn won’t tolerate your smell for long.”
“What concern is it to her what I smell like? It keeps the bears away. Your father taught me that.”
“Walker, you’ve been in the wilderness with those comrades of yours much too long. Papa wouldn’t dream of coming home smelling like you do. Mama would toss him out like yesterday’s dishwater. You can cover yourself in bear grease and beaver musk all you want when you’re out running your traps, but when you come home, you’d better look and smell presentable. Which,” she glared at him through narrowed eyes, “brings me to my next task.” She produced a straight edge and a pair of scissors from the pouch hanging from her shoulder.
