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Days had dragged into weeks, and weeks into several months since Evie’s death. He’d tried to immerse himself in his work, felling trees and chopping wood for hours at a time that would see him through two winters. He left his cabin for days, sometimes even a week, to wander the streams and tributaries of the Snake River, setting his traps, and hunting game. A strong blizzard finally forced him back to his cabin. Nothing seemed important anymore. Nothing held any meaning. He fingered the cork on the whiskey pouch in his hand, and slowly pulled it open. The strong scent of alcohol filled his senses.
You are not like your father.
The softly spoken words of the woman he loved above everything else echoed in his mind. Only those faint words had prevented him from uncorking the pouch before now. Would he betray her love, her memory, if he took a drink?
The hinges on the cabin door creaked, followed quickly by an icy blast of air.
“He’s over there, Laurent. It’s good that you’re back.”
“Mon dieu! I thought I could warm up by a fire. It is no warmer in here than it is outside.”
“I’ll get one lit,” Yancey said. He shuffled toward the hearth. “He prefers to sit in the cold.”
“Well, we will have to change his attitude, no?”
Alex cursed under his breath. Why the hell was Laurent here? It couldn’t be spring already. He had lost track of time, for sure, but not that much time had passed for Laurent to have been to St. Louis and back. He held the tip of the whiskey pouch to his lips.
“Shouldn’t you be with your wife, Laurent?” he grumbled, and tilted his head back. The taste of whiskey on his tongue nauseated him.
Laurent reached for the bag and yanked it from Alex’s hands before he could even swallow. Spitting out the small amount in his mouth, Alex shot to his feet, and grabbed the Frenchman by the front of his shirt. Baring his teeth, he glared at his friend.
“You will not waste my good whiskey to drown your misery, mon amie,” Laurent said without flinching, and stared him in the eyes.
“Leave me the hell alone, Laurent, and mind your own business.” Alex released his hold on the Frenchman’s shirt and shoved him away. He ran a trembling hand through the coarse hairs on his face. He hadn’t shaved in weeks.
“Get the hell out of my cabin. Both of you,” he roared. Yancey dropped the flint in his hand, and stumbled to his feet. Wide-eyed, he stared from Alex to Laurent, uncertainty in his eyes.
Laurent advance on Alex, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip when Alex tried step to the side.
“I told you to leave me alone. Go and be with your wife, Laurent. Enjoy the time you have with her.”
“I will do that, mon amie,” Laurent said lightly. “But I think it is you who should be with your wife, also.”
Alex blinked. Pain jabbed his heart. Perhaps Laurent was right. Maybe he should go and be with Evie up on that mountain. “My wife is dead and buried, Laurent. I suppose I should go join her.”
Laurent’s bushy brows drew together. “Dead and buried? That is not what I was told.”
Alex stared blankly. Moments passed in silence.
“Evelyn is alive and well, I presume, in St. Charles, my friend.” Laurent finally released his arm.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Alex scoffed. Why would he tell such a lie?
“Henry Lewis is not dead. He came for her, and took her. I didn’t know why you would not fight for her. I thought perhaps I might find you dead. Young Yancey here has told me what has happened.”
Alex tried to absorb what he had just heard. Henry was alive? Evie went with him? Why would she do that? Who lay buried under those rocks at the base of the mountain?
“Who told you this?” Alex asked slowly, the air leaving his lungs. His chest tightened, and a tiny spark of hope ignited in his heart. A tingling sensation replaced the emptiness inside him all these weeks. Was there a chance Evie was alive? He stared at Laurent.
“There is a lot more to tell, my friend.” Laurent pulled out one of the chairs from under the table, and sat. He took a quick drink from the whiskey bag he still held in his hand. “I will tell you what I know, and then you must decide what you wish to do.”
Chapter 21
St. Charles, Missouri, Spring 1829
Alex guided his exhausted horse down the main street along the Missouri River. The gelding sloshed through puddles of mud from a recent spring rain, and carried his head low. Discreetly, Alex glanced through weary eyes at the hustle and bustle around him. Laurent’s equally tired horse prodded along next to his own. Boatmen moved along the docks, shouting orders and cursing. Some exchanged heated words with one another. Alex already longed for the solitude of the mountains.
