I thought of John. If I was never to see him again, I wanted to remember the love we shared and to honour him and his chosen calling. I would use part of the money to build a church that opened its doors to all. I had witnessed much lawlessness and had even killed a man myself. It had been an accident, but I needed a place of solace to come to terms with my deed. Others might yearn for a similar sanctuary to find comfort. The rest of the funds I would tuck away as insurance against some future need.
The next day, I took my horse out riding to see where might be appropriate spots for my new plans. As I rode back, it struck me that it was a day like this that I dreamt of during my childhood, when I had imagined Hari and I growing up and living together on a farm in the country. I pulled my horse up to stand for a few moments, drinking in the vista that lay before me. From the ridge, I could see the better part of my homestead and Harriet House, a large, two-storey log house with three gables, a hand-carved double front door, and a veranda wrapping around the entire structure.
I eased my horse straight down the slope and let her find her own way to the barn. My stable manager, Garret, was there to take the reins and help me to the ground. I blessed the fact that I could simply hand my horse off to him and then head straight into the house to wash up for dinner. He would see to it that the groom rubbed her down, fed her, and put her in her stall. Harriet had made it all possible, and I would never take it for granted.
Stamping the worst of the mud and dirt off my boots, I entered the house through the kitchen door. My housekeeper Cora’s head was bent over a steaming pot on the stove and snapped up the moment I entered.
“It’s good you’re here,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “There’s a minister here to see you—wouldn’t state his business. Probably come to preach gospel or some such and then he’ll be expecting a fine dinner in return.”
“The minister from town? Reverend MacDonald?”
“Nay, not from town, not Reverend MacDonald. Claims he come all the way from England. Sarah told him he’d find you here. He gave me his card, he did.” She fished in her apron pocket. “Reverend John Crossman.”
I stood perfectly still for a moment, unsure I had heard correctly. “John Crossman—from England, that John Crossman?” I felt warm and dizzy as I gripped the back of a kitchen chair with both hands. I looked up at Cora. Her frown had deepened.
“He’s in the drawing room. Should I be sending him on his way?”
“No, no, best set another place for dinner.”
I heard her slap a pan down on the woodstove as I left the kitchen. Pausing in the front hall just outside the drawing room, I took a deep breath. I could hardly accept the turn of events. After all this time, John was here. Would he be the same John, the man I had fallen in love with, or someone else? I caught sight of the framed photograph on the wall in front of me, the one taken with Sarah and Florence in Barkerville before the fire. What would John think of me and my altered appearance? I hesitated, afraid to see him—to let him see me. I stepped forward.
I had forgotten how big he was. He sat in a shadow, but he stood as I entered and his presence filled the room.
“Just as beautiful as I remembered,” he said. “It’s good to see you, Charlotte. It’s been a long time—much longer than I hoped.”
I moved haltingly towards him, aware of my limp, but he kept his eyes on mine. We looked into each other’s faces, discovering the ravages that our injuries had wrought. His eyes traced the outline of the burn mark on my cheek, but they didn’t linger there.
His elegant Roman nose had been flattened somewhat, but most noticeable was the loss of his mass of dark locks and his facial hair and a long scar that ran from the tip of one ear all the way to the crown of his head. But the absence of his hair and whiskers only served to make his cobalt-blue eyes all the more vivid and his smile more charming.
We stood awkwardly, silently looking at each other. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to greet him, so I took his hand formally and shook it.
“I sent a letter to your brother to ask how you were and wish you well. I hope you saw it.”
“I wasn’t able to see anything properly for months, but Andrew read it to me. It helped to know you asked after me, but then we got word of the fire and I worried about you. I asked Andrew to write and see how you made out, but the letter was returned unopened.”
“I didn’t get it,” I assured him. “The fire—there was no post office.”
“That’s what I figured, so as soon as I felt up to it, I came to check on you myself.” He beamed at me. “So let’s hear what you’ve been doing since I last saw you.”
We sat down, and he listened intently as I told of the recent harrowing events, expressing shock, concern, and eventually relief. When it was his turn to tell me of his injuries and recovery, he sidestepped my questions and spoke only of the opposition to his work.
“The group that opposes my views about the Natives’ rights are trying to ruin my reputation and shut me up. Their movement is fed by companies with a stake in the game. They want
