Fort Liard	    Fort Liard

 by Rachel Smith Cobleigh

  

 Author's website: http://www.fanfiction.net/~rachelsmithcobleigh

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: Copyright © 2000-2003 Rachel Smith Cobleigh 
Excerpts from 'ghost horse of the Mounties', Sean O. Huigin, David R.
Godine, Publishers, Inc.; 1983 
Excerpts from Robert Service poetry 
Excerpts from 'Pride and Prejudice', Jane Austen 
Excerpts from "The Edge" © 1996 Seth Freeman, Due South/Alliance Atlantis
Communications Corp. 

 

  

 1 

 Inspector Meg Thatcher sat at her desk, absently rolling a pen between
her fingers, and looked out the window at the falling snow. She let out a
long sigh and watched as water dripped off the eaves and slid slowly down
the glass panes. The pen slipped from her fingers, dropping onto the
half-filled-out transfer form and rolling to the edge of the crisp sheet
of paper. 

 The Hearst field office was usually a place of steady bustle, but it was
late in the afternoon and evening was edging into the gray sky, bringing
with it a faintly depressing sense of the routine. The officers under her
supervision were out on various errands; one had gone home earlier that
day with a likely case of the flu, and now Meg was not feeling quite
herself, either. Her dark eyes were dull and the sides of her mouth
drooped slightly, and there were shadows on her face that expensive
cosmetics could not really hide. She took a deep breath and looked back
down at the paperwork lying before her. 

 It was the third transfer form that she had tried to finish in the last
month. The other two had been started, but she was afraid that Ottawa
would only see her as a discontented Inspector wanting a transfer out of
yet another position. She had sent them through the shredder and put them
out of mind for a few days. It was not a bad place out here, but she felt
an unmistakable sense of being shoved into an out-of-the-way closet under
a pile of old paperwork and left to collect dust. 

 She had once, when she was younger, thought that she was doing pretty
well for herself. She rose quickly in the ranks of the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police and achieved the rank of Inspector when she was only
thirty-one. This achievement was even more noteworthy because she was one
of a very few women who had become a commissioned officer at all. Her
thoughts soured very quickly though, when she remembered the circumstances
surrounding her promotion. It had been that same day when her career had
begun to slip, quietly, into the background, despite all outward
appearances. Even the promising opportunity in the Intelligence division
had been a demeaning experience, and when given the opportunity to return
to a diplomatic position, she had welcomed it. 

 Frustrated, she looked down at the blank space under the 'Reason for
transfer' section, and frowned. What could she say? Feeling dissatisfied
was not an adequate explanation; her men respected her, the paperwork was
turned in on time, the incident reports were typical for a bustling town.
She was efficient, competent, exact, capable, and organized. Only last
month her office had received a commendation for its effectiveness in the
district. The town's board was on good terms with the office; she ate
dinner at the Selectmen's houses, and on occasion, exchanged recipes with
their wives and received a bottle of wine at Christmas. She and her men
marched in the August parade every year. They carried the standards and
shot the salute, and then distributed the ice cream among the kids and the
high school band members when it was over. 

 She sat alone at her desk now, remembering warm summer parades and hordes
of shouting children, and drew herself back to the present with a thumb
tapping slowly on the paper. She stilled it and looked back down at the
sheet again. She abruptly growled, balled it up, and threw it in the trash
can beside her desk. She put a hand to her forehead. The pen had rolled to
a stop on the desk calendar, and she noticed the day that it lay on. There
was a small notation written on it: Caryn due. 

 She crossed her arms and looked down at her precise writing. It was a
reminder of Caryn Cooper, her freshman roommate. She occasionally
exchanged letters with Meg, usually at Christmas, but also sometimes at
odd and unpredictable times throughout the year. Meg had decided to leave
college after only a year and had gone to the RCMP Training Academy in
Regina. Caryn had remained at the school and had gotten a Master's degree
in forestry and tundra ecology. This suited her perfectly, since any small
excuse for her to spend her time living out in the woods talking to the
trees was worth pursuing. Caryn had moved often, her work taking her on
long trips across the provinces and territories, and she usually was the
one to initiate the letters, putting her current return address on the
envelope for Meg to write back to. No matter where Meg went, Caryn
addressed her letters to the RCMP headquarters in Ottawa, and they were
always routed to her current post. 

 It was a sporadic relationship, but the letters lacked nothing for it;
Caryn's exuberance drew Meg out, and they exchanged thoughts on countless
things. The writings followed Caryn across the expeditions, through a few
relationships, and into her marriage and family. She had met a land
surveyor several years ago and was living out in the southwest corner of
the Northwest Territory, on the edge of the MacKenzie Mountains near Fort
Liard, with him and their two young children. She had published two books
on tundra ecology and was in the process of working on her third when she
had written Meg to tell her that she was pregnant with another child. 

 Meg sighed and looked at the date again. It was a little more than a
month away, on a Friday. Caryn had known somehow; she had read between the
optimistic lines of Meg's last letter, and had seen that her friend needed
a change of pace. She had invited Meg to come and help her with the new
baby for a couple of weeks: to get away and take a vacation. Meg was
sorely tempted; they had not seen each other for more than ten years, and
she really did want to see her friend again, to laugh about the small
things and to forget about the wet snow that was falling down in a
depressing gray slush outside of her window. Her life felt gray in more
ways than just the weather. She knew that she had more than enough
vacation time coming to her. Here she was, nearing forty, not an
unattractive woman, outwardly successful in her career, sitting at a
solitary desk in a lonely office. 

 Perhaps she would write Caryn back. Yes. One month should suffice to
travel out to Fort Liard and prepare for the birth, and to assist for a
short while afterwards. It would do her good to live out in the open north
again for a while, and to live with a whole family. She had spent her
childhood on the edges of Lake Athabasca; it had not been a particularly
pleasant childhood, and in trying to avoid the solitude and silence of the
frozen landscape, she had run to the city. She had realized not long after
that it was just as lonely, if not more so, in the middle of a bustling
humanity that never seemed to care. She had avoided the knowledge by
concentrating on her responsibilities and her position with the police
force by putting her faith in the high ideals that she was sworn to
protect. Ideals that were later bitterly crushed, leaving behind a hard
cynicism and a desperately lonely existence. 

 Fort Liard would be a pleasant change of pace: the population was under
five hundred, and it was situated in a two-river valley, so far from the
politics of Ottawa and the bureaucracy of the RCMP to put them out of mind
completely. She took in a deep breath, feeling slightly better for having
reached a decision, and searched in her desk for a leave-of-absence
request form. There had to be one in here--ah. She lifted a sheet out of
one of the folders and quickly filled it out. She definitely felt better
now. 

 She got up from the desk and made her way over to the fax machine in the
copy room to send it before she had the chance to talk herself out of
going. The reply from the province office would come in by tomorrow, she
was certain. 

 "There," she said, watching the form slide through the machine. She felt
a definite spring in her step, one that had not been there a few minutes
ago. Sergeant Frollard could take over her duties temporarily, and there
were no pressing issues that needed to be addressed with any outstanding
case reports. She had served well in the past years and a few weeks off
were long overdue. The response would hopefully be in the office tomorrow
morning when she arrived. A whole month, no obligations, no
responsibilities, no RCMP... 

 That last thought was almost frightening. She had lived nearly her entire
adult life defined by her position and responsibility in the police force,
and thinking of leaving it behind made her wonder how much of herself was
just the role of an Inspector. She wanted to spend the month suspended
from her duties, free of them completely. Perhaps, in that time, she would
find more of herself than just what her position defined her to be;
something that she had left behind long ago. 

 She went back to her desk and filed the form in a drawer, then gathered
up her coat and hat from the coat-tree by the door. Taking one, last look
at the quiet office, she turned off the light and locked the door. 

 Constable Evans was posted by the front entrance on sentry duty. She made
her way down the slush-wet steps and stopped on the sidewalk. 

 "At ease, Constable." 

 Evans turned his head and looked at her. 

 "Yes, ma'am?" 

 "You're dismissed, Evans." 

 He paused for a moment and then relaxed. 

 "Go home to your family, Constable. It's a gray evening, and there's a
chance of sleet," Meg pulled the collar of her coat more snugly around her
neck. 

 "Thank you, ma'am." 

 "Please see that the steps are cleared by tomorrow morning." 

 "Understood." 

 Meg nodded to him, and he touched his hat. 

 "Have a good evening, ma'am." 

 Meg smiled back and walked to her car, where it was parked on the side of
the building. She spent the time on the drive home deciding what to write
in her letter back to Caryn.  

 "My wife wanted me to let you know that we have a visitor coming into
town in a few days, and she'll probably need an escort out to our place,"
David Cooper said to Fraser, pulling up a seat beside him in front of the
coal stove. He took a small sip of his tea. Fraser nodded without turning
to look at him. 

 "Thanks for the tea, Onsten," Dave said, aiming his comment at the man
behind the small store counter, who was diligently working on a week-old
crossword puzzle. 

 "Hmm..." Harold Onsten responded, in a distracted tone. "Anyone know a
three-letter word for a...a perennial Japanese plant, first letter is
'u'?" 

 "'Udo'," Fraser answered, a little distantly. "Who will be coming?" 

 "Oh, a college friend of hers, a woman named Meg. She said the woman
sounded a little blue, thinks a bit of open air will do her good, and
invited her to come help..." he paused and took another sip, "...with the
baby." 

 "Ah," Staff Sergeant Benton Fraser nodded, watching the orange flames
crackle behind the blackened panes of the coal stove. "How's Caryn doing?"


 "Oh, fine, fine--peanut butter!" Dave twisted around in the chair,
suddenly remembering the original purpose of his errand into town.
"Onsten, you have any more peanut butter?" 

 The storekeeper shook his head and didn't look up from the crossword
puzzle. "You cleaned me out last week, Cooper. The last five jars--thought
they'd tide her over a while yet. She finished 'em already?" 

 "Yeah," Dave sunk back in his chair, a little deflated. "You sure you
don't have any more?" 

 "Absolutely," Onsten answered. "Next shipment doesn't come for a week." 

 "Oh dear," Fraser said drily, letting the side of his mouth curve up into
a wry smile. 

 Dave sat back, shook his head, and smiled into the tea. "She'll just have
to make do with the last of the strawberry jelly, I suppose." 

 "How's the bitch, Fraser?" Marc Andulak asked from the across the room,
whittling a piece of wood. "She doing well?" 

 "Lira and the pups are in fine condition," Fraser answered, a hint of
pride in his voice. "She and Dief have done admirably, again. Six healthy
young, growing quickly." 

 "My Andy has been pleading with me for one of them, ever since he found
out they'd been born; Ell's not so excited about it, but I figure, if
you're willing to part with them, then I'm more than willing to give my
son his own sled dog, and a good one at that. It's time he learned to
train one," Andulak said, smiling. 

 "He is, of course, welcome to come by and see them at any time." 

 "I'll tell him that--thanks." 

 "It's no trouble." 

 "So who's the mystery lady?" Onsten asked, and then mumbled something and
filled in a few letters on the folded newspaper. 

 "I don't really know much about her; Caryn mentions her on occasion and
seems a little sad when she speaks about her. I gather that she's not an
extremely happy person." 

 "Know any details?" Andulak asked. 

 "She's not married--evidently had a bad experience once and left it at
that." 

 "Oh." 

 Silence hung in the air for a long moment. 

 "I think Caryn asked her to bring a case of peanut butter, in her last
letter," Dave said, rolling his eyes. 

 "She's that desperate, eh?" Andulak asked in a dry voice. 

 Dave nodded and took another long swallow. 

 "I believe I have half a jar left," Fraser murmured distractedly, still
watching the flames.  

 Meg lifted the last of the peanut butter jars into the small compartment
under the snowmobile seat and swung the seat cover closed. She looked up
at the sky, shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. The flight had
arrived at Fort Nelson at ten in the morning, and then processing her
baggage and the case of peanut butter had taken another half-hour. She had
spent some time finding a rental agency and making sure that she had
bought enough gas for the half-day ride. She had brought only a few
changes of clothing in the pack that was now strapped to the side of the
vehicle. It was more than one hundred and sixty kilometres to the Fort
Liard centre of town--or as close as an isolated outpost got to being the
centre of anything. Assuming that she followed the road markings and
compass heading without any problems, she would probably make it there by
mid-afternoon. 

 She checked over the rented snowmobile and the fastenings on the packs
strapped to the back. She pulled the helmet on and tightened the strap
under her chin. There was a storm predicted for that evening, but the
weather was variable. It could blow in a few hours early or not arrive
until the next morning. Either way, she needed to start moving. She swung
her leg over the seat and adjusted her position to the bars. She hadn't
driven a snowmobile in a while, but--there, she had remembered without a
problem, as the engine roared to life. 

 "You'll be fine, fine," the rental agent said, standing beside her. "Just
remember, it must be in the same condition when you return it, or you pay
for it." 

 "Of course," she replied, somewhat impatiently. "One month from today, it
will be back in your yard. Thank you kindly." She dropped the visor down
over her face. 

 "Anything for a Mountie," he grinned at her, half-leering. 

 Sighing inside the helmet, she let up on the throttle, and the snowmobile
shot away, quickly gaining speed over the hard-packed snow, following the
tracked highway into the wilderness. Taking a quick look at the compass,
she adjusted her speed slightly and flew across the landscape.	

 2 

 Gray storm clouds were rolling in ahead of her from the northwest, and
she frowned up at the darkening sky. She had been watching the clouds move
in for the past hour as they had spread slowly across the horizon. The
afternoon sun was sinking behind the clouds, leaving a darker cast over
the landscape. Hunching in further, she continued speeding across the
snow, watching for the next post on the edge of the Liard Highway. She had
just crossed over the border from British Columbia into the Northwest
Territory. If Caryn's letter was correct, she only had another forty
minutes to go until she reached the centre of town. In the coming storm
though, it would be unlikely that she could find her way out to the Cooper
home alone. She would have to see about finding a guide or a place to stay
overnight. Perhaps one of the Mounties stationed at the outpost would be
available to take her to the Coopers'. 

 She was on vacation, and she had no intention of making her official rank
known to those stationed at the Fort Liard outpost. She was planning on
enjoying a civilian status for the next four weeks, living out in the far
reaches of the county and perhaps reading a novel or two. She could go for
long walks out in the woods and spend some time relaxing. She and Caryn
would be preparing for the baby and taking care of the two older children.
Meg felt that she needed to spend some time with the children. She had
long since resigned herself to the knowledge that she would probably never
have a family of her own. She was a career officer, and the men that she
worked with were either her superiors or her subordinates. The other men
in her life were civilians who did not understand her commitment to her
duties. It left her feeling hollow, but the hollowness had become a dull
ache in her chest that she was accustomed to. 

 There had been a relationship here or there, but nothing that endured or
fulfilled. Most of the men that she had worked with thought her cold; she
had resigned herself to that, also. It was, in some ways, the easiest
attitude to deal with. She went home at night and sat alone, wrote a bit
here or there, did laundry, made dinner, and went jogging. There was a
lake out on the side of town; sometimes on the clear winter evenings she
played hockey, if there was a game on the ice. Occasionally, the Ottawa
headquarters called her out to travel as a foreign services officer,
usually as a diplomatic aide and a female representative of the RCMP,
there to present a pleasing image to whomever they were dealing with.
Knowing that rankled, but it let her spend time outside of her normal
duties, and so she held in her complaints and did as they asked. 

 The sky was growing rapidly darker and the visibility was decreasing
quickly. She pushed in the throttle and let more gas into the engine,
shooting away faster and racing against the approaching storm. It felt
empowering to be riding like this, with the engine rumbling underneath
her, the wind whipping past, alone as far as she could see in all
directions. She was leaving all of that frustration behind to fly across
this untouched landscape. She could be free out here! 

 A blast of fine snow blew against her coat, bringing her back to the
present, and she let more gas into the engine again and bent down further
against the gusts that were buffeting her. A tiny light winked far ahead
between the hills and the trees for a second before another gust of snow
blew past and blocked it from view. She turned slightly and headed for it.


 By the time that she reached the buildings, she could not see much more
than their outlines in the wind-blown snow whipping around her. The storm
had worsened considerably, leaving visibility lower than she liked for
travelling alone in unfamiliar territory. She whispered a short prayer
that it would let up long enough for her to get through, even while she
knew that the wish was futile. She slowed and pulled the snowmobile up to
what looked like a general store. A small lantern hung glowing in the
window. 

 She stood up, stretching out her tired muscles and fighting the ache that
came with moving after sitting crouched on the snowmobile for so long.
Leaving the engine idling, she stepped up onto the porch and walked to the
door. She had lifted a hand to knock when the door swung open suddenly and
a man gestured for her to come inside. 

 The bells tinkled as he closed the door behind her, waving for her to
come in further. The snow that had blown in settled around her feet. 

 "Come in, come in, warm yourself," he said, moving across the room
between the chairs that were scattered around the coal stove on the right.
She unsnapped the strap of the helmet and lifted it off, tucking it under
her arm as she shook her damp hair loose. She ran her fingers through her
dark brown hair and tucked a few strands behind her ear. She quickly took
in the layout of the room; she had correctly assumed that it was a store.
Stacks of various cans and packages, neatly priced, lay around the room on
shelves. The register sat off on the side, opposite the stove and a few
chairs. 

 "I'm Harold Onsten. Mrs. Cooper said you were coming. Meg, right?" he
asked. She nodded. "The storm came in early, but don't worry, we'll find a
place for you," he smiled reassuringly. Meg nodded again in response and
her heart sank. It was too bad to make it out there, then; she would have
to find a place here to stay overnight. She heard a baby crying a room
away. 

 "Thank you," she answered, returning his smile. "But I was hoping to make
it out to their home before nightfall." 

 He shook his head. "It's not likely the snow'll let up, ma'am." 

 "What about the motel? Can you give me directions to get there? It can't
be very far away." 

 "Unfortunately, there's a group of Americans staying there right
now--layover between Fort Nelson and Nahanni Butte because of the storm;
there might be a room left, but I'm not sure. I could call Al for you, but
I think they've got all the rooms." 

 "I see," Meg nodded and licked her lips. 

 "Aye then," he said, "Come with me. I'm sure my wife'll have a place." 

 "Oh, I don't want to impose on you!" she said. The baby was still crying.


 "Not a'tall," he replied, moving off towards the back of the storeroom.
He opened a door into the kitchen at the back of the store and called into
the room, "Mae, the friend the Coopers are expecting is here!" 

 "Come in!" a female voice answered. 

 Meg followed him into the back, and stopped in the doorway to their
kitchen. The woman standing at the stove turned to look at her and smiled.
The baby she held on her hip was crying and rubbing his face in her
shoulder. She adjusted him slightly and turned from the stove. 

 "Please t'meet you," Mae Onsten said, looking tired but determined to
help. Meg really did not want to bring more stress to the situation by
asking her to take care of a guest. 

 "And you," she smiled. "Look, I really don't want to impose--" 

 "It's not a problem," Mrs. Onsten answered, shifting the baby again. "I'm
sure we can find a place for you." 

 "They're still not back yet?" Mr. Onsten looked worried, and his wife
turned to look at him. She frowned, then turned to Meg for a moment. 

 "Joel and Jacob--our boys--they were out at their friends' house,
supposed to be home an hour ago," she said in explanation. She swallowed
and turned back to stirring the pot on the stove. Meg was not sure how to
respond. They were worried, and rightly so, since the storm was building
quickly. Why had their father not gone out after them? The storm was
beginning to howl outside. 

 Mr. Onsten peered out the window. "I think I see them--I'm not sure--" 

 A door suddenly slammed in the back of the house, across from the spot
where Meg stood. Mrs. Onsten jumped at the noise and then quickly set the
sniffling baby in the high-chair and went over to open the inner door to
the kitchen. Two young boys in snowsuits stumbled through the doorway in a
flurry of powdered snow, wet gloves and all, dropped their snowmobile
helmets, and ran into their mother's arms, talking and shouting,
breathless. 

 "Hey Ma, we rode all the way--" 

 "--on the back--" 

 "--he found us--" 

 "I was scared, Ma," the younger one said. After a moment, the older
nodded, and sniffed. 

 "Me, too...but when I saw him, I told Jake we'd be all right." 

 Mrs. Onsten disengaged herself from her sons and looked up at their
reddened faces. "Next time, when your father tells you to come home,
 you come home." 

 "Yes, Ma," the younger said. The older nodded vigorously. 

 "You're safe now, get your things off. Dinner's almost ready." She was
smiling with undisguised relief. 

 "Yes, Ma," they chorused, and shuffled back into the little hall between
the inner and outer doors, around a man who had come to stand in the
doorway. He bent down and picked up the two small helmets on the floor,
still holding his own under his other arm. Snow covered his coat and
boots. So this was the man that had found them. He was wearing an
RCMP-issue coat; good, she could ask him for assistance. Meg looked up at
him, to commend him--and froze. 

 Fraser. 

 Four years and a thousand thoughts, possible greetings, and nothing at
all, went through her mind in a single moment. When they had last parted,
she never thought she would see him again; perhaps that was why she had
allowed a final moment of weakness. He was the only person that she had
never been able to hide herself from, and that knowledge had undone her
more times than she wanted to admit. She mentally kicked herself for not
checking with the local outpost before coming. Mrs. Onsten had risen and
was pumping his gloved hand, thanking him profusely for going after her
two boys. 

 "Oh, thank you, thank you! I don't know how to thank you! You brought
them back in this awful weather! Would you care to stay for dinner?" 

 "Oh, no, I don't think I--" he started, but Mr. Onsten came up and
slapped him in the back, cutting off his words. 

 "You must stay, it's the least we can do to thank you!" The storeowner
insisted, grinning. 

 He looks good, Meg thought, taking in his tall frame and familiar
features with an appreciative eye. I look wilted. She noted that his black
hair had a wave to it when it was not in the neatly trimmed military cut
that she remembered, and she wanted to growl. At herself, mostly, for the
way that her mind slipped so easily back into her old habit. And in small
part at him, just for having the gall to be here, of all places. And at
Fate, for its ironic hand. Nine million, nine hundred and seventy
thousand, six hundred and ten square kilometres of snow and wilderness,
and he had to be here. 

 "No, really, Harry, I must be going," Fraser answered. "The storm will
keep me here if I don't lea--" he stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly
catching a ghost of a scent that gave his mind pause. He looked up and his
gaze caught across the room and fixed on a pair of deep brown eyes. There
was a long moment of tense silence, and then he nodded slightly,
respectfully. 

 "Inspector." 

 "Constable." At her word, one dark eyebrow rose for a second, and then he
straightened. 

 "Actually, sir, it's 'Staff Sergeant', now," he said mildly, taking in
her appearance. Her eyes looked weary. "Are you well?" He remembered
Dave's words from a few nights earlier, and wondered how the past several
years had treated her. 

 "Fine, thank you, and you?" She responded curtly. She inwardly cursed
herself for sounding so abrupt. He seemed to have sensed the distance in
her voice, and his took on something of the same tone. 

 "Good, sir." 

 Hearing his voice again, she had not realized how much she missed it. 

 "Well, it seems you two have already met," Mr. Onsten said into the
awkward pause. He looked at Meg. "You're a Mountie?" 

 "Yes," she answered. "We served together several years ago." She looked
across at Fraser, who was watching her intently. She found his sharp blue
eyes unnerving, and she looked back at the smiling storeowner. The baby
started crying again, and Mrs. Onsten went over and tied a bib around its
neck, then returned to the stove to stir the pot. 

 "You boys hurry and get your things off," she called back. "Dinner's
almost ready." 

 "Well, you'll be needing a place to stay," Onsten said, over the wailing
of the baby, who was now swinging his chubby fists in the air. Sounds of
the two boys scuffling in the hall could be heard from behind the Mountie.


 "You can stay with me," Fraser said quickly, his face a mask. Meg lifted
her chin slightly and nodded, taking whatever challenge lay in those
words. Was he married? Was there a family at home? Would she be out of
place anywhere she went here? She wished, yet again, that she could have
made it to Caryn's place that night. This was supposed to be a vacation,
and here she was, already tense again. 

 "Thank you, Sergeant," she answered, meeting his eyes. He did not look
away. He did not smile, either. 

 "We have room--" Mrs. Onsten turned from the stove. 

 "It won't be any trouble a'tall," Fraser answered, looking at Meg. "My
home, may, in fact, be better...space-wise...for a guest." Mrs. Onsten
looked somewhat relieved. 

 "Thank you kindly for your hospitality," Meg said to Mrs. Onsten. "I'm
glad your family is safe." 

 "Thanks to you," she answered, smiling at Fraser. 

 "I'm glad that I could be of help to you," Fraser said, and then turned
to Meg. "We'd best be going now, sir." 

 The storm's howling had grown louder, and Meg nodded. After a moment's
pause, Fraser nodded to the Onstens, turned on his heel, and left. 

 Meg stood for a second, frowned at the closing door, and then remembered
propriety and smiled politely at the two people standing in the kitchen
and the two little boys who just then scooted in through the door, closing
it behind them. Their eyes were large, staring at her. "Thank you kindly,"
she said. Mr. Onsten nodded. 

 "Just let yourself out through the front. He'll be coming 'round," he
said, smiling at her. 

 She nodded and walked out through the front of the darkened store,
pulling on and fastening her helmet. Fixing her collar against the winds
outside, she opened the door, and quickly pulled it closed behind herself.
Great gusts of snow blew across the porch, and drifts were piling up
against the snowmobile a few metres away. She heard the sound of Fraser's
engine over the howling of the storm and quickly moved out to her vehicle.


 She stood on the lee side for a moment, gave it enough gas to move it out
of the small embankment that had grown against it, and then swung her leg
over and sat down. Fraser came around the side of the building and slowed
for a moment, waiting for her to follow him into the swirling snowstorm.
She pulled out and fell into place a few metres behind him, and they moved
off through the winds. 

 She was dreading their arrival, angry at herself for not checking with
the outpost and registering her arrival with them. At least she would have
been prepared for such a situation. She hated this blind driving into a
snowstorm, going into yet another possibly tense home. She had come out
here to relax. She growled inside the helmet, and forced the bad attitude
back. She would behave with professional dignity, and retire early. Yes.
Perhaps take out one of the novels she had brought and read until she fell
asleep. 

 Settling herself with that decision, she hunched down further and
followed his dark form into the swirling snow.	

 3 

 They stopped in front of a small cabin about three kilometres away from
the general store. Fraser got off his vehicle and swung aside a wide door
in the side-shed, and she drove inside and cut the engine. He drove in
after her and then quickly got off his vehicle and pulled the door shut
behind them. The howling of the storm was muted somewhat. The garage was
attached to the cabin, and she could see light shining down through the
panes of glass on the door. She didn't see any people moving around
inside. 

 She removed her helmet and got off the snowmobile. Fraser was slipping
off his own helmet, and he set it on the seat. She shook off the clumps of
snow clinging to her clothing and began unclipping the straps on the
sleeping bag and the travel pack with her belongings. Fraser pulled a
cover over his snowmobile and came around to stand between her and the
door. 

 "Do you need any assistance?" he asked, leaning over to half-shout
against the whistling of the storm against the walls. She slung the pack
over her shoulder and hefted the sleeping bag in her other hand and then
turned to him. 

 "None required," she shouted back. He nodded, went up the few steps, and
pushed the door of the cabin open. She followed him inside, maneuvering
the sleeping bag around her legs to get through the door. The cabin was
larger than it looked on the outside. The room was dark; the only light
appeared to be coming from the fireplace. One main room, a door in the
back, another closed door on the side, and an open dark doorway on that
same wall, to their right. Fraser checked on the fire in the stove, stoked
it, closed the door, and then stood up. 

 "This way, sir," he said, walking off towards the dark doorway. She
followed, glancing around the main room. There was a small kitchen area on
the opposite side of the cabin, and a table with two chairs set up under
the window. A brown rug was spread halfway across the room, with a futon
set near the edge. It faced the fireplace and coal stove that were set in
the wall that she was walking past. On the other side of the fireplace was
a white wolf, lying on its side in the corner. A gasp escaped her lips
when she saw the tiny puppies curled up along the length of the animal's
stomach. This was not Diefenbaker. 

 She looked up at Fraser as he lit a lamp in the side room. He moved over
to the corner across from the doorway and pushed aside a neat stack of
books and a pile of blankets. 

 "You may leave your things here," he said, standing up. He cleared his
throat. "I want to apologize, sir, for my behaviour previously. Your
arrival was...unexpected." He held out his hands, and she gave him the
pack and the rolled sleeping bag. 

 "It's all right, Sergeant. The storekeeper seemed to think that I was
expected, though," Meg answered. 

 "You were. Well, not you, exactly, sir. David Cooper told me a woman
named 'Meg' was coming. I never thought--well, that may not be
entirely--no, I did not think it would be you, sir. He never mentioned
your surname." 

 "I understand. No offense taken. I was not exactly providing
a...warm...greeting, either," she said. 

 "Apology accepted," he answered, inclining his head towards her for a
moment. 

 "Nice place you have here," she said, looking around the bedroom. A bed
and a dresser stood opposite each other and a closet was set in the far
corner. She thought she could see the shoulder of his red serge poking out
from the clothing in the darkness. She swallowed back an unexpected
thickness in her throat at the flood of memories that hovered on the edge
of her mind. His next words jarred her from her thoughts and she turned
away from him. 

 "I must apologize for the state of my home, Inspector," he said, clearing
his throat. "I wasn't expecting a visitor." 

 "It's quite all right, Fraser," she answered, walking back out into the
main room. Everything seemed to be in its place; there didn't appear to be
anything to apologize for. She decided not to press the point. "It looks
very comfortable." 

 "Diefenbaker likes it, also," he said, moving past her. "May I take your
coat?" 

 "One moment." 

 As she unzipped her coat, she looked over at a second white wolf who was
coming around from the behind the couch, his ears standing up straight. If
she had not been so rational, she would have sworn the animal looked
genuinely surprised. He barked softly. 

 "Mm. Yes," Fraser answered. She pulled off her coat and he hung it on a
peg beside the door. She had the crazy impulse to ask him what the wolf
had said, but quashed it. Something about the two of them had always left
her feeling as if she was missing a conversation, and it seemed that they
had not changed. She knelt down as Dief came up to her and sniffed her
hand. There was something comforting in seeing the selectively-deaf
half-wolf again. 

 She still smelled good. She smelled tired, too, Dief decided. 

 She ran her fingers through the fur on his neck, and his tail beat the
air wildly. 

 "Hello," she said, realizing that she was smiling widely down at him.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" He woofed at her, and she laughed. He made
some snuffling noises and poked his nose at the pockets of her ski pants. 

 She had rarely given him food before, though there was once, when they
were in the consulate alone one evening... Nope, no food. Perhaps later,
Dief thought. 

 "No donuts," Fraser said from behind her, pulling off his boots. "It took
you an entire year to get back in touch with your Arctic-wolf side. You
don't think she's going to bring you treats and let you get soft again, do
you?" His voice was half-teasing, half-reprimanding. Meg smiled and
continued running her fingers through the wolf's soft fur. There was more
gray around his eyes and snout than she last remembered. 

 "He's getting older," she said quietly. Fraser finished pulling his ski
pants off and hung them in the corner. 

 "Yes," he said, and walked over to crouch down beside Meg for a moment.
He ran a hand underneath the half-wolf's neck and grinned. "But not
wiser." 

 Diefenbaker whined, then growled softly. *She still smells good*. 

 Fraser smiled at the wolf's observation and stood up. 

 "Are you hungry?" he asked her, walking around the couch and into the
small kitchen area. 

 "Yes. I haven't eaten since this morning." 

 Diefenbaker walked over to the female wolf lying in the corner, who had
raised her head to watch them. Meg went over to the coat-rack by the door
and started pulling off her boots. She looked at the puppies, watching
them scrambling over each other for an open spot along their mother's
stomach. 

 She set the boots off to the side and started tugging her ski pants down.


 "Who's the new mother?" 

 "Lira," Fraser answered, filling a large teapot with water. The light
over the kitchen sink was turned on. He walked over to a crock-pot that
was sitting on the counter and lifted off the cover. A cloud of steam rose
up, and Meg could smell the aroma of slow-cooked stew as it drifted across
the room. Her stomach rumbled as she finished pulling off the pants and
hung them on a peg. She ran a hand through her hair, damp from the sweat
inside the helmet. 

 "Where is the washroom?" 

 "That door," Fraser gestured towards the dark doorway on the other side
of the room. "Do you mind some moose hock stew?" 

 "Ah, no," Meg answered. She walked into the bedroom and rummaged through
her pack until she found a brush. "That'll be fine." 

 "It's mild, a rather tangy kind of taste. I think you'll find it quite
good." He finished filling the kettle with water from the tap and set it
to boil. 

 "I'm sure I will, Fraser, if you haven't lost any of your cooking skills
since I last ate your food," she answered, fondly remembering the omelette
that he had made for her so long ago. She had not eaten moose in years. It
brought back a memory of childhood that felt like more than a lifetime
ago. She made her way over to the bathroom and pushed back the door into
the small area, relieved to find that he had indoor plumbing. 

 "Be assured that I haven't lost any skills, Inspector." 

 "I'm on vacation, Fraser," Meg sighed. She searched for the light switch
and flipped on the light. "You aren't required to call me 'Inspector'.
Actually, I'd prefer if you didn't." 

 "Understood," he searched through the cupboards. "Ben." 

 "Ben," she repeated. She pulled out her ponytail and frowned at herself
in the mirror. "While I'm out here...'Meg' is fine." He had never used her
given name before, but it seemed silly to keep up formalities now, so many
years later and so far away from the city. She was not in the mood--she
brushed a stubborn tangle out--to, to... She stopped brushing for a moment
and looked at herself in the mirror. There were deep shadows under her
eyes and her hair was unkempt. She was tired. Steam wafted across from the
stew, and she looked over at Fraser. He was stirring the pot and watching
her. He looked back down at the stew. 

 "So...you said her name was Lira?" She finished brushing her hair into
submission, and wove the damp strands into a quick braid. 

 "Yes. This is her third litter. She and Diefenbaker have produced an
admirable progeny. Many of the area residents have trained the puppies as
sled dogs, with good results. Two of the first litter led the winning team
at the last county race. Diefenbaker was practically bursting with pride."
He filled a bowl with stew, nodded to himself. "Lira, of course, is never
happy when they leave, but knowing that her children are successful is
something of a comfort." 

 "How old are these?" 

 "About three weeks--" Fraser started, but Diefenbaker barked, from his
place next to Lira. Fraser corrected himself. "--all right, two weeks and
five days." He filled the second bowl, and carried them both over to the
table. "In any case, they have at least another month before I'll let any
of them go out to new owners." 

 Meg left her brush in the bedroom and went over to the puppies in the
corner. She slowly reached out a hand to Lira and let the animal sniff
her. Lira seemed to deem her acceptable and she let her rub her neck. A
puppy tumbled over its mother's legs and tried to climb on to
Diefenbaker's back. Another came over and sniffed the toe of Meg's sock
and then sneezed. She laughed and picked it up. It squirmed in her hands
and barked a tiny sound. 

 "Hey there," she said, rubbing its soft ears. It closed its eyes and
looked extremely content. 

 Fraser cleaned out his smaller tea chainik and spooned some fresh chai
grains into it. He poured in some of the heated water from the teapot,
enjoying the small ritual as the fragrant steam wafted out. He finished
with the preparations and set the teapot and the chainik in the center of
the table, along with two small bowl-shaped cups. 

 "Dinner is served, ma'am." 

 "Meg," she reminded him, putting the puppy down. "Is Lira also a
half-wolf?" 

 "Forgive me, Meg. Yes. It appears that there are a number of their kind
out in the woods, probably the offspring of a mixed mating somewhere down
the line." He strained and diluted the hot chai into the two cups on the
table. The stew bowls were steaming, and Meg's stomach rumbled again. She
came over to the table and sat down in the closest seat. Fraser finished
cleaning around the sink and sat down at the table opposite her. 

 "What are these?" Meg asked, looking at what appeared to be two small
bowls filled with dark tea. "Did you break your last two mugs or
something?" 

 Fraser laughed, then demonstrated picking up his tea-bowl and carefully
sipping it. 

 "They're piyalas. A friend brought them back from Central Asia for me
recently and since you're my first guest since acquiring them, I decided
to make some chai for dinner." 

 "Piyalas?" Meg picked up the small bowl and tried a sip. The tea was
strong; it definitely needed some sugar. 

 "So how did you find her?" She asked, spooning some sugar in and trying
it again. 

 "Lira?" 

 "Yes." 

 "She was caught in a trap; Diefenbaker found her and led me back to her.
She was only half-grown, abandoned, and weak. She was almost dead, in
fact. We found her and nursed her back to health. I'm afraid her paw will
never completely be its old self, but there's barely even a limp visible
now. So how have you been...Meg?" He stirred his chai and set the spoon
aside. 

 She looked up from a mouthful of stew--good stew, in fact--and raised her
eyebrows at the sudden change of topic. Fraser took a bite. Meg nodded,
and swallowed. 

 "Good, doing well. This is good." 

 "Mmm, thank you. It could probably use more seasoning, but--" 

 "No, really, this is just right. I hate over-spiced food. It tends to
make my nose itch." *It tends to make my nose itch?*
 What am I saying? Meg picked up her cup of tea and sighed inwardly. 

 "I know what you mean," he answered. "My grandmother only used salt in
her moose hock stew. On special occasions, she'd add a few bay leaves. She
kept them in a little glass jar that had a leather cap. I believe that my
grandfather had procured the bottle for her as an anniversary present in
the first years of their marriage. It was really quite impressive that she
managed to preserve them and their spice potency after so many years. I
suspect that it could be attributed to the airtight cap." A dry voice in
his head observed that he was babbling like a fool, and he told it to be
quiet. 

 "Most likely. So, ah...how have you been?" She took a large bite,
enjoying the warmth and wildness of the tastes. It brought back a few
long-buried memories, and she let them be. 

 "Good, good." His tone was light and he nodded. "Life has definitely
become...quieter." 

 "Yes, I imagine it is pretty quiet out here." 

 "Comparatively," he smiled. 

 Compared to Chicago, any place is quieter. Meg looked around the room and
asked in a mild voice, "So, no Mrs. Fraser, no little Frasers?" 

 "No," he answered, smiling, matching her tone. "Though there are those
who would have it otherwise. You?" 

 "No little dragons," she smiled, finding a piece of meat in the stew.
Fraser frowned slightly and shifted in his seat. 

 "You do realize that 'Dragon Lady' was actually a term of endearment for
you?" he asked, looking slightly apologetic. 

 "I gathered as much, after a while," she replied, licking her lips.
"Though I can't say I didn't deserve it. Have you heard from Detective
Vecchio since then?" She took another bite. 

 Fraser nodded. "We exchange letters, on occasion. Detective Kowalski also
sends me Christmas cards every year. Always a month late, without fail. I
suspect that he does not realize the time required for post here." 

 "How long does it take to reach you out here?" 

 "We have a satellite-transmission hook-up at the outpost for RCMP
communication, but most parcel mail can take up to a month, depending on
the weather conditions." 

 "I assume that you and your men coordinate the mail for your
jurisdiction." 

 "Yes; I usually make the rounds every two weeks, whenever a shipment
comes in. It is also a convenient time to visit those families in the
outlying areas." 

 "Don't they all have radios and telephones? You could just notify them." 

 "I know; that's how the previous Sergeant managed the mail. However, I
wanted to meet each of the residents, and I suppose that I've just gotten
into the habit, now." 

 Still doing more than is required of him. It was somehow comforting to
know that he had not changed in his attitude towards duty. "You're a fine
officer." 

 "Thank you," he smiled. "As are you. So, you've come out to help Caryn
with her family?" 

 "She asked me to visit, and I decided to take some time off. We were
roommates in college, and I haven't seen her for...too long." She took a
bite of the stew and chewed thoughtfully, watching him eat. "I must
apologize to you, Ben." He looked up and frowned, not understanding. "I
should have registered with your outpost and let you know that I was going
to be within your jurisdiction. I made the situation awkward by not
telling you...and your office." 

 He shook his head and finished a mouthful. "No--don't worry about it. You
wanted to take a vacation. Registering officially with us would require
you to provide us with any assistance, if we asked for it. I know the
regulations, Meg, it's all right. Enjoy your month off." He eyed her for a
moment. "You look as if you could use it." 

 "How did you know it was a month? Do I really look that bad?" She touched
her hair, then pulled her hand away quickly, angry at herself for letting
his comment affect her. So she was tired; she already knew that. What did
it matter to him? 

 But it always had; that genuine concern was what left her off-guard. 

 "It seemed the logical time span, since Mrs. Cooper isn't due until the
twenty-third, and you'll probably want to stay with her for at least a
week after the birth to help. And no, I apologize for implying that you
look unattractive. You look well--tired, perhaps, but still beau--good."
He half-frowned at himself, then smiled slightly. "I'm sorry for my
awkwardness. You look very nice." 

 "Thank you." Meg leaned back, starting to relax, and slipping back into
something she remembered fondly--and tempered with a good deal of
frustration. She smiled. "Well, I see that you still haven't completely
regained the use of your tongue, Sergeant Fraser." 

 "Your presence seems to render me uniquely unable to form a coherent
thought--oh dear." He looked down at his stew and pictured her semaphoring
moron at him from across the table. 

 "What's wrong?" She sat forward. 

 "I find it difficult to believe that I just said that," he replied, in a
mortified tone of voice, and looked up at her. He blinked. She started to
laugh, which only made him look more embarrassed. She had not meant to
make it worse. 

 "No, no--I'm sorry, Fraser," she said, putting out one hand to apologize.
"I'm not laughing at you. It's just...it's mutual." He blinked again, and
she realized what she had just blurted out. "Oh, oh dear. No, that's not
what I--arrgh." She closed her eyes, trying to recollect her thoughts. She
had thought this frustrating lack of coherence was an affliction of the
past. She had been doing so well. She shook her head and opened her eyes,
smiling ruefully. After a moment, he appeared to relax somewhat, and he
smiled and shook his head, too. She looked across at him. 

 "A toast," she said, lifting up the warm piyala in her hand. He tilted
his head slightly. 

 "To what?" 

 "Old friends," she smiled. He nodded. 

 "Very good. To old friends, then." He lifted his own piyala. 

 "To old friends," she echoed, and their cups bumped gently together. They
both took a long sip. 

 "Good tea," he said, observing that something intrinsic in her manner
seemed to have changed subtly; he was not sure how to interpret it.
Inspector Thatcher at ease had never been part of his experience. He
wondered what had happened to her in the past four years; the last word
that he had heard was that she was highly placed in the Canadian
Intelligence Division. Then, nothing. He supposed that espionage had its
drawbacks. 

 "What is it?" 

 "Kazakh chai." 

 "Ahh," she intoned, as if it all made sense now. She cupped the bowl in
her hands and leaned back again. "So, ah, Ben...how did you get to become
a Staff Sergeant? I was somehow under the impression that the RCMP
headquarters wasn't too fond of you. That's quite a promotion in just four
years." 

 "It's not any more astounding than reaching the rank of 'Inspector' at
thirty-one years of age, Inspector. Less so, actually." 

 "Hmm." Meg nodded into her cup, not wanting to take up that topic. "Yes,
well, tell me how it happened. With you, it's likely to be a long,
involved story about Inuit legends and a stack of beaver skins." 

 "Nothing of the kind. I think I would actually have preferred a stack of
beaver skins and an Inuit legend to the real events. It's almost
embarrassingly short." 

 "A short story? With you? Benton Fraser? Are you certain?" It felt good
to be talking to him again. It was nice to feel safe for once, knowing
where she stood with a person who truly respected her. Teasing him made
her feel confident--or perhaps it was just the comfortable feeling of a
warm, full stomach. She took another sip. 

 "Completely." He sat back, noticed his cup was empty, and refilled it.
"Would you like some more?" She set hers down, and he strained and diluted
her tea, then set the teapot back down carefully. 

 "Three weeks after I transferred out of the Chicago consulate, Ottawa
still had me attached to their field office and hadn't given me a new
assignment. There was an event being given for some of the government
dignitaries and a few foreign ambassadors. I was assigned as an internal
door guard." 

 "Handsome wall decoration, then," Meg murmured. 

 "Pardon?" Something passed briefly across his face. 

 "Nothing," she answered with a smile. She knew he had heard her just
fine. "Go on." 

 "It was simple, really. A criminal had infiltrated the catering company
that was serving the event and had poisoned a glass of wine. The man
walked past me carrying the contaminated wine on a serving tray and I saw
the suspicious discolouring of the Port-Isle 1959 liquid--the wine is of
the dry red Prince Edward variety, and the poison left a slightly darker
tint in the drink--and I naturally wondered at the colour difference." 

 "Naturally," she said. He eyed her for a second, then nodded. 

 "I noticed that the Commissioner had taken the wine-glass and so,
concerned for his safety, I broke guard and went over to inform him of the
danger." He rubbed his ear and sighed. "He unfortunately tried to drink
the wine, and I was forced to knock it from his hand." 

 Without much effort, Meg quickly imagined the Commissioner in an
expensive tuxedo, drenched in red wine. She tried, unsuccessfully, to
stifle a giggle. The highest-ranking member of the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police was a stuffed-shirt bureaucrat, who had had the indecency of making
a pass at her at a diplomatic function several years earlier. She pushed
the unwanted memory away and smiled at the mental image. 

 "And this action, I imagine, resulted in a rather irate Commissioner." 

 "Well, I'm sure he would have been irate had he been given the
opportunity. However, the criminal proceeded to pull out a gun on us and I
disarmed him before he could fire a shot at the Commissioner." 

 "Very nice," Meg nodded, taking a sip. 

 "Yes, well, once the incident was over and I had explained myself, the
Commissioner insisted upon promoting me. He raised my rank to--" 

 "--Staff Sergeant, ah." 

 "--and commended me for my actions." He paused and looked down at his
mug. There were nearly a dozen commendations in his record, almost all of
them hollow and obligatory. Meg asked the next question, left hanging in
the air. 

 "So how did you get stuck out here in out-of-the-way Fort Liard? I'd
think that a display of competence and a rare promotion like that would
get you headed back on the fast track toward success." 

 "Mmm," he tilted his head to the side, looked across at her. "It appears
that turning in one of our own will always remain a blemish on my career.
The Commissioner was not aware of my record at the time and when it was
brought to his attention, I was quickly promoted to sufficient rank to
take over command of a remote field office, so they could post me here."
He nodded and frowned. "I did what I thought was right. I can't change the
attitudes of others." 

 Meg looked at him for a long moment. 

 "You'd rather be out here." It was not a question. 

 "Yes," he smiled.  

 They talked on for a few more hours and then they cleared the table and
Fraser insisted that she take the bedroom. He would be fine on the couch.
After a short argument in which she knew that she would not be able to get
him to change his mind or his ideas of chivalry, she went into the
bathroom and got ready to turn in for the night. He prepared the bed and
brought a blanket out into the living room for himself. 

 "Are you sure you'll be comfortable?" 

 "Yes, I'm sure," he called back. "I once spent a night sleeping in a mine
shaft, with a compounded concussion. I'll be fine here." 

 She laughed softly and shook her head at herself in the mirror. Because
of their respective positions, they had never had the opportunity to
cultivate an off-duty relationship. What little there had been was
forbidden territory, and had forced them into maintaining distance for
sanity reasons. Perhaps she would have the opportunity during this month,
to learn more about him, outside of duty. Out here, she was not acting in
any official capacity, and was not responsible for his well-being. Maybe
there would be a chance or two to just talk about life and enjoy pleasant
company. He would probably be coming by the Coopers' homestead with mail,
if it came. 

 She walked out of the bathroom and carried her toiletries bag back with
her. He came out of the bedroom, having changed into a--oh. He still wore
those one-piece red long johns to bed. Unspeakable underwear indeed. A
long-ago image of him sleeping on the Chicago consulate floor sprang into
her mind, unexpectedly clear and most definitely unnerving. She pushed the
picture back, and smiled tightly, as she made her way into the bedroom.
She would not humiliate herself here; she was a grown woman with a sharp
mind and a well-defined sense of propriety. She was a Mountie. She was
perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But, oh!--those long johns
drove her crazy in the best sense of the word. She reacted outwardly with
an annoyed look at the dark bedroom, and he stepped aside to let her pass,
giving her a wide berth. 

 "I apologize for the lack of a door in this doorway. I just never got
around to putting one in," he said quickly, misinterpreting her expression
completely. Mercifully. 

 "I'm sure it will be fine, Ben, really." 

 She put her things in the travel bag, stood up, and went over to the bed.
He had spread her sleeping bag across the mattress and tucked a pillow
inside. She smiled, and started to climb into it. He stood as a shadow in
the doorway, and moved back a step when she turned around. 

 "Well then, good night, ma'am." 

 "Good night, Ben. Thanks for all of your hospitality." 

 "You're entirely welcome. It's my pleasure." He turned away, and she
crawled into the sleeping bag. She could hear him settling down outside in
front of the fireplace. 

 "Sleep well," she called out softly. 

 And after a long pause, "Pleasant dreams, Meg." 

 "Thanks," she whispered, and just realizing how tired she was, she let
the weight of exhaustion close her eyes. The pillow
smelled...like...hmmm...  

 She tried to move her feet, but there was something heavy weighing down
on them. Puzzled, she cracked opened her eyes and looked over the edge of
the sleeping bag. Dief was spread out across the end of the bed. She
laughed softly and yawned, and stretched out. Sunlight was streaming in
through the curtains hanging across the window. She turned her head to
look over at the morning light, and pulled her feet out from under the
wolf's stomach. Her eyes travelled slowly around the room, now that she
could see it all clearly. 

 Alongside the older brown uniform, the red serge dress uniform was
hanging in the closet, with its rank markings stitched on the shoulder.
There was a gold inverted-V patch with a black border that had not been
there when she had last seen the tunic. She looked at it for a long
moment, and then turned away. There was no use in staring at it now. She
sat up with another yawn and poked her toe at Dief through the sleeping
bag. 

 "C'mon, sleepyhead. Aren't you animals supposed to be up before us
humans?" she asked the sleeping wolf softly. He opened his eyes and swung
his head around to look at her. She was not entirely sure that he had been
sleeping at all; now he just laid and watched her, and she stared back at
him. After a moment, she shook her head. What silliness. He was just a
dog. Wolf, she corrected herself. 

 He leapt off the bed as she pulled her legs out of the sleeping bag and
swung them down to the floor. The boards were cool, but not freezing, as
she had expected them to be. Even the air was only slightly chilly, which
must mean that Fraser had already gotten up and had stoked the fire a
while ago. 

 She padded out into the main room, and saw the teakettle on a low flame.
A short while ago, then. She got her toiletries bag and went over to the
bathroom to clean up. There was a shower, and it would feel so good to
take one... He would not mind. She went back to the bedroom and got her
towel and a change of clothes. She could be in and out in only a few
minutes, probably could be out before he returned. She went back into the
bathroom and undressed quickly and turned on the water. After a minute of
waiting for it to warm up until she was satisfied, she stepped in. 

 It did feel good. She tried not to concentrate on where she was, and just
enjoyed the heat on her back.  

 When he came back in from clearing out a space in front of the shed door,
he removed his hat and stopped, holding the Stetson in his hand, and
frowned. That was odd, the shower was--oh, it was just the Inspector--Meg.
When the mental image of that thought registered, his mind came to a
disconcertingly grinding halt. 

 Diefenbaker walked out of the bedroom and saw his friend standing as
still as a statue, one hand held out, half-way to hanging his hat on the
peg by the door. His eyes were fixed on the closed door across the room.
Ahh. Dief whined, and made a snide remark. 

 Fraser blinked and frowned down at the wolf. He remembered the Stetson,
and hung it on the peg. "Oh, you're one to talk. You're a regular Rudolph
Valentino. How many tails have you dropped everything for to give chase?" 

 Dief woofed a denial and walked over to his water bowl. Lira barked
softly and Fraser laughed. Dief looked up from his drink, then put on an
air of indifference and went back to lapping it up.  

 Meg stepped out of the bathroom, carrying all of her things with her.
Across the room, Fraser was dropping chopped onions into the omelette
sizzling in the frying pan. He looked up at her and smiled. 

 "Good morning. I hope you still like omelettes." 

 "Good morning. Yes, thank you." 

 Only the best for you. He dropped in a few pieces of green pepper, and
hummed. She walked into the bedroom. He turned slightly. "Was the water
warm enough?" 

 "Oh, yes, fine," she called back. She rubbed her hair with a towel and
then straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser.
"Do you have any electrical plugs?" 

 "Yes--there's a generator over here in the corner, with a power strip
attached. Hair dryer?" 

 "Yes." She took her small dryer out of the bag and went out into the main
room. "Where?" 

 He pointed across at a power strip lying on the floor near the back door.
"Turn the generator on before you plug the hair dryer in. It sends a
startup surge." 

 "Ah, thanks." She found the switch, and it rumbled to life. She had
become accustomed to nice, quiet sockets in the walls. She plugged in the
dryer and began to brush her hair. Fraser dropped some more diced pieces
into the omelette. After a few minutes of both of them doing their chosen
tasks in companionable silence, she finished to her satisfaction and
straightened back up, unplugging the dryer. Fraser had made a second
omelette and was now cooking bacon. The smells were making her hungry, so
she quickly braided her hair and put her things in the bedroom. 

 "Will you take me out to the Coopers' home?" she asked as she came out
into the main room. 

 "After breakfast," he replied. "We'll need to stop at three other homes,
first. I need to drop off a few things." 

 "It smells good,"she walked over to the kitchen area. "Do you want any
help?" 

 "If you could set the table..." he deftly flipped the bacon onto a plate.


 She found two mugs, and went through the cupboards looking for the rest
of the settings. He finished the bacon and poured the grease into a
container and then put the skillet in the sink. She poured the hot tea
into the mugs and set the teapot on its potholder in the centre of the
table. They finished cleaning up around the stove and sat down to eat. 

 "What are your plans for the month? If you don't mind my asking," he
said, settling down. 

 "Rest and relaxation." 

 "Ah," he nodded, and took a bite of his omelette. 

 "And helping Caryn, of course." She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed.
"Reading. Long walks. Babysitting." Her eyes drifted into the middle
distance. "Getting up every morning just to go outside and breathe in
clean, cold air." She drew her attention back to the breakfast, and cut a
piece from her omelette. "What do you have for responsibilities around
here?" 

 "Heh," Fraser said, and set his mug down. He launched into a rote speech.


 "Responsibilities here generally include making monthly reports,
assisting the residents with any emergencies or situations, maintaining
law and order and mediating in disputes, procuring supplies, assisting
traders in their journey through the area, delivering mail, transporting
assistance for the doctor--" he paused, took in a breath, then continued,
"--substituting for the local schoolteachers when they are sick, helping
to build new homesteads or add on to existing ones, hunting threatening
wildlife, communicating with the local Inuit population, transmitting
news, repairing broken equipment, attending social functions, and--" he
paused to take in another breath, "--apprehending escaped criminals." 

 Thatcher sat, momentarily stunned by the rush of words. She blinked, and
nodded. 

 "I see." 

 "Only about a quarter of those things are officially in the job
description." He forked a piece of his omelette. "The rest is just
expected of me by those who reside under my jurisdiction." He continued
eating. 

 "And you let them?" She was slightly angry; people took advantage of him.
He was too kind. He finished what he was eating, and shrugged as he tried
to explain. 

 "I don't mind it. I'm not doing all of those things all at once. I've
just done each of them since I've come here, on occasion." 

 "When do you have time to relax?" 

 "When none of those activities are requiring my attention." 

 Meg sighed. "Of course, Fraser. You miss the point of my question." 

 "How so, sir?" He lapsed back into protocol unconsciously and then
grimaced. 

 "How many men do you have under you?" 

 "Three men, one woman. Constables Lecrue, St. Marie, Bohner, and Willis.
And Sergeant Vern Stoughton, the former commanding officer. Well, he's
officially retired, but he takes his duty very seriously." 

 "You have a retired officer still on active duty in your jurisdiction?" 

 "He is knowledgeable about the area and its residents, and prefers to
remain active rather than succumb to the 'atrophy of old age,' as he
refers to it. Also, many of the residents wanted him to remain in charge,
and this seemed the most diplomatic way to resolve the situation." 

 "Don't you ever feel like you're being taken advantage of, Fraser?" 

 "Ben." 

 "What?" 

 "I thought we had agreed--never mind." He frowned. "I do my duty." 

 "That's not what I was asking...Ben," she sighed again. "There is no
question of that. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made an issue of it." 

 They were both silent for a moment, and then his expression softened, and
he said the unexpected. 

 "Yes. I do." 

 She looked up in surprise. He continued. 

 "Sometimes...I am frustrated by what they expect of me. I suppose, part
of it, it's my fault. I volunteered to help and they assume that I'll
never mind when they ask me again." He scratched his eyebrow, and looked
back up at her. "I don't really have other concerns to deal with; I live
alone. There's Dief, and Lira, but they don't usually have a problem with
my being gone." 

 She nodded, not sure how to respond, if at all. The omelette was
excellent. Ah, a change of subject, Meg thought. 

 "This is very good, Fras-er, Ben." That came out sounding odd. She
cleared her throat, and looked up at him. "Do you raise your own hens?" 

 "As a matter of fact, yes," he answered, after a moment. "Andalusians. My
grandfather, also, bred fowl. I seem to have inherited the hobby. I came
into possession of a cock and two hens, Dief took a liking to them, and I
built a henhouse behind the shed." 

 "A wolf took a liking to three chickens?" 

 "Well, they really are very empathic creatures, you know. Commonly
underestimated." 

 "The wolves or the chickens?" 

 "Both." He was studiously avoiding her eyes, taking a great interest in
the remainder of his omelette. She had been one of a very few people who
had not taken all that he said at face value, and he doubted that she had
changed in that respect. He was afraid that if he looked up, he would
descend into a very undignified fit of laughter at the sight of her
no-nonsense gaze. 

 Meg took a bite of her omelette and eyed him for a moment. When she
finished chewing, she sipped her tea, and still looking at him intently,
leaned forward. 

 "May I ask you a question?" 

 "Certainly," he said, and looked up, to find her face only inches from
his. He had to force himself not to flinch back, and then he had to keep
himself from leaning closer. Her large brown eyes pinned him to his seat.
"Yes?" It came out less certain than he would have liked. 

 "Are you for real?" 

 He stared back at her for a long moment, considering several glib retorts
and deflections. She seemed to know what he was thinking, because her
brown eyes flashed a warning. He raised one eyebrow, and decided to try
for tact. 

 "Why do you ask?" 

 "Empathy, Ben. Chickens." 

 "Ah." 

 She continued to try to search those slate blue eyes for
something...what? They were not blank, and they were not deceptive. They
were simply impenetrable. She was a trained observer, able to read a
person's face, notice their nervousness, see their tension; but his
betrayed nothing. She was not sure what unnerved her more, the moments
when she did know what he was thinking, or the moments when she had no
idea. 

 Fraser reflected her searching gaze, and managed to distract himself
fairly well by studying the way the morning light reflected off of her
irises. Beautiful, clear pupils, contracting just so when the light
touched them. He thought he might like to admire them for a while... 

 "Well, son, aren't you going to kiss her? This is torture!" 

 Fraser dropped his head and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. 

 "You know, I would appreciate it if you would just go away." 

 "What?" Meg managed to squeak out. 

 "Oh, oh no--" Fraser looked up at her, eyes wide. "No, I didn't mean
you." 

 She looked around. 

 "Who did you mean? There's no one else around." 

 "You know, son, someday you're going to learn the concept of not
answering dead people when there are live ones within earshot. It'll save
you a lot of trouble. And embarrassment." His father stood behind Meg,
smiling placidly down at him. 

 Fraser looked up at him, then looked back at Meg. 

 "Would you excuse me for a moment?" he asked, and stood up from the
table. 

 "Y-Yes--" Meg turned, bewildered at his sudden change of mood. 

 Fraser stalked across the room, pulled open the door, went out, and
closed the door behind himself. Meg stared at the closed door, and
blinked, twice.  

 4 

 "Do you mind, Dad?" Fraser pulled the door to the shed closed as quickly
as he could, just short of slamming it. 

 "Not a'tall son, not a'tall. I'm dead, you know. Temperature doesn't
affect me." 

 "That--that was completely unacceptable." Fraser paced past the spot
where the spectre had materialized, then spun on his heel and frowned at
him. "What are you doing here, in any case? I thought you and Mum had
gone--" he paused, put one hand to his forehead, "--no, really,
 finally gone, when you left four years ago." 

 "Well, things change son, things change. Your mother was concerned about
you, you know how she is, always making sure your muffler was on good and
snug. Wouldn't want you catching your death of cold." 

 "Dad, will you please attempt to remain on topic?" 

 "What is the topic, son? You still haven't made your point." 

 Fraser just growled. Fraser Sr. hemmed a bit, before shrugging. 

 "All right, I suppose that it was bad timing. You didn't seem to be
moving any closer; just kind of--of hovering there, you know..." at
'hovering', he made a vague gesture in the air, and then trailed off. His
son glared at him. 

 A latch clicked, and Meg opened the door. Fraser spun to look up at her,
startled. 

 "Who are you talking to?" 

 Fraser stood looking up at her with a vaguely annoyed expression on his
face. Well, it wasn't her fault that he'd stormed out of the cabin. If
anyone was going to be annoyed here, it was her. She wasn't sure how to
react; his behaviour seemed so uncharacteristic of him--well, no, actually
now that she thought about it, she could recall similar conversations with
him in the past that had seemed to make little to no sense all of a
sudden. They tended to occur when there was some tension built between the
two of them. She wondered briefly if he was suffering from some sort of
mental disorder, and that was why Ottawa had sent him out here. 

 No. While he was distinctly odd at times, Fraser was most definitely not
crazy. This situation took some explaining though, and he had not yet
offered anything. He actually seemed to be listening to something she
couldn't hear. Maybe he was a little crazy, living out here in the middle
of nowhere. He sighed, shook his head, and walked over to the stairs to
stand in front of her. 

 "I'm sorry for startling you and for my rudeness," he said, crossing his
arms. The effect produced was a posture that did not convey much apology
at all. She didn't know how to respond. 

 "Are you okay?" she asked. 

 "Yes." 

 "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable--" she said, and she crossed her
arms, and glared at him. 

 "It's not your fault," he dropped his arms and started up the steps into
the cabin without further explanation. "Let's finish our meal."  

 The rest of breakfast was uneventful and somewhat tense, and they were
both anxious to finish as quickly as possible. They set out shortly after
they finished eating. She loaded her snowmobile with her pack and bedroll,
and they drove out across the snow. He had to stop by the outpost to get
the mail for the families on his route that day, and to check on
Stoughton's newest project: a life-size painting of the Queen. 

 "The man really is quite artistic," Fraser shouted over the rumbling of
the engines, as they pulled up to the steps in front of the outpost. They
turned off the vehicles, and he got off, removed his goggles. "He's only
finished her right hand so far, but it's a truly remarkable portrait
already. I never realized how detailed a wrist could actually be." 

 "Why is he painting a portrait of the Queen? I was of the understanding
that all field offices had to have the requisite photo displayed." 

 "Oh, well, he's quite devoted to her, and I didn't see any harm in having
two portraits. They could hang on opposite walls in the foyer." 

 "I see." She climbed off her vehicle and checked the bindings on the
bedroll, then pulled off her gloves and looked up at the modest cabin with
the Regimental Badge of the RCMP on the eave over the door. They made
their way up the steps, the flag flapping slowly over their heads. Fraser
removed his Stetson as he opened the door for her. 

 The foyer was a small area with a rag-twist rug on the floorboards and
single lamp hanging from the ceiling, and it opened into a short hallway
with three doors on each side and a bathroom in the far end. The bathroom
door stood ajar, and Fraser sighed and hurried down to the end of the hall
to close it. 

 "I apologize, sir, for the apparent lack of propriety. Sergeant
Stoughton, ah, lives here, and I'm afraid that he sometimes regards the
building as his own home." 

 "It's all right, I've seen washrooms before, Fraser." 

 "Yes sir." Fraser walked back towards her, one hand pointing to her
right. "My office is the door behind you." 

 "Ben," Meg said, in a hushed tone, as she followed him into the room,
"I'd appreciate it if you'd not refer to me as 'sir', since I don't
particularly want anyone here to know my position. If you feel the need to
express...ah..." 

 "Distance?" 

 "Yes, distance. If you feel the need to express distance, 'ma'am' is an
acceptable substitute." 

 "Understood. I apologize." He stood beside the desk holding his hat for a
moment, looking at her, and she swallowed, wondering what he was thinking.


 "Who's there?" A voice bellowed suddenly, from behind her, and she
jumped, spun around. A rather heavyset figure came into sight in the
doorway, his suspenders hanging about his knees and a comb in one hand. He
stomped in through the office doorway without so much as a pause and
stopped short when he realized what she was. "Oh, oh, I uh--" 

 "Sergeant Vern Stoughton, In--ah, Margaret Thatcher. Ms. Thatcher is the
guest expected by Mrs. Cooper," Fraser said dryly. 

 Stoughton quickly pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and stuck out
his right hand, with the comb. Realizing his error, he quickly switched
the comb to his other hand and tried again. Meg smiled slightly and shook
the proffered hand with some trepidation. 

 "Pleased to meet you, Margaret." 

 "And you, Sergeant." 

 "I'm sorry for my, ah, unkempt appearance. I wasn't expecting a woman to
show up here at this time of the morning." He glanced over her shoulder at
a decidedly displeased Fraser. He let go of her hand and smiled down at
her. "The young man here thinks I'm a disgrace." He winked at her. 

 "Why?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Behind her, Fraser shook his head
and went behind his desk. 

 "He thinks my living here presents a dishevelled appearance to this
respectable outpost when beautiful ladies stop by in the morning." He
leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial stage whisper, "But I'm not
afraid of him." 

 She was tempted to mention that Fraser could have nothing to say, having
lived in the Chicago consulate for two years, himself, but restrained
herself. One, it would give her position away, and two, it would be
impolite for her to show any disrespect to the commanding officer, Fraser
though he might be. While he had never presented a dishevelled
appearance--quite the contrary, actually--beautiful ladies still somehow
managed to be around in the wee hours of the morning. All entirely
innocently, of course; he had been a nearly constant source of
frustration, then. 

 "Has the mail drop been sorted yet, Stoughton?" Fraser asked, pulling out
a pencil and pad of paper, and otherwise ignoring their conversation. 

 Stoughton stood back, smiled at her, and nodded over at Fraser. "It was
done by six a.m., sir." 

 "They came by at five-thirty, then?" 

 "No sir, five forty-seven." 

 Fraser looked up. "Thirteen minutes? Good man." 

 "Thank you, sir," Stoughton grinned. 

 "Where is Constable Lecrue?" 

 "He's at the Hughley's, replacing the left treads on Tim's snowmobile." 

 "I see. And Bohner and St. Marie?" 

 "Uh...fishing, sir." 

 "Fishing?" 

 "Yes sir." 

 "Is it related to their duties, Sergeant?" 

 "Indirectly, sir." 

 "Ah." Fraser tapped a few keys and read the message on the screen. It was
another mass announcement that concerned lanyard maintenance. Was there
really such a problem with the issue that a memo had to be sent to every
field office? He read it quickly and went on to the next one. Stoughton
cleared his throat. 

 "Yes, Sergeant?" 

 "I finished her forearm, sir. Since you expressed interest in my work, I
thought that you'd appreciate seeing the progress." 

 Fraser looked up. "Of course." He stood up and moved out from behind his
desk. "Lead on." 

 Stoughton turned and headed out of the office and across the hallway.
Fraser held out one hand beside Meg. 

 "After you," he said, inclining his head slightly. She followed Stoughton
across the small hallway and into what, apparently, was his office. Her
eyes caught across the room on a huge canvas that spanned half the wall.
It was entirely blank, except for an incredibly detailed hand and forearm
in the lower right centre of the cloth. The small regulation framed
picture of Queen Elizabeth sat on an easel beside the huge canvas. They
walked up and stood in front of it, and Stoughton stood to the side,
beaming proudly. 

 The artwork on the hand was stunning; it almost leapt off the canvas,
every vein in the hand, every wrinkle in the skin was there in vivid,
excruciating detail. The cloth on the sleeve looked so realistic that she
was tempted to believe that it would feel like satin if she reached out
and touched it. 

 "Wow," she managed. 

 "This is quite good, Vern. You really have a knack for bringing that
simple image to life. What do you plan on painting next?" 

 "Her elbow," Stoughton replied, in a reverent tone. Meg looked at him. 

 "Of course," Fraser replied. "And then her upper arm, I'd expect." 

 "Oh yes," the older man answered, running one hand along the gilded edge
of the portrait on the easel. 

 "Very good. It's in the storage room?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Keep up the good work, Sergeant." Fraser reached behind Meg to give
Stoughton a pat on the shoulder, then turned and walked out of the small
office. Meg stood staring at the canvas for a moment longer, then echoed
Fraser's praise. Stoughton did not seem to be listening, since he had
suddenly become engrossed with the portrait. She made her escape and found
Fraser in one of the back rooms. 

 "What are you looking for?" She asked, as she walked in. She found him
sorting through a cardboard box. 

 "The mail. The Fort Nelson plane doesn't usually just drop mail, it also
drops some medical supplies, but he doesn't seem to realize the
difference, and alphabetizes the load by medicine name and surname." 

 "Oh." Meg watched him pull out packages and bottles. "Do you normally
allow your men to enjoy recreational activities while on duty?" 

 Fraser looked up at her and frowned. "What recreational activities?" 

 "Fishing." 

 "Oh, that. They're catching and freezing trout for the 'Surf 'N Turf'
social next Friday night. The Ladies' League is serving baked trout and
moose hock." He went back to picking the mail out of the box. 

 "The 'Surf 'N 'Turf' social? Since when are Mounties responsible for
catching food for social events?" 

 "Since their wives are the head organizers of the event." 

 "And you allow it?" 

 "Strictly speaking, they're serving the community." 

 There was a crackle of radio static from down the hall, and then two long
beeps, a pause, and a short beep sounded in quick succession. Fraser
nodded to himself and continued sorting through the box. After a minute,
the sound pattern repeated itself. 

 "Stoughton, could you get that?" Fraser called out. 

 "I'm busy," the man called back. 

 Fraser looked up and his hands paused. "Stoughton." 

 "All right, all right..." Stoughton answered. After a few seconds, Meg
heard him walk across the hall and into Fraser's office. A minute later,
he came down the hall and stopped in their doorway. 

 "It's Mrs. Glen, sir." 

 "Thank you." Fraser stood up, a sheaf of letters in one hand, and a
package in the other. Meg stood back as he walked past her, and then she
followed him down the hall and into his office. He dropped the package
down next to the radio and picked up the handset. 

 "Ivy, Benton here. What can I help you with?" 

 "Benton, good morning." An older woman's voice crackled over the speaker.
"I was wondering, since you're coming out here today, if you'd mind
picking up some lemon juice from Harold's." 

 "Not at all," he answered. "Any particular brand?" 

 "No, as long as it's lemon juice and not any of that hideous excuse for a
powered drink. John didn't realize that I wasn't asking for lemonade mix,
and bought a canister of Crystal Light, the poor man." 

 "Lemon juice, not lemonade." 

 "That's right. I'm bringing out my special recipe for baked trout, for
the social. A touch of butter, homemade breadcrumbs, and a generous
helping of thyme in an original white wine sauce." 

 Fraser smiled. "That sounds wonderful, Ivy. You'll have to give me the
recipe." 

 "Just stop by and I'll write you up a card." 

 "Thank you. We'll be there in half an hour." 

 "Oh! Who are you bringing with you?" 

 "Meg Thatcher, the friend the Coopers were expecting." 

 "Does she like pickled carrots?" 

 Fraser turned around and raised his eyebrow at her. She shrugged. 

 "I don't think I've ever had any," she answered, amused. He nodded, and
turned back to the handset. 

 "She doesn't know." 

 "Well then! She'll just have to take a jar with her, then!" The older
woman sounded delighted. "Half an hour then, Benton. We'll be looking out
for you both." 

 "Right, then, base clear." 

 "Glen clear." 

 Fraser put the handset back on the hook and picked up the package. He
dropped the mail into a canvas bag near his feet and slung it over his
shoulder. "Let's go," he said, collecting his Stetson. 

 "Shouldn't we radio Caryn and Dave to tell them we're coming?" 

 "I'm sure the Onstens already did that," Fraser replied, dryly. 

 "How do you know?" 

 "Trust me." 

 While she puzzled this bit of information over, they went out to the
waiting snowmobiles.  

 "Hello?" Fraser said, pushing the front door open slightly. Meg came in
behind him, and saw a cozy kitchen with a Bible lying open on the table.
The room was empty. "Ivy? John?" he called out, walking in further. 

 "Should we be intruding like this?" Meg whispered to his back. He turned
slightly, and nodded. 

 "It's not intruding; they don't mind," he answered. 

 "Ooh!" A voice said, and then there was a crash and a thud. "I told you
those weren't the carrots! Now look what I've gone and done!" They ran
over to the pantry door across the room, where the noises were coming
from. It stood open a few inches, and Fraser pulled it back to look
inside. A small woman in her early sixties was sitting on a three-legged
stool, looking at a broken jar of relish that was lying in pieces on the
floor in front of her. "I've only the two jars left, and I didn't leave
them on the top--Ben! Hello!" She said brightly, when she saw him in the
doorway. 

 "Hello, Ivy. I'll get the paper towels." 

 "Thank you--oh, and the dustpan is under the sink." 

 He nodded and went to retrieve the items in question. 

 "Are you Margaret?" 

 Meg looked into the pantry, as he moved away. The woman was alone. She
supposed that talking to oneself was inevitable, and found some comfort in
the fact that she was not the only one who engaged in it. 

 "Yes." 

 "It's a pleasure meeting you, Meg--do you mind if I call you 'Meg'?" 

 "No, actually, I prefer it. Are you all right?" 

 "I'm fine, just had a bit of an argument with him and it resulted in
this." 

 *Who? *"Your husband?" 

 "No," Ivy Glen smiled in a way that was somehow comforting and mysterious
all at once. Fraser came back with the roll of towels in one hand, and the
dustpan and hand-broom in the other. Meg took the paper towels as Ivy
stood up and backed away from the slush on the floor. 

 "Ivy talks to angels," Fraser said, matter-of-factly, as he carefully
pushed the bulk of the mess onto the dustpan. "Meg, can you get the
trash-basket--" 

 "Where?" she asked, turning back to look around the kitchen. 

 "Under the sink--" Ivy looked down at Fraser's sharp intake of breath.
"Oh, dear, be careful not to cut your hands." 

 "Don't worry, it's nothing." 

 "The vinegar must sting; I'm sorry." 

 "You don't have to apologize; it's barely a nick." 

 "Did you find it, dear?" Ivy asked Meg, over Fraser's head. Meg pulled
the basket out of the cupboard under the sink and carried it back over to
the pantry. Fraser quickly lifted up the dripping dustpan, then paused
over the basket. 

 "What's wrong?" Meg asked. 

 "Putting glass in a plastic bag--it's not entirely--" 

 "Don't worry, dear, we'll dispose of it properly." Ivy smiled
reassuringly. Fraser nodded, and overturned the slop into the bag. Ivy
made her way out past them. They quickly went about mopping up the rest of
the mess with the paper towels, and then she cleaned the floor with a bit
of soap and a scrub brush, and the pantry was as good as new. 

 "The pickled carrots are in here somewhere. I only have two jars left,
and I think you'll like them. And even if you don't, Ben here will finish
them off for you. He's already taken four jars." She walked past him and
smiled lovingly; a man who enjoyed her cooking was close to her heart, and
he did. He looked a bit embarrassed, and glanced over at Meg, the
dark-haired woman who stood near the kitchen table--a good woman, Ivy
decided. She was down to earth and willing to help clean up a mess. And
Ben Fraser seemed affected by her. 

 Ivy wondered briefly if there was something between them, but having no
desire to pry or to be a busybody, she merely decided to pursue a campaign
of casual espionage which, at this stage, just meant discreet observation.
She would have to ask John later if he knew anything that might be of
interest. Ben seemed so distant sometimes; it wasn't good for a man like
him to live alone for so long. He really was a good, honest, and kind
person, and Ivy liked him a great deal. However, the Lord ran the world,
not her, and so she didn't try to get involved in the management of it. 

 "I brought the lemon juice, I hope it's what you wanted," Ben pulled a
green glass bottle and two envelopes out of the sack he had left on the
table. She took them all, nodding. 

 "It is, thank you very much," she said, putting the jar away. She left
the envelopes on the counter and headed back to the pantry. "Now, I know I
left the jars on this side..." 

 "Here, let me help you," Ben followed behind her, and she stopped to let
him pass. "Which side?" 

 "On your right. I think it's on the shelf that's second to the top--oh
no, wait, that's where the pickle relish is. Ah...try one shelf down, in
the back row?" 

 Ben bent over slightly and squinted at the labels in the back row,
picking up all of the jars in turn, and shaking his head at each of them. 

 "Isn't it difficult to grow carrots in this climate?" Meg asked. 

 "Impossible, except for a few weeks during the summer, and even then,
things don't thaw out completely." Ivy answered. "John set up a greenhouse
in the cellar--we've got a bumper crop going down there." 

 "A greenhouse in the cellar?" 

 "Well, as you know, dear, the sub-ground temperature stays pretty
constant. It's just a matter of a little extra heat and a few rows of
ultraviolet lights." 

 "Oh." 

 "I don't think--" Fraser paused, then grinned. "--ah, here's one." He
passed it over to her, as she stood in the doorway. He searched for a
moment, then pulled a second jar out. "And the other." He held it
triumphantly. "Would you like me to leave it somewhere more accessible to
you?" 

 "Would you leave it in the front there--yes, right there. Thank you." 

 "It's my pleasure." He turned off the pantry light and came out, closing
the door behind himself. 

 "Can you stay for hot chocolate?" She asked, bringing the jar over to
Meg. 

 Meg smiled, looked down at the jar as she took it. "Thank you, Mrs. Glen,
but I was hoping that I could get to the Coopers' home as soon as
possible. I haven't seen Caryn for a long time." 

 "That's fine. The offer still stands, if you'd like to come around some
other time. We'd love to have you." 

 "Thank you very much," Meg pulled her gloves on. Fraser slung the mail
sack over his shoulder. 

 "And you. You know you're always welcome," Ivy said, looking over at him.


 "That I do," he smiled. He nodded to her, and they turned to leave. 

 "Oh! Benton--the card. I almost forgot!" Ivy hurried over to the counter
and found a small index card. "The recipe you asked for." 

 "Ah. Thank you kindly," he smiled down at her, and took the piece of
paper. 

 "Have a nice trip. It was nice meeting you, Meg." 

 "And you, Mrs. Glen." 

 "Ivy, please." 

 "Ivy. Thanks again," she waved, and followed Fraser outside.  

 Tim Hughley was in the shed, snowmobile parts scattered around him, and
Constable Arthur Lecrue was sitting on the work shelf dissecting what
looked to be the remains of a well-worn snowmobile tred. 

 "'Morning," Fraser said, poking his head in through the propped-open
window. 

 "Good morning, sir," the young Constable replied brightly. 

 "Hey Fraser," Tim replied, giving him a small wave with a five-centimetre
head wrench. "Those parts come in yet?" 

 "Yes, actually, I have them right here. May I come in?" 

 "Sure; hey Art, hand me that pair of pliers, will you?" 

 Meg stood in the doorway of shed, watching Fraser as he navigated around
the piles of metal on the floor and handed Tim Hughley a small cardboard
box. Constable Lecrue slid off the work shelf. 

 "Sir," he nodded respectfully to Fraser, then turned towards Meg and
doffed his hat. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am," he bent
stiffly at the waist and smiled across at her. He was young, couldn't be
more than a year out of the Academy, she estimated. He pulled himself back
onto the shelf and continued dismembering the length of tred. 

 "Hey, who's the chick?" Tim looked over at her, grinned, and gave a
another small wave from his position on the floor. 

 "Meg Thatcher; Sergeant Fraser is escorting me out to the Coopers' home,"
she answered, bristling slightly at the young man's tone. Fraser looked
over at her with an mildly amused expression. 

 "Yeah, I'm sure he is," Tim grinned widely at her and jabbed at Fraser's
leg with the wrench. 

 "I am," Fraser responded calmly, sidestepping the tool. "Is your father
home? I've a letter for him." 

 "Nah, he's out at the river, I think. Mrs. Canbrary wanted him to catch
'er trout." 

 "Really?" Fraser asked, interested. "Is this some roundabout method of
courtship?" He handed the letter down to Tim, who put it on a nearby piece
of wood panelling and otherwise ignored it completely. 

 "I guess so." Tim scowled at the cardboard box, then pulled out a
jackknife and started slitting it open. "If it is, she's courting him." 

 "I see." 

 "Yeah, well, I don't." 

 Fraser gave a short nod, and then turned back to leave. "Try to see it
from his point of view." 

 Tim harrumphed and took the small gear parts out of the box. Meg stood
aside as Fraser came out and pulled the door closed behind himself. 

 "That's an interesting piece of news," he said thoughtfully. 

 "Why?" 

 "Fred Hughley is an acknowledged recluse. For him to be willing to fish
for a woman-- well, he must be really taken with Amanda Canbrary." He
swung his leg over the snowmobile and sat down. 

 "Oh." Meg wondered at Mrs. Hughley's absence; she thought that she could
understand some of Tim's discontent, remembering days from her own
childhood. 

 "One more, then we'll reach the Coopers'." Fraser started his engine and
sped off, Meg following close behind.  

 5 

 The log house was tucked a short ways up into the edge of the mountain,
and four Dene children were scrambling out in the snow in the front yard.
They shouted in recognition when Fraser and Meg pulled up and cut the
engines. 

 "Sergeant Ben! Sergeant Ben! Look at the snowman we made!" One
eight-year-old girl shouted, running up to him and pointing back at the
rounded, lopsided sculpture in the middle of the yard. 

 "I put the head on it," the tallest boy said. He looked about eleven.
Fraser got off his vehicle, grinning down at the children. 

 "It looks very big and well-made," he said. Meg noted that it was about a
metre tall, and generously propped with a pile of unevenly-distributed
snow around the base. 

 "Mommy gave me the carrot!" The littlest girl came running up to Fraser
and tapped his leg. "Mommy gave me the carrot!" 

 "That's wonderful, Lizzie," he answered, "It's a very nice carrot." 

 "I put the eyes and arms in," the first girl said. 

 "I put the arms in!" The tall boy said. 

 "No you didn't, I did! You just found them scrawny sticks!" The girl made
a face at the boy. 

 "Yeah, and *I *put 'em in!" 

 "But I had to fix them, because you didn't put them in even," she
responded, and stuck her tongue out at him. 

 "That's rude," little Lizzie said, putting her hands on her hips. "You
shouldn't do that." 

 "Yeah, Jolie, that's rude," the boy said, and stuck his tongue out at
her. 

 "Hey!" Lizzie said, looking very upset about the whole affair. 

 "Lizzie is right, you know," Fraser said authoritatively. He looked up at
a second boy, who was coming over to them. Meg got off her snowmobile and
left the helmet on the seat. 

 "What did you build, Clay?" He asked. The boy shrugged. 

 "He didn't make nuthin'," Jolie said. 

 "Did too," Clay answered stubbornly, stuffing his mittened hands into his
pockets. "I made the toilet." 

 "Everybody's gotta have a toilet," Lizzie said, matter-of-factly. "Even
the snowman." 

 "Of course," Fraser nodded reasonably. "That's true." 

 Oh, so that was what that slightly rounded lump next to the snowman was.
From this angle, now that they mentioned it, it did bear some resemblance
to a toilet bowl. How charming. She looked at all the footprints in the
snow--over on her right were three snow angels and one small spot where a
lot of uncoordinated thrashing had been attempted. It was about Lizzie's
height. 

 She remembered making snow angels as a child, so long, long ago. There
was a new burst of shouting, and she looked over to see Fraser crouch down
and Lizzie leap on to him, piggy-back style. When he stood up, she
squealed with delight and pulled off his Stetson. She tried to fit it on
her own head over her knitted cap. It ended up resting titled over the
side of her head. He turned around to look at Meg, something sparkling in
his eyes. 

 "Could you get the mail sack?" He asked, giving a slight head nod towards
the excited load on his back. Meg nodded and took the sack off the side of
his snowmobile and slung it over her shoulder. She envied his ease with
children. 

 "All set," she said. 

 They went up the walk, the other children scrambling ahead to announce
their arrival. 

 "Hey Mom!" The tall boy shouted. 

 "Mommy! Mommeeee!" Jolie hollered. "Sergeant Ben is here! And he brought
the pretty lady with him!" 

 "Hey, shhhhh," the tall boy jabbed his sister with his elbow as they took
off up the walk. "Ma said not to say anything about that!" 

 "You leave me alone--Mommeeee!" And the two took off, racing to the door.
Clay seemed content to walk beside Fraser, his hands in his pockets,
looking up at him occasionally. Lizzie wiggled on his back, and alternated
between hooting and shouting for her mother. 

 A woman appeared in the doorway right before the two children plowed into
the door. At the sight of her, the children began shouting anew. 

 "They're here, Mommy, they're here!" 

 "Come in for some hot chocolate, Sergeant, ma'am," the woman said,
smiling. The children started to edge in around her. "You, and you--kick
the snow off your boots and clean off your mittens! I don't want puddles
in my kitchen." 

 Jolie and the tall boy started shuffling and stamping around on the front
steps, kicking off clumps of snow. Fraser and Meg came up the walkway,
with Lizzie and Clay in tow. 

 "Hello, Vera," Fraser said, his voice slightly strained from the little
arms wrapped around his neck like a vise. 

 "Hello--Jaques! Don't hit your sister," the woman separated Jolie and her
brother and swatted them lightly, sending them inside. "Go take your coats
and snow pants off, hang them on the rack in front of the stove--you too,
Clay, Lizzie. Come in, come in," she said to Fraser and Meg, smiling
warmly. "I've got a pot heating on the stove." 

 "Thank you kindly, but we can't stay for long," Fraser answered. He
shifted and let Lizzie slide down his back and drop to the ground. She
took off his Stetson and politely gave it back to him, a little lady to
the last. He returned the gesture by bowing slightly, before tucking it
under one arm. 

 "Ah, thank you kindly, Miss Ittinuar." 

 "You're welcome Mister Sergeant Ben, sir," she answered, smiling
prettily. 

 She did a short dance, kicking off the snow on her boots, and then she
ran around her mother and followed Clay inside. Fraser knocked the snow
off his gloves. 

 "Ah, Vera Ittinuar, Meg Thatcher. Meg, Vera." 

 Meg pulled off her glove and shook Vera's hand and nodded. She wondered
just how, exactly, Jolie had known who she was. She was beginning to
suspect why Fraser had not felt the need to radio the Coopers. 

 "Welcome to my home, Meg. Come on in." Vera smiled. 

 "Thank you," she answered, pleasantly surprised at the warmth in the
woman's tone. She and Fraser kicked off the snow on their own boots before
following her inside the house. He took the sack from Meg and pulled out
two packages, reading the labels before passing them over to Vera. 

 "Another three months' supply of insulin, and..." he seemed loathe to
speak the second one aloud and he just smiled as he gave it to her. "Well,
that's yours." Meg caught a glimpse of the label. Feminine care products;
well, that explained his reluctance. She looked across at Vera, who was
accepting them graciously. 

 "Thank you," she took them, smiling, and deposited them on the kitchen
table. She looked over at Meg. "It's been wonderful of him to bring these
things out; Antonu's trips take him out for days at a time, and it's
difficult for me to get into town very often. You can trust Ben to go
above and beyond the call of duty. You always know you're safe with him
around." 

 Fraser was shifting on his feet, looking embarrassed by the praise. The
woman was grinning from ear to ear. Meg got the distinct impression that
the speech had been entirely for her benefit. 

 "Are you certain that you don't want a cup of something warm? Tea, yes?"
Vera made a beeline for the teapot on the stove. 

 "Thank you, but no, Vera. Ms. Thatcher was hoping to reach the Coopers'
home before lunch," Fraser said, re-buckling the flap on the mail sack.
Meg looked sideways at him. Ms. Thatcher, hmm? Small communities,
unmarried local heroes; it was a much clearer picture now forming in her
mind. She realized two things: that she was very likely in for a very
interesting month, and that interesting, where Benton Fraser was
concerned, was a much more interesting than the average interesting. 

 Her mind was slush. She must get away from him as quickly as possible.
This was utterly ridiculous. She noted, with some chagrin, that Vera
Ittinuar was eyeing her--more likely both of them--with a great deal of
amusement. Fraser gave a curt nod and waved goodbye to the four children
in the other room, who were miraculously quiet, watching the three adults.
Jolie's eyes were large, and they followed Meg to the door. Meg tried
smiling at the girl, but all she received in return was a wide-eyed,
curious look. 

 "Good travels!" Vera called, as she stood in the doorway. "Tell the
Coopers that I said hello, and that I'm still willing to take Paul and
Maggie if she needs a babysitter for a few days." 

 "I will tell her, Vera, thank you!" Fraser called back and waved as they
walked down the hill to the parked snowmobiles. He swung the sack over the
side and strapped it down to the back. Meg pulled on her helmet, leaving
the visor up for a moment before she started her engine. 

 "I think I'm beginning to understand what you meant, before," she said
dryly. 

 "Yes," he responded, pulling a strap down and buckling it in. He swung
his leg over the side and sat down, looked over at her for a moment, then
shook his head and started up the snowmobile. She smiled, pulled the visor
down, and brought her own engine roaring to life. They were finally off to
see Caryn and her family, approximately fifteen kilometres to the
northwest, farther up into the MacKenzie Mountain range. Meg couldn't
wait.  

 Caryn shaded her eyes and looked across the snowy landscape, letting her
gaze travel around the mountains rising off to her left and down to the
lower valley before her. Dave was over on the other side of the house,
splitting firewood and singing to himself. She smiled and looked up at the
peaks again, following them up to where the mountains disappeared into the
low cloud cover. It was getting to be a cloudy day; perhaps there would be
a short snowfall around supper-time. 

 Paul was building a sculpture a ways down the hill, carefully rolling a
large ball of snow across the ground, which was picking up bits of pine
needles where the ball clung heavily enough to the bottom of the recent
storm's layer to pull it up as it went. Caryn watched him work for a few
moments; he was so serious, putting all of his thought and energy into
this sculpture. It was not a snowman--she was not sure what it was--but it
was probably a creative new approach to snow sculpturing, complete with
his lengthy description of how he had improved on it as compared to the
last work of art. The boy was an artist, there could be no arguing of
that. He took after his father in that regard. 

 Maggie was inside taking a nap, mercifully. It was exhausting taking care
of a three-year-old while being eight-months-and-one-week pregnant. No;
scratch that, it was nigh impossible, even with Dave's help. He tended to
make himself useful outdoors most of the time, but stayed within earshot
of the house. She smiled at the tune he was singing and looked out across
the valley again. She heard a faint sound, and she thought that she saw
two small dots travelling between the curves of a low dale, but they
disappeared from view a moment later where the dale's edges rose up again.


 She held one hand at the base of her back for support and smiled.
Yes--she definitely heard the engines now; there were snowmobiles coming
up the incline. Grinning widely, she turned her head and called over to
her husband. 

 "Dave! They're coming!" 

 The singing trailed off, and he came around the corner of the cabin
carrying the axe in one hand. She grinned as she saw the figures coming
closer, thinking of a thousand different things that she wanted to say, to
ask about, to reminisce over. It would feel so good to see Meg again, to
laugh about those little things that only they knew about. *Ten years!
*There was so much she couldn't say in those letters, and the answers
always came after such a long wait. Now she could see her again. 

 Dave came up to her, and let the axe drop next to his foot. He put one
arm around her back and squeezed her shoulder. 

 "How long's it been?" 

 "Ten years," she sighed, watching the figures speed around another glen
in the snow and start up the incline. "Ten years too long." Her throat
tightened. 

 "Are you worried that she's changed?" he asked softly, looking out past
her. "Don't worry." 

 "Oh," she turned her head to look up at him, a half-teasing smile tugging
at the corner of her mouth. "And why not?" 

 He shrugged in response, answering her smile. "Have her letters changed?"


 "No...I just don't want things to be awkward, I don't want her to feel
put upon." 

 "She's coming to help you for the last couple of weeks; let her," he
said, watching Ben Fraser and the woman, Meg Thatcher, speeding up towards
them. "I want it to be as much a vacation for you as it is for her, so
don't worry. We'll look after you and the children." 

 "I know," she smiled and waved at them, now that they were within waving
range. Both waved back. She sighed, apprehension mixing with hope, and
smiled down at the two figures. A thought occurred to her. "Do you think
what the Onstens said has any basis in truth? You know how Harold and Mae
are about Ben--" 

 "We'll see," said Dave, giving a short laugh. "Just don't bring it up,
okay, honey? They're already probably embarrassed as it is." 

 "I wouldn't dream of it!" She answered, trying to imbue the words with as
much innocence as possible. "Still, if it were true..." 

 "Caryn--" 

 "I won't, I won't. I'm just teasing." She smiled sweetly up at her
husband's face, challenging that warning look in his eye. He bent down and
kissed the tip of her nose. 

 "Behave." 

 "Yes, dear." 

 The rumbling of the engines drew up close, and they turned to look at the
two people who just then pulled up. Caryn stepped forward, her arms
opening. 

 "Meg!" 

 "Caryn!" 

 Meg was off her snowmobile and across the distance between them in
moments. She started to hug Caryn, and then, in a burst of mutual
giggling, ended up hugging her friend with one arm, off to the side,
trying to fit around the bulk of Caryn's midsection. 

 "You--how are you?" 

 "Good, good, and you?" 

 "Big!" 

 They burst out laughing and tried to hug again. 

 "You look good, you're glowing!" Meg said, standing back at an arm's
length to look at her friend. Caryn's eyes were still sparkling. There
were more lines and a little more weight, but her eyes were the same, lit
with humour and a bit of mischief. It was so good to see her again! 

 "That would be the glow of motherhood," Caryn responded dryly, and then
laughed again. "It's so good to see you!" 

 "And you!" Meg's breath was blowing a white cloud, from her laughing.
"How far along are you, exactly?" 

 "I'm due in two-and-a-half weeks--oof," Caryn said, rolling her eyes
heavenward. "Not soon enough." 

 "I can imagine," Meg answered, feeling just a small note of regret
creeping into her voice. She pushed it back and smiled again at her old
friend. "Oh, it's so good to see you again! It's been too long! You've
built a family, become a respected author..." 

 "Speaking of which," Caryn said, turning to her husband, who had walked
over to Ben Fraser and was watching the exuberant reunion from a safe
distance. "I'd like to introduce Dave, my husband. Dave, Meg Thatcher."
She gestured to him, and he came up to shake Meg's hand. Meg smiled up at
this man who had managed to tame her friend's wild nature and convince her
to marry him. 

 "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, his voice deep. "I've heard quite
a bit about you over the years." 

 "Meg, please," she answered. "And I, you. All good things, I assure you."


 He smiled at her response and then turned to look behind himself for a
moment. 

 "Paul, come say hello to Meg," Caryn said, gesturing with her hand at a
boy who stood several metres away. The little boy came running up to them,
and stood beside his father. Dave looked down at him, and nudged him
forward a step to shake her hand. He held out his small mitten and she
bent down and shook it. 

 "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said in clear voice, a miniature echo of
his father. 

 "I am pleased to you meet you, sir," she answered in all seriousness.
"Please call me 'Meg'." 

 "Are you here to help my mother?" he asked, looking up at her with wide
eyes. 

 "In any way that I can," she said, and straightened up. He seemed to be
satisfied with her answer, and looked over at his mother. "Can I finish
the Minotaur, Mommy?" 

 "Is that what you're making?" 

 He nodded, beginning to edge back. 

 "Yes; dinner will be ready in a few minutes." 

 "Okay," he said, and started to run back. 

 "Paul," Fraser said, gesturing towards the sculpture that the boy had
been working on. "Can I see your Minotaur?" 

 "Sure, Sergeant Ben. 'M not finished, yet, though." 

 "That's all right," Fraser said. He touched his hat, looking at the three
other adults, and then made his way over towards the boy. 

 "We'll meet you inside," Dave said to Caryn. "Call us if you need us." 

 "We will, when dinner is served," she answered, hooking her arm around
Meg's. "You wouldn't want me eating it all by myself, would you?" She
grinned, and Dave pretended to look aghast for a second, then smiled at
her, and turned to follow Fraser. 

 Caryn and Meg went up the short walk to the cabin, where a little girl
stood, staring out the window panes on their left. She had large blue eyes
and light brown hair, and a fistful of crayons. 

 "That's Maggie, I take it?" Meg said, looking over at the window. 

 "Yes, that's my little--Maggie!" Caryn started to hurry up the hill,
trying to move her unaccustomed bulk quickly. "What is she doing up there?
How did she climb--I just put her down for a nap!" she said in
exasperation, her breath coming in short gasps by the time she reached the
front door. They hurried inside, kicking off the snow as they went, and
found Maggie standing on the rocking chair under the window, giggling. 

 "Mommy! Mommy! See da crayons, I made da pretty picture!" 

 She was holding a crumpled piece of paper in the hand steadied against
the window sill. She held it out to her mother, letting go of the sill,
and the rocking chair swung forward. She lost her balance and tumbled
against the seat back of the chair, then fell down hard on the seat, the
paper and crayons forgotten as she grabbed for a hold on the arms of the
chair. The fright scared her, and she started to cry, just as Caryn
reached her and lifted her off the chair, set her on the floor. The little
girl was heavy; she couldn't hold her, so she lowered herself down to the
floor and smoothed her daughter's hair away from her forehead. 

 "Oh, oh honey, you're okay," Caryn said softly, in response to her
daughter's whimpers. "Look, no bump!" 

 "No bwump?" Maggie asked, her whimpers dying off. Caryn smoothed her
daughter's cheek. 

 "No bump." She patted her head, and looked around. "I told you to sleep,
Maggie." 

 "Mmm." Maggie said, and caught sight of a crayon on the floor. "I drew a
picture for Meggie." She walked over and picked up the crayon, then the
crumpled piece of paper that had fallen next to the rocking chair. She
looked up at Meg, who had been watching the whole scene with a warmth that
she wished she could have herself. Well, at least she had a month to help
Caryn with her family; that would have to suffice. Swallowing, she bent
down to look at the little girl's picture. 

 "What is this, Maggie?" She asked the wide-eyed child. 

 "It's you!" Maggie answered, sticking her chin out. "I made it for you!" 

 It was a large bit of scribbling in a red crayon. There was a tiny bit of
scribble in blue in the upper right-hand corner. 

 "And that, right there?" She asked, pointing at the blue squarish-thing. 

 "Thas a cloud," she said. 

 "Well, thank you very much, Maggie." 

 "You're welcome," she answered, smiling proudly. "Where's your mommy?"
She asked suddenly. The non sequitur took Meg by surprise. 

 "My mommy went to heaven a long time ago," Meg answered, swallowing
thickly, and trying to smile down at the little girl. 

 "Gwamma went to heaven, too. I want to go to heaven." She turned around
and looked at her mother, who had stood up and was watching them. "Mommy,
can I go to heaven?" 

 "Someday, honey," Caryn said, smiling, and looking at Meg. They were all
quiet for a moment, and then she walked past them, into the kitchen area.
"Let's start making the sandwiches. I've got soup heating on the stove.
Maggie, you pick up your crayons. It's almost dinnertime." She worked her
way out of her coat and hung it on a peg near the door. 

 "'Kay," the little girl answered, and leaving the picture in Meg's hands,
she crawled under the rocking chair to grab some of the crayons. Meg stood
and folded the piece of paper, tucked it into a pocket, and took off her
own coat. 

 "Just hang that next to mine, Meg, that's fine," Caryn said, looking into
the soup-pot. Meg did as she said, and followed her over to help set up
the meal.  

 They ate a companionable lunch; evidently, Fraser knew the Coopers quite
well, and shared a number of pastimes with Dave, so throughout the dinner
the conversation ranged from dog breeding to baby formula to climbing ice
floes. Meg found herself enjoying the atmosphere immensely, precisely
because it was so free-flowing and relaxed. She did not feel pressured to
appear knowledgeable on all subjects, and her comments were greeted with
everything from respect to outright laughter. A few anecdotes were
related, and little Paul asked a number of entertaining questions. 

 Caryn grew tired and excused herself to take an afternoon nap, and Meg
set about cleaning the kitchen. Fraser and Dave made sure that her
belongings were settled in and that the snowmobile was left under good
cover, and then both men left: Fraser back over the river to his cabin,
and Dave out to finish chopping the firewood. As she washed the dishes,
she found herself enjoying the simplicity of the task, knowing that she
was helping Caryn, and looking forward to the responsibilities that would
distract her from the thoughts that had chased her here. She did not want
to think about Fraser, and so, telling herself not to make an issue of his
presence, she finished drying the bowls and looked around the house for
more to do. Cleaning gave her a purpose, and she set herself to work
cleaning the other rooms, washing a load of laundry, and picking up toys
from the floor around the fireplace. 

 She went back to cleaning and sorting, then checked in for a moment on
Maggie, who was still sleeping soundly. Meg decided to go outside for a
short while, visit the shed, perhaps find Dave and talk to him for a few
minutes about what she needed to be doing. She had never had a
responsibility such as this before, and was not entirely sure what they
expected of her. Asking was the best way to find out. 

 She made her way around to the side of the house, where she heard the
sounds of his chopping, and stopped at the corner to watch him work for a
short while. She looked around at the near MacKenzie mountain range, at
what she could see of Fisherman's Lake, about two kilometres away. It was
breathtaking, beautiful, and so cold and barren. Well, not barren. Plant
and wildlife thrived; but looking at the landscape from this distance, she
just felt like it was constantly reminding her of the endless distance
between herself and what she had thought life would be. Life in the sense
of warm emotions and children and everything that she had always wanted,
hidden somewhere, but ever-present. 

 These mental wanderings were getting her nowhere but into the tendency to
self-pity, and that was the last thing she wanted. She steeled herself
against the cold wind that was blowing up the hillside, and walked over to
Dave, clearing her throat. He paused before taking another swing, and he
looked over at her and smiled. 

 "Hello," he said, straightening. "Is everything all right?" 

 "Yes, oh yes, it's fine. I just--would you like some tea?" She had brewed
a pot and poured some into a thermos that she had found in the cupboard.
She pulled the container out from under her arm. 

 "I would; thank you," he smiled and took a cup of the steaming liquid,
letting the axe handle rest against his leg. "Mmm." 

 She capped it again and looked around at the trees, the shed, the side of
the sturdy cabin. "It's beautiful here," she observed quietly. 

 "Not like the city," he said, following her gaze with a thoughtful
expression. "A man has a lot more room to think and move." 

 "Did you ever live in the city?" She asked. 

 "Yes, while I was in college. Couldn't stand the clutter and the people.
As soon as I could, I escaped to travel the country with a surveyor's
expedition, even made it as far south as North Dakota." He drank some more
of the quickly-cooling tea. "Nice place." 

 "Sounds interesting," Meg proffered the thermos. He nodded, and she
poured him another cup. 

 "Caryn said that you lived down in an American city for a couple of
years. What was it like?" 

 "Dirty," Meg answered, smiling and looking up at the clouded mountain
peaks again. After Chicago, this was a breath of fresh air. Literally. "It
was America. What could you expect?" 

 "Too many people?" 

 "Overcrowded, overflowing city dumps, pollution, all of it. It made me
miss Toronto, even." 

 Dave laughed and finished off the second cup of tea. Meg took the cup and
twisted it back on to cover the thermos. 

 "I've come out to ask you what you and Caryn expect of me, what you need.
I don't want to get in the way or anything," she said. "I'm almost
completely inexperienced with this sort of situation." 

 "Don't worry about it," he answered. "You seem to be doing fine. Just
general housework and babysitting, I suppose. She needs her rest, and the
children take a lot of her time. Are you worried about taking care of
them?" He knew she did not have any children of her own, and he wondered
what it must be like for her here. 

 "No. I can do that," she nodded, deciding to just do what she saw needed
to be done. Take it one thing at a time. The childcare might be somewhat
disorienting, at first, but she was not entirely unused to caring for
small children. She had taken care of Eleanore, though that had been many,
many years ago... 

 "You'll do fine," he smiled reassuringly at her. She nodded and smiled at
him, and pulled her collar closer around her neck. Her memories left her
feeling a chill, so she nodded to him and headed back into the cabin. She
could hear him resume his chopping, and the sound was comforting in its
normalcy. There was no need to be poised or to appear as anything other
than herself; she was simply carrying a warm thermos half-full of tea and
making easy steps in the snow, up to the door. She smiled to herself when
she saw Paul fashioning something else in the snow, on the other side of
the down slope. He smiled at her when he saw her watching him, and he gave
her a small wave. She waved back. She was possessed with the sudden desire
to bake cookies. 

 "Paul!" 

 "Yes ma'am?" The little boy called back, looking up from behind his
rounded wall of snow. 

 "Do you...do you want to bake some cookies with me?" 

 He paused for a moment, eyeing her, and she suddenly felt that she did
not stand up to his scrutiny. Who was she, to ask him if he wanted to bake
cookies with her? It was probably something his mother did with him; she
must be impinging on her territory. 

 No. That was utterly ridiculous, and what did the opinion of a
five-year-old boy matter to her? With some surprise, she realized that his
appraisal did matter, and that she wanted him to warm up to her. What he
thought of her at this moment was important. 

 "Yes," he answered, and hiked himself over the snowbank he had created.
"What kind?" 

 "Do you bake them a lot with your mother?" She asked, giving a small
prayer of thanks as he came up to her. 

 "Mm, sometimes," he answered. "Not much lately, though." 

 "Yes, well, I don't suppose she'd want to make a mess in kitchen, since
she's so..." 

 "Big. Yup." He seemed to take this information for granted. "So what kind
will we make?" 

 She opened the door, and he went in ahead of her. 

 "Well, I'm not sure--I don't know what your mother has in the kitchen,"
Meg answered, pulling the door closed behind herself and removing her
coat. Paul sat down on the mat beside the door and started tugging his
snow boots off. 

 "There's a box of raisins," he said with a grunt, and pulled off a boot.
"I like raisins." 

 "Hmm, oatmeal raisin, that's an idea," Meg said, removing her own boots.
"I used to make those when I was your age." 

 "How old are you?" He asked, his eyes were wide. The idea that she was
once his age seemed to shock him. She laughed. 

 "My birthday is in two months," she said. 

 "And how old will you be?" He pressed on, undeterred by her non-answer. 

 "Thirty-seven," she answered, and she tugged off her other boot and set
it on the mat behind him. 

 "Wow," he said, his eyes as round as saucers. "You're almost as old as
Sergeant Ben! Did you go to school together?" 

 "No," she looked down at him, amused. "But we did work together, once." 

 "Yeah, Mom said you're a Mountie, just like him. Are you a Sergeant, too?
Or a Constable? Or a Corporal? Or an Inspector? Or a...a Super?" 

 He had obviously learned a bit about the RCMP. Meg found herself pleased
with that. She went into the kitchen, padding on her stockinged feet. 

 "I'm an Inspector," she said, letting a note of pride into that
statement. 

 "What's a 'Super'?" he asked, coming in behind her and pulling out a
chair from the table. 

 "A Superintendent. They are very high officials in the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police," she answered. She dug around in the bottom cupboards
until she found a mixing bowl and two cookie sheets. 

 "What do they do?" 

 "They are in charge of the administration and discipline of the
personnel, and they coordinate the different outposts and offices in their
jurisdiction," she said. "Let's wash our hands." 

 "Okay," he climbed down from the chair, dragged a small step-stool over
to the floor in front of the sink, and climbed up to reach his hands under
the water. "What's a jur-is-dic-tion?" 

 "It's the area that you have responsibility for," Meg answered, washing
both of their hands. 

 "What do you do?" 

 "Well, I do much of the same thing, but I just do it in a smaller area; I
run an office in Ontario." 

 "Do you apprehend criminals?" 

 "Sometimes," she laughed, wondering at his vocabulary. "But it's not
usually that exciting." 

 "Tell me about a time you did," he said, climbing down and wiping his
hands on the towel hanging from the handle on the stove. 

 "We need to find a cookbook," she said, drying her own hands. He went
across the kitchen and pointed at the top cupboard on the right side. 

 "Up there." 

 "Thanks," she rifled through the stack of loose papers and home-bound
books and index cards and found a recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies. "Ah."


 After pre-heating the oven, she read off the ingredients, and the two of
them went around the kitchen, gathering them up. Paul even found the
measuring cups and spoons and laid them out neatly for her. She found the
wooden mixing spoon, and then they were ready to begin. 

 "So, tell me a story," he said, settling himself down in the chair
opposite where she was standing. 

 "About what?" She was concentrating on getting the ingredients'
measurements right. Tablespoons and teaspoons had to be discriminated; she
had learned long ago that that was important. 

 "About a time when you apprehended a criminal. Make it a good story." 

 "Hmm, let's see..." she measured six cups of flour into the mixing bowl.
"There was one time when I threw eggs at two men who were trying to steal
chickens." 

 "Really?" His interest was piqued. Eggs were messy; that was a good
story. 

 "What happened?" 

 "We apprehended the criminals," she said, half-teasing. 

 "No," he sighed, in the way of a long-suffering child who is dealing with
an obtuse adult. "Why did they want to steal the chickens?" 

 "Well, they were very expensive and important chickens. The man who bred
them had spent all of his life trying to breed the perfect chicken." 

 "Like Sergeant Ben?" 

 "I wasn't aware that the Sergeant was trying to breed the perfect
chicken," she answered, keeping her tone neutral. 

 "That's what Billy Kakfwi said," he answered, matter-of-factly. "He keeps
them right next to the chimney, to remind them that he could cook them
whenever he wants to, and so they give him really good eggs." 

 Meg looked over the measuring cup at him and raised one eyebrow. "Is that
what Mr. Kakfwi said?" 

 "Yes. But I don't think the chickens are scared of him eating them," he
continued, an obvious authority on the subject. 

 "What do you think they're scared of?" Meg asked, searching around the
table for the canister of baking soda that she knew she had put somewhere.


 "I don't think they're scared at all. Sergeant Ben says they're just good
chickens." 

 "Oh." She found it and then went flipping through the measuring spoons to
find the half-teaspoon. 

 "So were they angry?" 

 "What?" 

 "The criminals. Were they angry when you threw the eggs at them?" 

 "Yes," she smiled at him. "Wouldn't you be angry if I threw an egg at
you?" 

 "It depends on why you threw it at me. If you threw an egg at me in the
summer games, I wouldn't be angry." He seemed quite willing to forgive her
in advance. "So how did you find out the chickens were in trouble?" 

 "That's a long story," she answered. "Do you want to help me mix?" 

 "Yeah!" He jumped up and came around the table to take the wooden spoon
from her. She cracked in two eggs and they mixed for a while. He
concentrated on the stirring, grunting occasionally, but he did not ask
any more questions until they were done with it. She buttered the cookie
sheets, and they started rolling the dough into little balls. 

 "Do you have any kids?" He asked, carefully putting his first ball on the
sheet. He set it down too close to the first ball of dough, and she moved
it back a few centimetres. 

 "No." 

 "Why not?" 

 "I just never had the chance, I guess," she said, spooning out another
lump from the bowl. "So what do you think the baby will be? A boy or a
girl?" 

 "A boy," he said immediately, and with great conviction. She smiled. 

 "Why?" 

 "'Cuz I just know," he answered. 

 "You don't want another little sister?" 

 He shook his head vigorously. 

 "Why not?" 

 He shrugged. They went about rolling the dough in an amicable silence,
until the sheets were covered in four neat rows of three apiece. Meg slid
them into the oven and set the timer on the stove. 

 "Can I lick the spoon?" 

 "Sure." She had been wondering when that inevitable question was going to
be asked. He attacked it joyfully, while she put the remaining ingredients
away. 

 "Thank you kindly," he said, bits of dough clinging to the edges of his
mouth. The polite phrase seemed out-of-place on his speckled little face,
and she had to laugh.  

 6 

 "Meg, I really think you should consider dating again," Caryn said
matter-of-factly, sitting down in the chair she had just pulled out. She
rested her elbow on the edge of the table and nodded. "I really think it
would be good for you." 

 Meg looked up from her notebook, where she had been writing a meandering
thought down, and shook her head. She smiled and went back to finishing
the sentence. 

 "No, really, listen to me," Caryn continued, turning herself to face Meg,
and leaning back in the chair. "You've been out of the sea for so long
that I think you've forgotten about the fish." 

 "Well, ice-fishing is a slow sport," Meg quipped, in a dry voice, still
writing. 

 Caryn smiled, and took her crocheting out of the bag on the table. She
was alternating between making booties and crocheting squares for another
throw blanket to sell at the crafts depot. It brought in a few tourist
dollars--even though she was not making Native handicrafts--and it helped
her to relax. She wound the string from the skein through her fingers,
looped in the hook from where she had left it last, and started a row of
double-crotchet and slip stitches. She decided to work up to the topic
gradually, ask a few leading questions, and then insist on being told
every detail. The children were outside with Dave, and she was going to
take advantage of that. Besides, it was so much fun to nudge Meg; she was
usually so closed about such things. Caryn settled in and smiled to
herself. 

 "So, have you been seeing anyone lately?" she prodded, trying not to
sound too curious, but knowing that she was failing miserably. 

 Meg looked aside at her with a smile. "I was wondering when you were
going to bring this topic up," she said. It had been three days since she
had arrived, but this was the first opportunity when they had truly had
any length of time alone. 

 "I'm just concerned for you, that's all." 

 "I know; thanks." She went back and wrote a few words and underlined one.


 "What are you writing?" 

 "Just a few thoughts about how quiet life is out here. I'd forgotten what
it was like. The times that I've spent outside of the city since childhood
were always in police situations, tracking down criminals, getting people
out of disasters, averting catastrophes," these she said with a dry
humour. "But I've never really taken the time to just stop and listen.
Keeping busy was just easier, I suppose." 

 "Are you trying to hide from something, running around, keeping busy all
the time?" Caryn asked, looking down at the stitches in her hands. She had
to stop and count how many she had done, and then she started up again. 

 "Yes," Meg sighed, propping her chin on one hand and putting the pen
down. "That's part of why I came out here. I just wanted to leave the
routine back at the office." She smiled. "I'm not escaping it out here,
but at least I have better view in which to contemplate it." 

 Caryn laughed softly and counted to herself. 

 "So you're not seeing anyone, then, I assume." 

 "No," Meg looked back down at the notebook. "I tried, a few times, but my
heart just wasn't in it, and that's no fun for either you or the other
person." 

 "Maybe you just haven't met the right person, yet." 

 "Caryn, I'm almost forty. I'm not holding out any romantic hopes. I've
built a good career, I've enjoyed many things, and I've achieved what I
set out to do. I really don't think that pining after someone is going to
make my life any better." 

 "Hey, don't get snappy with me; I'm just asking." 

 "I'm not snappy." 

 "Yes you are. You're getting a little defensive." 

 "I am not." 

 "Go with me, here," Caryn said, undaunted by her friend's reaction. 

 Meg sighed and smiled resignedly. 

 "Okay." 

 They were both quiet for a few seconds, and then Caryn looked up. 

 "Why didn't you ever tell me his name?" 

 "Who?" 

 "Your junior officer," Caryn answered. Leading question. She contrived to
look merely curious. 

 Meg found herself staring out the window across from her, watching an
eagle wheel through the clear sky and then disappear from view. 

 "I couldn't bring myself to say his name; it was easier to just leave it
the way it was." 

 "The way it was?" 

 "Nameless. No names, no misunderstandings." 

 "You're really cold sometimes, Meg," Caryn said quietly. "What you told
me...it didn't seem that way at the time." 

 "It was. It had to be," she answered, looking back down at the writing on
the paper before her. 

 "If you really loved each other, why did you let your positions stand in
the way?" 

 "Because we couldn't--it's against the regulations, fraternization
between officers and their direct superiors. And what little happened,
happened under pressure. I don't know if he ever even really cared about
me that way." 

 "Oh, stop kidding yourself, girl. You know he did." 

 Meg shook her head and swallowed. 

 "So now you're no longer his direct superior. Why didn't you try
contacting him after you left Chicago?" 

 "We went our separate ways," she answered lamely. "Look, Caryn, I don't
really--" 

 "Why didn't you ask him on Monday evening?" 

 Meg started, and looked at her with wide eyes. 

 "How did you--" 

 "I put two and two together. When Mae described the meeting in her
kitchen, I started to wonder. When you both came and spent most of lunch
trying not meet one another's eyes, that did it for me. Why did you
pretend that you didn't know each other?" 

 "We did not! It just never came up in the conversation." 

 "You could have at least mentioned it." 

 "Why? Everybody in this town knows, anyway," she half-growled. 

 "Hey, I'm just asking," Caryn held up her hands in mock surrender, one
holding up the half-finished square, string trailing from it down to the
table. 

 "He's a good friend," Meg stated. 

 "That he is. He's been an invaluable help to Dave and I. You know Dave
has to be gone for weeks at a time, what with his job as a surveyor and
all. There seems to be an endless amount of work for him, which is great
because he has a steady income--which is a commodity around here, and I'm
thankful for it--but it means that he has to leave us behind. He took
these four months off, to stay with us until the baby's old enough for me
to be able to go into town and such. During the last few years, Ben has
taken the time to come out and check on me and the kids regularly, when
Dave is gone. He doesn't have to do that; I'm just thankful he does. It's
the same for everyone else in this village; but that's it, Meg. He has
formed a lot of friendships, but he still lives alone." 

 "Aren't there...interested...women?" Meg managed to work out, asking
herself why she was even talking about this. 

 Caryn shrugged and rounded a corner on her crocheted square. "A few, but
he has always politely refused the offers." She shook her head with a
small smile. "Such as they may be." 

 Meg gave a knowing laugh and looked at her hands. 

 "Same thing in Chicago?" 

 "Endlessly," Meg answered. "And I, embarrassed as I am to admit it, made
a fool of myself on occasion, too." She buried her face in her hands and
shook her head slightly. Caryn watched her with a half-amused,
half-saddened expression. 

 "Why?" 

 "Ohhh, I don't ," sighed Meg, looking up from her hands. "How can you
answer a question like that? One moment, I'd be completely in control,
capable, intelligent, directed, and the next moment, I'd run into him
unexpectedly--" she paused for a moment, a number of interesting
expressions crossing her face all at once, and then she continued. "He'd
be ," she made a gesture about an arm's-length from herself, "--and
anything that was in my mind would just desert me, and I'd be standing
there, entirely conscious of the fact that I was stumbling over my words
and not able to do a thing about it, getting more self-conscious by the
second." She laughed and shook her head ruefully. "The only thing that
made it bearable was when he did it, too. At first, I thought it was
annoying; I thought he was an incompetent fool--albeit an unfairly
attractive one. Then, later, I realized that he wasn't like that, it
seemed, except when he was in my presence, and then, only when we were
alone. Which intrigued me." 

 She paused and played with the pages of the notebook for a second. "It
was half-torture, going into work every morning, but for a time, I
actually looked forward to it." She smiled. 

 "What happened?" 

 "The train." 

 "Oh." 

 They were both quiet. Caryn remembered that letter. She remembered almost
crying at Meg's written words. The two officers had shared an intense kiss
on the roof of a speeding train, caught in the moment and the
life-and-death pressure of the experience. Their relationship had become
more strained afterwards, primarily because Meg was unable to resolve her
position with her passion, and had found herself increasing the distance
between them. Caryn had been hoping and praying that her friend would find
a way for it to work, but each letter after that had been more and more
reserved, and, she thought, lonelier. 

 Meg leaned to one side, propping her head against her hand, and looked
over at Caryn, who had comfortably laid the ever-growing square on her
extended belly and was crocheting as though from a small, convenient
shelf. Meg smiled, and Caryn looked up at her. 

 "What?" 

 "You, you're so funny, sitting there like that." 

 "Like what?" 

 "Using your stomach like that." 

 "Well, there's not much way around it," Caryn laughed. 

 "What's it like?" 

 "What?" 

 "Being pregnant," Meg asked quietly. 

 "Un--" Caryn shifted and groaned, her legs needing circulation,
"--uncomfortable." 

 "No," Meg smiled. "I mean, with the baby inside." 

 "It feels like gas." She laughed. 

 "No, no--" Meg shook her head, wryly. "No, what does it feel like, the
baby moving?" 

 "About four months after you find out you're pregnant, you start to feel
little kicks," she answered softly. "You're sick off-and-on for about six
weeks, and then the little kicks start, and it's...interesting." 

 Meg was quiet, just watching her. Caryn looked up at her, after a time. 

 "What are you thinking?" 

 "Oh, nothing," she answered. 

 "We're going to a community social event next Friday; plan on coming." 

 "That 'Surf 'n Turf' thing?" Meg looked unimpressed. 

 "Yes, these get-togethers are always a lot of fun." 

 "Oh, Caryn, I don't know anyone--I'd stick out like a sore thumb, a city
girl--" 

 "No you wouldn't. They'd accept you the minute you walked in the door." 

 Meg looked at her skeptically. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, isn't
it?" 

 "Really, Meg, no one would make you feel uncomfortable." 

 "Really? With half the town interested in my personal...matters?" 

 "It's all in good fun, why are you getting all up in arms?" 

 "I..." Meg sighed, shook her head. "No reason, I guess." She picked up
her pen, looked down at the page for a moment, and then wrote a few words.
She felt defensive; she had come out here for some pure relaxation and
some stable family influence, not for the unlimited excitement of being
the centre of everyone's matchmaking efforts. Fraser was who he was, she
was who she was, and between them stood a gap that wasn't going to be
bridged by some well-meaning friends. As much as the sight of him made her
heart skip a beat and her skin tingle, she knew it was simply an
attraction. A liability. 

 You're really cold sometimes, Meg... Caryn's voice echoed in her mind.
She wrote the words down, and stared at them. 

 "What's for dinner?" Caryn asked. 

 "Whatever I don't burn," Meg answered, smiling.  

 Ben looked down at the little bunch of violets in his hand, and shook his
head in disbelief. 

 "I don't know..." 

 "Of course she'll like them!" Ivy encouraged, gesturing reassuringly with
the trowel. He still looked unsure of what to do with them. 

 "Do you think it's appropriate for the occasion?" 

 Ivy turned to look at her husband, who was sorting seeds at the
workbench. 

 "What do you think, hon?" 

 He looked up, glanced at them. 

 "I guess," he answered, shrugged, and then turned back to his work. Ivy
sighed and shook her head, a long-suffering smile appearing on her face. 

 "Great help you are," she said, pursing her lips. Ben was standing there,
looking for all the world like he was out of his depth, and she was
determined to convince him to take the violets. He had come by earlier,
for dinner, and she had managed to extract from him that he was planning
on asking that Thatcher woman to accompany him to the social planned for
next Friday. Nothing formal; it would just be rude to ignore an old
acquaintance, he had said. Of course, he was right. He then abruptly asked
them if they thought he should bring a small token or some such thing, and
she promptly decided that an unobtrusive bouquet would be just about
right. He did not look too certain, and John seemed to be bent on not
getting involved in the matter in the slightest, so she was left to advise
on her own. 

 She felt that she had some authority on the matter, being a woman and
knowing what she would appreciate, but she felt a little uncomfortable
attempting to guide someone else's social life. It would have to be his
decision. 

 "I just know that I would think it sweet of you," she said. 

 "That's what I'm trying to avoid," he said, under his breath. Then he
looked up and smiled at her. "Thank you, Ivy." 

 "Anytime. They just take up space down here, growing for us alone. I
would consider it an honour, if you found a good use for them." If the
idea was making him uncomfortable, she really would not be offended if he
decided against it. 

 He smiled and nodded. "Then I will. I don't suppose they will be an
issue, and she'll probably be surprised to see them out here at this time
of year." 

 "That's something," John said, from his corner. 

 "Yes. Well, thank you kindly for dinner." 

 "Our pleasure," she answered. "And do invite her to come out here
sometime. She's here for another three weeks, isn't she?" 

 "I believe so, yes," he said. "At least until after Mrs. Cooper gives
birth." 

 "Well, then, perhaps they can all come over. We'll have to radio them.
Won't we, dear?" 

 "Mmm-hmm," John responded, intent on his sorting. 

 "What shall I keep them in, to protect them?" Ben asked, looking down at
the dainty flowers. For some reason, they seemed to suit Meg; he wondered
if the colours would complement her eyes. He realized that Ivy had asked
him a question, and he looked up from his thoughts. 

 "I beg your pardon?" 

 "I said, do you want a sprig of fern or Queen Anne's to accompany them?" 

 "That would be a corsage, Ivy," John said dryly. "Let's not be too
overbearing." 

 "Well, I'm glad that you're finally volunteering your opinion--do you
have any suggestions?" 

 "Just leave them the way they are: simple," he answered, peering across
the room at the two of them, over his glasses. 

 "Hmm. I think you're right." She looked thoughtful. 

 Ben stood there, wondering at the absurdity of the situation. They were
discussing how to make a bouquet in a basement full of flowers and
vegetables, growing in full bloom in the middle of an NWT winter. He had
almost no idea how the minister and his wife managed it, but they did.
There was something wonderfully improbable about the whole thing. 

 It occurred to him that he did not even know if Meg even liked flowers.
She had never spoken about it the last--and only--time he had tried to
give her some. They had, by mutual silent agreement, thereafter pretended
that it had never happened. They had excelled at avoiding things. He shook
his head and drew himself out of his thoughts. There was no point in
revisiting all of that. This was just one friend paying respects to
another. 

 Ivy had gotten a small bit of wrapping paper and a bag for him to carry
the little bunch in. She took them carefully from his hands, brushed the
remainder of the soil off, and arranged them carefully, before rolling
them up and sliding the paper into the bag. She closed it and gave him the
package. 

 "There you are." 

 "How much do I owe you?" he asked, taking his hat out from under his arm
to get the small wad of bills folded under the brim. 

 "Nothing, Benton," she smiled, stopping his hand. "Don't worry about it."


 "That's what they're here for, son," John smiled over his glasses,
turning on the stool to face them. "God bless. Drive carefully. Radio
station said there's a storm moving in tonight." 

 "I will, thank you, John," Ben nodded to the minister, and then to Ivy.
"Have a good evening." 

 "We will," she smiled up at him. "Do you mind seeing yourself out? I was
going to pot a few of these before I went to bed." 

 "Not a'tall," he returned the smile, pulling on his gloves. Nodding one
more time at her, he went up the stairs and out of sight. A moment later,
they heard the front door close. 

 "What do you think?" she asked, looking after him for a moment. 

 "I think you should leave it in the Lord's hands, and let them figure it
out for themselves." 

 "Aye, I suppose you're right," she said, and started in on repotting the
tulips.  

 There was a knock on the door and Meg looked up from her book. Caryn
glanced at her from across the room, nodded, and continued her comfortable
rocking in front of the fireplace. They had put Paul and Maggie to bed
some time earlier; Dave had gone to the Onsten's store for the evening. He
wouldn't knock on his own door. Who was it, then? Caryn did not seem
particularly surprised or worried, so Meg crawled out of her comfortable
bedroll, sliding a marker into her place in
 Yukon Wild, and made her way over to the door. Before opening it, she put
on her coat. 

 He was standing there in the waning light, holding a small paper bag. He
seemed, oddly enough, surprised to see her. 

 "Meg." 

 "Ben." 

 They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then he looked down at his hand
and remembered what was there. 

 "Ah...is Dave here?" 

 "No, he went into town," she answered. He nodded, mentally kicking
himself at asking such an inane question. Dave always spent Thursday
evenings at the Onstens' store. So did he, for that matter, but he had
other things to attend to, once this errand was completed. 

 "Well--here," he held out the bag for her to take. She took it from him,
and stepped back a pace. 

 "Do you want to come in?" 

 "Cold air's coming in," Caryn called. 

 "Yes, I'm sorry," Meg said to her, and then to Ben, since he had not
moved from his spot, "Well?" 

 "Ah, no. I just came to drop that off. And ask you." 

 Meg pulled the door behind her, almost closing it. Her flannel-clad legs
were freezing in the cold air. She had not been prepared to end up outside
for more than a few seconds, but at this, her curiosity got the better of
her. "Ask me what?" 

 He levelled his gaze at her for moment, then shrugged as if to say that
it was not that important. 

 "I was wondering if you would be willing to accompany me to the social on
the sixteenth," he stated plainly. The air she breathed was cold, and
though she was intrigued, she dearly wanted to get back inside. 

 "I...suppose, yes," she answered. "Is that all?" 

 He looked down at the ground, nodded, and then looked back up at her. 

 "I'll come by at six p.m. Is that a good time?" 

 "As good as any," she answered. 

 "Good night, then." He touched his hat, with a slight inclination of his
head. 

 "Good night." 

 She felt as if she was in a version of *Anne of Green Gables* that had
somehow gone awry. She was standing there in her pajamas and winter coat,
shivering and wondering what exactly was happening to her, being courted
by a perfect gentleman. 

 "Okay." 

 "I'll see you then." 

 He nodded to her and turned away. Frowning, she held the bag in both
hands and watched him for a moment, then realized how cold it was and
quickly went inside, pushing the door closed. She shimmied out of the coat
and hung it beside the door. Caryn looked around from the high back of her
rocking chair. 

 "What's that?" 

 Meg looked down at the small brown paper bag in her hand and shook her
head. 

 "I don't know. I think it's for Dave." 

 "Bring it here, let me see." 

 Meg walked over, opening the bag, and pulled out a small package of
flower-wrapping paper. Curious, suddenly, she stopped beside Caryn and
unrolled the package, and she gasped when she looked inside. "How did
he...?" 

 "What is it?--let me see--" Caryn put her hand on Meg's, and pulled it
down to reveal the most beautiful little bunch of violets. Simple, alone,
and impossible in this climate. 

 "Wow..." her fingers touched one of the petals lightly. Even in the
summer months, violets did not grow above the sixtieth. She had not seen
one for years. She wondered where the Sergeant had gotten them; as far as
she knew, gardening was not one of his hobbies...ah, but it
 was the Glens' hobby. She smiled. "So, what did he come for?" 

 "To deliver these, apparently," Meg answered dryly. 

 "Oh, c'mon. You can't tell me that all you did out there was shuffle your
feet in the snow." 

 "He asked me to accompany him to the community event next Friday." She
made sure to phrase it as a group effort bordering on a business proposal.


 "He asked you out? That's great!" Caryn sat, grinning like the Cheshire. 

 "It was simply being polite," Meg replied, taking the bouquet into the
kitchen. She rummaged until she found a small vase, and put them in it,
with a little water. "He excels at that." 

 "Oh, Meg," Caryn sighed, watching her move around the kitchen. For some
reason, her friend had a chip the size of Iqaluit on her shoulder. She had
just been asked out to the community social event--tantamount to a date,
out here--by the single most eligible bachelor in the valley, and she was
staring with a set frown at the violets he had given her. Caryn looked at
the flames crackling in the fireplace. She missed Dave; he would be home
in a short while. Meg troubled her. Perhaps he would be able to give her
some logical perspective on the matter--that, or just tell her not to
worry about it, and fall promptly asleep. In any case, she thought as she
rubbed her swollen belly, she just wanted him near. 

 Meg came back and curled herself up with the bedroll. They sat reading in
silence until Dave returned from town, and then they all turned in for the
night.	

 Fraser walked out several kilometres in the moonlight and then camped
himself into a snowbank and spent the night staring at the stars, Dief
curled up beside him. He built a small cook-fire and made himself a few
cups of hot cocoa from melted snow, and pulled out one of his father's
well-worn, leather-bound diaries. He flipped through the pages, looking
for the entries that he knew would be there. He had finished reading
through them years before, during his stay in Chicago, but on occasion he
would pick one up and find some new bit of wisdom from his father. It was
the only real link Fraser had left with the legendary Mountie, and he read
them, sometimes, just for comfort. Sometimes, he thought, he could hear
his father's voice speaking the words... 

 *I remember the first time I set eyes on Caroline Hayes. She was small
and fiery, and her red hair lit up the highlights around her face. I knew
the moment that she set her eyes on me that I would be forever lost in
their depths. I didn't know what to say to her; I remember simply staring
at her, transfixed.* *I don't know why God made a man and a woman in such
a way that there's a moment when you know that they are the other half of
your soul, but she...was mine. The night she said yes to my proposal was
the second most beautiful night of my life. Why she ever did say yes, I'll
never know. To me, a rough old woodsman with no lack of faults. But she
did. She left the city and followed me all the way up to Inuvik, and we
even lived in an igloo for two years, without a word of complaint from
her. I remember laying the ice blocks with her, and the night Benton was
conceived, before I left to scout the northern islands. I remember the
flush of her cheeks and the glitter of the tears in her eyes. I remember
feeling the most fulfilled and contented that I have in my whole life.*
 Caroline... 

 Here, the page was faintly stained and wrinkled, the last traces of the
tears dried almost forty years in the past. Fraser ran his fingers across
the yellowed paper and laid back to watch the stars move through the night
sky.  

 7 

 "You know, Caryn said that it starts at seven; I was meaning to ask you
why we were going early," Meg said, following Fraser outside. 

 "I'm supposed to be there early," he answered. 

 "Oh." She supposed that he was expected to be a community leader, in his
position. Nodding at that thought, she got her snowmobile out from under
cover, strapped her rented helmet on, and drove down the hill the short
ways to where he was climbing onto his. 

 "Ready?" he asked, fastening the strap under his chin. 

 "Yep," and she dropped her visor down and revved the engine. He closed
his visor and started off down the incline towards town. It was about a
thirty-minute ride; not far. She followed behind him, enjoying the speed
and the rumbling of the engine beneath her. They wove in and out of the
hills, through a few kilometres of woods and into another clearing, down
into the river valley. They skimmed across the open landscape, onto the
frozen MacKenzie river, stretched out for two kilometres, perfectly flat.
They flew past the small ferry-house on the opposite bank before she had
time to look at it closely. She had spotted a bush plane coming overhead,
and it roared down low over the lake in greeting. Ahead of her, Fraser
waved. The plane banked away, heading towards the small airfield near
town. Farther off to the south, she could see another plane flying in.
Despite herself, she grinned inside of her helmet. 

 They reached the riverbank on the opposite side, and Fraser navigated a
smooth path up the side onto land, such as it was. She followed it
carefully, wary of the rocks and the steep embankment, and then they raced
through the last section of forest into the centre of Fort Liard. There
were a few people moving down the street; mostly Native, but Harold Onsten
was carrying on an animated conversation on the front porch of his store
with a small crowd clustered around him. 

 When he caught sight of the two of them driving up, he waved them over.
Fraser pulled up to a stop at the storefront and pushed up his visor. 

 "When are we starting?" 

 "A few minutes, a few minutes," Onsten said, nodding and pulling his
plaid cap on. "Brought a visitor, eh?" He elbowed into the crowd, and they
laughed. Ben smiled good-naturedly. 

 "Liven, I don't think you've met Ms. Thatcher," he said to one of the men
on the porch, who was leaning against a post. Fraser turned slightly, with
a gesture back at Meg. "Meg Thatcher, Liven Isature. Liven, Meg." Liven
smiled at her and nodded, giving his cap a tug. 

 "Ma'am," he said. She nodded back. 

 "Liven is the counsel chief of this community," Fraser explained. "And
Jeb Mallock, there, he owns the summer ferry and the airfield." Jeb nodded
to her, also tugging his cap. He was chewing on something, in a kind of
lazy, sure way. He smiled at her. 

 She suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, with eight pairs of male eyes
on her, and she nodded back stiffly. 

 "Marc, Constable Jack Willis, Wren, Elway, and Constable Hugh Bohner." As
Fraser said each of their names, the other men nodded and touched their
caps. The two Mounties were out of uniform, as was Fraser. The night duty
had probably fallen to Lecrue, the youngest at the outpost. Meg remembered
when she had been assigned such shifts; now she assigned them to others. 

 "Everything's inside, already?" 

 "Yep," the man named Wren said with a nod. He appeared to be Metis. It
was an interesting group gathered on the porch. 

 "All right, then," Fraser answered, and drove back around in a
half-circle, towards the community hall. Meg followed him, noticing that a
couple of the men stepped off the porch and started walking across the
snowy street behind them. She wondered what was in the making. She and
Fraser drove across the street and parked in the open lot next to the
hall, then made their way into the building. 

 "You can leave your coat here, on one of the pegs," he said, gesturing at
the long wall of wooden pegs down the length of the extended foyer. "Your
things will be safe." He removed his own coat, and then took hers. 

 The warm air inside was a welcome change, and she looked around as the
doors to the foyer closed behind her. There were long tables set up for
most of the length of the room, draped in off-white tablecloths. Bowls of
snack food were already set up along their length with lamps burning at
intervals between them. Four women were moving from table to table,
setting up things, and a baby in a walker was pushing its way stubbornly
across the board floor, frowning in concentration as it made a beeline for
the other side of the room. 

 "Sergeant Fraser!" At their entrance, one woman looked up and waved
across at them. The others looked up with similar exclamations. 

 "Hello, Mrs. Winituk," Fraser answered. "How's everything coming?" 

 "Good, good. Mae's bringing over a load of napkins--we didn't have
enough. Hello!" She waved at Meg. "Glad you could make it!" 

 "Thanks," she answered, feeling a bit self-conscious. 

 Two of the men from across the street came in behind them just then--Marc
and Wren. She could see the rest moving up the steps, their heads visible
through the glass panes in the door. A cold draft was coming in, and she
moved to the side a bit. Her eyes travelled over to the other end of the
hall, where there was a large space cleared--for dancing, she
supposed--and a collection of musical instrument cases, two drums, and a
few folded wooden seats propped against the far wall, beside a low stage
area. 

 The two men moved past her, and went over to the instruments. Wren
started unfolding the chairs, and Marc picked up a case and went about
assembling the instrument inside. Fraser turned to her. 

 "Meg--I need to warm up a bit before tonight starts; if you're
interested, Mrs. Winituk is organizing everything," he made a small
gesture towards the woman on the far side of the room. "I apologize for
not planning this all better; it slipped my mind before that I had to be
here early, and I should have told you when I asked you to come." 

 "That's all right; I'm sure I can make myself useful. Are you playing
tonight?" 

 "Yes," he smiled, and nodded past her at the other men as they made their
way in, and then looked back down at her. "We're the unofficial official
musical divertissement for the evening." 

 "Ah, I see." She smiled back, realizing that she was looking forward to
the festivities. It had never really seemed to sink in before that he
played the guitar; she had only seen him do it once, when they were on the
train, though one night when she had stayed late working at the consulate,
she had thought she heard him playing. She had come out of her office,
creeping quietly out to sit on the steps, outside of the line of sight
from his door. She had been unwilling to disturb him, afraid that if she
did, he would stop playing. The chords had wafted out, soft, and then a
bit of picking, a classical style that she thought she recognized. For a
short while, he just seemed to be playing without any strict melody in
mind, just progressions, a side note or two. Then he launched into a
lively version of a traditional Scottish tune, and she found herself
humming and keeping time with her fingers on her knees. 

 He must have heard the stairs creak or something, because his playing
suddenly stopped, and she jumped off the step and scooted back into her
office. He had appeared in his doorway a moment later, just as she was
closing her door, and she nodded to him, then pushed it closed. He had not
played again that night, and distracted by her thoughts, she had turned
off her computer only a short while later, closed up her office, and gone
home. It was those late nights in the darkened consulate that had weakened
her defences the most, trying to work and knowing that he was just across
and down the hall, probably lying on his cot reading a book. It was enough
to make it very difficult for her to get any useful work done. She did not
know why she had bothered--well, yes, she did, but that was not what she
wanted to think about right now. 

 "Fraser!" Jeb called, rolling out one of the large drums. "You coming?" 

 "Be right there," Fraser answered, then looked down at Meg. "You're all
right?" 

 "I'm fine, Ben," she answered. "Go. I'll find something to do back
there." 

 "You don't mind?" 

 "No. I like being involved." 

 He nodded, satisfied, and headed off across the room. She looked over at
the men, who were trying a few beats and notes as they were warming up
their instruments and fingers. Setting her jaw, she headed across the room
to find out what napkins needed folding and where the paper plates were.  

 "You certainly took your time getting here," Meg shouted over the din in
the large hall. 

 "We left a little later than expected--hope I didn't miss anything!"
Caryn grinned, Paul trailing close behind her. 

 "Not yet, though I did hear them planning a moose-call competition!" Meg
grinned back and ladled out a cup of punch, making sure to leave a few
bits of ice cream floating in the top, and handed it down to Paul. He took
it eagerly and gulped it down. 

 "Thank you, ma'am," he said, grinning, ice-cream foam at the edges of his
mouth. Another boy across the room shouted his name, and after a nod from
his mother, he took off to find his friend. 

 "You're welcome!" Meg called after his retreating form. Caryn turned back
to look at her, shaking her head. 

 "So, are you having fun?" 

 The hall had filled up quickly, families arriving from all around the
area, bringing crock-pots and bowls full of food. Meg had been assigned to
man the punch bowl, and she found herself enjoying it immensely. She liked
having a place in the grand scheme of things. Three adolescents arrived in
the middle of Caryn's words and took cups of punch, chattering excitedly
all the while, and then drifted off again. 

 "What?" Meg leaned over the counter towards Caryn, after they walked
away. 

 "Are you having fun?" 

 "Yes!" Meg grinned, and leaned back. Mrs. Winituk suddenly appeared at
her elbow. 

 "How're things? Do you have enough ginger-ale? No? Let me go--Caryn!
Honey, you look great!" She went around the counter in the kitchen and
came out to give Caryn a sideways-hug. 

 "Anna!" Caryn smiled, returning it. "You look like you're in your
element." 

 "Oh, there are so many things that I have to organize...we didn't have
enough napkins, and then Jake Kincaid went off and brought back the
caribou he'd been keeping on a hook behind the house. He's been outside
skinning it for the past hour--Meg, dear, why didn't you tell me that the
ginger-ale was running low?--" and then she was off again, sorting through
the supplies in the back of the kitchen. 

 Meg continued ladling out the plastic cups of punch, barely keeping ahead
of the stream of adults and children taking them and returning for a
refill. Caryn took a glass, herself, and went behind the counter to sit
beside her and watch the bustling hall. She made small talk with a number
of people, introducing them to Meg, inquiring about news. Meg did not talk
a lot; she seemed content manning the punch bowl and exchanging
pleasantries on occasion. 

 Out of the corner of her eye, Caryn observed her friend. She was amused
to find that, at regular intervals, Meg took a moment to look over the
milling crowd and the children clamouring for more punch, to get a glance
at the musicians at the other end of the hall. 

 They were playing a few traditional numbers, doing some improvisation as
the hall filled up and the people settled around and mingled. The
musicians had managed to work out an interesting combination of Native and
European styles, sometimes alternating between them, other times weaving
them together. Caryn admitted that it was fun to watch them play; the
important thing was that they seemed to be enjoying themselves a great
deal, which made for some wonderful music. They had been doing it for a
number of years, dragging new people into the group on occasion. The
minute they had found out that Fraser could play, Dave had told her, Marc
had begun a campaign until he finally gave in. Dave played the tin whistle
on occasion; she wondered if he had brought it this evening. 

 The music came to a close, and Liven stepped up to the front of the stage
and raised his hands. Within a few seconds, everyone in the hall had
turned towards him and hushed. Meg noted this with some admiration. 

 "I'd just like to welcome you all to this here gathering, and encourage
you all to eat the food! We're going to end up taking it home if you
don't." 

 The crowd laughed. Several of the women who had organized the event were
the musicians' wives. Nothing wasted; they would be eating three-bean
salad for a week. 

 "Also, we have a few things planned for tonight! Amanda Canbrary's
third-grade class will be presenting a short one-act play, written by the
kids themselves--" 

 Everyone clapped. 

 "--and there will be a few singers and a few dancers--" 

 More clapping. 

 "--and the best call of the great bull moose will be won here tonight!--"


 The men cheered while the drum roll built up. 

 "--once again trying to unseat the reigning victor for three years
consecutive, Sergeant Benton Fraser!" 

 Everyone yelled and hooted. Fraser grinned and waved his hand
dismissively. He rested it on the top of his guitar. Meg laughed and shook
her head. Caryn grinned up at her. 

 "He's really quite good at it," she said. 

 "And you know what one sounds like?" 

 "Oh yes," she answered, chin up. "Do you?" 

 "I think that I'm going to find out." 

 Caryn laughed. 

 "Hey, ma'am? Lady?" A boy was waving an empty punch cup in front of Meg.
She took it and filled it, gave it back to him, and he mumbled a thanks
and disappeared again, off into the crowd. 

 "So!" continued Liven, in his booming voice. "On with the party!" 

 Everyone applauded, Liven turned back to the band, and the noise of a
roomful of conversations rose again. The band struck up some dinner music
with a reed flute in the lead, and the tables formed into lines for the
buffet. Caryn pushed herself up and went around Meg. 

 "I'm going to go get a plate. When I get back, I'll do that, and you get
yourself something to eat." With that, she left the kitchen, pushing her
way into the quickly-growing line. Meg poured in more soda and scooped in
another box of ice cream, and then filled a few rows of cups with punch.
She looked across the room--a narrow divide had cleared itself in the
crowd, and her eyes travelled over to Fraser. He was strumming, tapping
his foot in time to the music, and he glanced her way. Their gazes caught
for a moment, and he smiled, nodded to her. She smiled back and gave a
small wave. 

 Caryn arrived just in time to catch the exchange, and sidled past her
with a teasing smile. The crowd closed again, and Meg whirled around,
fixing her friend in a reprimanding glare as she sat down with the plate. 

 "You want some glazed chicken?" Caryn offered up a small leg. 

 "Mmm, thanks." Meg decided that there were enough cups filled, and took
the piece of chicken. Caryn licked her fingers. 

 "Line's too long to go out now; wait until it gets a bit shorter." 

 Anna Winituk happened by, looked through the opening in front of the
counter. "Everything going well?" 

 "Yep," answered Meg, between mouthfuls of very tasty honey-glazed
chicken. 

 "Good, good. There are another dozen bottles of ginger-ale outside in the
back, if you need them." 

 "I'll remember that, thanks. You should take a break; you've been working
hard on this all for a long time, now." 

 "I will," the woman answered, smiling. "I think I'll have a sip now." She
took a cup, nodded her thanks to Meg, and disappeared back off into the
crowd. 

 "She's a nice lady," Meg observed. 

 "See, I told you," Caryn said, forking a clump of macaroni salad. 

 Meg nodded, and finished the leg. She dropped the bone in the trash
beside the door of the kitchen and washed her hands. She found another
fork and went about helping Caryn with the rest of the plate.  

 A young woman was singing a traditional Dene song, accompanying herself
with a guitar. It was really quite pleasant, though Meg did not understand
most of the language. The lilt of the tune was relaxing. The musicians had
taken their mid-dinner break and were getting their own meals and
spreading out around the room to eat with family and friends. Cooks and
various volunteers were moving behind Meg and Caryn, in and out of the
kitchen, sorting trays and unwrapping more food. 

 "Good evening ladies," Fraser said, appearing in the serving window in
front of them. 

 "Good evening, sir," Caryn answered with a grin. "You wouldn't happen to
be willing to part with one of those legs, would you?" 

 "What?" Meg, who had been chagrined at finding herself staring at his
hands, suddenly looked over at Caryn, taken aback. 

 "The chicken leg. Padina's glazed chicken legs are to die for," Caryn
said, smiling. 

 "Are you adding that to your list of cravings?" Fraser asked with a grin.


 "For now, yes." 

 "Well, then, certainly," he said, and deftly moved one from his plate to
theirs. 

 "Thanks," she said, and took a bite. 

 "Having a good time?" Meg asked him. He nodded and looked around. 

 "Yes. You?" 

 "Mm-hmm," she nodded. She was conscious of the fact that she was staring
at him, and that Caryn was staring at her. "Ah...do you want some punch?" 

 "Sure," he looked down at the neat rows. "Would you recommend one of
these, or a fresh one?" 

 "Oh, a fresh one, definitely." She took out a clean cup and prepared to
ladle. "With or without a disproportionately large lump of ice cream?" 

 "Hmm..." he looked thoughtful. "With...out. Well, how about one with, and
one without?" 

 "Can't decide?" 

 "Something like that. Or I'm just desperately thirsty." 

 "Oh, sorry--" and she quickly ladled him an lump-free one. He took it
with a nod of thanks, finished it in about two seconds, and licked his
lips. The gesture distracted her, but she took his now-empty cup, filled
it again, this time leaving a bit of ice-cream, and handed it back,
without missing a beat. Their fingers brushed lightly; there was no
avoiding it. 

 "Thank you kindly." 

 "You're welcome." 

 He nodded to Caryn, who nodded back amidst her half-eaten chicken leg,
and then he went off in the direction towards where Dave and Maggie were
sitting with two other families. Meg poured herself a cup and sat back to
sip it as she watched him walk away.  

 The third-grade production of *Franklin and the Beaufort Sea* ended
tragically, as it always did, with everyone dead on the floor. The crowd
clapped and school honours were awarded to a number of students, in every
subject from basket-weaving to a spelling bee. Paul won a prize for his
paper-maché sculpture of a giraffe. The baby in the walker pushed
its way into the middle of the bee and cooed loudly at all the excitement
until someone appeared to carry it back to a playpen set up in the corner,
where it fell asleep ten minutes later, and stayed that way throughout the
rest of the evening, despite the din. 

 Caryn noised around the room that Meg had done a bit of singing in
college, and Harold Onsten dragged her up to the front and wheedled a song
out of her. She agreed to sing something, as long as it was not a solo. Of
course, Harold Onsten being who he was, he then convinced Fraser to
accompany her--with the full participation of the crowd, it was really
quite intimidating--and they conferred together quietly and chose a lively
Irish tune. This would likely prompt everyone to join in with them, once
they all recognized it, and they would not have to feel so self-conscious.


 With Fraser playing mainly rhythm guitar, and the rest of the band
members embellishing the simple tune, they began singing. They fell into a
comfortable harmony a few lines into the song, and at the chorus, sure
enough, the rest of the room joined in. Meg got a little more confident
with more voices around her, and she let herself have a little fun. Well,
more than a little fun. She had herself a great time, and hearing his
tenor beside her made her enjoy it even more. 

 The energy in the room was up, everyone had finished their after-dinner
relaxation, and half of the room poured out to dance. It was wonderful;
she was flushed and excited and younger than she had felt for a long time.
No one except for Caryn and Fraser knew who she was outside of this place,
and neither of them held her to it. People congratulated her, struck up
conversations with her, one or two men asked her to dance, and families
invited her to their homes for dinner. 

 The evening had been going so well.  

 8 

 Meg climbed onto the large boulder protruding from the snow covering the
mountainside and settled herself down with her legs dangling over the
edge. She leaned forward, her gloved hands resting on the rock on either
side of her thighs, and looked out over the valley. 

 The sun had gone down two hours ago, and the moon was casting a pale
luminescence over the valley. Dave had been reading the newspaper, and
Caryn had been making herself comfortable in her rocking chair, when Meg
had left their cabin to climb farther up the hillside to be by herself.
Caryn was due in less than a week; as the day came nearer, Meg felt
increasingly saddened, wanting to be happy for her friend, but finding it
harder and harder to ignore the reality of her own loneliness--her own
barrenness. There. She had let herself say it. She swallowed and looked up
at the sky. 

 She had come to help her friend with taking care of her family and making
all of the preparations for a new baby, not to feel sorry for herself, but
here she was, sitting on the mountainside, looking out at the endless
kilometres of white snow and green pine, feeling the cold wind seeping
into her bones. She pulled the warm coat more tightly around herself, but
it was not the temperature, really. In all honesty, it was not really that
cold--her body had adapted to the lower temperatures in the two and a half
weeks that she'd been here, and the cool air did not sting her cheeks
uncomfortably. It just felt cold in her bones, that was all. She looked
across the sky and found herself mesmerized by the brushes of colour
shooting up from behind the mountains. The Aurora Borealis was humming in
a pale green, edged this evening by a faint orange. She watched them every
evening from this perch on the rock, never tiring of their stunning waves
across the nighttime sky. 

 Against her will, and then a bit more easily, thoughts of him edged into
her mind. She did not want to hold out hope, or to delude herself, or to
pretend that the emotions were not real. They were--but were they right?
Were they misguided? Were they just the product of her biological clock
ticking its seconds away? Or were they just a fantasy that she was
imagining existed? If they were, why did it hurt so much to admit that? If
they were not, what could she hope for? 

 Her thoughts were leading her nowhere, so she frowned up at the sky and
bumped the rock with her heels. She remembered the social with a smile,
calling to mind all of the life and exuberance that the people of Fort
Liard had put into the simple gathering. The Dene and the Europeans alike,
though they lived on opposite sides of the street, had come together for
an evening of food, laughter, music, children, dancing... 

 He had quite a good voice, and she could carry a tune, as well. Singing
had been fun, it had reminded her of the freedom of the songs she had
learned as a child. Harold Onsten and the others in the motley group of
musicians had insisted that Fraser dance with her once, and after a moment
of awkwardness, they had agreed. With all eyes on them (though pretending
not to notice), they had danced to a rousing tune while the fiddles sang
and the drums pounded in time with the heels on the floor, and there was
general breathless laughter all around. The room had spun--half literally,
half in her own body, while those slate blue eyes had fixed on hers and
those arms had swung her around, and she had felt like her own feet were
flying across the floor. 

 It did not matter that she had stepped on his toes once--they had only
ended up laughing and had gotten back into step, or that when it was over
she was dizzy in more ways than one, and had ended up falling into his
arms--she hadn't meant to, she hadn't. They had stood like that for a
moment longer than a heartbeat, and then she felt him quicken, and he bent
towards her--she felt his breath across her neck--and then just as
suddenly, he had set them apart, at arms' length, thanked her for the
dance, excused himself, and disappeared from the hall. 

 She hadn't followed him; instead, she'd made her way through the dancing
crowd to the women's washroom, and had cried for a few minutes. She wasn't
an overly-emotional woman, she didn't cry about things like this. There
wasn't anything to cry about, why was she even locked in here, sitting on
the toilet seat, covering her face with her hands while hot tears welled
out of the edges of her eyes? It was just that things she had kept shut
for so long were pushing their way open, and it was both frightening and
hopeful all at once. She had come out here on a low emotional ebb, hoping
to find peace and repair a little of her heart, an ironic voice in her
mind said. This was not it. 

 Caryn had come to get her; she had knocked on the door and asked in that
soft voice if she was all right, and did she want to go home with them? By
then, Meg had collected herself and was just staring silently at her
reflection in the small mirror. She had opened the door with whatever
calmness that she could muster, and had spent the rest of the trip back to
the Coopers' home in silence. She hadn't seen him in the hall, and she
didn't ask if anyone else had. She just wanted to crawl into her warm
sleeping bag and cry, for no good reason, some more. She had done just
that, and after a long time of asking herself what their respective ranks
meant, how callous she was, and what he must have been thinking, she had
drifted off into an exhausted sleep. 

 Meg took a deep breath and let it out, watching the small cloud disappear
into the cold air. There was plenty of moonlight left, and she didn't feel
like going back down to the cabin just yet. There were still too many
things in her mind for her to sleep, in any case. Why couldn't life be
simple and clear-cut? A bitter laugh rose up in her throat at that wishful
thought. It could never be that way, not for her. She had had her chance,
she had put her career before everything else in life, and it was
unreasonable now to ask for a second try. 

 She heard a rustling movement below her, and she looked down, all of her
self-defence and wilderness training rushing to the front of her mind. A
bear, possibly, or a hunter; she started to rise, then paused--a man was
walking up the incline, through the trees, and the moment she recognized
his Stetson, her stomach relaxed and then tightened, and she swallowed.
What was he doing, coming out here this late in the evening? Why was he
here? He had probably come out with mail or spare snowmobile parts for
Dave's pet tinkering project, and had decided to offer her a stiff apology
and make his escape. Ever doing his duty. She sighed and told her snappish
attitude to stop. He was a fellow officer and a good friend, one of a very
few people that she knew she could trust. He may be a bit eccentric or
bull-headed at times, but he had always respected her. She told herself to
be content with that. 

 They must have told him that she had gone up the mountain. She'd taken to
doing it in the evenings, just sitting up here by herself after the sun
went down. 

 She watched him follow her tracks, admiring his easy stride up the
hillside in the snow. He was in his element, doing what he did best, his
movements athletic and unhurried. She knew that he could just look up and
see her sitting on the boulder, but the brim of the hat remained angled
down, his face hidden. After a minute of watching him, she looked out at
the white landscape, across the valley to the edge of the lake. It was a
clear night; farther away, grayed by distance, she could see where the two
rivers snaked together. It was beautiful, quiet and pristine. 

 He climbed around a short hollow in the ground face and followed her
tracks up to the side of the boulder. She looked over at him and he smiled
at her with a kind of short, polite nod. He paused beside the rock. 

 "Good evening. Is that seat taken?" 

 "No, but I must warn you that I'm experiencing violent tendencies." 

 He smiled at the dry comment and moved around behind her to sit down
about half a metre away. She looked at his profile for a moment and then
turned her own gaze to the shimmering greens and blues in the sky. They
were both quiet for a while. Meg did not know what to say, so she said
nothing. She listened to the sounds of the wind blowing through the trees,
the creak of the pine as it swayed. She listened to him, wondering what he
was thinking. She thought she could catch his scent, but the air was cold
and the wind was moving, and she supposed that it was in her imaginings.
After a time, he shifted beside her and exhaled a long breath. 

 "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She said, taking it all in. He turned to look
at her, then nodded, and looked up at the night sky, himself. 

 "Yes." 

 They were silent for a long moment, and then he turned towards her. 

 "Meg--" 

 "I'm sorry." 

 That gave him pause. 

 "*You're *sorry? Why?" 

 "My presumption, the way I tried to make your life difficult, my
callousness. I'm just sorry, that's all. Being out here, alone, you have
time to think about what's important and what you've done wrong, and why
you're sitting alone on a rock thinking dark thoughts about the universe."
She surprised herself at her own words, and she quieted again. 

 He looked out again, and swallowed. He had almost never wanted to hear
those words; that brokenness that he heard in her voice twisted a point
into his chest, and he looked down at his hands. He had not come up
looking for an apology; he had come to make one. His behaviour had been
unacceptable when he had last seen her, and what she must have been
thinking when he left had been eating at him for days. He had overheard
two of the women discussing it as they left the gathering that night, and
knew that he had to make restitution, if not just for embarrassing her
before everyone else. He just was not sure how to make it, or what to say,
or even if she hated his very presence. He shook his head at the silence
that hung between them and took a deep breath to speak. 

 "You don't have to apologize for anything, Ben," she interrupted his
unformed thought again. "Nothing." 

 "I behaved wrongly," he said, remembering the taste of her lips from long
ago and pushing the thought aside as quickly as it had appeared. He had
come to apologize. That was all. He should not have left her standing
alone on the dance floor; it had been wrong then, and her insistence on
not allowing him to ask her forgiveness was not making it any easier for
him now. 

 "No, you didn't. You did the right thing, I understand." She spoke in a
kind of detached tone, and he wanted to reach over and shake her by her
shoulders. That fire, that proud bearing, that commanding officer--he
could fight that, he could even understand it--but this soft-spoken shadow
beside him, she frightened him. Inspector Margaret Thatcher did not offer
soft-spoken apologies. 

 "My apology stands, nonetheless," he answered. He looked over at her
cold-reddened cheeks in the dimming light--the moon was bright tonight, he
noted--and saw a small glistening spot at the edge of her eye. The sight
twisted in his chest again, and he swallowed and looked away. Perhaps he
should leave her and go back down to the cabin, but he could not bring
himself to move from the rock. She was all that mattered at the moment,
and if she wanted to stay, then he would, too, if only to make sure that
she was all right. 

 "Why weren't you angry at me?" She asked suddenly. 

 "What?" He wasn't sure what she was asking. 

 "When I treated you so unkindly all those years." 

 He took a moment to collect his thoughts, to put one in place. 

 "I didn't believe that you were truly unkind, sir," he answered, using
the address as a subordinate officer, to let her know that he knew what
she was referring to. She understood. 

 "But why?" She turned to look at him, her expression genuinely confused.
She thought that if she could understand this one thing, why a man with
his integrity respected her, she could get up from the rock and walk with
the knowledge that someone saw more of her than just a cold woman with a
hard exterior. She actually needed him, and she had never before admitted
to herself that she truly needed anyone in her life. I'm at a low ebb; I
know that, she told herself. 

 "Your antagonism was borne not from a spiteful attitude, but from
much...pain," he said finally. 

 "And how would you know that?" She snapped at him, at once reacting to
the fear that he knew she was vulnerable and also testing him to see if he
would take offense. He didn't. 

 "Your eyes," he answered quietly. 

 She stilled, shifted, and looked down at her gloved hands. A wind blew
past them, but she didn't notice the chill in the air. Her emotions had
tossed her, and she hated not being able to control her emotions. It was a
sign of weakness, and in a woman, it could be used as a badge of female
incompetence in a male environment. If you showed weakness, they assumed
that you couldn't handle the job, and that was unacceptable. She had
buried and buried for so long that when the ground was turned, it hurt
terribly, and more things poured out than she could hold in at once. His
words ached in her. They were simple, but they turned earth. 

 "You know," he continued, in her silence. His voice was a mixture of
discrete observation and gentle curiosity. "I've always wondered something
about you." 

 She licked her lips and looked sideways at him, half-fearing his answer
to her question. 

 "What's that?" 

 "Your...scent, for lack of a better word." He paused, she waited
expectantly. "Well, it's...wild, I guess." He was trying to describe
something of a sense that most people rarely used, and there was a
startling lack of sufficient descriptive words for it. 

 "Why does that intrigue you?" Meg asked, her interest piqued. She
remembered him trying to guess her perfume as a distraction while they had
been tied together on the train. He had finally given up--something that
Benton Fraser never did--and asked her what she was wearing. She had told
him she wasn't wearing anything. Well, she thought a bit wryly, that
hadn't come out quite the way that she had intended it to, but the
resulting look on his face had been quite worth the blunder. She smiled a
little at the memory. 

 "My first impression of you was of a city-dweller," he said, tilting his
head to side a bit. "You seemed well-adapted and comfortable in the dense
urban setting of Chicago, but you smelt nothing of the thick air of the
city. I don't mean that the smells of the city didn't adhere to your
clothing, what with the air being so full of pollutants--" He sighed. "I'm
not entirely sure that I'm communicating what I mean to you." 

 "Nothing new," she actually felt a smile tugging at the corner of her
mouth. "Try again." 

 "Right you are," he said, and nodded. "What I'm trying to say is that
neither Diefenbaker nor I could resolve the...essence of your scent...with
the scent of those who have spent their lives in urban settings. It's
distinctly different, like, ah, how do I describe it?--instead of the smog
and the closed-in...smell...of living in cramped quarters with so many
people, it has a touch of the acridity of pine, the clearness of a fresh
snowfall," his voice grew wistful. "A touch of musk...that's not all of
it... It was a puzzle to me. I always wanted to ask you, but was afraid to
bring the topic up, being that it's related to something of a personal
nature..." he trailed off, looking at her to gauge her reaction. Ray
Vecchio would have told him that it was just one of those paradoxes and
asked him how he could have gotten close enough to smell her,
anyway?--snicker--and Ray Kowalski would have told him to just carpe diem,
and all that, you know? and ask her. Well, here he was. 

 "You can smell all of that?" She asked, wondering at the puzzle of a man
sitting beside her. 

 "Yes." 

 "Why do you wonder about it?" 

 "I wondered how you came to have such a scent." 

 "You never read my personnel file to find out?" 

 His head swung around, and he seemed taken aback by the prospect. "No,"
he answered. "That would have been inappropriate." 

 "You could have used the consular access at any time; there would have
been no repercussions." 

 "It would have been inappropriate," he repeated. "If there had been a
situation where information concerning your past record of service was
relevant, I would have accessed it. None arose. Beyond that, any personal
information was yours, alone, to give." 

 "And now you want to know," she said, thinking that the moon was
unusually bright this evening. 

 "No, sir," he answered, with a sigh. "I'm not here to...extract
information from you. I just...I was just trying to make conversation." He
looked away, in the other direction, at a pair of bald eagles, as they
flew over the treetops further down in the valley. They wheeled and landed
in a patch of pine, disappearing from view. 

 "I was born on the edge of Lake Athapasca," she said, into the drawn-out
silence. "My father was a trapper, a fisherman, and a pilot. My mother was
a schoolteacher from Alberta. They met when she went to the Territories as
part of a federal education program, and he saved her life during a
blizzard. He was gone for weeks at a time, transporting supplies,
gathering salmon from the fish wheels, and checking the trap lines. 

 "I was home-schooled when we were snowed in. She would read to me, when
we were wrapped in a blanket together on the cold nights. Sometimes, if my
father was home, we would all huddle together and read a story. Sometimes
I read, and they would listen. I was the youngest child in the school who
could read; I learned to read when I was four, I loved it. My father
always managed to bring me new books when he flew in another shipment of
supplies." 

 There were tears forming in her eyes, but she didn't pause. Fraser
listened in silence. Never in his surmisings had he thought that her
childhood had been similar to his. She was so accomplished, so poised. Not
at all like him in his preference for simplicity or his unease with urban
life. He frowned as she continued. 

 "My mother died the night Eleanore was born. When the labour started, my
father brought me to the Reverend Ernst's home, and he didn't come back
for me for two days. When he did come back, he brought Eleanore, and I
held her. I never saw my mother again." She swallowed, and Fraser looked
down at his hands. 

 "We lived with the Reverend and his wife for six years. They were kind to
us, provided for us, but I was never content there. My father came every
few weeks, to see us, and I used to beg him to take us with him, but he
never did. His visits, over the years, grew more and more infrequent, and
though I loved him, Eleanore barely knew him, and I resented him for that.
I took care of her, she was always sick, and weak. She caught pneumonia
twice..." 

 Her voice caught, but she steeled herself, her expression hard, and
continued her narrative. 

 "She died two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. The Reverend and his
wife had gone to a neighbouring village for a month, leaving us alone,
since I assured them that we would be fine. She grew sick very quickly,
and no matter what I did, she grew worse. I had been caring for her since
she was an infant, I thought that I knew what to do--" her voice was
rough, but she didn't stop. She had to finish now, or she never would.
"When I finally decided to call for the doctor, he couldn't make it in
time. Her little, too-hot body, so thin, she tried to breathe, I tried to
keep her comfortable, to clear her lungs, but she couldn't, she was too
tired and too small and too sick, she couldn't even struggle to breathe, I
remember her eyes, pleading with me--" Tears fell down her cheeks, and she
didn't bother to wipe their cooling trails away. 

 "The doctor didn't come for six hours." Her voice had gone dead, and
hearing it, Fraser's throat tightened. He just listened, quietly,
unwilling to break into her words. 

 "They pitied me, the whole town," her voice took on a bitter edge. "I
could hear the whispered words, 'The girl who sat alone with her dead
sister for hours, the poor thing.'" Her gaze remained fixed on the valley
below. "I ran away. I took my savings and I ran away. I went to the city,
where no one knew who I was, and where there were people all around me.
It's easy to hide in a city, Ben. I got a job and found a group of
friends. We laughed and talked and they treated me like I was one of them.
We went to France for a summer, all of us, saved for it, and backpacked
across the country. Three of us got small jobs as models in Paris. Paris!
Can you imagine it! Style, fashion, money, excitement, beauty, men..." Her
voice trailed off, the high note suddenly dropping from it. 

 "I had never known what it was to be desired by a man before. Life up in
the Territories, you know how isolated it can be," she looked over at him.
He nodded slightly, his eyes were a silent encouragement, and so she
looked away again, not wanting to face him, and continued, quieter now.
"And living in a minister's home, well, it's sheltered. None of my friends
knew where I had come from; I never spoke about it, I didn't want them to
think I was a backwoods nobody. And there I was in France, in the middle
of a world of everything that I'd only read about, being admired and loved
and desired. I met a man, he was older, and experienced, attractive. We
became involved." She took a deep breath, her next words coming out
thickly. 

 "One night, he raped me. No one believed me. They all knew him, they
didn't want to get into trouble. They told me that it happens. They told
me that I was misinterpreting it all. They told me that it was best not to
make an issue of it," her voice rose, her lips were pressed in a flat
line, her hands were tightened into fists on the rock. "I went home,
bitter and angry again." 

 She suddenly turned on him, her voice icy and hard. "You want to know how
I became an Inspector? Do you want to know how your precious superior
officer got her job? You want to know why I came to Chicago and tried to
take it out on you? Do you!?" 

 Fraser's gaze on her didn't waver, and she felt as if he could see
through her. She shivered. Why was she telling him this? But she steeled
her jaw and glared at him. His calm, understanding expression only made
her angrier. She wanted him to react, to get angry, to back away from her,
something, but he only sat looking at her, those clear blue eyes neither
accusing nor questioning her. The sudden wave of anger dissipated as
quickly as it had rushed in, and she felt deflated, an aching hollowness
left in its wake. She swallowed and turned away from him, the fight gone,
the tiredness taking its place again, feeling intensely lonely and angry
at herself. 

 There, he had seen her weak, probably what he had wanted all along, since
that first day they had met. She had given in to years of pent-up
frustration and had once again taken it out on him. She felt miserable for
having made the mistake so many times, and now, out here in the snow and
mountains, she was no different. One rotten turn out of life after
another, she had let it make her bitter and hard, sharp, snappish. She
heard him shift behind her, and she just wanted him to go away. She could
not bring her voice to apologize. It was just too tight and thick and her
eyes stung too badly to turn and look at him. She hid inside the hood of
her coat, the fur-lined edge covering the side of her face. *Just go, just
go, just go... *a voice in her mind repeated, desperately. She just wanted
to be alone. 

 He moved again, and she hoped that he had understood her silent request,
and would leave her without an awkward attempt at a good-bye. But suddenly
she felt his arms come around both of her shoulders, and he pulled her
back into an embrace. She resisted for a moment, but too tired to fight
any longer, she let go of the taut muscles holding her in, and a sob
escaped her lips. She turned against him, her face pressed into the soft
wool at his neck, and she cried. She let the hot tears roll down the side
of her nose and she didn't try to stop her shoulders from shaking. He
shifted them both slightly, for a more comfortable position, and then she
felt his hands slowly begin to rub her shoulder and back, through the
thick layers of her clothing. 

 His kindness only made her cry more, she felt so wretched, but he did not
vary in the steady circular motions of his hands. They remained in that
position for a long while, and after a time, her shaking lessened. He did
not see her tears as weakness, and she knew that he would not look
disdainfully at her after this. The knowledge that he would look at her
with the same respect as he always had gave her the strength to let
herself cry until her heart had finished pouring itself out onto his
sweater. Her sobs calmed, the tears slowed, the thickness in her throat
melted somewhat, and she swallowed. The wetness was quickly turning very
cold, very uncomfortable, and she reached up to wipe it away. Her cheeks
were going to be numb soon, if she didn't dry them. Seeing her motions, he
drew back the sleeve of his jacket and gently wiped the exposed length of
his white wool sweater across her cheek. She had to smile, just barely, at
that, and she sniffed, swiped at her nose. 

 "Thanks," she said, just above a whisper. A cool wind blew across them,
but his body shielded her from the brunt of it. His leather jacket was
open. She wondered how he could sit there without shivering. 

 "You're welcome," he answered, in a roughened tone. Surprised at the
sound, she looked up. His eyes were wet, and he blinked them, swallowed.
He smiled, a little turn up of the corner of his mouth, tentative. She
found herself smiling back, just a little. 

 "Hey," he said, in a low tone. 

 "Hey," she answered. 

 They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment. Another wind blew across
them, and this one bit at her not-quite-dry cheeks. She shivered and
pulled her hood tighter around her neck. Fraser nodded. 

 "We should get back." 

 "Yes." 

 But neither of them moved. 

 She looked up at him, and their gazes held for a heartbeat, for two, and
she realized that she could feel his heartbeat under her fingers, through
the sweater, and she pressed them against the weave, feeling the pulse
speed up. She knew her own was moving faster, too, matching, and she
watched something move in his eyes. 

 "It's racing?" He asked, his voice still low, and a little rough. 

 "Out of control," she answered. The two beats were quickening. 

 "Runaway," he had barely finished the last syllable before his mouth
closed down over hers, and she slid her hand up from his chest to rest
between the leather of his jacket and wool on his neck, pulling herself
closer. She didn't care about rank, she didn't care about the wind, she
didn't care that her hood had fallen back from her face. All that mattered
was the taste of him, of his arms tightening around her shoulders, holding
her to him. 

 There was no ill-timed interruption this time, and she held on for as
long as she could, until they both had to pause, and then he pushed her
half-fallen hood back on, his hand on the back of her head, and reached
down to wipe a finger of his glove across her cheek. She closed her eyes,
feeling a warmth that spread up to push a smile across her mouth, and his
lips touched her eyelids briefly. She opened them, half-surprised. 

 "Well, that was interesting," was all she managed to work out. 

 "Was it?" His eyes twinkled. And she had always thought that the
expression was just a metaphor. 

 "Mmm, very." Some little voice in the back of her mind said that they
shouldn't be doing this, but she ignored it. 

 "Even without the trainload of unconscious Mounties headed for a
thermonuclear catastrophe?" It was uncanny how his memory worked perfectly
well at all of the wrong times. It seemed to have some kind of running
joke going on with his heart. 

 She wasn't quite ready to laugh; her memories had left her drained, but
something about being held by Staff Sergeant Benton Fraser of the Royal
Canadian Mounted Police gave her just enough energy for a very undignified
giggle. 

 "Oh dear," she managed. 

 "I concur." 

 "I concur?! Listen to you, you sound like someone out of an Austen
novel." 

 "That would be my grandmother's influence," he answered. 

 "Your grandmother sounds like an interesting woman," she said. "What else
of her influence did you retain?" 

 "Well, she also taught me pugilism, knitting, and the art of making
caramel apples. All from books in the library, of course." 

 "I thought you grew up in Tuktoyaktuk. How could you make caramel apples
up there?" 

 "Inuvik, actually. My grandmother found the recipe, and she kept at my
grandfather for two months, until he had a box shipped up there. We made
it a community event." 

 "Do you think we can make this work?" 

 He tilted his head and looked at her somewhat quizzically. "What, you
mean this?" And he moved down and kissed her, a short, teasing movement
with his tongue. She started feeling warm all over again, and pushed at
his chest. He withdrew, raising one eyebrow. 

 "No," she answered, smiling, her hands still on his chest. "I think we
can make that work. I mean this whole situation. Us. You, me, and the
mountain." 

 He dropped his head, exhaled a long breath through his nose. He looked
up. "Let me take a moment to think about that." 

 After a short pause, he suddenly removed one of his hands from her arm,
shifted, and pushed them off the boulder. She shrieked at the sudden fall,
but before she had a chance to truly scare, they had landed, standing up,
the two metres down below the rock. He had steadied her drop, and they
stood facing one another on the small hollow of ground in front of the
boulder. 

 "You!" She whacked his shoulder. He grinned. He really could be so
infuriating at times. 

 "Yes." He paused, serious again. "That is, if it is something that you
want, enough, we can." 

 "And you?" She was somewhat taken aback that he had dumped it all on her.


 "The same." 

 "Ah," she answered, eyeing him. After a drawn-out moment, where she
wasn't sure what he was thinking, if anything at all, she said, somewhat
impatiently, "Well? Do you want it enough to put up with me?" 

 "What is 'it'?" 

 She paused, pursed her lips. "I don't know yet. That just happened too
fast." 

 "Well, I'm not sure that I know yet, either." 

 "We're really off to a great start, you know that?" She was starting to
get her ire up all over again. 

 "Yup," he grinned, and then his expression softened, and he held the side
of her face in his gloved hand for a moment. She melted. He drew her face
up towards him for another lingering kiss. It was sweet, not demanding, a
bit testing. She just accepted it and decided, for a man who appeared to
practically live the life of a monk, he was pretty skilled at kissing.
Curious. 

 "How did you learn to kiss so well? Did you get that from a book, too?"
She asked, teasing, enjoying the soft scratch of his wool sweater against
her cheek. He shifted on his feet, and she stood back and looked at him. 

 "Well, actually, yes," he answered, somewhat sheepishly. "There's a
wealth of information out there. Thank you kindly, by the way. You're not
unskilled yourself." 

 "Thank you." It was something, being told that particular bit of
information by this particular man. Enough to make a person strut around a
bit. She decided that was a good thing. 

 "However," he continued. "I have also read, incidentally, from the same
text, that if we continue, we will likely have very chapped lips." 

 Now she laughed. At that thought, however, her lips suddenly felt really
chapped, and she licked them. He copied her movement, almost exactly at
the same time. Both laughing, they started back down the mountainside. 

 "What are we going to do?" She asked finally, when she caught her breath.


 "Let's deal with that tomorrow," he said, going down ahead of her. "You
need to sleep. Caryn said you were up early, with Maggie." 

 "She got sick; I had to change her sheets. By the time I'd finished, Dave
had gotten up and started breakfast, and I just decided to stay up. From
one thing to another today, I never got the chance to take a nap." She
yawned, realizing once again how tired she actually was. 

 "How is she now?" 

 "Fine; she didn't have any problems for the rest of the day, she never
had a temperature. Perhaps her dinner just didn't agree with her." 

 "Probably," he nodded back. "I'm glad she's all right. How's everything
else?" 

 "Aside from my tortured love life, you mean?" 

 He laughed. "You've really changed," he said, turning slightly towards
her as he spoke. 

 "Have I?" She frowned. 

 "Yes--" he took in her expression, and his quickly changed. "Oh, I didn't
mean to offend you--" 

 "It's all right, you haven't. How?" 

 "How what?" 

 "How have I changed?" 

 "Well, you're more relaxed, for one thing," he continued down the path. 

 "Well, so are you." 

 "Point taken," he nodded. 

 "You really like it out here?" She asked, looking up as they came into a
clearing between the trees. 

 "Yes," he said simply. 

 "Don't you get lonely?" 

 "Well, yes," he answered, his voice taking on a somewhat tired tone. "But
I found that I was also lonely in the midst of other people, and that was
harder to deal with, precisely because I was with them, but still felt
alone. At least, out here, you have the wildlife, the trees, the stars, a
passing moose to keep you company." 

 She nodded, a wry smile appearing. "I think I see what you mean." The
path widened here, and she moved ahead to walk down beside him. "I can see
why the solitude is a comfort, from that point of view. But I also enjoy
the city for its convenience, the wealth of opportunities, the chance to
be anything that you want to be." 

 "You can do that out here, too," he answered. "It just depends on what
you want to be." 

 "And that's where the crux of the matter rests," she responded. 

 "Mmm-hmm." 

 They walked the last distance up to the cabin in silence, both
contemplating their own thoughts. The lights in the windows were down;
Dave and Caryn had likely gone to sleep some time before. They stopped in
front of the door, and she went up a step, then turned to look at him. 

 "The street where you live, milady," he said, with a smile. He doffed his
hat, and she smiled back. 

 "Thank you for coming up the mountain," she said. 

 "My pleasure," he answered, the smile reaching up to his eyes. He took
her gloved hand, raised it to his mouth, and kissed it. "Good night." 

 "Good night," she squeezed his hand, as he started to turn away. He
turned back slightly, and she suddenly decided to end it right. She gave
his hand a tug, and he obediently returned to her, his eyebrows raised in
an entirely-too-innocent expression. 

 "Yes, milady?" 

 "Oh, stop posturing," she said, took his face in both hands, bent down
from her slightly-higher position on the step, and kissed him soundly.
When he stepped back, the colour in his cheeks had definitely risen, and
it wasn't from the cold night air. For some reason, she felt immensely
pleased, and was looking forward to climbing into her sleeping bag this
evening and sinking into some decidedly pleasant dreams. 

 He couldn't keep the grin off his face this time, and he nodded to her as
he backed away, looking as if he were trying to evade a predator. She
watched him take off his Stetson as he climbed onto his snowmobile, and
with one last smile in her direction, his slipped the helmet over his
head, put the Stetson in the seat compartment, and drove away. She watched
the dark figure until she couldn't hear the rumbling of the motor any
longer. 

 Then, smiling widely to herself, she turned and went inside.  

 9 

 "I think he's ready to go into the first grade, but they don't allow that
sort of thing without adequate testing," Caryn said, smoothing peanut
butter across the slices. She had laid them out in three rows and was
efficiently making sandwiches in assembly-line style. "Frankly, though,
it's obvious to me that he's ready. He's already reading second-grade
level books, Ruthie said." Caryn scooped out a gob of raspberry jelly and
spread the other halves. 

 "Who's Ruthie?" Meg grunted, tugging snow boots onto Maggie, and trying
to keep the little girl from rolling away from her all the while. "Hold
still, honey." 

 "Town librarian," Caryn answered. She licked the jelly off her finger,
then wiped it on a napkin and started cutting the sandwiches in half.
"Paul? Don't forget to bring the two books you borrowed last time!" 

 "I won't, Mom," Paul piped up from his bedroom. 

 "He always keeps them so neat," Caryn said proudly, more to herself than
anyone else. "He keeps them on his night stand." 

 "He likes reading?" 

 "Loves it." She wrapped the finished sandwiches up and put them, with the
rest of the lunch, into the bag. There was enough for Meg and the two
children, plus snacks. Meg finished getting Maggie's boots laced and her
mittens on snugly. The little girl promptly took off running, in full
suit, and disappeared into the bedroom she and Paul shared. After a
minute, she suddenly gave a shout. 

 "Mommy!" 

 "What, Maggie?" 

 Maggie walked out the bedroom with an odd wiggle and made a face. Caryn
sighed and rolled her eyes. 

 "I hafta go pee, Mommy." 

 "Meg, can you--?" 

 Meg smiled, Caryn shook her head, and a moment later, Meg had whisked the
girl into the bathroom to unzip and unbutton and unlace everything she'd
just finished. A few minutes later, after tugging everything back on
again, Caryn and Paul met them at the door with books and the lunch bag. 

 "You'll be okay? You know how to get there?" 

 "Yes, I've gone to town a number of times, now--I'll be fine." Meg pulled
on her jacket, gloves, hat, scarf...was she missing anything? Caryn handed
her the lunch bag and the thermos. 

 "You know how to get to the school?" 

 "Caryn, there are less than two dozen buildings in the centre of town. I
think I can pick it out: the one with the brightly-coloured slides." 

 "You'll do fine," she grinned, stepping back from the door. 

 "Do I have any books, Mommy?" Maggie asked. 

 "Not this time, honey. But you can take out two if Meg decides to take
you to the library. Only two!" 

 "When is the library open?" 

 "It's attached to the school; it'll be open. Do you know which room to go
to?" 

 "I'll ask at the desk." 

 "Remember to get home before dark. It'll be dark by three. It's harder to
see--" 

 "Yes, Mom," Meg said with a smile, ushering the two children out the
door. Caryn pushed the door closed behind them and watched them through
the nearby window. Meg followed the excited children over to the sled
behind the snowmobile, and buckled them in securely. She tucked the books,
thermos, and lunch bag in the compartment in the front of the sled.
Pulling her helmet on, she sat down and revved the engine, making sure it
was warmed up. Caryn waved from the window, and the kids waved back,
making muffled noises, all bundled up in scarves and pull-over winter head
wraps. Meg gave a wave, and then they were off, flying down the hill to
the valley below. 

 Meg looked behind her at the sled a few times during the twenty-minute
trip, but they were both fine, bumping over the snow drifts and looking
all around them. When they arrived in town without a problem, Meg heaved a
sigh of relief, thankful that her memory hadn't failed her, and slowed
down, looking for the schoolyard halfway across the centre. The slides
were covered in snow, but she saw a line of blue plastic under the drifts,
and headed in that direction. A few people waved to her, here and there,
and she waved back. 

 There was another mother, her snowmobile parked near the entrance,
putting her two children into their sled. Caryn had said there were six
new children being brought to the evaluations this morning. As far as Meg
knew, Paul was the only one being tested for placement above his
age-level. He was an intelligent and inquisitive little boy; she knew he
could read well, and he was starting his multiplication tables. He would
do fine. 

 He looked nervous when they got inside, though, clutching the two library
books to his chest. Meg tugged off their scarves and hats, and ushered
them down the short hall. Paul resisted her slightly, and she bent down to
encourage him. 

 "You'll do really well, Paul, don't worry." 

 "I wish Mommy was here." 

 "I know. She wanted to be here. She's thinking about you right now." 

 Meg led them up to the desk that looked like it was in the main office of
the school. 

 "Hello," she said. The woman behind the desk looked up and smiled at her.


 "Can I help you?" 

 "Yes, I'm looking for the placement testing room." 

 "Oh--let me get your information first." She got up and rifled through a
filing cabinet behind her. Smiling, she brought the papers back and sat
down. "Name?" 

 "Cooper, Paul." 

 "No--your name." 

 "Meg Thatcher; I'm a friend of the family. Caryn--his mother--is due in
four days and she didn't want to travel." 

 "Meg...Thatcher," the woman repeated slowly, writing it down. After a
moment, she looked up. "As in 'Margaret Thatcher'?" she asked. 

 "Yes," Meg answered, not wanting to get into this discussion for the
umpteenth time in her life. Unfortunately, the Former Prime Minister had
not been a household name when she was born. It seemed that people took
endless fun in pointing out the obvious. 

 "Wow, are you related to--" 

 "No. I'm not. What other information do you need?" 

 The woman looked somewhat taken aback at the stiffness of her response.
Meg tried a smile to placate her. The woman returned a tight smile of her
own and tipped her head. 

 "Paul Cooper?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Are you his guardian?" 

 "No, I told you, I'm a friend of his mother's. She's expecting--" 

 "Oh yes. Age?" 

 "Five." 

 "Home address is the same?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Has he had all the required immunizations?" 

 Meg produced all the papers that Caryn had given her, and the woman
inspected them. After making a few more notations, she signed the paper
and gave it to Meg. 

 "Third room down on the left. Just knock." 

 "Thanks." Meg smiled, nodded, and started to turn, but then paused for a
moment and looked back at the woman. "Just one question." 

 "Yes?" 

 "How many children attend this school?" 

 "About one hundred, up to the eighth grade. If they want schooling past
that, they have to board down at Fort Nelson," she answered. 

 Meg nodded, and then guided the children down the hallway with her.
Maggie tugged on her coat sleeve. 

 "'M hungry," she said. 

 "Let's just get Paul all set, and then we can see about getting a snack,
okay?" Meg asked. Maggie nodded. They found the third door, and Meg nodded
to Paul for him to knock. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and
tapped tentatively on the door. There was no reply. 

 "Knock harder, Paul, it's okay." 

 He rapped again, and this time a woman's voice called out, "Come in!" 

 Paul pushed the door open, still holding his two books under his other
arm, and walked in slowly, looking around. Meg nudged him forward, Maggie
tagging behind them. 

 "Paul! Meg, it's good to see you! And little Maggie!" It was Anna
Winituk, the head organizer for the social the previous week. She was
cleaning up around the desks in the back of the room, and she set down her
things to come over to them. "How are you doing, Mister Cooper?" she
asked, looking down at the boy with a warm smile. 

 "Good, thank you, Missus Winituk." 

 "And you, Miss Cooper?" 

 "Good!" Maggie piped up. 

 "Glad to hear it! Come in, come in. You're looking well, too, Meg." 

 "Nothing to complain about," Meg replied, feeling suddenly odd as she
realized the position she was in. Bringing two young children to school to
talk to the teacher--she rather liked the responsibility. 

 "How's Caryn?" 

 "Oh good, though anxious, of course, to be over with it." 

 "God bless her, poor thing. I feel for her, what with six of my own. Do
you have any?" 

 "No," Meg said, with a small smile. Instead of the awkward silence that
she expected, Anna Winituk smiled widely and took her by the shoulder,
gathering them all into the room with a gentle movement. 

 "Every one of us has some small things to be thankful for, no matter what
they are." 

 "That's true enough," Meg replied, relieved. 

 "Now, Paul, you're here to try for entrance into the first grade?" 

 "Yes ma'am." 

 "Good then, let's get started. Can I take your coat?" 

 He gave the books to Meg to hold for a moment, and he shrugged out of his
jacket. He gave it to Mrs. Winituk and took the books back. Meg admired
his independence; his parents would be proud. 

 "Do you want to hold on to the books for now, or let me bring them back
to the library." 

 "Hold on to 'em." 

 "We'll only take about an hour," Mrs. Winituk said. 

 "Noon, then?" Meg looked around to find Maggie, who had wandered over to
the side of the room and was playing with a drawing board. 

 "Thereabouts," the woman replied. "I'll bring him out when we've
finished, unless you'd like to stay with him." 

 "No, I think it'll be easier without the two of us hanging around." 

 "Well, you can stay in the teacher's lounge if you like; there's no one
there until lunch. It's down the end of the hall, two rooms from the
office. On the right." 

 "Thanks. You'll be okay, Paul?" 

 He nodded. 

 "Do your best, then, and we'll see you in a bit. C'mon, Maggie." 

 Maggie was enjoying her drawing board too much, and she shook her head
stubbornly. 

 "She can take it with her," Mrs. Winituk laughed. "That's fine." 

 Meg smiled. "Thanks. C'mon honey." They gathered up the crayons and the
drawing-board, and after both of them waved to Paul, they closed the door
and headed down the hall. Meg carried the board in one hand and a load of
hats, scarves, and mittens in the other. 

 "Are we gonna eat?" 

 "Snacks--yes, I'll go out and get the lunch bag. Let's put these things
down, first." 

 "'Kay." 

 They walked past the lady at the front desk again, who nodded politely to
them. Meg found the door to the lounge and went inside. They put their
things down, and then taking Maggie's hand, Meg walked back down the
corridor. She left Maggie in the foyer, and after grabbing the lunch from
outside, they went back to the lounge for a snack of potato chips and
apple juice. Maggie made herself busy with the colouring, and Meg settled
back to read some more of *Yukon Wild*. The women were canoeing down the
Yukon, and had stopped (as they did numerous times), at a riverside
village to party the night away with various colourful locals. She was
right in the middle of the drunken dancing when Maggie came over to look
up at her with wide eyes. 

 "Meggie?" 

 "Mm?" Meg looked up from the pages. 

 "I hafta go to the baffroom." 

 Meg swung her legs down from their perch on the arm of the next chair and
set the book aside. "All right, let's go find the ladies' room." 

 They found the woman at the front desk. 

 "Bathroom?" 

 "Right over there, second door down." She jerked her thumb at the third
hallway in the building, to their left, and went back to her typing. They
found the door, but before they went in, Meg thought she heard a familiar
voice further down the corridor, floating back in a sing-song rhythm. When
they left the bathroom, Meg paused, listening intently. She found herself
heading down the corridor towards the open door at the far end. 

 *"...now try *
 try hard
 imagine now with all the
 might you have
 imagine that a certain horse
 is you
 a slim black horse
 with muscles strong and
 hard
 a white maned horse
 long silky tail to match..." 

 She took Maggie's hand, and they walked to the end of the hall.
Swallowing, Meg peeked her head around the doorframe and found herself
suddenly wondering how much else she had missed before, when she had the
chance to see it. Fraser was seated cross-legged in the far corner with
his back to the door. He was wearing his duty uniform, and the brown
jacket was hung on the far wall alongside all of the other small ones. The
sight of him sent a small twist into her stomach. Every child in the room
was clustered around him, each with their eyes closed in concentration.
His steady voice was guiding them through a poem. 

 *"...imagine now*
 and find a special name
 a horse's name that will
 be yours alone
 a magic name that's faster
 than a shooting star
 and brighter than the
 full white moon at night..." 

 It was a story that she knew--a story that almost every child in the
country knew--but she had never heard this particular poem before. She
found herself caught up in it. She did not notice until Maggie slipped her
little hand out from her fingers that the girl had started across the
classroom. There was a young woman in the near corner, sitting behind the
teacher's desk. She waved to Meg, and Meg smiled quickly back. It's okay,
the teacher mouthed, clearly bemused. Meg felt herself redden, and she
nodded a quick thank-you. 

 She dared not disturb the children's concentration, so she leaned against
the doorframe and watched as Maggie calmly made her way between the
various children to sit directly beside Fraser. He looked down at her and
smiled, and she smiled back up at him and put her hand on his knee. He
turned slightly to look behind him, probably expecting Dave, but when he
saw Meg, he smiled sideways through the words. His blue eyes held hers for
a moment, and then he barely paused before returning to the cadence of the
poem and the children before him. 

 *"...imagine now*
 beside your head
 a flash of golden
 lightening and a
 smell of smoke
 one pounding crash
 of thunder
 and your mind goes
 blank." 

 Watching him, she glanced away with an embarrassed smile on her face. She
quickly pulled it down and sighed to herself. *How do you do this to me,
Ben?* Just watching the children's faces, their rapt attention evident,
she knew she was not the only one. He painted a picture of the stormy
night and whipping grasses and wailing winds with his voice, and she let
the words carry her with them. The story of the pony in the lightening
came to a crashing climax--and then there was his voice at its quiet lull
again, this time with the children's eyes open as he continued to the end.


 *"...imagine now*
 your spirit rises to
 that horse the young
 man mounts
 behind the line of fiery
 gold a burst of light
 a rumble like some
 marching drums
 and then across the
 prairie sky you soar
 his helmet glistening
 your eyes alight
 and all these hundred
 years and more
 whenever young folks join
 the mounties march
 your spirit rises on its
 cloud legs
 paws the air
 the ghost horse of the
 mounties and the young
 man's soul
 salute." 

 When he finished the last stanza, he paused, letting the quiet hold in
the air for a moment, and then spoke again, this time in a normal tone. 

 "When the North-West Mounted Police were first formed and first camped at
Dufferin, Manitoba in June of 1874, there was a storm in which lightening
is reported to have not stopped from ten in the evening to six in the
morning. Two hundred and fifty horses did stampede, and all were found but
one. It's a true story. Does anyone have any questions?" 

 "What happened to the last horse?" a boy asked. 

 "He flew into the clouds with the man," he answered, but they pressed him
for more, until he finally gave up and told them all to tell
 him what happened to the pony. They were all quiet, until little Maggie
spoke up. 

 "He went to heaven to eat carrots," she stated matter-of-factly. 

 "Really?" Fraser asked. 

 "I know! I know, Sergeant Ben!" Another little boy on the side was
wiggling with excitement, his hand waving back and forth. 

 "Where'd he go, Jeremy?" 

 "I think he went to the bathroom!" 

 All the second-graders laughed uproariously, and this immediately
launched them into a contest between who could making the best farting
noises into their palms. Meg found herself laughing when Fraser was beset
with children who wanted to know how loud he could make his. After a few
protests, he finally gave in and blew into his palms. It was loud, long,
and sounded completely disgusting. The children loved it and begged him to
do it again, but he shook his head and stood up. 

 "I need to be going, and thank you all for having me." 

 "Thank you for coming, Sergeant." The young teacher, also, was laughing. 

 "Anytime." 

 "Everyone back to your seats!" she called out. They all scurried to their
desks and sat down as she came over to stand in front of the class. "Can
we all say thank you to Sergeant Ben?" 

 "Thank...you!" they all chorused in unison. 

 "When are you coming back, Sergeant Ben?" one girl asked. 

 "As soon as I can, Milla," he answered. He gathered up his brown jacket
with one hand, taking Maggie's hand with the other. 

 "Goo'bye," Maggie said, waving with her free hand. 

 "Good-bye," the class answered. 

 They met Meg out in the hallway, where half an awkward second passed
before the three of them started down the corridor. 

 "Hello," she said. 

 "Good morning." 

 "Do you do this often?" 

 "Usually once a week. It depends on the class, and the topic I'm asked to
cover." 

 "What kinds of things do you talk about?" 

 "Substance abuse, history, law enforcement, firearm safety precautions,
currency watermarks, DNA recombination, international relations, basket
weaving, skiing, any number of topics." 

 "I see. How is it that you're qualified to cover...DNA recombination?" 

 He looked sheepish. "Well, I'm not, really, but I was substituting for
Jerry Lenough, and the biology students were arguing over the ribosomal--"


 "--and you, of course, settled the argument for them." 

 "We looked it up in the textbook and figured out how the recombination
process worked. Several of them have a great future in the field, I
believe." 

 "So you're a natural teacher, then," Meg sighed. It was frustrating to
feel so inadequate next to him so often. "Is there anything you're
 not perfectly good at?" 

 "Yes," he answered. She half-expected him to launch into some arcane
topic on which he did not know everything about an even more arcane
detail, but he remained silent. She looked across at him. He smiled, made
a small gesture towards her, and stopped walking. 

 "What?" She frowned at him, stopping herself. Maggie stood between them,
looking back and forth. 

 "The door to the lounge is right behind you. Perhaps you'd like to have
some lunch with me?" 

 "Yes..." She turned and went through the door to the lounge, telling
herself to pay more attention to her surroundings. Maggie came in behind
her. 

 "Are we going to have lunch?" 

 "Yes, honey, sit down at the table." She was relieved to be doing
something useful with herself while she got out Maggie's lunch. After
making sure the little girl was comfortable, she sat down next to her and
folded her arms on the table. Fraser got out his own lunch and sat down
opposite them. 

 "Would you like some of my sandwich?" He held it out, as if to break off
a half for her. 

 "No, thank you; I brought lunch. I'm just waiting for Paul to finish
before I start eating." 

 "Ah," he sat back. "So that's why you're here." 

 "Why did you think I was here?" she asked. He looked at his uneaten
sandwich with a kind of shrug. 

 "I didn't know." He tried to look noncommittal. 

 "You didn't answer the question," she said, propping her chin with one
hand and fixing him in a stare. He took a bite of his sandwich and smiled
at her. She smiled back. Maggie choked. 

 They both immediately moved to help her, but she was fine. She coughed,
swallowed, and all was well with the world. 

 "Here, take a sip," Meg held the thermos-lid cup for her, and Maggie took
it and drank a little. Ben sat back and watched Meg wipe at the little
girl's shirt with a napkin. She took a chip out of Maggie's pile and ate
it, smiling teasingly across at him. He started to feel a bit warm, and
had to remind himself to take another bite of his sandwich. 

 "Here you go!" Amanda Winituk pushed open the door and came in behind
Paul. "He's done for today!" 

 "Good job, Paul," Meg said. Paul looked pale, but he smiled. 

 "Good job," Fraser echoed. Paul's face lit up when he saw him. 

 "Sergeant Ben!" 

 "Hey," Fraser smiled. "How has your day been?" 

 "Oh, tough, but I got through it no sweat," Paul answered proudly,
sitting down in the chair between the two adults. 

 "I knew you would," Fraser said. He finished his sandwich and watched as
Meg gave Paul his food. 

 "Here's your sandwich, do you want half of the orange?" 

 Paul nodded, his mouth full of peanut-butter-and-jelly. Meg gave him a
pile of chips and a juice box, and set about peeling the orange. 

 "Here, let me do that," Fraser said, holding out his hands. "Get yourself
something to eat." 

 "Thanks." Meg handed the partially-peeled fruit over to him, along with a
napkin. 

 "You're welcome." 

 "Do you have to be somewhere after this?" Meg asked, getting out the rest
of the food. 

 "I'm giving a talk on--" half a pause, "--ah, contraceptives, to the
seventh-graders. This afternoon." He peeled off half of the rind in one
piece. 

 Meg raised one eyebrow. "How did they rope you into that?" 

 "They didn't 'rope me into it', as you say. I volunteered." 

 "He does quite a lot around here," Mrs. Winituk said, coming over with
her lunch to sit with them. "I've half a mind to give him an honorary
teaching certificate." 

 "Please," said Fraser, embarrassed. "It's really no trouble." He finished
with the orange, and deftly halved it, handing the pieces across to Paul
and Meg. Maggie did not like oranges. 

 "Well, he's a godsend. The children love him." 

 "So I see," said Meg drily. 

 "So, what do you do for a living?" Mrs. Winituk asked, turning to face
Meg. 

 "Me? Ah...I work for the government." 

 "Really? Doing what?" 

 "Law enforcement and administration." 

 Fraser was licking his fingers and looking amused. 

 "So you, ah, do secretarial work, then?" 

 Fraser leaned back in his seat and smiled down at his shirt. Meg's
self-esteem and occupational pride won over her half-hearted attempt at
hiding any previous connection to the man across the table. 

 "No. I am an Inspector in the RCMP." 

 Amanda Winituk's mouth formed a small 'oh.' She looked across at Fraser.
"That means...that is, is that a higher rank than yours, Ben?" 

 Fraser nodded. 

 "That's impressive, Ms. Thatcher." 

 "Meg, please," Meg said, and took a bite of her sandwich. 

 There were a few moments of silence, and then: "I heard that you two--" 

 They both looked at the teacher, and she smiled at them each in turn,
taking note of their expressions. 

 "So it's true, then," she seemed to smile even wider. 

 "What's true?" Meg asked, part of her wanting to know what rumours were
flying around in this little hamlet, and the other part of her just
dreading the humiliation. 

 "Just that you used to work together. That's true, isn't it?" 

 "Yes," Fraser said, with a perfunctory nod. "It is." 

 "Why didn't you tell us that before, when you first brought her here?"
Mrs. Winituk asked him. 

 "I, she didn't--" 

 "I'm taking this month on leave," Meg broke in. "He didn't bring me here.
When I came, I preferred that no one knew I was a Mountie." 

 "I see," the woman nodded to herself. "Well, I hope you're enjoying Fort
Liard. Are you?" 

 "It's definitely colourful," Meg answered drily. 

 "Aye, that it is," Mrs. Winituk said, with a wink. Fraser shook his head
and drank his tea.  

 "What are you doing this evening?" he asked, holding the door open for
her and the two children. 

 "Nothing in particular, why?" Her heart did a little leap and she told it
to be quiet. 

 "Well...the Glens want to have us over for dinner sometime before you
leave; I told them I'd try to get you to come," he answered. They strapped
the children into the sled behind the snowmobile. 

 "Are you asking me out on a date, Sergeant?" Meg asked, finishing with
Paul's straps. She straightened up to stand beside Fraser. 

 "Yes." 

 "I was wondering when we'd get around to that. After three days, I was
beginning to think the mountain was a figment of my imagination," she
said, with some amusement. Fraser had the grace to look slightly
contrite--though only slightly. 

 "I'm not, unfortunately, schooled in the art of courtship," he replied,
rather formally. 

 "Not if you keep talking like that, Ben," Meg answered, crossing her arms
despite the bulk of her coat. "You don't have to go to any great lengths
to impress me." 

 "Are you accusing me of being a charlatan?" 

 "Quite." 

 He narrowed his eyes at her, pretending to size her up. 

 "Your answer?" 

 "Yes. Six o'clock?" 

 "I'll tell Ivy." 

 "Don't use any big words." 

 "Why not?" he laughed. 

 "Because it takes up time that could be better used for this," she said
smugly, and pulled him down to her, gloves tugging at his lapels. He did
not argue; he just smiled, and acquiesced to a short kiss. 

 "Point conceded." 

 "Ewww!" Paul scrunched his face up in mock disgust, and Meg leaned down
and pulled the boy's goggles into place. Fraser laughed. Meg smiled
smugly, standing up again. She raised her eyebrows and Fraser stepped
aside with a gesture of his arm. She moved past him to sit down on the
snowmobile. "Six, then?" 

 "I'll see you. Drive safely." 

 "I will. Have a good afternoon, and good luck with the seventh-graders."
She smiled wickedly at that, and pulled her helmet down. He nodded,
grinned, and waved as they drove off.  

 10 

 "What do you think I should wear?" Meg asked, searching through her
functional, but not particularly flattering, clothing. She had not
anticipated needing nice clothing, since she would living in the Northwest
Territory for a month, and she had packed lightly. She had left her
business suits and cocktail dresses back in Hearst. She laughed at the
thought of wearing a cocktail dress out here, and looked at the selection
laid across the bed. She had the gray slacks and the white sweater that
she had worn to the social; she just did not want to appear twice in the
same thing, for a special occasion. 

 "Just be comfortable," Caryn answered, from the kitchen. 

 "I know; all of my stuff is comfortable. Should I go with the same thing
as last time?" 

 "What size are you?" 

 "Ten." 

 "Hmm...I might have one or two things. I haven't been a size ten for
years, though; I can't guarantee anything." 

 "Okay..." Meg opened the closet doors and looked at the clothing hanging
there. A gray pant-suit over on the right caught her eye, and she pulled
it out. "How about the gray suit?" she called out. 

 "Oh--wait a second," Caryn came into the bedroom, dishtowel in hand. Meg
held up the suit on its hangar, inspecting it Caryn nodded.. "Mmm, I
bought that for my first interview with my publisher a couple of years
ago. It might do for you, but it might be a little...I don't know, try it
on." 

 Meg held the gray jacket and pants up against herself and went over and
looked at the full-size mirror, pushing the door closed slightly. 

 "I think it looks all right," she turned her head from side to side,
judging it. 

 "I've got a pair of nice boots that might--" Caryn's words cut off with a
moan, and she suddenly grimaced and clutched her abdomen. Meg dropped the
suit and got to Caryn before she fell, helping her lower herself to the
bed amid her cries. 

 "What is it, what can I do?" Meg heard the edge of panic in her voice,
and told herself to stay calm. Caryn exhaled slowly, and the hand that
clutched Meg's in a tight grip relaxed. 

 "Just...let me have a second--ahh!" She squeezed her eyes shut and rocked
back for a moment. Meg let out a little moan, herself. A wan smile crossed
Caryn's face. 

 "I'm not going to break, hon," Caryn said, opening her eyes. She hissed,
and then blew the air out through her mouth. Paul pushed the door open and
came running into the room, Maggie close behind him. 

 "Mommy, are you okay? Mommy, what's wrong?" 

 "M'okay?" Maggie asked, through a mouthful of oatmeal-raisin cookie. 

 "Nothing's wrong, honey, Mommy will be--ah--okay," Caryn smiled through
the pain on her face. "Go find Daddy, and tell him I need him." 

 "Yes, Mommy!" Paul ran from the room, but Maggie, with wide eyes, stood
watching the two older women. 

 "Go with Paul, Maggie. Go find Daddy for me," Caryn said, relaxing back
for a moment. 

 "'Kay," the little girl said, and still watching with wide eyes, she made
her way out of the room, and then turned and ran, shouting, "Daddy!" 

 "What is it?" Meg asked, beginning to feel frightened by Caryn's pale
face and the force with which her friend was clutching her arm when the
pains came. 

 "I think it's time...thank God..." Caryn exhaled, breathing slowly.
"Though these are coming on very...quickly, very fast. Sudden." She
frowned slightly. 

 "Is that bad?" Meg shifted her weight on the bed, trying to make Caryn
more comfortable. 

 "It depends," she answered. "Ah!" She squeezed Meg's arm. 

 "I wish I could do something." 

 "Clear...off the bed." 

 "Do you want to lay back?" Meg started to stand up. 

 "No--no, I'll just sit here like this, I'll be all right." Caryn pulled
her hand away and supported herself on bed. 

 "You're sure." 

 "Yes, yes. Ahww!" She grimaced, and her hands pulled the bedspread into
twin knots. Meg quickly gathered her clothing from the bed and left it in
a pile on top of her travel bag, against the wall. Just as she was going
to turn down the covers, Dave came into the room, his eyes questioning. 

 "Call for Miriam?" he asked. 

 "Yes," Caryn answered. 

 "What do I tell her?" 

 "Contractions are coming less than a minute apart, all of a sudden--"
Caryn grimaced, then continued, "tell her: sharp pains, not like
before..." 

 "I'll be right back." He gave Meg a nod, and left the room. 

 "Is Miriam a midwife?" Meg helped Caryn up for a moment, and with her
friend leaning heavily on her, they made their way around to the head of
the bed. 

 "No, Miriam Intuvik is the family physician." 

 "She delivered Paul and Maggie?" 

 "Yes." Caryn lowered herself to the bed and laid back again the pillow,
sitting in a half-upright position. Together, she and Meg manoeuvered the
rest of her into bed. Meg went to get a damp cloth in the kitchen, just as
Dave finished with the radio. 

 "How's she doing?" 

 "All right. I think she's all right." Meg didn't feel too sure as she wet
the facecloth. 

 "Is Mommy gonna die?" Paul asked, his eyes frightened. Maggie started to
cry. 

 "No, Mommy is not going to die," Dave crouched down next to his two
children and gathered them into his arms. "She had to do the same thing
with both of you. That's how babies work." 

 Meg smiled at them and went back into the bedroom. She dampened Caryn's
forehead, and held her hand. In between moans, Caryn smiled up at her.
"Don't worry." 

 "Who's worrying?" Meg smiled back. 

 Dave came with the two children. "We're going to wish Mommy a good
night's sleep--" at this, Caryn fixed him with a look-- "and then you can
go back out and let Mommy rest, okay?" They both nodded at him, and he let
them down. They ran over to the bed, and Caryn ruffled their hair. 

 "You two do as Meg tells you to, okay?" 

 "Okay," they echoed in unison. Caryn looked up at Meg. 

 "Bring them to Vera's?" Meg asked. Caryn nodded, and after exchanging a
smile, Meg led the children out of the room.  

 It had been five and a half hours of false labour, and everyone was
exhausted. It was far past the children's bedtime when Meg called Vera and
asked her if she could keep Paul and Maggie overnight, and since they were
already sleeping, and Meg was on the verge of falling asleep standing up
herself, they arranged to have them picked up the next morning. 

 Fraser had radioed over at half-past six to ask if she was all right,
since she had not made it to the Glens' home for dinner. He later came
over to check on all of them. Somewhere around a quarter to midnight, they
finished sharing a cup of coffee with Dave, and Fraser had left, quietly
promising her that he would reschedule with the Glens. Meg fell asleep
that night, exhausted, and dreamed restlessly until she woke to the sounds
and smell Dave's cooking the next morning.  

 "Thank you for a wonderful dinner," Meg said, as Ivy cleared the plates.
"Here, let me help you..." she got up, taking one of the serving dishes
with her. It had been two days since Caryn's ordeal, and Meg was just
starting to relax, now that she was away from the Coopers' home. She felt
obligated to care for her friend, but they had kicked her out of the house
with Fraser and told her to enjoy the evening. The only places to go out
to in this little hamlet were to their neighbors' houses, and so Fraser
had taken her, as promised, to see the Glens for dinner. So far, it had
been good evening. Meg was privately amused at the difference between a
city date and a country one. She was beginning to get the sense that
courtship was a community project here, and instead of being annoyed, she
was starting to like it.. 

 "Thanks, dear. Put that there, on the counter, yes," Ivy said. Meg left
the dish she was holding on the counter-top and went back to clear more. 

 John and Ben had gone into the den and were making themselves
comfortable. As Ben sat down, he noticed that there was a third occupant
in the room. His father sat in the armchair across from him in his Mountie
dress uniform, looking placid, with his legs crossed. Ben nodded to him,
and the ghost nodded back and then looked down and brushed an invisible
piece of lint off his knee. The three of them sat in silence, engaged in
their respective thoughts. John Glen was not usually one for chatter after
dinner and Ben was in a rather introspective mood at the moment, also.
Dinner had been really quite an enjoyable time. He had been surprised to
discover that Meg was a reasonably good storyteller. He had never really
gotten the chance to experience her creative side before. 

 "She's a fine woman," Fraser Sr. said as Ivy and Meg came back into the
den several minutes later. Raised from his thoughts, Ben frowned at him.
Fraser Sr. gestured towards the two women as they sat down. "Margaret." 

 "You know, I was just wanting to tell you what a fine woman I think you
are," Ivy affirmed, settling herself on the love seat beside Meg. 

 "What did you say?" Ben asked carefully. Ivy looked at him oddly. 

 "Margaret, here, she's a fine woman," she answered. "Isn't that right,
John?" 

 "Mmm-hmm," her husband nodded, and smoked his pipe. He took it out of his
mouth for a moment. "It's been a pleasure having you over, Margaret. I
hope you'll visit us again before you return home." 

 "Thank you, I hope to." 

 They sat in peace for a while, sipping their drinks and settling. Even
Fraser Sr. did not speak; he just smiled widely at his son, who was trying
to pretend that he was ignoring the spectre. 

 "So what do you think of the weather?" The ghost asked. 

 "It has been nice that since you've been here, Margaret, the weather's
been mild, not too bad lately," John Glen said, around his pipe. "I expect
the Liard'll be cracking soon." 

 "Spring is almost upon us," Ivy said. 

 "It's been a good year," John said, nodding. 

 "Yes, Jeb mentioned that he's considering buying another bush plane after
next season, since his son has been doing pretty well with his transport
service this year," Ben said, glaring pointedly across at his father. 

 "The more tourists, the more business," Meg said, taking a sip of her
tea. "How is it up here?" 

 "The tourists? Usually a few hunters in the Fall, hikers in the summer.
By and large, those that come here are pretty serious, and know how to
respect their surroundings," John said. 

 "There was that one party last summer, though, towards the end of the
season..." Ivy trailed off with a disapproving tone. Fraser nodded. 

 "What happened?" Meg asked. 

 "They were intoxicated, and started a fire. One of them suffered
second-degree burns," Fraser answered. 

 "Sleeping bag caught," John said. 

 "Did the fire destroy anything else?" 

 "No; luckily Jeb was flying just over there and saw it. He called it in,
and we were able to contain it to within a few hundred yards of the camp."


 "That's good," she said. They all nodded. She started a new topic. "The
kids have been enjoying all the snow--Paul Cooper is quite the sculptor,
isn't he?" 

 "He takes his play seriously," Ben said, with a grin. 

 "It'll be nice to have grandchildren," Robert Fraser's ghost said
wistfully. Ben closed his eyes and counted to ten. 

 "Many of the children here are like our own grandchildren," Ivy said,
smiling proudly. 

 "How many do you have?" Meg asked. 

 "Oh...we don't," the older woman answered. 

 "Oh--I'm sorry," Meg said quickly. 

 "It's all right. The Lord has blessed us in so many other ways. We had
one son, Eliot, who was a wonderful boy, and his life honoured us all. The
children in this community have become like our own now, in some way. We
love each of them." 

 Meg looked down and smoothed her pant leg, feeling embarrassed at having
brought up such a painful topic at her first evening with the older
couple. 

 They were all quiet for a short time, and then the old minister looked up
from his pipe. "I can see that you want to know how he died." 

 "Oh, no, really--if you don't want to talk about it," Meg said. She
looked over at Ben, and he nodded, as if to reassure her. 

 "We don't mind," Ivy answered, with a smile, touching Meg's hand. 

 "He was killed in the line of duty," John said. "He protected a convicted
rapist and murderer from being shot by the angry father, by taking the
bullet for him." 

 "But why--?" Meg felt as if the man's death had been pointless.
Protecting such a criminal with your life? 

 "It was his duty," John answered simply. 

 "He had told the convicted man about God's love one day at the beginning
of the trial, and the man had spat in his face. But the man sent us a
letter from prison, only two days after the shooting, and we read it at
Eliot's funeral. He had accepted Christ into his life, and you could hear
the difference in his spirit in those words," Ivy said, tears glistening
at the edges of her eyes. "Our son touched so many lives, and this one
most especially. Everyone at the funeral was touched, and so many people
stood up to speak. That was one of the most beautiful days of my life." 

 Meg was taken aback at Ivy's words, but she saw the genuine openness in
the woman's eyes, and wished that she could have met their son. 

 "He was a courthouse guard?" she asked. 

 "No, RCMP," John answered proudly, and adjusted his pipe. 

 "He never married," said Ivy, smiling, with a small shake of her head.
"Not unlike Benton, here." 

 "Resemblance is a bit uncanny," said John quietly. 

 "He's not exaggerating," Fraser Sr. said, looking back and forth between
Ben and some invisible thing near the doorway to the kitchen. "You're
about the same height. My son's better-looking, of course." 

 "Eliot was a handsome lad," Ivy said proudly. 

 "I meant no offense," Fraser Sr. said amiably to the doorway. 

 "It's been nice to have Benton around; someone to 'mother' a bit,"
laughed Ivy. 

 "And I thank you," Ben smiled. "You both have been very kind friends." 

 "She's a nice lady," said Fraser Sr. "If I weren't dead, I'd like to
taste one of her apple turnovers." 

 "Oh--I almost forgot! Would either of you like one of my apple
turnovers?" Ivy asked them. "I made a fresh batch this morning." 

 The most frustrating thing about this one-sided conversation with his
father was that Ben could not even discreetly whisper a response to the
ghost, since they were on opposite sides of the room. Ben looked across at
his deceased father, who smiled serenely back at him. 

 "Sure, I'd love to try one," Meg answered. Ben nodded, and Ivy smiled.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with
warmed turnovers. They smelled of apples and cinnamon and just a touch of
butter. Fraser Sr. closed his eyes and made a humming sound. Ben sighed
and then looked up at Ivy and smiled as he took his turnover from her. 

 "Are you all right?" Ivy looked down at him, her gaze piercing. 

 "I'm fine, thanks for asking. This looks delicious." He busied himself
with forking a piece of his turnover. 

 "Thank you." She turned to her husband, who was smoking his pipe, and he
shook his head. She gave a plate to Meg and sat down again. She looked
between her two guests. 

 "So how long have you two known each other?" 

 "Long enough for a train and a mountain," Fraser Sr. pursed his lips and
glanced over at the doorway with a knowing look on his face. 

 "We first met six years ago," Ben answered. 

 "We were assigned to the Chicago consulate," Meg said, relaxing back with
her turnover. 

 "So you attended state dinners and that sort of thing?" 

 "Yes, that was one of my--our duties." 

 "What else did you do there?" 

 "I was the liaison with the Chicago Police Department," Fraser said,
taking another bite. 

 "An entirely self-invented position," Meg answered. 

 "Not entirely," he said. 

 "The 'liaising' the Sergeant did--at the time he was a Constable--was
well above and beyond the call of duty," Meg said, by way of explanation,
since Ivy's eyebrows had risen at their exchange. 

 "Ah," John nodded in a kind of understanding, and he smiled. "But for
each of his good deeds, you had to fill out more paperwork?" His smile
widened. 

 "Something like that," she answered drily. "Though it did give our
consulate excellent public relations. Most of the time." 

 "Yes--I think I recall seeing mention of your consulate in the Times,
on-line," John said, half to himself. "Wasn't there once when it was
involved in handling a bomb threat?" 

 "Oh yes, you're right--I remember reading about that," Ivy said, with
enthusiasm. "Wasn't it on that train that was transporting the Musical
Ride down to the States, and some American had rigged the train with
explosives?" 

 "I think I heard that Disney was commissioning the rights to that story,"
John said, at length. 

 Ben thought that he might sink further down into his chair, if he could.
Meg was taking a great interest in the remains of her turnover. 

 "Ah well, it's years in the past, now," Ivy said, settling back on the
love seat. Ben looked across the room at the window, and he could almost
feel the roaring of the train under his feet and the wind whipping past
him now, his arms wrapped tightly around her in a hungry embrace. Funny
how the one thing that he was supposed to forget was still the most vivid
years later. 

 "We went our separate ways four years ago, and it's just when I came out
here that our paths have crossed again," Meg said, and cleared her throat.
"It's been a good, relaxing time out here." 

 "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Ivy said. 

 Meg looked over at Ben, and he smiled, looking relaxed himself. Something
settled itself comfortably in her belly as she looked at him, and she
wanted nothing more at that moment then to walk slowly over to him, drape
herself across his lap, and run her fingers through his hair. She looked
away from his gaze with a small smile. 

 "She wants you, son," Fraser Sr. said. He smiled, rose from his chair,
and disappeared into the kitchen, soundlessly. 

 *I know, Dad, *Ben answered. As Meg looked away from him, he intensely
wanted to get them both home, together. 

 "Thank you for this evening," he said, looking from John to Ivy. He slid
forward on his seat, resting his arms on his knees and holding his empty
plate. "The meal was excellent, as usual." He smiled at Ivy. 

 "Oh, you shouldn't spoil an old woman so," Ivy grinned back. 

 "Who's doing the spoiling, here?" he answered, with a charming smile. Ivy
feigned embarrassment and waved her hand at him. They all stood up and
made their way into the kitchen, where Meg and Ben got their coats from
beside the door. 

 "Thanks again for a wonderful dinner," Meg said, smiling, and giving Ivy
a brief hug. 

 "Come again soon, we'd love to have you," Ivy said. 

 "It's our pleasure," added John. "Take care of yourselves; if you need
anything, just ring us." 

 "We will. Likewise," Ben answered. 

 "Would you like to bring some turnovers back to the Coopers'?" Ivy asked.


 "I'm sure the kids would love them," Meg answered. 

 Ivy quickly wrapped up a bundle and gave it to Meg as they put their
coats on. They made their good-byes and the Glens stood together, waving
in the doorway, as they sped off towards town. 

 Meg kept herself close around Ben; he preferred a stronger grip, so he
could feel that she was still holding on through the layers of coats, and
so she held on tightly. Sitting close against him, she could feel the
movements of his hips as he banked the snowmobile and flew across the
landscape. The stars were out in a perfectly dark violet sky, and off to
their right she could see the waving green-lit swaths of the Lights. It
was beautiful, wild, free, clear, and cold, and she was with him. It was a
great and wild thrill of anticipation and the night sky. She thought she
heard a wolf howl, and as a little shiver of fear ran through her, a
smiled widened on her face. What a beautiful night! She pressed her cheek
against his back, and held on for the ride. 

 They were going towards his cabin, not towards the Coopers', and she felt
something tightening in herself, some anxiousness creeping in. As much as
she wanted to be with him, she hoped... She didn't want it to be awkward,
and unfortunately, this cold air was clearing out her mind enough to think
as they drove. She had to admit that she was a little afraid of the speed
of the relationship; she felt she'd known him for so long, and that
something between them had been reawakened, but she was still anxious,
just a little. She pressed herself more firmly against him and closed her
eyes. It would be warm in the cabin. 

 A short time later, he pulled the snowmobile around the last bend and
slowed as they pulled up to the shanty door. When they came to a full
stop, she leapt off the vehicle before he could, and ran the few metres
ahead to open the door. He nodded his helmet in thanks, and quickly drove
in. She closed the door behind them, and took off her own helmet. She
looked up at the warm light coming through the window and took in a deep
breath. He came around beside her and gestured for her to go ahead of him.
They went up the stairs and into the warmth of the cabin. 

 He took her coat and his own, leaving them on the hooks beside the door.
They removed their wet and cold outer garments, and she laid them out to
dry, off to the side of the fireplace. She pulled off her socks, also, and
shuffled around contentedly in her jeans and her white sweater. 

 "Make yourself comfortable," he said, nodding to her. He spent a few
minutes building up the fire in the hearth, while she laid out the wet
clothes and then went to brush out her hair. 

 While she straightened out her hair from its flattening under the helmet,
she frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Ben was something of a
conundrum. While he guarded his privacy fiercely and appeared to be out of
his depth when faced with forward women, there was a frightening depth of
certainty in him when he chose to demonstrate it. In Chicago, she had
often wondered how much of his naiveté was an act he put on to
avoid uncomfortable situations. His manner since they had left the Glens'
was not one of discomfort. If anything, it was the opposite. When he knew
what he wanted, he pursued it with a singular sureness. 

 It sent a shiver of anticipation through her, seeing this side of him,
and knowing that it was directed at her. She closed her eyes, knowing with
certainty that his presence could easily overpower her if she let it, and
the knowledge left her with a mix of emotions running through her body.
She looked at herself in the mirror, decided that it would have to do, and
went back out into the main room. 

 He had gone into the darkness of his bedroom for a minute, and she put
the package of turnovers on the table on the other side of the room. When
she turned from the table, she saw him come out of the bedroom, and the
sight of him sent a sudden warmth into her and made her catch her breath.
He was wearing a dark cotton three-button shirt and comfortable, well-worn
jeans. He'd let his hair grow a little, out of the strict military cut,
and she saw that it had some wave to it. He didn't move quickly towards
her; it was a slower, more deliberate movement. She imagined the tension
between them increasing as he came nearer, and instead of pushing it away,
telling herself to back off a notch, she welcomed the new sensations. It
had been a long time since she had experienced them, and they made her
feel more alive, excited. 

 His eyes had darkened, she could see as he came nearer. He wasn't
smiling--his expression was intense, one of desire. She felt drawn to him,
and she finished moving the last step between them. No words were needed
at that moment--he simply drew her to him, and she slid both arms up
around his neck and pulled him against her. 

 The intensity of the connection almost frightened her; her heart was
beating wildly, her skin was warming up rapidly, and the thumbnail that he
drew up from the base of her spine sent tingling throughout her entire
body. She gasped at its pressure and arched against him slightly. At the
release of her mouth, his lips travelled down the curve of her jaw and she
felt his breath across her neck. His hands kneaded the back of her shirt
and she moaned as she felt his tongue against the pulse on her neck. He
tugged insistently at her shirt until she felt the pressure of his fingers
against the bare skin of her back. She threaded the fingers of her right
hand through his hair and let her other hand travel down, over the
hardened muscles of his shoulder. She moved both hands down to the inside
of the collar of his shirt, rubbed into the hot skin there with her
fingers. With a kind of soft moan, he lifted her against him, and they
moved back together. He guided them around the edge of the sofa, and they
tumbled down, legs catching against the edge. She laughed, and licked at
the hollow of his throat. His stomach was hard, and she shifted, wiggled
slightly against it, feeling his reaction. 

 He suddenly groaned, and she felt his hands pushing against her hips,
pushing her back as he slid up. She pushed herself up from his chest and
looked down at him. His eyes were shut, but he opened them and looked at
her, then turned aside. 

 "We can't do this," he said, his voice rough and thick. He looked back at
her, the breath rising and falling in his chest. 

 She slowed her breathing, too, feeling the humming in her belly subsiding
as she slid further back, her hands moving down his shirt. He shifted,
pulling his leg out from under her so that she could sit back, one leg
tucked under herself. He pushed himself up and took a deep breath, his
eyes fixed on her, apologetic, dark, and with more than a hint of tears at
their edges. He closed them and looked down, and she could almost see him
drawing himself back. His stomach moved with his controlled breaths, and
she swallowed. 

 "I'm sorry--" 

 "No, it's--I'm sorry--" 

 It all came out in one breath, neither knowing who had spoken first. 

 "It's just--" 

 "I know..." she looked over at the flames of the embers in the fireplace.
The logs would last several more hours, burning slowly amid the cooling
ashes. He followed her gaze, and then he slowly lifted himself off the
sofa and bent down to put another large piece of wood on the coals. He
lowered himself to the floor and sat back against the edge of the sofa,
his head near her foot. She watched the low light flickering across his
features, and admired the lines. 

 She didn't feel bad; in fact, she felt somewhat relieved, in a kind of
dreading way. Now that the sudden feverish pitch had subsided, and her
thoughts had begun to trickle through, she realized that she didn't feel
any of what she expected to. Instead of being angry at him, or doubting
herself, she began to focus on him, on what he was thinking, on their
surroundings. He was still quiet, but his shoulders were relaxing. She
sank back a little against the pillows and looked down at her hands, not
knowing what to say. 

 "I suppose you want to know why," he said, at length, and she heard the
weariness in his voice. 

 "I suppose I do," she answered quietly. 

 "I couldn't--I can't," he said it a little awkwardly, as if unsure of
what he meant. 

 She felt a thread of fear go through her; Ben, impotent? But then, she
dismissed the thought quickly. No, from what she'd felt, at least what
she'd thought she'd felt, that wasn't what he meant, but... 

 "I've...been wrong. I don't want to make the same mistake again." His
words were quiet, but were gaining surety. She breathed a small sigh of
relief that her first fear was unfounded. He was speaking from a
philosophical point of view, not a physical one. What was he referring to?
The Metcalfe woman, perhaps? But it was so long ago. *But so was my own
experience, and yet it reasserted itself painfully only a week ago*, she
realized, and the thought was sobering. 

 "What do you mean?" she asked. She shifted herself and pulled her leg out
from under her body; she was starting to feel her foot going to sleep. She
stretched her legs out across the sofa. 

 He leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes, not
answering her question. The light flickered over his eyelids, and she
looked at the dark lashes laid on his cheek. He opened his eyes again and
sighed, then turned to look at her with a resigned gaze. 

 "Are you angry at me?" 

 "No," she answered frankly, returning the gaze. "To be honest..." she
paused and looked at her hands, then looked back up, "I'm...relieved." 

 His expression changed quickly, into a half-puzzled frown. "Why?" 

 "Probably for the same reasons you are," she answered quietly. He looked
at her for a long moment and then turned back to stare at the
steadily-growing fire. 

 "Tell me yours," he said, quietly. 

 Meg paused, and looked down at her hands. She rubbed her knuckles and
tried to gather her thoughts. 

 "I love you, Ben." 

 The words surprised her and she caught herself for a moment, wondering
where her heart was taking her. She had never intended to blurt that out.
She had not even been sure of it until that moment, but now there it was,
and she took in a deep breath and continued. His eyes were closed and his
head was down. She did not know what he was thinking. 

 "I...loved you five years ago, and I find myself realizing that nothing
has changed. Here, all of this time, I thought I'd changed. Years later,
thousands of kilometres away, and the first moment I see you again, my
heart does this--leap--into my throat and butterflies start fluttering
around in my stomach and I feel foolish all over again." 

 He laughed softly at her last words, his eyes still closed, and he seemed
to nod in understanding. She took it as encouragement and kept going. 

 "Now, being that I'm no expert on the subject--" she could hear herself
going into 'official' mode, and stopped with a sigh. There were a few
seconds of silence, and then she tried again, this time without the
distancing that she had done out of old habit. She decided to just be
honest, but it hurt to make herself vulnerable; the more she gave away to
him, the less she felt distinct and separate from him, and that in itself
was a little frightening. 

 "I don't know about love, Ben. I haven't been very good at it, I've never
before truly found it, and I'm afraid that this could just be another
mistake--I don't mean you are, I mean I just don't want to--I, I don't--"
she faltered. 

 "I know what you mean," he interjected quietly, into her uncertain
apologies. To him, it was both a relief and a touch of fear that he
understood her so clearly, and that she had managed to express exactly how
he felt, also. They were so different, and yet--he was beginning to
realize again--so very much alike. 

 "I don't want to get my hopes up again and give myself to you, only to
have us both hurt in the end," she finished, feeling a welling of tears at
the corners of her eyes. He remained quiet for a long moment, and then he
took in a deep breath and let it out. 

 "I have not felt so intensely...alive for so long, Meg. I mean, I love
all of this--" he made a wide gesture with his arm towards the outside
world and then let it drop back down again. "I feel alive when I can stand
outside on a cool night and breathe in deeply and feel it filling my
lungs. When I can hear the wolves howling and the Lights singing in the
night sky. But, in here..." his shoulders rounded a little and he closed
his eyes, gesturing into himself, "...I keep it at a distance. It's just
easier to focus on my mind and my environment, and to leave my heart
alone." He opened his eyes and looked at the fire. "But you don't let me
do that; I can't stop this...this life that you stir in me." 

 Meg was silent, listening. 

 "I want to trust you," he turned his head to look at her, and spoke
slowly. "I want to be sure: mind, body, spirit. I don't want a casual
encounter between old friends. I made that mistake once and paid dearly
for it." He fell silent, and turned back to the fire. 

 "Neither do I," she answered, slowly. They sat silently for a few
moments, and then she asked, "What do you want?" 

 "A wife," he said, simply. "I just want to spend the rest of my life with
someone I can trust, someone I could raise a family with." He let out a
long breath, as if some great weight had just fallen off his shoulders.
Well, there it was--certainly more direct and honest than he had expected
his response to be, but true, nonetheless. He didn't think there was
enough left of his heart to survive being torn in two again by playing a
game and losing. He would rather just put his cards on the table and end
it there. Some wounds did not heal as well as others. 

 Her heart leapt into her throat, but she swallowed it down and took
another breath. Tonight seemed to be the night for unexpected
earth-shattering revelations to be delivered without ceremony. She was not
sure how to process this last one, and so she settled on the question
still floating in her mind since she had begun to speak. 

 "Do you love me?" 

 In a deliberate motion, he pushed himself up, moved over, and was beside
her on his knees. 

 "Well, yes, isn't that rather obvious?" A little lop-sided grin appeared
on his face. Meg felt a smile creep on to her own. 

 "Is this a proposal?" she asked playfully. 

 "No." 

 "It isn't?" Her face must have fallen, because he reached out to cup her
cheek with one hand. 

 "No...it's me telling you what I want, as you asked." 

 "Why?" 

 "What do you want?" He deftly turned the conversation to her instead of
answering her question. He ran his thumb along the hollow of her cheek. 

 She was not entirely sure, and her silence was his answer. 

 "It's only been three weeks--" he said. 

 "And a few years," she inserted, a little angry that her heart had jumped
ahead and had left her mind behind, and she didn't have a good answer for
him. 

 "--and I think more time would be good," he continued. "You know my
desires, and since I rather abruptly sprung them on you, I think it would
be better for you to have some time for yourself instead of feeling
pressured right now. That's why." 

 He was right, and she nodded, still a little unsure of how to take it
all. 

 "How do you know that this is what you want?" 

 "Because," he said, his voice low, "I know with utter certainty that if
you left this place, I would go through heaven and hell to come after
you." 

 "I am leaving in a week," she answered, lowering her own voice. "And
besides, you did the leaving last time." 

 "We both chose to go our own separate ways. You can't deter me that
easily, Inspector," he replied, smiling. She moved to kiss him, and when
their lips touched, she closed her eyes. 

 "Fair, then?" he murmured, when they separated. 

 "Fair." 

 "I should take you home." 

 She nodded. 

 "Thanks for a wonderful evening." 

 "You're welcome. Thanks...for your patience," he looked down, seeming a
little ashamed all of a sudden. She put her fingers under his chin and
gently lifted his head back up. 

 "No," she said. "Thank you for your wisdom and restraint. I really
appreciate your honesty." 

 He smiled, a kind of resigned smile, and then stood up. 

 "C'mon, let's get you home."  

 11 

 Fraser found an All Points Bulletin from the national RCMP headquarters
flashing on his computer when he arrived at the outpost the next morning.
He read through the report quickly and considered who he might send to
search for the escapee. In the midst of absorbing the information and
planning, the man's image on the screen suddenly arrested his thoughts and
he frowned at the screen. 

 La Croix... Fraser had encountered him before. This was certainly the
month for reunions with old acquaintances, it seemed. La Croix, a Vietnam
veteran, had been a trapper and a generally-reclusive resident of the
Yukon Territory before he began a private guerilla war against those in
power, who encroached on the land he lived in. Fraser had understood his
motivation when he first met him, and had even sympathized with him
somewhat, but the man's methods of fighting back were illegal, and had
eventually resulted in his arrest at the NAFTA summit in Chicago in 1996,
largely due to Fraser's ability to track and apprehend him. La Croix,
however, had also understood Fraser--well enough to outthink him several
times in the course of the pursuit, and to gain the upper hand. It was
eventually only good luck and timing that had saved Fraser's life. La
Croix was physically stronger than Fraser, and agile, too--though a few
years in prison had probably had some effect on his survival skills. He
was a man of a dying breed, a breed that Fraser considered himself a part
of. 

 At the thought of encountering him again, Fraser sighed. La Croix was a
man who couldn't abide being shut inside a cage; he had taken the first
real chance he had gotten, and had escaped into the open country, heading
back to where he would be difficult to find. Fraser wondered what had
possessed the prison authorities to consider transferring La Croix across
the province to a facility farther north. Good behaviour, most likely. La
Croix was not exactly an advocate of passive resistance, but he was also
not a killer by nature. 

 Fraser could find him and knew it, but he was not all that sure that he
truly wanted to. Some part of Fraser agreed with La Croix's mindset, but
another part--the more dominant part--reminded him of his duty as an
officer of the law. Fraser began to evaluate the situation. 

 La Croix would know that the Mounties were coming for him, and he would
prepare. He would choose a place and set it up with whatever ramshackle
booby traps and scares he could cobble together, and he would do enough
damage to escape farther north. If Fraser and his officers did manage to
capture him, it would not be without at least some injury, and in addition
to that, he could not spare more than three of his men on an open-ended
search like this one. Life in the town still went on, and people still
needed police presence in case of emergencies. They could not all drop
their posts to go find La Croix. A few more officers were being flown in,
but despite the RCMP's public image, most of the force did not have
significant experience and skill in tracking fugitives across vast frozen
landscapes. Fort Liard could send four, and Fort Nelson already had two
officers continuing pursuit across the border--they had lost the track,
though, which was the reason why they sent a message ahead to him. They
were sending two more north to cut off further escape past the Liard River
Valley--and somewhere in the middle, all the sparks would fly. 

 Getting up from his desk, Fraser left the room to make the necessary
arrangements.  

 Under the doctor's orders, Caryn was to remain as relaxed and as quiet as
possible, and so she was wrapped in a warm blanket in her rocking chair,
padded by two pillows, and she was working on another pair of knitted baby
bottoms. As she moved her arm up and gathered another long bit of yarn for
the next row, she looked over at her friend. Meg was holding a book, but
she hadn't looked at the pages in over twenty minutes; her eyes were fixed
on the flames in the stove, but her mind was obviously somewhere else. It
did not take much imagination on Caryn's part to guess what occupied her
friend's mind. She wondered what had happened the evening before. She had
not expected Meg to be home so early in the evening and she hoped things
were okay between the two Mounties. Meg had not offered any information,
and Caryn--for the moment--had decided not to pry it out of her. She
glanced over at the floor behind them and saw that sPaul was contentedly
drawing something involving a lot of orange. Maggie was down for her
mid-afternoon nap; it was blessedly quiet. 

 "Are you still planning on leaving this Wednesday?" Caryn asked, hitching
the last stitch onto the left needle and then going back in the other
direction. Meg gave a small start and looked up. 

 "What?" 

 "Are you still going to leave on Wednesday?" 

 Meg shrugged, and looked down at the open book on her knees. 

 "We'll have to see; I had expected that you would have your baby by now.
Your due date was a week and a half ago." 

 "Oh, those dates don't mean much," Caryn smiled. 

 "So I now see," Meg smiled a little and fingered the pages of the book,
then looked at the fire. "I wanted to stay until at least a couple days
after the birth." 

 "Would it be a problem if you didn't return on time?" 

 "Well, yes," Meg laughed. "But I'm not looking forward to going back
there and picking right up where I left off. They never tell you about all
the paperwork when they recruit you." 

 "So tell them you had extenuating circumstances and couldn't make it back
on time," Caryn said. "Unexpected delays are no surprise out here." 

 "But how long a delay, that's my concern. Two days, maybe three--yes.
More than that, and we'd have to have a massive storm for it to be
believable, even for out here." 

 Caryn crossed herself with the knitting needles, half-jokingly. "Don't
say such things...we don't want Him to send something," she smiled, and
Meg shook her head. 

 "I want to stay..." she said, drifting off again. 

 "So do it." 

 "So have your baby, already!" 

 "I'm not the one holding back!" 

 The incoming-request signal on the radio beeped. 

 "I wonder who that is," Meg said, getting up from the floor with a slight
groan. 

 "If it's my mother, tell her I'm fine." 

 "Okay." She walked into the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and flipped
the switch. "Coopers' residence, go ahead." 

 "With whom am I speaking?" An older male voice crackled out of the
speakers. Paul walked into the kitchen with his orange crayon in hand. 

 "Who's that?" he asked. Meg shook her head, not recognizing the voice,
though it sounded familiar. It wasn't Jeb or Liven. She pressed the talk
button on the handset. 

 "This is Meg Thatcher, who's this?" 

 "Sergeant Vern Stoughton ma'am. I've got a message for you." 

 "For me?" 

 "Yes ma'am." 

 "All right, what is it?" She frowned, wondering who would be contacting
her through the outpost. She hoped that nothing had happened to her
father-- 

 "It's from Sergeant Fraser, ma'am. I'm to tell you that he's sorry he
won't be able to visit tonight as planned, but that he'll contact you as
soon as he returns." 

 "Returns? Where is he going?" 

 "Official business, ma'am, but he should be back in a few days,"
Stoughton's gravelly voice crackled out. Meg frowned. She did not have
many days left to spend out here, and she wanted to have more time with
Ben before she had to go again. 

 "What official business?" 

 "I'm sorry ma'am, but I can't say that at this time." 

 "Sergeant--" Meg cut herself off, right before she started pulling rank
on him. The sergeant did not sound particularly worried, so it was not a
matter of great emergency. It was highly unlikely, though, that Fraser
would disappear without letting her know in advance, unless it was
something unexpected that required a fast response. 

 "Is the sergeant all right?" 

 "Yes ma'am, he's fine. It's only a matter of some urgent business." 

 "Well, thank you, then." 

 "You're welcome. Please tell Mrs. Cooper that I wish her the best." 

 "I will," Meg answered, running through all the possibilities in her mind
of what would draw Fraser away so urgently. "Have a good afternoon." 

 "And you. RCMP clear." 

 "Coopers clear." 

 Meg put the handset down and switched off the transmitter. 

 "Where did Sergeant Fraser go?" Paul asked, his eyes wide. Meg shook her
head and turned away from the radio. 

 "I don't know, Paul." She walked back into the den and sat down in the
same place as before, still considering a myriad of possibilities. 

 "Strange that he left without calling here, himself," Caryn murmured, her
eyes on Meg. 

 "I know." 

 Meg went back to reading her book, though she was even less able to
concentrate than before. The clicking of Caryn's knitting needles
punctuated the silence.  

 They made good time across the landscape, flying down to a small lake
which would serve as their drop-off and pick-up point. They planned to
follow a course with the sleds that would intercept La Croix's. They had
snowmobiles at their disposal, but Fraser preferred dog sleds, due to
their comparative silence and the possible advantages of having the
trained animals present. With the time that La Croix had had since he was
last seen, and his experience as a woodsman, it was likely that he was
well over the border into the NWT, possibly up to sixty kilometres farther
north. Following two hours on the heels of the Fort Nelson memo another
had arrived: a dogsled team and a fair number of provisions were reported
stolen from a trapper's cabin near the border. 

 The RCMP did not know what La Croix's intended destination was; he had
been a drifter through the Yukon and the Territories since his return from
Vietnam. If he had a known hideaway or cabin they would have swarmed down
on it and the path between it and Fort Nelson, but the best they could do
right now was establish a search radius and lay out a straightforward
manhunt up to the border to the Yukon Territory. The satellites registered
no uncharted sources of heat--even something as small as a campfire would
register against such a uniformly frozen backdrop--but it was likely that
La Croix was aware of this and was using a less obvious heat source. A
small portable cook-stove was among the missing items reported. 

 To Fraser, the fugitive's combat experience was more disturbing than his
ability to elude experienced trackers. Fraser was accustomed to tracking
fleeing criminals who had few resources and even fewer wilderness skills.
Those that he had brought in usually did not present a genuine threat, as
they had neither military training nor the ability to exist almost
indefinitely alone in the wilderness. La Croix had lived alone in the
jungles of Vietnam, separated from his detachment for over a year, and
then had lived by himself in the northern wilds of Canada for another
twenty. He was not going to go quietly. Fraser certainly would not, if he
were in his position. 

 He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the small bush plane's
engines, and found himself offering up the smallest prayer. He had not
truly realized, the first time that he had encountered La Croix, what he
had been dealing with. In retrospect, he knew he was only alive now
because La Croix had spared his life. He remembered the respect tinged
with fear that he first held for the man, and then the cold fear that had
gripped him when La Croix had come to his apartment in the night and had
crouched by his bed with a drawn hunting knife, speaking of the
encroachment of them...with their logging machines and their belching
smoke and their discarded beer cans...and he had known that he was at the
man's mercy. La Croix could have finished him right there, and slipped
away...but he hadn't. Fraser did not want to contemplate killing him;
somehow, it almost felt like a betrayal. 

 "Sir?" a young voice called out, waking him from his thoughts. 

 "Hey--we'll be landing on the lake in a few minutes," Jeb Mallock
shouted, over the humming of the engines. Fraser looked up at Constable
Arthur Lecrue's young face. 

 "Yes Constable?" 

 "I just wanted to let you know that we're nearing our drop point, sir,"
Lecrue shrugged towards the pilot's seat. Jeb wasn't really part of the
operation, and didn't bother following the protocol for addressing the
ranking officer. Lecrue, on the other hand, seemed to find it inescapable.


 "Thank you, Constable," Fraser nodded. He looked over at the other two
men in the cabin, Constables Jack Willis and Hugh Bohner. Both had been in
the force for over ten years, and had spent most of that time above the
sixtieth parallel. They were reliable and had sufficient experience for
this assignment. He had decided to bring Lecrue along as backup, to give
him field experience. He was from the southern part of one of the
provinces, and had requested a post in the NWT out of a sense of
adventure. He had seemed to be doing well up here the last two years, but
his tracking skills left something to be desired. 

 "Jeb!" Fraser leaned forward. Jeb Mallock turned his head sideways,
indicating that he was listening. "Drop us on the northwestern edge of the
lake, as close as you can." 

 Jeb gave a thumbs-up, and began to wheel the plane around towards the far
end of the open white area beneath them. He flew in a wide arc and aimed
the nose down, then began the descent. They flew in, blowing up the top
few inches of fresh-fallen snow in a plume behind them, and skimmed across
the surface of the lake, then landed on the ice skids and slid halfway to
their final destination, finally coming to a controlled pace in the middle
and rolling the rest of the way on the wheels, until they reached a point
about forty metres off from the tree line. 

 Bohner pushed the door out and dropped down with his pack, snow shoes,
and RCMP-issue rifle, Lecrue close behind him. Willis untied Dief and the
rest of the dogs, and they leapt down and trotted off to the side. Fraser
and Willis lowered the three dog sleds, a week's worth of provisions, and
the harnesses down to Lecrue. Bohner waited until the other two men
dropped down beside him, and then he pushed the door closed and thumped
twice on the side of the plane. Jeb gave a wave, and slowly turned the
plane around, back the way they had just come. They quickly hitched up the
dogs and sleds, added the light provisions, and moved to the edge of the
lake. After a few minutes, the sound of Jeb's engines had faded away into
the cold air. Willis pulled out the map. 

 "According to this," he said, straightening it out in front of him, "La
Croix's projected path is twelve kilometres due west. That's assuming he
travels at a high speed in a pretty much straight line towards the Yukon
border." 

 "True," Fraser said, shielding his eyes and looking up at the sun, which
was quickly fading behind the clouds. "But he's not going to go in a
straight line. He's going to cut in a few different directions,
sacrificing speed for less predictability." 

 "So what do you suggest?" Bohner asked, bending down to secure his rifle
onto his pack for easy accessibility. 

 "That we head due southwest for eighteen kilometres, then pick up the
straight-line path and let the dogs go a little ahead of us." Dief, at his
left foot, whined in anticipation. He sensed Fraser's conflicting feelings
on the hunt they were to begin, but was anxious to get started quickly.
The other dogs were also excited, but obedient. Fraser bent down and gave
Dief's head a quick ruffle. "Any objections?" 

 The other men shook their heads, and Willis put away his map. 

 "All right, then, get HO!" Fraser shouted to his dogs, and struck off
into the woods without consulting a compass. After a moment of glancing at
one another--and Lecrue checking his own compass--they went after him.	

 They crossed what was La Croix's expected path and went another four
kilometres down it, then overturned the sleds and secured them, and
released four of the leading dogs, Dief among them. The dogs knew to
search for fresh human scent, and they took off running into the woods as
the four Mounties began to set up camp for the evening. It was a simple
affair without a campfire, so as not to alert La Croix unnecessarily, and
the sleds became makeshift shelters, to protect against the winds. They
ate some dried rations and water, and then settled in to wait. Fraser
opted for the first alert shift. 

 At one point, he thought he heard Dief's howl, but the voice faded
quickly and did not return. The dogs would be back before morning, and La
Croix, even with subtle twists and turns, would make his way farther
north. They couldn't be more than thirteen to eighteen kilometres from
him, and the Fort Nelson officers were probably closing in from the south.
However, if La Croix slipped through their grasp once, it was likely that
he could do it again. Fraser hoped that the Ottawa trackers were not
planning on landing too close to the fugitive. He would have the area
around him booby-trapped at night for just such an occurrence.	

 Meg was dozing in her sleeping bag when an older man that she thought
looked vaguely familiar came over and knelt beside her. He looked weary,
but insistent, and he nudged her arm with his hand, and so she started to
ask him what he wanted--but he was gone. Her eyes were open, staring at
the empty space where he had been. 

 She sat up with an unformed scream, and felt beads of sweat working their
way down her temples. She was hot in the sleeping bag, and so she
hurriedly unzipped it and kicked it off her legs, breathing heavily. What
was that? Who was that?--He had seemed so real-- 

 Ben, her mind served up, and she suddenly remember where she had seen the
man: a few weeks ago, in a picture in Fraser's bedroom. It had appeared to
be a picture of the day when Fraser had graduated from the Academy. Two
older men in RCMP formal dress stood grinning proudly beside him. One was
Buck, a family friend, and the other was Fraser's father, who had died a
year before she met Fraser. Inexplicably, this man who had woken her up in
the dream looked like Fraser Sr. A cold shiver ran through her, and she
could feel her heart pounding in her chest. 

 She started to calm down her breathing. It was only eight o'clock, but
Caryn and the children had already gone to bed, and Dave was in the
kitchen, working on something at the table. She got up and went towards
the light, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Dave looked up from his pile
of paperwork and smiled tiredly at her. 

 "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

 Meg laughed weakly and went to the sink to get a glass of water. She
poured a bit from the tap and turned around. She leaned against the
counter, and took a sip. 

 "I feel like I have. It was the strangest thing..." 

 "Bad dream?" 

 "No..." Meg frowned. "Not really. But it left me feeling unsettled." 

 "About what?" 

 "Ben," she answered, taking another sip. 

 "It's only natural," Dave said, laying down his pen and running his
fingers back through his unruly hair. He stretched out his tall frame,
wincing from the knots, and then leaned forward and dropped his elbows on
top of the paperwork. 

 "Why is it only natural?" Meg asked, one eyebrow raised in preparation
for 'the one you love' speech. Dave was on a different tack though, and he
yawned instead. 

 "What with La Croix and all, I'd probably be mildly worried if I were in
your place." 

 "La Croix?" 

 "Yeah, the man he's tracking. You didn't know?" He looked surprised at
this. 

 "No..." The name stirred a small memory in Meg, and she was trying to
place it. 

 "I would have thought you would have been the first to find out.
Stoughton said Fraser left a message for you." 

 "Stoughton wasn't specific when he spoke to me, though I don't doubt that
Fraser told him to tell me more," she frowned, putting down her cup. 

 "Why wasn't he specific? You're a Mountie, too." 

 "He doesn't know that." 

 Understanding lit Dave's eyes, and he frowned. "I think you might want to
know." 

 "Who's La Croix?" 

 "Apparently some old nemesis of Fraser's, if Stoughton made it sound
right," Dave said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. The last piece fell
into place, and Meg gasped. 

 "La Croix!" 

 "Yes--what?" 

 "Guerilla, attacked the NAFTA summit and Fraser saved his life!" Meg
started to hurry into the den to find some clothes. The dream-image of the
old man, insistently nudging her, set her nerves on edge, and it lent an
urgency to her movements. Dave came into the den with a questioning look
on his face. 

 "Fraser saved his life? Doesn't sound like much of a nemesis to me..." 

 "Yes, from the American agent's bullet--" 

 A loud "Shhhh!" came from Caryn in the bedroom, and Meg lowered her
voice. 

 "--after being used as a body shield while La Croix tried to escape." 

 "Where are you going?" 

 "I have to go!" Meg whispered fiercely. "I can't stay here! I'll be of
more use down at the outpost. Fort Liard doesn't have enough officers for
a full-scale manhunt." 

 "What can you do down there?" 

 "Help back him up, make sure Ottawa's sending backups, help in some way!"


 "Are you sure?" 

 "Yes!" she answered with conviction, and dashed into the bathroom to
change. Dave shook his head and turned away. 

 "Radio the outpost that I'm coming!" Meg hissed through the door, after
opening it a crack, and then she shut it again. Frowning, Dave went over
to the radio and began the call sequence.  

 "Inspector Margaret Thatcher. Brief me on everything concerning this La
Croix, now," Meg demanded, walking into the outpost and displaying her
badge. The female officer behind Fraser's desk looked up in alarm, and
then the radio message the woman had received from the Coopers' home half
an hour ago made sense all of a sudden, and she stood to attention. 

 "Constable Antoinette St. Marie, sir!" she said. 

 "Constable, I want the full report of the situation and a briefing on the
current status of this outpost's officers." 

 "Yes sir, let me get it for you." She started fiddling with the computer,
and a moment later, the printer chugged to life. 

 "What's all this ruckus about?" growled Stoughton, stomping across the
hallway into the small office. He caught sight of Meg towering over the
desk and his frown deepened. "Listen here--" he started angrily, but Meg
held up the back of her hand in front of him, commanding silence, and
continued her barrage. 

 "I don't need a printout, Constable. I want you to tell me, in three
minutes or less, the current status of this situation." Her voice was
clear and brooked no questions. 

 "Listen, young woman, you have no right to come in here and demand
information of any kind!" Stoughton said, moving behind the desk with a
glower. "You are a civilian, and despite Sergeant Fraser's instructions, I
have no intention of divulging classified--" 

 "Sir," St. Marie said, clearing her throat slightly. "She's, uh--" 

 "--classified information to anyone outside of this outpost until it has
been deemed appropriate by the chain of command," Stoughton plowed on,
ignoring the younger woman. Meg held up her badge, briefly, her face
stony, and then efficiently tucked it away in the pocket of her coat. "Mr.
Stoughton," she said, emphasizing the address. "You are not currently an
active member of the RCMP, and unless you have something useful to
contribute to this conversation, I ask you to be quiet." 

 St. Marie's eyes went wide; apparently Stoughton was not usually
addressed in such a tone. Meg straightened up and raised her eyebrow,
addressing St. Marie. 

 "Now," she said. "Let's begin again. Please tell me all the relevant
information about La Croix." 

 "Fort Nelson's sending two of their men up to help us," Stoughton said
stonily, when the woman started to respond. Meg chose to ignore his
rudeness and still looking at the younger officer, she continued. 

 "And?" 

 St. Marie handed her the printout.  

 12 

 The dogs returned around five in the morning, and the four men set out at
first light, about an hour later. They set Dief and two of the other
search dogs as the leads in their teams again, and let those older trained
dogs choose the path. By mid-morning, they found the first signs of La
Croix's sled, no more than half a day old, and followed it single-file. 

 Willis set up the radio and tuned the signal to the Fort Liard outpost. 

 "Willis to RCMP 1113," he said, then paused. There were a few seconds of
static crackle, and he tuned the radio easily. 

 "RCMP 1113 to tracking party," a female voice answered. "Report." 

 Surprised, Willis glanced around the group, wondering if anyone
recognized the woman's voice. Sergeant Fraser did not appear unduly
concerned, so Willis continued relaying. 

 "We've, ah, located La Croix's sled tracks. We estimate them to be about
half a day old." 

 "Excellent. Bearing?" 

 "Due north-northwest," Fraser answered. "Still headed directly towards
the Yukon border from this point." 

 Willis repeated the directions into his handset. 

 "Confirmation received. We're sending three officers to assist." 

 "Where's the drop-off point?" Willis asked, knowing there was no place
for a bush plane to safely land within fifteen kilometres of their
position. 

 "One moment." There was a long pause on the other end, long enough for
them to discuss options and reach a decision. 

 "Hoyle's Lake," came the reply. "We'll intercept you by, ah, 1430 hours."


 "Acknowledged," Fraser said. Willis nodded and repeated their reply. The
only closer possible landing spot was too unstable in the Spring, since it
was more of a swelled river than a true lake, and it had likely begun to
melt two weeks earlier. 

 "RCMP 1113 clear." 

 "Willis clear," he replied. He switched off the transmitter, and began
repacking the radio. "Anyone know who that was?" he asked, snapping the
case shut and tying it down on the sled with bungee cords. 

 "Could've been one of the Nelson officers," Bohner said. 

 Fraser went back to his sled team, frowning slightly. Meg was not
supposed to get involved in this. She was not on duty, and was therefore
not obligated to assist. He sighed inwardly, knowing that there was
nothing else that she would have done when she found out. He only hoped
that she and the Fort Nelson officers would not be necessary. 

 The four Mounties urged the dogs forward and continued following the sled
tracks for another two hours, without incident. La Croix followed a
straightforward course, with a few variations, as Fraser had expected. 

 "Should we hold back, and try to trap him from behind when the others
reach him from ahead?" Bohner asked, when they paused to feed the dogs for
lunch. 

 "It depends on the situation. If he stops for the night before they
intercept him and we have sufficient opportunity, we will do all we can to
prevent him from escaping further," Fraser answered, bending down to
readjust his second dog's harness. "If he continues through the night, we
pursue him. I would prefer not to approach him until we have backup." 

 "You don't think we could take him?" Willis asked, frowning. 

 "We should be able to," Fraser answered, straightening up. "But I still
advocate caution. Don't underestimate him." 

 "How did you catch him last time?" Lecrue asked, from his perch in
Bohner's sled. 

 "I didn't," Fraser replied. "He came to us." 

 "The report didn't say he turned himself in!" Willis exclaimed. 

 "No," Fraser said, going back to his sled. "But he knew what he was
walking into." 

 "He was foolhardy, a man with a self-imposed mission," Bohner said
calmly, confident from his reading of the RCMP report. "He didn't give
himself up." 

 Fraser simply shook his head and whistled to his resting team. They were
alert and ready to go in a moment. He gave a nod to the other three men,
and then raced on ahead. They followed not far behind him.  

 Meg leapt down from the bush plane and turned to pick up her pack from
the snow, where she had dropped it. The two Fort Nelson officers jumped
down beside her, and they jogged a short distance away in the snow, waving
the plane off. The bush plane had come from Fort Nelson with the officers
and had stopped in Fort Liard to wait for a tracking confirmation signal.
With Fraser's team following on La Croix's heels, they had a good
reference point on where to land. Meg was wound up with anticipation and
she forced herself to breathe, relax, and get their bearings. 

 "We're about five and a half hours from the Liard team's probable current
position," Constable Ankers said, consulting his compass. "Assuming they
continuing their heading, they should reach us in...ah..." 

 "In short order," Meg said, shouldering her pack, and not needing to hear
the exact calculations. Ankers had already established himself as
something of an algebra aficionado who appeared to have joined the RCMP
for its seeming wealth of new word problems. She was not in the mood for
it. "Let's head out and keep sharp." The second officer, Constable Will
Harding, nodded and fell into step behind her. He, at least, seemed to
have their goal properly fixed in mind. 

 They headed almost due south for three hours, and then a movement far
ahead of them in the woods dropped Meg to a crouch with a hiss of, "Down!"


 Harding and Ankers dropped down beside her. They paused in silence for
several long seconds. The shadowy figure continued its slow trek in
between the trees ahead of them. 

 "What is it, sir?" Harding asked. Meg frowned and made a quick hand
movement to quiet him, her eyes still fixed on the figure. 

 "I don't see anything," Ankers whispered. 

 "Up there, about seventy metres ahead," Meg said. 

 The other two Mounties peered ahead, but heard and saw nothing. They
glanced at one another and shrugged. 

 "Still don't see it, sir," Harding said. Meg turned to look back at them.


 "You don't? Look, there--" she pointed ahead, and turned to look, but the
figure was gone. Surprised, she frowned. "That's funny..." 

 "Let's continue," Ankers said, after a few seconds. Meg nodded, and they
kept going. 

 Fifteen minutes later, she saw it again. 

 "There!" she hissed, and dropped to a crouch. Once again, they followed
suit. 

 "What are you looking at, sir?" Ankers asked. 

 "A...man, I think," Meg answered, pulling out her binoculars. She focused
in on the figure. He seemed farther away in the eyesights than she had
expected him to be, but he was clearer. And familiar. Too familiar, in
fact. She had an unexplainable feeling in the pit of her stomach that made
her uneasy. He was not tall, but he walked with the air of someone much
larger. Gray-haired, wearing snowshoes. He paused in the sights, and then
turned to look back directly at her, as if he knew she was watching him. 

 All at once, she recognized the old man, and fear clutched at her heart.
His steel-blue eyes cut across the distance between them, and the cold
fingers of a wind reached out to her. She shivered under her warm parka.
After a moment, he turned and continued on. 

 She folded up and tucked her binoculars back into her pocket, then rose.
Ankers and Harding had been respectfully silent behind her, but she knew
they would not remain that way for long. 

 "Come on," she said, and struck off directly towards the old man. 

 "Hey--we're not heading quite right," Ankers said a few minutes later,
frowning down at his compass. 

 "Yes we are," Meg answered, with conviction, and continued on. The two
men obeyed her lead, and they plunged on through the snow.  

 Fraser and his team followed the sled tracks for another six kilometres,
and came to the place where La Croix had stopped to feed his own team.
They were catching up to him, but slowly, as his dogs were beginning to
tire from the extended race across the territory. They studied the marks
for a short while, determining how long he had stayed, and how heavy the
sled was, and his probable speed. Fraser estimated their meeting up with
him within five kilometres' travel time, and they redoubled their efforts.


 As they neared the spot, however, they saw no hint that La Croix's sled
was slowing or any nearer than before. Fraser decided on caution, and he
examined the area around the point where he had expected to catch a
glimpse of the fugitive. There were no signs of anything unusual in the
tracks, and so Willis struck out ahead, then Fraser's team, followed by
Bohner and Lecrue, the slowest team because of their combined weight. As
they were rounding a bend and approaching a steeper down-slope toward a
river's edge, there was a muffled explosion, and Fraser saw Willis's team
and sled flip over, plowing into the snow drift ahead of him. He
immediately called a stop to his dogs, just as Dief leapt onto another
trap and was thrown backwards a metre and a half by a smaller explosion.
Amidst the frightened yelping of the dogs and the spray of snow falling
from the explosions, Fraser overturned his sled and crouched down behind
it, quickly pulling out his rifle and cocking it. 

 He glanced swiftly behind him, and saw Bohner and Lecrue turning the dogs
back towards the tree cover to their right. He saw a snow drift that
seemed suspiciously out of place that was directly in their path, and
shouted, "GO LEFT!" down the slight incline. He saw Bohner notice it also
and react, heaving the sled to the left to avoid it--but the weight of the
sled, with Lecrue in it, pushed through the snow covering anyway, and the
force of the explosion a half-second later threw Bohner over the front of
his sled, at the same time launching the whole sled, Lecrue, and the
harnessed team two metres into the air, tumbling end-over-end in a twist
of limbs, wooden slats, and leather harnesses that were dragging the
panicked dogs. Fraser cringed at the sight of the resulting pile that lay
broken at the base of the incline where they had come up, just a few
metres from their original path. 

 He took a few moments to just breathe, and then listened. He heard a moan
from Willis, and looking farther up La Croix's sled-path towards his
fallen officer, he cursed himself for not noticing the difference in the
indentations made by the sled's slats. They were about the same depth in
the snow as before, but the cut was now tilted slightly farther on one
slat than on the other. A man on the sled would carry his weight as evenly
as possible, so as not to unbalance the sled and slow down the team. These
slats, however, had an unbalanced weight on one side, and that could only
mean that La Croix had moved all the weight to the back of his sled, and
that it had slipped to one side by just a few centimetres. A man in a
hurry without time to check the right weight balance. And how had he
gotten off his sled without footprints being noticed? A low-hanging
branch, possibly. They had passed under a few close trees only a short
distance back. 

 He had missed that little detail, and it had possibly cost two men their
lives. He suppressed the anger at himself and at La Croix that started to
rise up in his chest, and he focussed on his surroundings. La Croix, given
that he had at least a forty-five minute head start on them by this time,
must have raced out to this point, laid scent for the dogs to find as they
continued to run without him, and set up traps around this whole hollow. 

 Fraser listened, straining to hear the slightest crunch of snow beneath a
boot. He heard a tiny metallic sound come from Willis, amid the sounds of
his team's whimpering dogs. Good, he had started the beacon for the other
team to find this location. He only hoped that La Croix had not noticed.
Good man, he thought, making a note to commend Willis later. Assuming
there is a later... He pushed the thought out of his mind just as a
gunshot rang out, spraying broken clumps of snow and ice all over his
legs. He froze. 

 "Unload your rifle, Mountie, and drop all the rounds on the snow, half a
metre to your right," a slightly raspy but calm voice said, coming from a
grove of trees near the top of the embankment to Fraser's right. 

 Fraser obeyed, slowly, emptying the magazine into his right hand, and
then throwing the bullets off into the snow as instructed. He removed the
last round from the chamber and left it with the others. 

 "Now lay your rifle down under the sled and stand up, slowly, with your
hands where I can see them." 

 Fraser complied, and looked up at the source of the voice. He thought he
could see two eyes piercing out through the darkness under the trees. A
moment later, he heard a slight, raspy laugh. 

 "Why, it's Constable Benton Fraser," the figure crouched in the shadows
said, and Fraser saw a flash of teeth. "Long time no see, eh?" He laughed
again. "I'm doing well, thanks for asking." 

 Fraser let a small, tight smile onto his face. "I'm glad to hear that,
Macon." 

 "I'm sure you are. Now," the figure stood up smoothly, and Fraser could
see more of his outline. "You walk yourself over to your fallen comrade,
there, and pick up the beacon he just turned on. Keep your hands out in
front of you." 

 Fraser set his jaw and nodded, then stepped around his overturned sled
and walked the few metres over to Willis, who lay with his eyes closed,
the side of his face pressed into the snow. Fraser crouched down, slowly.
He could see white lines of tension in the skin around the officer's eyes:
signs of pain. 

 "How are you, Constable?" he asked, pushing out the slight shake in his
voice by concentrating on the fallen man. 

 "Good, sir," Willis said quietly, and opened his eyes. He was faced away
from La Croix, and he flicked his eyes down to where Fraser knew he had
his firearm. Fraser shook his head just slightly. 

 "Good choice," La Croix said from the trees, watching the exchange like a
hawk. "Now the beacon." 

 Fraser bent down, searched through Willis's clothing, and found the small
transmitter unit in the man's coat pocket. He held it up for La Croix to
see. 

 "Drop it in the snow to your right." 

 Fraser lobbed the little device a short distance away and La Croix's
second bullet shattered it before it hit the snow. Fraser got the point. 

 "Now his rifle and sidearm, too," La Croix said calmly, and Fraser
emptied out Willis's rifle and handgun just as he had done with his own.
He hoped that Bohner and Lecrue were alive, and awake. 

 "Why are you going to all this trouble? Two more years and they would
have let you go wherever you wanted to." Fraser asked, after finishing
with the handgun and dropping it in the snow. They were not going to get
out of this one with brute force; their only hope was to stall La Croix
long enough for the other team to make it in. 

 "Lace your fingers and put your hands on your head, then walk up this
incline, to your left," the fugitive said, ignoring the question. Fraser
did as he asked, his hands over his Stetson, and he fleetingly considered
the possibility of throwing it at some point, but discarded the idea. He
had told his men not to underestimate La Croix, and he would be foolish
not to take his own advice. 

 Fraser was better able to see La Croix when he entered the shadows in the
trees. La Croix gestured with his rifle towards a spot farther in, and
Fraser saw the makings of small explosives and a simple campsite. 

 "Turn around." 

 Unwillingly, and against all instinct, he obeyed. 

 He heard the crunching of boots against snow approach from behind him,
and felt a rifle barrel poke insistently into his back. He was nudged
forward about four metres. He stepped up to a short distance from where
the ground began dropping off down to the river. 

 "That's enough." 

 Fraser stopped. 

 "Drop your hands. You move, I shoot. Got it?" 

 "Yes," Fraser answered, lowering his hands to his sides. 

 La Croix knocked off his Stetson with the barrel, and it tumbled down in
front of him and tilted a bit when it landed in the snow. For some reason,
the sight suddenly brought Meg to his mind, and he swallowed back a regret
that lodged itself in his chest. 

 "You want to know why I'm going to all this trouble?" La Croix growled. 

 "I would like to understand, yes." 

 La Croix paused, and a sort of humor entered his tone. "You probably
actually would," he said. "Well, it's just this: no man has a right to
keep me in chains. Now I'm going home, and I am forced to go through you
to do it. No hard feelings. I hope you'll understand, I need to do this." 

 He heard La Croix move swiftly behind him and he thought of possibilities
for turning to fight, to duck, but all that settled clearly in his mind
was a simple, frustrated, Meg, I'm sorry... 

 And then there was a crack, and an intense red pain bloomed in the back
of his head, and his world went black as he crumpled in the snow.  

 At the sound of the first faint gunshot, Meg drew in a sharp breath and
stopped, listening to the report echo through the hills for a long moment.
The old man had disappeared from view, and Meg took that as a sign that
they were near their destination. Meg was not one to follow disappearing
shadows, but there was something terribly insistent about this one, and
she had felt compelled to follow. By now, they were off La Croix's
projected path by nearly eight kilometres, and Ankers was in paroxysms of
horror at the unexplained deviation. 

 At the sound of the gunshot, however, he stopped his protests, and they
all froze to listen for any further report. They began hiking more quickly
towards the source of the sound, and were further guided by a second shot
only a minute later. At this, they broke into a run. 

 "The river's only about a kilometre from here," Ankers breathed. 

 "Good," said Meg, and continued running, keeping her senses sharp.  

 When Fraser woke a few minutes later--he noted the position of the sun;
it was still nearly in the same place above the horizon--he was bound hand
and foot. Little rivulets of his blood had run down inside his collar, and
the skin was wet and itchy. He tried an experimental movement with his
head, and pain blossomed through his skull He squeezed his eyes shut with
a wince. After a waiting few moments to regain his bearings, he paused to
listen. Water faintly trickled down near the river, but the woods around
him were largely silent. He tried his bonds, but they were well-knotted,
and his hunting knife was gone from its boot sheath. He would be at it for
too long trying to get out of the ropes unassisted, in this position. 

 Amidst some groaning and shifting, he managed to get himself to his feet,
and he shuffled the short distance to the edge of the hollow where his
sled would be, and took stock of the situation. Willis's eyes were closed,
and he was lying in a different position than before, apparently
unconscious. The three front dogs from his sled were missing, along with
their harnesses, and there were boot-prints in the snow, leading them down
to the river. Fraser looked down at the tangle of slats, gear, harnesses,
and dogs that had been his sled, and was pleased to find that Dief's place
at the head of the line was empty, though the harness remained. 

 The half-wolf had extricated himself from the harness, a trick that
Fraser had taught him long ago for just such a situation as this. The
ability had been used a few times for purposes other what Fraser had
intended it for, but he was thankful now that Diefenbaker had been able to
do it, despite the crash and the explosion. There was no blood around his
spot in the snow, so the explosion had not apparently caused the wolf
serious harm. Fraser looked around, but did not see a sign of Diefenbaker
anywhere. His tracks led off through the hollow, in the direction of the
water that lay down below, at the base of the incline. 

 Fraser set his teeth and gave a short whistle. Not loud, but enough. He
dropped down to his knees, winced at the jarring, and rolled himself into
a sitting position, to wait. Wherever the half-wolf was, he was well
hidden. Fraser looked down at the hollow. The rifles, handgun, and
cartridges were gone, picked up by La Croix. The sled dogs watched him
silently. One of them from Willis's sled was not moving; Fraser wondered
if he was all right. From what he could see of Bohner's and Lecrue's sled,
one dog was whimpering and trying to pull itself forward, but nothing else
was moving. Fraser closed his eyes. 

 A few moments later, a cold, wet snout nudged him behind his left ear,
and he broke into a quick, relieved smile, and turned to look at his
half-wolf, who snuffled a short greeting. 

 "Diefenbaker! Thank God you're all right!" he breathed, shifting his
weight forward so he could expose his bound wrists. "Quick!" 

 Dief understood, and examined the knots for half a minute. When Fraser
felt the animal's warm breath across his hands, as Dief started tugging on
the rope with his teeth bared, he nodded curtly. "That's it." 

 Fraser looked up at the sound of a large canvas something landing on
something else. 

 "Do you hear that?" 

 Dief paused a moment from his tugging and whined softly. 

 "Good, good, he's still here. Hurry!" 

 Dief snuffled briefly and loosened a knot. Two minutes later, Fraser
started to feel some give on the ropes. "Let me try," he said, and Dief
stepped back. Fraser craned his wrists, and grasped a few loose loops. He
explored for a few seconds, and then finished loosening the now-damp
knots. He shook the bonds off a minute later, and quickly untied his
ankles. He got up, rubbing his wrists for circulation, retrieved his
Stetson, and looked towards where the ground curved down towards the
melting river. 

 "Thanks." 

 Dief snuffed a quick reply and trotted to the edge, then crouched down in
the snow. Fraser followed his example and crouched down beside him, to
take stock of the situation. 

 At the edge of the river, La Croix was almost finished wrapping up his
sled. He had retrieved the booby-traps; Fraser could see the
snow-encrusted cans lashed to the back of the sled. He was tying down a
canvas tarp and securing the corners. Fraser estimated about three minutes
before the man would be ready to leave. La Croix had added the three dogs
from Willis's sled to his own team, and they were worrying at their
harnesses. 

 "We have no weapons." 

 Dief snuffed agreement. Fraser thought for a moment. 

 "Go left, hide yourself as near him as you can. At my signal, charge him.
Be silent." 

 Dief snuff-whined. 

 "Good. Go." Dief darted away, streaking through the darkening woods, down
the incline. Fraser took off running towards the right, in a half-crouch.
He stayed low, and reached the edge of the tree line without being seen,
about eight metres from his quarry, facing his back.  

 Meg, Ankers, and Harding reached the edge above the river embankment, and
crouched low for a moment, to confer. La Croix was down below them, out
ahead a short way across the swollen, melting river basin. There were
spots that looked stable enough, but there was enough fast-flowing water
trickling under the edges of the ice that Meg knew it was deceptive. The
only reason there was ice on this part of the river at all was that it was
slowly becoming a lake, before the run-off point some distance downriver.
It wouldn't remain frozen for much longer in the season, though, and even
now, great groaning cracks could be heard periodically as the ice sheets
weakened and moved. 

 Watching La Croix, she frowned as she saw movement in the trees behind
him, on the far side of the river basin. A white wolf streaked through the
woods. She saw another darkened figure moving swiftly and carefully down
the embankment under the tree cover. They did not have much time; she
dropped a quick silent thanks to whomever was responsible for leading them
to this spot, and then made a decision. 

 "Constable Ankers." 

 "Yes?" 

 "You take the right, position yourself as well as you can on the
embankment downriver. Take a shot as soon as it's clear." 

 "Yes, sir," Ankers nodded, tucking his compass into the pocket of his
RCMP-issue coat. Drawing his handgun, he slid carefully down to the right
and disappeared from view. Meg turned to Harding. 

 "Take the left?" he asked, drawing his own weapon. 

 "Just take care he doesn't see you," she answered with a curt nod. "He's
facing this direction." 

 "I will, sir." 

 Meg nodded, and the second Mountie matched his partner's actions, quickly
moving into place. Meg checked the handgun that Stoughton had given her,
made sure a bullet was in the chamber, and then tucked it back away. She
began a stealthy climb down through the trees to a closer point.  

 Fraser took a deep breath to clear his head of the pain that was now a
dull throbbing at the base of his skull, brought on from his exertion in
getting down the hill. He cleared his throat softly and swallowed, then
raised himself to his full height and stepped out into the open. 

 "La Croix!" 

 The man spun around, picking up his rifle in one smooth motion and
levelling it at Fraser, as the Mountie approached. He smiled tightly, in
reluctant admiration. 

 "You wriggled out fast." 

 "I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to leave." 

 La Croix smiled. "Really?" 

 "Really." Fraser continued walking, slowly. 

 The smile disappeared from La Croix's face. 

 "Stop. Right there." 

 Fraser took two more steps, putting him about six metres from the end of
the rifle, and made a small hand movement at his side. 

 "Please put your weapon down on the ground and put your hands over your
head," he said, starting to approach again. 

 "You're crazy, man," La Croix growled, and Fraser saw his finger start to
tighten on the trigger. He dropped and rolled to the left just as Dief
came streaking out of the woods and launched himself at the huge man. La
Croix saw the flash of white fur in movement on his right, and he swung
the rifle up to block Dief's charge. 

 The shot went wild, and Dief landed on him a second later, knocking the
rifle from his grasp. The man staggered and managed to crouch, but did not
fall, and Dief, growling, attacked him. He sunk his fangs into La Croix's
arm. La Croix shoved at Dief, but Dief held fast, scrabbling at the man's
chest with his paws. 

 Fraser got up from his roll just as La Croix had gotten his knife from
his clothing with his free hand. 

 "No!" he shouted, dashing forward just as La Croix brought the knife up
in a deadly arc and stabbed it deep into Dief's side. 

 Dief barked in surprise and pain and staggered back, letting go of the
arm as La Croix pulled the knife out of his ribs. He limped a step and
fell, and then Fraser was on La Croix a second later. This time the big
man did fall when Fraser barrelled into him, grabbing the knife-wrist and
twisting it savagely to dislodge the weapon. He knocked La Croix's head
back into the snow with his fist and twisted the wrist harder. 

 La Croix dropped the knife with a grunt, and swung his free fist into
Fraser's cheek, hard, splitting it. Fraser reeled back for a moment, and
La Croix took the opportunity to bring his knee up into Fraser's stomach.
The sudden pain loosened his grip on the wrist that had held the knife,
and La Croix slipped his hand out of the Mountie's grasp and tried another
attack. Fraser dropped back in a roll to avoid the next punch. He elbowed
La Croix in the neck just as the big man started to climb on top of him,
and they went for another roll. Fraser pushed up, taking La Croix's
momentum and using it to continue to wheel him back down again. He was at
the disadvantage in strength and body mass, and the only way to keep the
attack on his side was to prevent La Croix from being able to use his
advantage. He had to keep moving, to keep landing solid hits. 

 It did not work for long, though, as La Croix deflected Fraser's next
swing and rolled into a tight manoeuver with unexpected agility, putting
Fraser underneath and revealing his knife, which was lying pressed into
the snow where they had just been. Fraser saw La Croix move towards
picking it up, and he kicked out, shoving La Croix up for a second, enough
time to knock the knife farther away with his right hand. La Croix
regained his balance and backhanded Fraser, who had left his head exposed
in his attempt to push away the knife. In the short time that Fraser was
stunned, La Croix grabbed the knife and brought it back. Fraser looked up,
saw the gleam on the metal, and reached up to hold back the hand with the
knife. They were locked in the battle of strength for several seconds,
which Fraser, straining, knew that he was gradually losing. The ice
beneath them shifted, and Fraser felt it weakening under their combined
weight. 

 "If you...hadn't...attacked me, I would have left you alone," La Croix
ground out, pushing down. Fraser didn't respond, instead focusing
everything he had on fighting back at La Croix. The bigger man did not
budge, for all of the Mountie's straining. A crack began to open in the
ice underneath him, and he fought to roll La Croix sideways. 

 La Croix slammed his knee down into the ice while trying to pin Fraser
down, and the crack beneath them groaned, losing integrity. 

 "I just want...to be...free," La Croix said, his face strained, drops of
blood from his split lip landing on Fraser's chin. 

 "I'm...sorry," Fraser ground out. La Croix pushed hard, and Fraser felt
the knife inching closer. His arms burned with the effort of fighting
back, and he felt his muscles giving out. He could hear the thousands of
tiny cracks opening in the snow-and-ice layer underneath his head, and he
struggled to get out from under La Croix's weight. The big man seemed to
be oblivious to their crumbling ground. 

 Impatient to break the battle of strength, La Croix growled and pushed
his whole weight down and forward, twisting his wrist, and Fraser cried
out as his grip broke and the knife slid down, grazing his cheek as he
managed to deflect it with his right arm. 

 A shot rang out across the frozen lake, the report echoing around the
hills for a full five seconds, and as if in slow motion, Fraser saw La
Croix's eyes widen as he arched back, a red blossom growing on his
shoulder, and then the big man was thrown up off him, and he landed in a
heavy heap in the snow, next to Fraser. The ice cracked and shifted at the
force of his fall, and the big man's eyes showed surprise as they fell
into the freezing current, his weight cracking the last strength in the
surface beneath them. 

 Fraser gasped at the sudden needles of cold pain that attacked every inch
of his skin, feeling the icy water numb his strength as he tried to pull
out from under the current swirling from La Croix's falling weight. Pink
blossomed in the water, and Fraser fought for the surface, against the
current, against the icy ceiling, against the swirling, numbing, dark
water. His feet found and scrabbled at the bottom, and he pushed himself
up, desperately fighting not to take in a breath. La Croix's body caught
Fraser's leg in an underarm and then slipped off, caught away in the cold,
dark current beneath him. He tried to reach for the big man's body, but
his numb fingers would not respond and he did not have the air to continue
trying. He dragged himself up and through the broken clumps of floating
snow and ice, and made it the few feet to shore. He slumped to the
ice-covered stones and heaved for breath. 

 He could faintly hear someone calling his name through the rushing in his
ears, and he struggled to move towards the sound, shivering
uncontrollably.  

 13 

 "Ben!" Meg shouted, running down to the edge of the river ice. She ran
along the rocks, looking for a place that could support her weight, and
watched Fraser drag himself out of the freezing water. She knew he didn't
have more than a few minutes before hypothermia would set in. She had to
get across to him, and fast. She put her gun back in the holster and
pulled out her hand radio. 

 "Thatcher to base! Come in, base!" She ran along the rocks, looking,
looking, glancing up to gauge Fraser's status. He had slumped to the
ground, and was barely moving, from what she could see. 

 "BEN!" she shouted, her voice starting to crack. Her heart was pounding
fast. "Fraser, get up! Ben!" Whatever he did, he had to keep moving until
they could get him warm, and she knew he knew it. He started to roll onto
his side. 

 "Thatcher to base!" she growled into the radio. It crackled to life a
moment later, and she heard St. Marie's voice. 

 "RCMP 1113 to Thatcher, go ahead." 

 "We've got a man down--" Meg said, looking around for a sign of the other
officers Fraser had brought with him. Were they down, too? "--and possibly
three more. We need hypothermia measures, and medical assistance. And
possibly a body bag." 

 "They're on their way," answered St. Marie, sounding immensely relieved
at having something to do. "What's your location?" 

 "We're on that second river basin we discussed; we may have some
difficulty getting a rescue team in here; it's not safe for a landing."
Meg found a place to step onto the ice, and she tested it with her foot. 

 "They flew a helicopter up from Fort Nelson a few hours ago." 

 "Excellent--one second, I'll get an exact location for you." She looked
up and saw Ankers heading across the ice, though carefully. She tried a
step out, herself, and it felt stable enough to continue. Harding was
already halfway to the other side. Fraser had started slowly peeling off
his coat. 

 "Ankers!" she shouted across the ice. The constable looked up. "Where are
we?" 

 "Approximately ten point two kilometres due south-southeast from our
drop-off point!" he shouted back. She repeated the information into her
radio. 

 "They should arrive in about forty-five minutes," St. Marie assured her.
"Anything else?" 

 "I'll let you know," Meg answered. "Thatcher clear." 

 "Base clear." 

 Meg, with the radio still in hand, continue to make her way across the
ice. Harding had reached Fraser and was speaking to him. A minute later,
Harding took off up the embankment that Fraser had come down, and he
disappeared over the top of the hill. Ankers was running further
downstream, looking for signs of La Croix's body under the ice. Meg
approached, carefully skirting a wide circle around the hole in the ice. 

 "I can't find him," Ankers shouted, looking over at her as she leapt to
shore and hurried towards Fraser. He was trying to pull off his soaked
sweater, with some difficulty. He looked up at her with a small smile that
turned into a wince. 

 "Ben." She crouched down beside him, swallowing the lump in her throat at
the sight of him. He was pale and shivering, with dark hollows under his
eyes. Washed-out bloodstains coloured the neck of his off-white
sweater--it was the same one he had worn when he had come to see her on
the mountain. He paused in his movements to let her check the angry split
on the back of his head. She frowned, and sat back on her heels. 

 "Did Harding go for the others?" she asked, quickly examining the surface
wounds on his face. His left cheek was split and was quickly developing a
bruise, and there was a cut running along his right cheekbone. It bled,
but the cold air temperature kept the flow slowed down. 

 He nodded, with a shiver. Constable Ankers had run a short distance
downstream, and had begun making his way back towards them. 

 "Ankers, I need your coat. Mine is too small," she shouted, helping
Fraser out of his wet clothing. Ankers quickly worked his way back to
them, unzipped his coat, and handed it to her. 

 "What do we do about La Croix?" he asked. She looked at Fraser, who shook
his head. 

 "Did you find any sign of him?" she asked Ankers. 

 "No, I couldn't tell with the amount of ice and snow over the river. It's
unlikely that we can find him now, though. The current looks strong--his
body could have been pulled quite a ways downstream by now." 

 "Radio to base and find out if there's a dam or waterfall or some other
obstruction on this river. And while you're doing that, go find something
to keep Fraser warm." 

 "Do you have any blankets on your sleds?" he asked Fraser, dropping his
pack on the ground beside them. 

 "Two," Fraser said, between chatters. "The two--sleds--directly--up
there." He motioned towards the top of the incline behind them with his
head. 

 "I'll bring them down," Ankers said, and started up the embankment. 

 "I'll build a fire. Here, sit on my pack," Meg said, unshouldering her
backpack. Fraser moved to sit up on the dry perch that she had laid down
for him. He looked out at the ice with a worried expression. 

 "Dief?" 

 She followed his gaze, out to the wolf, who was lying in blood-stained
snow a short distance off shore. She went to Ankers' pack and pulled out
the matches and the first aid kit, and brought the kit out to where Dief
lay. 

 He opened his eyes when she approached, but did not raise his head from
the snow. His off-white fur was matted down with blood, and ran into a
reddened stain around his stomach in the snow. 

 "Hey, Dief," she said softly, surprised at how strong her reaction was to
seeing him. She had watched him attack La Croix, and take the hit. She
stared at him for a moment, and he stared back, through half-opened eyes.
She crouched down beside him and touched his side gently. He twitched at
the pain, but he otherwise did not move. 

 She was no expert in animal medicine, but from the wound and his apparent
lethargy, she did not think he had much time left. At the very least, he
was in danger of bleeding to death. She made a quick pad and taped it to
his side. She could only hope it would hold until help came. He needed to
be close to the fire, so she managed to wedge her arms underneath him and
carry him the short distance over to Fraser. She laid him down--dropped
him, really--and laid out the tarp from La Croix's sled next to Fraser,
then lifted Dief onto it. The entire time, he remained limp, and breathed
faintly. Fraser reach down and rubbed the half-wolf's head. 

 "Dief is grateful," he said. 

 She smiled faintly, nodded, and turned away from the animal's dark eyes.
She went a short distance away to gather some damp brush and branches from
a fallen tree. She returned a few minutes later, dropping the wood in a
pile near Fraser's feet. Ankers had brought back the blankets, leaving
them out on the tarp, to keep them dry. Fraser had managed to remove the
rest of his clothing and was wrapped in one of the blankets. His wet
clothing lay in a pile next to Dief. 

 "I have to admit that I haven't done this in years," she said. Fraser
smiled a little. 

 "You can do it," he said. She knelt down and got to work starting a flame
and trying to get the brush to catch. Smoke rose up, and the brush caught
a few seconds later. 

 "Well done, sir," Fraser said. 

 "Please don't call me that, right now," she said, turning to look at him
as he sat and tried to get his shivering under control. "Please." 

 "I'm sorry, I was attempting a little...levity," he said. Chastised, Meg
rose and moved over to him. 

 "I shouldn't have snapped at you," she apologized. "I know. I'm
sorry--it's just..." She trailed off, not sure, and knowing that she had a
job to do right now. The rest had to wait for later. She ran her fingers
through his wet hair. Some bits had frozen stiffly, and she tried to
smooth a clump down. 

 "I'm going to be all right," he said quietly, looking at her. 

 "I know," she answered, her eyes drifting to the cuts on his face. 

 "Was it your shot?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Thank you." 

 Meg nodded, swallowed back the threat of tears--really, she was a career
officer, and had seen much worse than this--and returned to building the
fire. They sat in silence while she tried to coax some heat out of the
brush. Harding returned with Ankers fifteen minutes later, both helping
Willis walk slowly down the incline. 

 "What's their status?" Meg asked, when she looked up from the flames. The
fire was a decent blaze by then, with some larger broken branches from the
dead tree. Ankers picked up the first aid kit and the second blanket and
headed back up the incline, leaving Harding to report as he helped Willis
to the ground. 

 "It's all over?" Willis asked, wincing when he sat down. 

 "It is," Fraser answered. 

 "Constable Willis's left arm is broken, I believe," Harding said, coming
over to crouch down beside Diefenbaker. "And Constable Bohner is
conscious, but probably has internal bleeding and a broken hand and arm.
Constable Lecrue has some broken ribs and a broken leg, and is
unconscious. I didn't want to move either of them until we have splints
and stretchers. And several of the dogs are seriously injured." 

 Meg nodded, and looked around at their small group. "They should be here
in twenty minutes. That's the best we can do." 

 Fraser stroked Dief's head and waited, watching as his friend drew
shallow, painful breaths. He thought of the two men and the dogs lying
behind them in the snow, and frowned at the fire. La Croix was missing.
Nothing had gone as the Mountie had intended.  

 It was late into the evening by the time that Ben was able to lay Dief,
safely asleep, on a foam matting in the corner of Miriam's office and sit
back for a moment to take in a deep breath. He carefully lowered himself
to the floor, and sat beside the wolf, watching his side rise and fall as
he breathed peacefully. Ben reached out a hand and ran it fondly along
Dief's neck, stroking the thick fur, and reassuring himself of the wolf's
presence. Dief's ear twitched in his sleep, and Ben smiled. 

 Though he had only known the wolf for thirteen years, he considered the
animal one of his oldest and truest friends. Their camaraderie and fond
disputes were something that he did not look forward to losing one day.
Dief was getting older; he couldn't take many more hits like this one. 

 Neither can I, Ben thought ruefully. He shifted, and hissed as a dull
pain shot up his side at the movement. Ben was not an old man, by any
means, but he had been in law enforcement for more than twenty years, and
the thrill of the danger of it had waned. He found himself enjoying more
and more the mundane aspects of his job: the substitute teaching at the
elementary school, the everyday in-and-out of small hamlet life. He
thought of the way little Paul's eyes lit up when he saw 'Sergeant Ben'
coming, and of the simple respect of the people who lived in the Liard
River Valley. 

 He had not thought that he would like being saddled with administration,
being a man who preferred being free to pursue his own interests in law
enforcement, and he had not liked it at all, not at first. But he came to
realize why his father eventually had settled in Toktuyaktuk and the
farthest northern reaches and had helped the displaced tribes secure land
of their own, remaining to run the outpost for those areas. He found
himself enjoying the responsibility of the community, its colourful and
varied residents, their children, and the recognized place that he had in
it. It was really the first place in his adult life that he felt he could
be comfortable. Dief had thrived, sneaking treats regularly from the
children and the soft-hearted adults, and he, too, had found that calling
this place home was not so bad after all. Of course, finding Lira had not
hurt anything, and Ben had thought it ironic that Dief had settled down
and built a family before he himself had. 

 Dief had not seem too surprised about it, reminding Fraser that his
lifespan was, after all, shorter, and also that he had never had any of
Fraser's social compunctions regarding females, a point which Ben conceded
to him. 

 Ben rubbed the fur around Dief's ear and sat back. He exhaled and closed
his eyes. 

 "Hey..." 

 He looked up at Meg as she crouched down beside him. 

 "Hey." He could feel the exhaustion with the word, as he realized that
the crisis for today was over. Even Dief was sleeping, and Ben wanted
nothing more than to do the same, but he felt the unfinished job hanging
over him, remembering his inability to draw La Croix back to the surface.
"Have they found him?" 

 "No...they're still looking, but it seems unlikely that they will find
him before the river thaws." 

 "Too long," he said, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. Meg
decided to change the subject to something more reassuring. 

 "The men are all asleep. I sent Ankers and Harding over to the motel for
the night." 

 "They'll be all right?" he asked. Meg nodded, resting a warm hand on his
knee. 

 "Lecrue went to sleep a short while ago; Miriam has a nurse waking him up
periodically throughout the night. He's got a concussion." 

 Ben nodded. Dr. Miriam Inuvik had been taking care of them all evening,
and after setting bones, sewing up cuts, and giving each of them a
thorough going-over, she had taken care of Diefenbaker. She had done her
best to sew him up, taking over two hours to finish working on him. He was
to stay here for the next few days, under her watchful eye. He was a
favourite with the children, and Miriam had two of her own. Dief was in
good hands. Ben was pretty sure that Dief would be given whatever snacks
the kids could sneak in to him. He smiled at the thought, and as he
relaxed, he felt himself falling a bit. Meg's hand was on his arm in a
moment, steadying him. 

 "You're exhausted. Come on, I'll take you home," she said, her deep brown
eyes drawing him back to his senses. 

 "Right." He got to his feet. "I'll follow you; my snowmobile is at the
outpost." 

 "Are you sure you're awake enough to drive home by yourself?" She
frowned, standing up beside him. He nodded. 

 A tired-looking Miriam came into the office. 

 "Going home?" 

 "Yes. Thank you for everything, Miriam," he said, giving her a grateful
smile. 

 "You're welcome. Are you sure that you don't want some Advil or
something?" 

 "Yes, I'll be all right." He had refused medication. He was not fond of
taking anything that dulled his senses, though in this tired state, he
supposed that it probably could not dull much more. 

 "I'll watch out for Diefenbaker for you, Sergeant," she said, rubbing her
eyebrow and smiling slightly. "I think he'll pull through all right." 

 "Thanks." 

 "Thanks for everything, Miriam," Meg said, taking his hand. At her touch,
he wove his fingers through hers and ran his thumb along the back of her
hand in a silent thank-you. As the senior officer present, she had
naturally taken over coordinating the rescue and subsequent arrangements,
for which he was grateful. He was not looking forward to the mountain of
paperwork to be completed the next day. 

 "Good night," the physician said, with a small wave, as she sat down
behind her desk. 

 "Good night," they echoed, and went out into the cold, darkened night.
The moon's light was not that bright, and they hurried through the snow,
going over to the shadowed form of the outpost a short distance away. 

 Weary, they started their snowmobiles and headed off into the night.  

 Ben grimaced and stopped moving for a second, one hand touching the
helmet that he had just put down on his snowmobile seat. Meg looked up at
him in alarm. 

 "What's wrong?" 

 "Nothing," he managed, after a moment. "Just...sore." 

 "Come on," she said gently, and when he straightened up, she went behind
him into his cabin. It was, surprisingly, not empty. A light had been
glowing inside, and the thought had not occurred to her that someone might
be inside. 

 A Native man stood up when they entered the room. The cabin was warm, and
a steady fire was burning. 

 "Antonu," Ben said, with a tired smile. 

 "Ben," the man answered, also smiling. "I didn't think you'd want to come
home to a cold cabin, so I came by to start a fire. Word came from Harold
Onsten that you were coming back today. Good thing you're okay." 

 "Thank you," Ben said, truly grateful. If it were not for Meg probably
staying the night, he would have just gone to bed without building a fire
first. Meg was still looking surprised at seeing Antonu Ittinuar standing
next to the fire. "Oh, Antonu--this is Meg Thatcher. Meg, Antonu Ittinuar.
Vera's husband." 

 "Ah," Meg recognized the name. "Pleased to meet you." 

 "And you," Antonu said with a slight nod and a smile. Seeing their weary
state, he picked up his coat from beside him and pulled it on. "You both
have a good night. Call me if you need anything; I'm only five minutes
away." 

 "Thanks again, Antonu," Ben said. 

 "Yes, thank you," Meg echoed. The visitor nodded a good night to them
both, and disappeared a moment later, with no further ado, pulling the
door closed firmly behind himself. He had done what he came for, and it
was late; he had his own family to get back to. 

 They stood for a moment looking at the closed door, and then turned to
each other. 

 "Do you want me to stay the night?" Meg asked him. 

 "If you want to," he answered. She paused a moment, watching him. His
gaze remained fixed on her, and he blinked slowly. She wanted nothing more
at this moment than to curl up beside him for warmth and go to sleep. 

 She blinked, and shook her head, bringing her mind back to the present. 

 "I...don't have a change of clothes," she said lamely, though the thought
of riding further into the cold night alone, until she reached the
Coopers', was not appealing to her. Yes, she wanted to stay. 

 "I have some extra night-clothes," he answered mildly, removing his coat
and Stetson and putting them on the hooks next to the door. "I apologize,
for not..." he yawned, "...offering you tea." He gingerly touched the cut
running along his cheekbone. 

 "It's okay, no apologies..." Meg yawned, inevitably. "...needed." 

 He smiled at the sight of her yawning, also. 

 "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you do that before." He came near
and cupped her cheek with one hand, smiling quietly. "You're endearing
when you do that." 

 "Ah...thanks." She yawned again, and they both grinned. Ben ignored the
sting in his cheeks, and drew her chin up slightly. She did not resist a
soft, short kiss. When he pulled back, her eyes were closed, her dark
lashes laid across her cheeks. The sight of Inspector Margaret Thatcher so
yielding and peaceful, due to his motions, made him step back, and he let
his hand drop to his side. 

 "Let's get you something to stay warm in," he said, his voice
unexpectedly gruff. He walked into the darkness of his bedroom, knowing
her eyes were following him, questioning. He went around the corner and
open his bureau drawer. He found his spare pair of red long johns and
pushed the drawer closed. He looked up and caught his reflection in the
mirror over the dresser, and he swallowed in the darkness, looking at his
half-darkened, half-lit face. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and
deep lines of fatigue running under them. He looked down at the folded red
fabric in his hands. 

 "I'll sleep out here," Meg said, when he came out of his room. Her tone
brooked no argument, and he was not going to insist. She was removing her
shoes and socks as he came over. 

 "This is all I have," he said, handing the long johns to her. She looked
at them skeptically, with one eyebrow raised, as she took them. He
shrugged, with a half-smile. "You might have to roll up the legs." 

 "Thank you," she gave them a funny look. "This should be fine." 

 "Are you sure?" 

 "Yes. I'm sure I'll be roasty-toasty warm," she replied, returning his
smile. 

 "Fine, then." He turned away, with a wince, rolling his shoulder. 

 "Do you want a back-rub?" She suddenly heard herself asking. He looked
back at her, considering for a moment. He had something of the same
expression as when she had instructed him to remove his tunic when they
were in the egg incubator, when they were working on a criminal case in
Chicago. He was not sure of her intentions, and his face was a beguiling
combination of wariness and apprehension. 

 "Yes," he finally said. Her face relaxed into a smile. 

 "All right," she answered. He nodded to her, and then disappeared into
his bedroom. 

 She changed in the bathroom, feeling more than a little silly wearing his
red flannel pajamas, but having nothing else, and she rolled up the pant
legs before gathering all of her clothing and going back out to the main
room of the cabin. She saw that he had laid out two blankets and a pillow
for her. Smiling, she left her things on the floor beside her shoes and
went over to his room and looked in. 

 He was in the darkened back corner of the room, next to the closet,
pulling on a pair of sweat pants. He made a small sound of pain, and Meg
winced at hearing it. When he straightened up, he saw her in the doorway,
and his form stiffened. His face was shadowed, but he clearly was
uncomfortable at seeing her watching him. 

 "I'm sorry," she felt immediately invasive of his privacy, and she turned
away from the door. "I'll just...wait--" 

 "No, it's all right," he said quickly, coming into the light from the
doorway, and she realized that his torso was bare. It was not a sight that
she was accustomed to, and her eyes travelled, of their own accord, over
the lines that the light made on his skin. He seemed to notice her gaze,
and he looked away, clearly self-conscious. "I...ah, I apologize. It's
rather warm in here, and if you still intend to give me a back-rub, I'd
prefer to go to asleep directly, and not have to remove my shirt before
finally falling asleep." He took in her reaction, and quickly added, "If
you prefer, I'll put one on--" 

 "No, you're beautiful." She immediately realized the words the moment
they were out of her mouth, and she put a hand to her forehead,
embarrassed. "I mean--no, it's okay." 

 A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the sight of her in his
long johns, and he reached up and pushed back a lock of hair on her
forehead. 

 "Thanks." He would have, at this moment, been possessed to do something
more, if the weight of exhaustion had not been drawing more tension into
his shoulders, along with all of the aches and tight muscles from the long
day. He let his hand drop to his side and he let out a long breath. 

 He sat down on the edge of the bed and moved to lay down and settle onto
his stomach. Meg came into the room, her chest tightening at the brief
glimpse she had gotten of the large brownish-reddened bruise on his
stomach. She would have to be very careful about pushing down while
rubbing his back. He had a bandage over the stitches at the back of his
neck. 

 She knelt one knee on the bed beside him, after he had gotten
comfortable. 

 "Tell me if I ever hurt you," she said, pushing up her flannel sleeves. 

 "I will," he answered quietly, and closed his eyes. 

 Taking a deep breath and a few seconds to try to relax her own shoulders,
she began rubbing his shoulders, lifting and kneading the warm skin. He
made a small moan, and she lightened her touch. 

 "I'm sorry." 

 "No...no," he said, his eyes still closed. "It just feels...so good. I
haven't had anyone rub my back...in years." 

 She smiled and returned to her previous pressure on his muscles. The
little, almost-inaudible sighs that he made at first, combined with the
sight of him simply so relaxed beneath her hands, stirred a peaceful
warmth in her. She was tired, and her own muscles ached, but seeing him
like this for the first time, since the day that she had met him and the
walls of formality had been drawn up between them, was entirely worth the
small discomfort. 

 He had one small, round scar next to his spine, halfway down his back.
She knew, from reading the medical report when she had first come to the
Chicago consulate, that a 9mm bullet was still imbedded in his back, too
close to the spinal cord to be safely removed without endangering him. She
did not avoid it in her passes over his back. 

 She continued until she was sure that he had fallen asleep, and then she
lifted her hands away and looked at him for a long moment. He truly was a
beautiful man, and she felt tears unexpectedly rise in her as she let her
eyes travel over him, and up to his face, where the lines of tension had
completely relaxed from his expression. 

 Her work was done. She smiled, rolled her head, and rubbed her neck
muscles for a moment, before drawing her leg off the bed and turning away.


 "Red suits you," he murmured softly. She almost did not think she had
heard it, but the barest hint of a smile on his face belied that. Smiling
inwardly, she went to the futon and sank down, falling asleep at once.	

 She opened her eyes in what seemed to be just a moment later, to find Dr.
Miriam Inuvik leaning over her, shaking her awake, the cold air rolling
off her clothing onto Meg's warm body, huddled under the blankets.
"Wha...?" 

 "Caryn's having the baby. You said you wanted to be there, and I could
use the extra pair of hands," Miriam said quietly, insistently. "We don't
have much time. Hurry." 

 "Uh...okay, let me get dressed," Meg said, coming awake at once. "Is
everything all right?" 

 "Yes. Dave just called me," Miriam answered, stuffing her mittened hands
into her pockets. "He said you were here..." Meg was amused that the
doctor's tone of voice implied that she was surprised to find her sleeping
in the main room. She picked up her pile of clothing from the floor and
hurried into the bathroom to change. 

 "What time is it?" Meg asked, when she came out of the bathroom, pulling
on her sweater. 

 "Two-thirty in the morning," Miriam answered, holding out Meg's coat. Meg
took it from her, quickly tugging it on. 

 "Have you gotten any sleep?" Meg asked, with a wry smile. 

 "Not much," Miriam admitted, with an echoing smile. "But it's in the job
description." Seeing that Meg was dressed, Miriam started for the door. 

 "Wait, one second. I want to leave a note," Meg said. She found a pencil
and a piece of paper in one of the kitchen drawers and wrote a short note
to Ben, explaining the situation. She left it on the table, and then
zipped her coat, pulled her hat and mittens on, took one last look at the
inside of the cabin, and closed the door behind herself and Miriam.  

 14 

 When Ben woke up, he was stiff and sore, but the memory of Meg's hands as
he had fallen asleep last night brought a smile to his face. He stretched,
yawned, and sat up, fighting the protests from his body. The fire had died
down, the cabin was cooler, and the morning sunlight was streaming in
through the windows. He smiled and walked out into the main room, and
immediately frowned at the sight of the empty bed with the blankets thrown
back. Everything of hers was gone; he saw that her snowmobile was missing,
too. Looking back into the room, he spotted the note on the table. He read
it and relaxed, smiling. He turned on his radio and tuned it to the
frequency that he knew Dave kept the Coopers' on. 

 "Benton Fraser to David Cooper," he said into the handset, leaning back
against the kitchen counter, the radio beside him. Half a minute later, he
heard the burst of static, and an undeniably grinning Dave answered the
call. It could only mean that the baby had already been born. 

 "Ben! Hey, how're you doing?" 

 "I'm fine, thank you kindly," Ben answered, with a grin. "And you? How's
the mother?" 

 "Caryn's fine, and the baby's fine. Seven pounds, eight ounces! Timothy
Mills Cooper, he has red hair!" 

 "Mills?" 

 "Caryn's maiden name. We couldn't decide, and it sounded fine. He was
born, ah...forty minutes ago." 

 "Ah. Congratulations Dave." 

 "Thanks." Dave paused, and Ben heard what sounded like a yawn, through
the radio static. "She's exhausted--I don't know how women do it--and
Miriam's just leaving some last-minute instructions and baby things. Meg's
in there helping her." 

 "I'm bringing breakfast over," Ben said. "Any requests?" 

 "Um, let me see..." Dave's voice drifted away from the handset, calling
for breakfast requests. He returned a few seconds later. 

 "Orange juice," he said. "I think we're out of that." 

 "Done," Ben replied, nodding. "I'll be by within the hour." 

 "Thanks a lot--oh, and it's good to hear that you're all right. Caryn and
I were concerned, after Meg took off two nights ago. We said a prayer for
you." 

 "I know, thanks." Ben did not consider himself particularly religious,
but he had learned enough from his grandparents and from life to believe
that perhaps there was something to Dave and Caryn's prayers. In any case,
he was thankful for another day, and another new life in the world. It
made his work worth it all. 

 "I'll see you then. Dave clear." 

 "Ben clear." He put the handset back in its place and stood for a moment,
thinking. 

 "What's on your mind, son?" Robert Fraser asked, walking over to stand
beside the counter, his hands held behind him. Benton looked up at him and
crossed his arms. 

 "I don't know," he answered, finally. 

 "Come on," his father said, unconvinced. "Just get it out. You're getting
old and you want an heir." 

 "You sound like I'm trying to pass on the throne, Dad," Ben answered,
looking sideways at his ghost of a father. 

 "Well, you are. We Frasers, we have a bold and noble Scottish line." His
father pressed his fist over his heart and appeared to be trying to look
noble. Ben smiled and shook his head, looking down at his bare feet. 

 "Do you still have that painting?" 

 His father turned to look at him, dropping his hand and frowning. 

 "Which one?" 

 "The one with all the spots for Uncle Tiberius and all the relatives." 

 "There's a spot for Meg, too, you know," his father answered, seriously.
"You're both sitting on a boulder on one of the mountains, and the
grandkids are sledding." 

 "I didn't see that," Ben answered. 

 "Do you see it now?" his father asked. They were both quiet for a moment,
and then Ben looked up. 

 "I'm not sure," he said, looking across the room towards the empty place
in front of the fire. He turned to look at his father's reaction to his
words, but there was no one there. Sighing, he pushed himself off the
counter and went towards the bathroom. "I've got to stop doing that," he
said to himself.  

 Dief was dozing comfortably on the floor of the physician's office when
Ben stopped in to check on him. Lecrue and Bohner were both still asleep,
so Ben, after exchanging a few words with Sylvia, the night nurse, left
the clinic to pick up something for breakfast from Harold Onsten. When he
walked into the store, Liven was standing at the counter exchanging
morning pleasantries with the storekeeper. Both men turned as the Mountie
came in, the bells over the door signalling his entrance. 

 "Hey, glad to see you alive and walking around, Fraser," Liven said, as
Ben walked up to them. 

 "As am I. Good morning," he answered, nodding to them both. Their eyes
noted the cuts on his face, and they exchanged a glance. 

 "Hey, is Inspector Thatcher all right?" Harold Onsten asked, as he rang
up Liven's cup of coffee. Ben smiled at how formally Onsten had referred
to Meg, now that she had established herself as a force to be reckoned
with. 

 "Yes, she's fine," he answered, going over to get a gallon of orange
juice. "She's at the Coopers: they have a new son." He spotted a package
of donuts on his way back to the register and he picked them up. 

 "Wonderful!" Onsten said, thumping his hand down on the counter. "That's
just wonderful!" 

 "What's his name?" Liven asked, smiling and taking a careful sip. 

 "Timothy Mills Cooper. Doing well, when I spoke to Dave." 

 "Tell them I said congratulations, will you?" The council chief lingered
for a moment, wanting to ask something. 

 "I will," Ben nodded, as he counted out the bills for the impromptu
breakfast. 

 "So...everything is taken care of with that fugitive?" Onsten asked,
ringing up the food and returning the change. "You want a bag for that?" 

 "Ah, we're not sure--and no. I don't need one." 

 "They haven't found the body yet, huh?" Liven asked him, as Ben turned
from the counter. He nodded his thanks to the storekeeper. 

 "No, unfortunately," he answered. 

 "The guy must be dead by now," Liven said. "They haven't found any places
where he could have gotten out of the river downstream." 

 "I won't be content until they find him," Fraser answered. 

 "Neither will I," Liven said. Fraser started to leave. Liven exchanged a
glance with Harold Onsten and then left the counter to go after Ben. 

 "I heard that Inspector Thatcher had a...very prominent role," Liven
began, as he followed Ben out of the store. Onsten came out from behind
the register and stood in the doorway as the Mountie loaded the food into
the compartment under the seat of his snowmobile. 

 "Yes," Ben answered, securing the seat. "Her shot saved my life." He
looked up at them, not surprised by the looks of grudging admiration on
their faces. "Have a good morning." With a nod to both of them, he drove
off in the direction of the Cooper home. 

 They stood there in silence, Liven sipping his coffee and smiling behind
his cup, and Harold Onsten leaning up against a front post of the store's
porch, his arms crossed. 

 "Not bad." 

 "Nope. Not bad at all," Liven answered with a laugh.  

 Miriam drove down past him with a wave, as he drove his snowmobile up the
incline to the Cooper's cabin. He waved back and went the short way up the
hill and shut off the engine. He pulled the food out of the seat
compartment and let himself into the house. He heard Dave's voice coming
from the bathroom, and he left the food on the kitchen table. He draped
his coat over one of the chairs. 

 He peered into the bedroom as Dave came into the kitchen, drying his
hands on a towel. Caryn lay sleeping in the bed, and next to her, Meg
finished wrapping the baby in a blanket in the bassinet and picked him up.
She cradled him and smiled down at him, and Ben was transfixed by the
sight. He remembered what he had imagined so long ago, when the Inspector
had asked for his assistance in becoming a mother--and had neglected to
clarify that she meant that she wanted his help with the adoption process.
The awkward misunderstanding between them and her subsequent ineligibility
to qualify as an adoptive parent had left its mark on her spirit. The
sight before him gave him a sense of relief, somehow. 

 "Beautiful, hmm?" asked Dave quietly, coming up behind him. Ben came out
of his reverie, and Meg looked over at them. 

 "Yes," he answered, smiling. She returned his smile with a quiet one of
her own and walked over to them, standing in the doorway. 

 "Do you want to hold him?" she whispered. The baby was nearly asleep. His
little mouth opened in a yawn that wrinkled the skin around his nose. Ben
reached down and she put Timothy into his arms. 

 "It's always amazing, every time," he said quietly, looking at the tiny,
perfect features and the little, puckered lips. Children seemed inclined
to be comfortable around him, and he had done the occasional babysitting
job for Dave and Caryn and some of the other couples in the valley. But
each new one was beautiful. 

 "Mmm-hmm." Meg ran her fingers over the soft, downy hair on the sleeping
baby's crown. Dave laughed quietly and turned away from them after a
moment. He poured a glass of orange juice for himself and one for Meg, and
brought it over to her as she came out of the bedroom. 

 "Thanks, Ben," Dave said, sitting down at the kitchen table to snag a
donut and relax for a moment. 

 "You're welcome," Ben answered, still looking down at the baby. Meg sat
down across from Dave and picked out a cinnamon-frosted donut. The brown
dust stuck to her fingers and flew down into a fine layer on the table,
but it was good. When she finished, she licked the clumps off her fingers
and leaned back to watch Ben for a moment. She was tired, but she felt
completely content after the whole long ordeal and after making sure Caryn
and the baby were comfortable. She felt her eyes starting to drift closed.


 Ben noticed her starting to nod off, and after a smile from Dave, who
tapped her awake again, he laid Timothy back in the bassinet in the
bedroom. Dave had gotten up from the table and was cleaning up. 

 "I need to go to the outpost and file all of the paperwork for
everything," Ben said, coming back into the kitchen and picking up his
coat. "I'll be back by supper-time. I'll bring food." 

 "I need to do that--" Meg yawned, covering her mouth with her hand,
"--too." She made a vague attempt at starting to stand up. 

 "No," Ben said, pulling his coat on. "It can wait a few hours. You need
sleep." 

 "But you need--" Meg started to protest, and then stopped herself, a wry
grin appearing on her face as she settled back down again. "What am I
saying? You're right. I should jump at the opportunity to avoid the
mountain of forms and reports. Enjoy your morning." 

 "I will," Ben replied, with a mock wince. They shared a look of
administrative understanding, and for a brief moment, Ben cringed inwardly
at the amount of paperwork she must have had to plow through in Chicago,
due entirely to his exploits. Additionally, she had had to deal with not
just the one set for the Canadian consulate, but also the sets for all of
the international issues and the American officials. His part in the
ensuing paperwork was usually just to fill out an incident report and
leave it on her desk. It was no wonder that she had regarded him with such
annoyance at the beginning: the mess that she had walked into when she had
first arrived was an embarrassing incident on all levels of local and
national power. He was sure that she had had a lot of backlog paperwork to
clear up also, since his former superior officer had been somewhat less
than competent. He felt a small twinge of regret for the difficulty that
he had caused her. 

 Meg watched the mix of thoughts cross his face for a few seconds and then
she raised her eyebrows in question. 

 "I now can appreciate all that you had to do before," he said. 

 "Before?" 

 "At the consulate." 

 "Ah," she smiled. "Not so much of a 'dragon lady' anymore, am I?" 

 "You never were," he answered warmly. 

 "Thank you kindly," she smiled, then yawned. 

 "'Dragon lady'?" Dave asked. 

 "A rather dubious term of endearment that Detective Ray Vecchio gave
her," Ben said, by way of explanation. 

 "He was the American police officer that Ben unofficially worked with,"
Meg said. "A bit hot under the collar, but a good man, nonetheless." Ben
looked at her, a little surprised at her candour. She raised an eyebrow at
him. "Well, at least he made his feelings clear; I didn't have to pry
anything out of him," she said, smiling. 

 "Point taken," Ben bowed slightly, with a grin, and pulled on his gloves.
Dave winked at him. "I'll see you, then. Get some rest." 

 "No worry there," Meg said, covering another yawn. Ben headed towards to
the door. 

 "Thanks for everything, Fraser," Dave said again, giving a wave as the
Mountie went out. 

 "You're welcome," he nodded back, as he pulled the door closed behind
himself. 

 "Thank you, too, Meg," Dave said. "We couldn't have done it so smoothly
without you." 

 "It was the least I could do, I'm just glad I could be a part of this.
When should I bring Paul and Maggie back from Vera's?" 

 "Give Caryn two or three days. When are you leaving?" 

 "I'm not sure," Meg said, frowning. "But it does have to be rather soon.
Not much longer than three days, certainly. I'm already two days over what
I intended." 

 "I know. Sorry about that," he said. 

 "Nothing anyone could control. I'm sure Hearst will run just fine for a
little while longer without me." She stood, yawning again--she was so
tired!--and she went into the den and unrolled her sleeping bag across the
floor. 

 "Sweet dreams," Dave sang out, softly. 

 "You too," Meg answered, with a grin, and climbed in. It was not too long
after that she drifted off into a much-needed sleep.  

 15 

 When she woke up in the cozy warmth of her sleeping bag, on the floor of
the cabin's living room, she thought she heard the murmur of voices in the
background. Sounded like...Caryn and Dave. She listened to their low
tones, smiling, her eyes still closed. She heard someone near her let out
a long breath, and she opened her eyes to see Fraser sitting on the floor
near her feet, leaned back against the wall, with one knee raised up and
his arm draped over it. He was smiling at her. 

 "Hey," she said, her voice gravelly from sleep. 

 "Hey," he answered. She looked at him for a long moment. 

 "Were you watching me sleep?" 

 He nodded, not taking his eyes from hers. He suddenly folded himself
forward and stretched out on his side, facing her. He rested his head on
his right hand and used his left one to run a finger briefly across her
cheek. She was comfortable in the warmth of her sleeping bag and so she
simply looked up at him. 

 "What are you thinking?" he asked. 

 "That this is the best thing that I've ever woken up to." 

 He smiled at this, and it reached his eyes. 

 "Come for a walk with me," he said. 

 "Now?" 

 "If you're willing." 

 "What time is it?" 

 He looked at his Mountie-issue watch. "About four-thirty." 

 "It's dark outside." 

 "Yes," he grinned. "Beautiful sky tonight." 

 "Ahh," she said, with an answering grin. "Hmm. Okay. Let me get dressed."


 "Sure. Take your time." 

 "Have you guys already eaten?" she asked, as she started unzipping and
climbing out of her sleeping bag. Ben rolled out of her way and sat up. 

 "No, not yet. Dave said they'll wait until we come back. Are you hungry?"


 "No, not really." 

 She gathered up warm clothing and went into the bathroom to change. There
were butterflies in her stomach as she pulled on the long underwear and
then her jeans and put her hair into a quick braid. She knew that he
wanted to talk about their relationship, now that she was leaving. How did
she feel about that? Her mind started to race, but she forced herself to
stop and just wait for him to lead the conversation. She took one last
look at herself in the mirror and was happy to note the colour in her
cheeks and the expression in her eyes. The shadows on her face from a
month ago had faded a little, to be replaced by something else...an
expression of hope, perhaps. She snorted at her melodramatic turn of mind
and promptly left the bathroom with a smile on her face. 

 He was waiting by the door for her, his own expression hiding a mix of
thoughts. In fact, his face was schooled into submission--that in itself
indicated to her that he was guarding something. A little apprehensive,
she pulled on her boots and tied the laces. He had her coat in his hands
and when she was ready, he helped her into it. 

 He opened the door and they were outside in the crisp air. He made sure
the door was shut snugly behind them and she stopped there, pulling on her
gloves, and looked at him quizzically. He indicated a direction with his
head and they started walking slowly towards the mountain nearest them,
the one that Meg had come to think of as her place to retreat to. They
moved slowly through the snow in silence, with just the sound of their
footsteps crunching beneath them. The sky hummed faintly, and Meg looked
up to see the Northern Lights edging over the tree line to their right. 

 "It's beautiful," she said. He turned to follow her gaze and nodded. He
let out a deep breath and continued walking. He had invited her out here;
he should explain himself. 

 "Meg," he began, and looked at her. The tilt of her eyebrow pushed him to
go on. "I wanted to...ask you about the future." 

 He had slowed down, almost to a stop, and had turned to face her. He saw
her swallow and nod. 

 "Let's keep going," she said. She kept walking, but paused for him to
fall back into step beside her. They made their way up the short stretch
of incline and into the trees without saying anything more, until they
reached the tracks that led up to the boulder. 

 "When will you be leaving?" he asked. 

 "I'm not sure, but I can't stay more than a week longer. Vera is keeping
Paul and Maggie until Thursday." 

 "You were supposed to go back two days ago, right?" 

 "Yes," she said, climbing around a small clump of baby firs. 

 "Are you anxious to be gone?" he asked. She looked at the trail ahead of
her and ran a gloved hand across a tree branch as she passed it. 

 "I...yes and no." She paused to gather her thoughts as the boulder came
into sight up ahead of them. "In some ways, this life here is still
unfamiliar to me. There are still many things that make me question
whether or not I could be content up here." She shrugged. "And in other
ways, there are things that I find myself...unable to leave behind." 

 She turned to look at him, partially for his reaction, but also to let
him know that he was in the second set of things. He seemed to catch her
meaning. It was not quite a smile that crossed his features-- he still
seemed too serious about something on his mind to break into a wide
grin--but his demeanor did change slightly. She turned back to face the
trail. They were nearing the boulder now. 

 He waited until they had reached the rock and found a place to settle
before he spoke again. 

 "I'm not quite sure where to begin," he said, "So I'll start at the end."
He searched his hands and then looked up at her. "I don't want any
misunderstandings." She nodded her encouragement, so he took a deep breath
and looked back down at his hands. "I've been doing a lot of thinking..."
he looked up at her, "...about asking you to marry me." 

 She took the statement in and knew that he was searching for her
reaction. She looked down at her own hands. It both was and was not
expected. How did she feel about the idea? She was not sure. He was
waiting for her response, before he continued. 

 "Go on," she said. He squared his shoulders and nodded. 

 "I know there's a lot for both of us to consider, but especially for you:
I'm asking you to consider living up here, to make a life with me...you
have a career and you're very good at what you do...but could you continue
doing it in the same capacity here? I don't know." His tongue flicked
along the side of his mouth and he pressed his hands together. He looked
sideways at her. 

 "Is that part of the deal?" she asked. 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "That I would come to live with you in Fort Liard." 

 He swallowed, nodded, and looked out at the landscape in front of them. 

 "I know it sounds...chauvinistic...of me to ask you to come to me," he
said, and swallowed. "But from my perspective, I know that I am tied to
this wilderness. If you asked me to leave here," he turned to look at her,
"I would. But," he looked back into the distance, "I would be leaving
behind a huge part of who I am." 

 She frowned, not sure that she agreed with his reasoning. 

 "But isn't real love supposed to cross all of the boundaries, to be
willing to do anything, be anything, for the other person?" she asked
quietly. A slight frown crossed his features. He tugged at his earlobe and
turned to look at her. 

 "I think...in some ways, yes. But in other ways, no." 

 She was taken aback by his response. 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "Real love for someone is to love them as they are right now, not as who
you want them to change to be in the future." 

 Meg looked down the mountain, thoughtful. He did have a point. Did she
love him for who he was at that moment? Or was she hoping that he would
change in some way? Of course, as she expected, she knew the answer to
those questions included both yes and no. 

 "So you're saying," she said finally, "that who you are right now is who
I should be in love with. And that a large part of you is this
environment." 

 "Yes," he said, sounding a little relieved. "What I am trying to say is
that I would feel that you were asking me to be someone I am not if you
were to ask me to make a life with you away from this beautiful
wilderness." 

 "Hmm." 

 "At the same time," he looked sideways at her for a moment, "I would be a
fool to prefer a hiding place over a you." He sighed. "I am who I am, Meg.
I'm trusting you in a way that I've never trusted anyone before. I don't
want to lose you, but at the same time, I know that I could lose you
anyway, if we don't think this thing through first." 

 "What do you want me to say?" she asked, frowning down at her hands. "I
would feel horrible if I used guilt to force you into a situation against
your will. At the same time, you are asking me to consider leaving my*
world." 

 "I know," he said. "That was why I asked you if you were anxious to leave
Fort Liard. If your answer had been an unqualified yes, I would have
talked old times with you and we would have parted, hopefully, as
friends." 

 "Part of me thinks I should feel appalled at such apparent ease to let me
go, after everything we've gone through in the past few weeks." She looked
pointedly at him. "After some of the things you've said." 

 "I know," he said quietly. "It sounds cold." He looked up at the night
sky and drew his shoulders together. "But I've had time to think between
then and now. Being near death will do that to a person." 

 They shared a brief smile and then Meg sighed. 

 "But another part of me knows the wisdom of what you're saying," she
said. "You cannot consider marrying someone based solely on the past; you
must seriously consider whether or not you could have a good future
together. It would be better to part now if we discovered it wouldn't
work." 

 "Exactly." 

 "Why do you have to be so infuriatingly right?" 

 "Am I?" 

 She laughed, and then quickly became serious again. 

 "All right, so part of this consideration for me is the possibility of
effectively giving up a large portion of my career. That's big. I'm not
trying to be petty, but..." she searched for the right words, "...why
should the sacrifice seem so entirely one-sided?" 

 Ben considered her for a moment, realizing that he had no easy answer to
give her. The only good response was another question. 

 "What do you want, Meg?" he asked. "If this is something that is a price
too high to pay, I'll understand. We both have to go into this aware of
the costs." 

 She looked up at the faint green ribbon of the Nothern Lights above them
and searched for an answer. Really, what did she want? Was she willing to
become part of his world? She wanted a friend, a lover. She wanted more
from life than the gray progression of days alone, living for the position
that she held. She wanted the possibility of raising a family. She wanted
to share Christmas with someone, instead of sitting alone in her
apartment, wondering if her father was near a telephone. She wanted
someone to know who she was, and she wanted to let herself fall off the
precipice and be able to trust that she would land safely. Or she could
stand safely away from the cliff and continue living up on her ledge,
isolated, holding a respected title but little else. 

 It was hard to trust, though. 

 "What are you thinking?" he asked softly. With a start, she broke from
her reverie and turned to look at him. What did she see in his eyes?
Someone that she could trust? She let her eyes travel over the lines in
his face, feeling an ache inside. Here, she knew, was a turning point. The
ache could either become sadness or joy. It was up to her to decide. She
looked away from him. 

 "I want to be open to the possibility of...you." 

 "Is that it?" 

 "As far as, for me, that encompasses a willingness to leave behind the
career that I have basically been living for since I was twenty-two," she
said. "I took that path and discovered that it didn't lead to satisfaction
outside of the job. And when the job is over for the day, then who am I?"
Ben made a sound in agreement and Meg nodded. 

 "This month," she continued, "Just seeing the way Caryn and Dave
interact, with each other and with their children, I have found again what
it is to be a part of a family. Living here, being accepted into this
community, it all seemed so strange to me, because I always felt like a
stranger. I always thought of myself as an outsider when--I realize
now--everyone was going out of their way to make me feel welcome. It was
as if I felt like I had to have some sort of 'lost heroine' complex or
something." 

 Ben laughed outright. 

 "I'm right though, aren't I?" she pressed him. 

 "Yes, now that you mention it," he answered, with a thoughtful-looking
frown. "It does explain a lot..." 

 "Like what?" 

 "I'm just teasing you, Meg," he grinned. "But I do think you're right
about it." 

 They were quiet for a moment, and then Meg turned to him. 

 "What do you want?" 

 He raised his eyebrows and exhaled a long breath. 

 "Well..." he began. "Let's see. A lot of things. I'd like a new pair of
snowshoes; the ones I have now were my father's fifty years ago. I've had
to repair them so many times that there is little left of the original
materials used in their construction." 

 She stared at him. 

 "Snowshoes?" 

 "You looked so serious." 

 "Snowshoes?" 

 "Why is that so strange?" 

 "Does anyone still use them?" 

 "I do." 

 "Ben, you talk to a pet wolf. You don't count." 

 "That's not fair." 

 "Why do you want to marry me?" 

 "Why do I want to marry you?" he repeated, and she saw a mischievous grin
tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, where to begin?" 

 "How many ways doth I love thee? Let me count the ways..." she quoted,
smiling. 

 "Yes," he smiled down at his hands, and then he became serious. "But more
than just counting them, I've been thinking about what it would mean to
finally...take this step. To tie my life in with someone else's, to share
joys and pains and disagreements, to wake up beside your beautiful brown
eyes every morning..." He sighed. "I want to believe that I would be a
good husband, but..." 

 "Could I trust my heart to you?" 

 "Yes. That's basically the question. For both of us." 

 "What do you fear?" 

 He turned to look at her. "That's what John Glen asked me." 

 "You spoke to him about this?" 

 "Mmm. He's a good man." 

 "What was your answer to him?" 

 He let out a long breath and watched it curl away into the night air. "I
told him that I felt darkness in myself. Things I've done, things I'm not
fond of remembering. I told him that I'm not sure that I wouldn't hurt
you." He turned to look at her. Meg seemed to be considering his words. "I
don't want to hurt you--the thought makes me cringe--but I know that I am
capable of it, that I have done it before. How then can I ask you to trust
me?" 

 "I'm not blind, Ben," she said. "I know that I have hurt you as well."
She gave a small, bitter laugh. "I find it ironic that your biggest fear
is that you will hurt me, when throughout our time together before, it was
usually me causing the pain." 

 "Not true, Meg." 

 She did not want to argue. She laced her fingers together. 

 "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to dwell on all our past mistakes
with each other." 

 "But I know what you're trying to say," she said. "Our past experience is
all that we have to make out the other's character, to decide if we can
trust each other." 

 "Yes," he said. 

 "All right, since we're trying to make out each other's characters...let
me honestly confess that I don't think I truly understand you. You've
always been something of a mystery to me, Ben." She looked down at her
hands again. "That's part of your appeal, but it's not something to base a
marriage on." 

 "I suspect that there will always be aspects of a person that one never
truly understands, even after a lifetime of experience with them." 

 "What sort of answer is that?" 

 "It's not an 'I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours' sort of
answer, if that is what you mean." 

 "What?--Wait, that sounds familiar." 

 "Pride and Prejudice," he answered, with a smile. 

 "Oh, right, after the dance--" 

 "She was trying to make out his character--" 

 "--and he was refusing to let her," Ben finished. 

 "So then what did you mean by your statement?" she asked. 

 "Simply that we may never understand each other completely, and that,
itself, is one of the greatest challenges to a marriage." 

 "I don't want to have you in a neat little box with a bow, Ben." Meg
said. "I just--look, as an example: I used to always chalk your
various...quirks...up to your having been raised apart from mainstream
society." He nodded; most people had written him off with similar
qualifications. "But there were times when I would observe you with
people--even with myself--and I would later find myself disturbed by you,
when I remembered back to the events." 

 Ben frowned; he was still looking at her, but something had crossed over
his features. "Can you be more specific?" he asked. 

 "Let me pause and say that I haven't observed anything to make me feel
uneasy since I have come to Fort Liard, but I have only been here a
month...I want to know you better." 

 "Of course," he said, a frown still creasing his forehead. 

 "In Chicago you seemed...inconsistent. I didn't know what to make of you.
One moment you would appear to be at a complete loss, and then the next, I
would realize that the very appearance of being such would give you an
immense degree of control over everyone else around you. It was then that
I would realize that I couldn't attribute all of your actions to innocent
naïveté." 

 Ben smiled, though the light was not in his eyes, and he nodded. 

 "You could sway the perceptions of an entire group of people and they
would have no idea that they had just been manipulated. There were times
when I could see you doing it to me and yet I was unable to change the
course of events. You looked lost and yet it was quite the opposite. I was
both attracted to you and wary of you. You had a great deal of insight
into what mattered to people, including me, and you wielded it with a
frightening degree of power." 

 He did not answer, except to look up from his hands. He did not look at
her. 

 "So now here we are four years later," she continued. "Sitting together,
away from the rest of the world. You have admitted that you fear your
ability to hurt me, and what I want to know is: how much of this all is an
act?" 

 "That hurts." 

 "I am sorry. But I do need an answer." 

 "I know." 

 She felt a little sick in her heart. She did not actually believe him to
be a secretly manipulative man, but there were still things about him that
she needed to be comfortable with if she was going to be able to continue
this conversation honestly. 

 "I knew that I would have to answer for it some day," he said. 

 "For what?" 

 "What I did in Chicago...what I became in Chicago. I disturbed even
myself," he answered. 

 Why should I believe you? she thought. But she let him continue. 

 "I did come to the city as an outsider and honestly, it did begin as
naivete. Life was more focused in the Northwest Territory: it was simply
about survival. The daily existence is distilled--that was why La Croix's
motivation struck me so forcibly: I knew what he meant. I know what the
ache of the loss of such freedom and simplicity feels like. The rest of
the world starts to creep in and wrap its tendrils around your soul, and
all you want to do is go back to the edge, the freedom of the wild. It's
enough to almost drive a man mad. The hardest part is living in a sea of
humanity where no one around you understands what is going on inside you.
La Croix understood; he was the only one I knew in that city that
did...and it frightened me, the way he had gone mad. I could see myself in
him, snapping in the same way: the ache was there." 

 Meg sat, stunned, listening to the quiet force with which he spoke. She
had never fully known how he had reacted, living down in the American
city. He had always kept his struggles close to himself. She had known
that he had been displaced, but she had never realized how out of place he
had felt. He had not chosen the assignment to Chicago; like her
assignment, his had been more of a punishment than a promotion. They had
both been taken out of where they knew best and sent to exactly where they
did not want to be. 

 "I could say that it was just another defense mechanism, but I would be
lying, in part," he said. He turned to look at her briefly, and she saw
both shame and frustration in his features. "I came to Chicago from my own
world and was suddenly thrown into situations and among people of whom I
had only read about. I came with a lot of book knowledge, but not much
personal experience. People generally know when to leave you alone out
here. No one knew when to leave me alone in the city. The press of
humanity was always closing in on me. I walked around every day in a
bright red costume that was both my anchor and my storm, so to speak. It
was my identity. In Chicago it set me apart as a figure of honor, but also
in many ways, as a joke." 

 Meg made a noise, understanding exactly what he meant. Ben nodded and
continued. "It did not take me long to begin to feel the awkwardness of
donning the uniform. I would feel lost at times, but remembering my job,
where I had come from, what I supposed to be focusing on--those things
gave me my anchor. At the same time, I was caught between two warring
desires, unable to be free to really do the job that I had sworn to do:
uphold and protect, but required to do the job that I had been instructed
to do: stand in a red suit for people to gawk at, day after day. 

 "Now, I'm not saying I was bitter and angry. More or less, I was simply
feeling lost. I was, however, determined to make the best of what I had
been given, and in time I found myself enjoying aspects of my life in the
city. Ray was the first true friend I had ever had in my adult life--not
counting Dief--and as you said, he didn't hide anything. He had a sort of
existential honesty that was a relief for me, because I hid many things,
unsure of how to play them out. Frannie's attempts to draw me out, though
misguided, were still genuine and caring. When you came, your steadiness
in some ways kept me on a more even keel." He gave a short laugh. 

 "I found it was more of a combination of the mental image of your
frowning disapproval and the knowledge of your disconcerting effects on me
that helped me to refocus in my second year at the consulate. You reminded
me of home--remember when I asked you about your scent? Your presence at
the consulate gave me a way out of the despair I faced because of
Victoria. You would walk by and my stomach would twist: homesickness, just
your presence, loneliness..." 

 He drifted off for a moment, and then returned. "You were strong when I
needed someone to give me a good pull back into reality. I did appreciate
the fact that you didn't...try to get me romantically interested in you.
In fact, you did your best to do the exact opposite to me. I came to
respect you a great deal in those first few months." 

 "Even when I asked you to pick up my dry cleaning?" she asked,
half-seriously. 

 "Even then. I knew that you were testing me and I resolved not to fail
you. I wanted you to be able to trust me as a fellow officer. I knew that
what you had come in to find at the consulate was an office in
shambles--because of me. I had to earn your trust. I knew it was worth
earning." He stopped to look at her, but she did not respond. She waited
for him to continue, and he knew that he had to reach the explanation of
why he had begun to manipulate the people around him. He sighed and looked
away again, not relishing this confession. 

 "You wanted to know why I started using people and maintaining an
appearance of innocence," he said, his voice unexpectedly rough. He
hunched forward. "The simple answer is: because I could. Because it gave
me a measure of control over my environment. I am ashamed of some of the
things I did. My use of Detective Vecchio at times, or my use of women,
playing off their reactions to me. I knew that the things that I found
myself doing were wrong, but I told myself that no one was really being
hurt and it got me what I wanted. 

 "Yet it was hurting someone: it was hurting me by separating the truth of
who I was from the appearance of who I let them think I was, and it was
also hurting Ray. It drove him away, I know that now. I treated him like a
simpleton for two years and he really wasn't one. He was just
good-hearted, better than I was. He hadn't learned to manipulate people,
to just use them and push all of their buttons so they played like puppets
without them even being aware of it. He just was who he was, and I hurt
him. He caught on, eventually, and when they gave him the chance to
transfer away from me, he separated himself from his family and the places
he knew and he walked into a hellish existence, rather than take out on me
all of the anger that both he and I knew that I deserved. His leaving hurt
me...it hurt me more because I knew I had let down the only true friend
that I had. Our relationship could never be the same again. I had let down
his trust in the worst way possible." 

 His heart was pounding, and he found himself fighting tears. He had told
the minister general things about his past, but Meg knew the people that
he spoke of; she had seen that darkness in him even then. He wondered how
many others he had hurt without realizing it. Ironic, how he had been her
comforter on this boulder only weeks ago, and now she was listening to
him* break this time. He felt her hand move onto his shoulder. 

 "I used people because I feared that if I didn't, they would use me," he
continued, his voice even quieter now. It was almost a private
confessional, not just for her ears, but for his own...and perhaps for
God's, as well. John's words strayed into his mind: "*He knows our frame
is dust...*" 

 Ben kept that thought at bay and finished what he had begun to say. "I
never felt at ease around women who...imposed themselves on me. I always
had a sense of how fragile, how easily, my heart could stop being my
own...and how quickly I could lose the rest of me, as well. I thought that
life in the Territory was freeing because I was not forced to face these
things: I could flee and take the most solitary assignments, if I so
desired. That solitariness became my undoing when I encountered Victoria.
Through her I learned very painfully that it was a pathetic defense. The
total loss of it in Chicago was like stripping off my only layer of
protection and then flooding me with ice-cold water. I was left gasping
for breath, so to speak. I built a secondary defense when I learned that I
could manipulate people, once again keeping them at a distance from
myself. Instead of being honest with myself and with them, I maintained an
appearance of being guileless and lost myself and my closest friends
through it." 

 He gave a sort of wry and bitter laugh. "It's no wonder that I started
imagining that I could see the ghost of my father. I was in such denial
that finding fantastic reasons to explain the confusion of my own soul
seemed an easier thing to cope with." 

 A chill went up her spine as he said it, and she frowned. She took her
hand from his shoulder. 

 "The ghost of your father?" 

 "Yes," he said. "All those times in the consulate when I appeared to be
talking to someone else? A product of my imagination...frustratingly real
at times." He gave another bitter laugh, as he dropped his head into his
hands. Tears threatened and burned the edges of his eyes. God, he was so
screwed up. Well, at least he was glad that he had had this conversation
with her. It must have cemented in her mind any objections she had to
accepting his hand by this point. It had certainly cemented them in his.
He thought he had put these demons to rest years ago, and here they were,
flapping their leathery wings in his face, no more dead than when he had
faced them during the nights in Chicago. 

 "Did your father have blue eyes and..." How to describe the eerie man she
had seen when she had gone to find Ben on the river? She tried to remember
some distinguishing feature other than his piercing blue eyes. Just like
his son's, now that she thought about it. Another chill ran down her back.
The man had woken her up from a sound sleep. "Was he smaller than you?"
she asked. 

 Ben looked up from his hands, and she could see that he had been fighting
not to cry. She wanted to pull him to her and hold him tightly, but first
she needed him to answer her. She felt that this was important. 

 "Was he?" she repeated. 

 "Physically? Yes," he answered, focus coming into his eyes as he frowned
at her. "Why do you ask?" 

 "I...ah," she paused. How to describe her encounters? "I was woken up by
an older man with gray hair and sharp blue eyes the night that you were
caught by La Croix. He disappeared when I woke up." She swallowed, licked
her lips, and kept going. "And then when I went to look for you with
Ankers and Harding, I saw him again in the woods, far ahead of us. For
some reason, I felt compelled to follow him, though Ankers said that we
were going off the projected path that would bring us into contact with
your team. I just knew that I had to follow this man, but neither Ankers
or Harding could see him. I followed him until I heard La Croix's first
gunshot, and then the man disappeared again. He had guided us right to the
place on the river where you were fighting with La Croix. If not for him,
we would never have found you in time." 

 She stopped to take a breath and she watched the expressions crossing his
face. 

 "You saw him," he said, after a long moment. It was more of a question
than a statement. 

 "I think so," she answered. "I would need to see a picture of him to be
sure, but...I think so." 

 Ben looked back out at the landscape and took in a deep breath. "Thanks,"
he said, into the wind. No answer came back, and they sat in silence,
listening to the moving of the pines and the faint song of the Northern
Lights above them. Meg thought about what he had said, and remembered the
times that he had been candid with her. They had been few, and the
intensity of their effect on her had made her painfully aware of her own
vulnerability. She had pushed him away when they had needed each other the
most and they had lost what?...years? 

 Could she trust him with her heart? She dearly wanted to. 

 "So," she said, finally. She felt him shift beside her. 

 "So." 

 "What do you want to do?" 

 He laughed to himself and licked his lips. "I was just able to confess
something to you which has been weighing heavily on me for years. What do
you think my first reaction is?" 

 "Relief?" 

 "Well, yes...but more to the point: what do you think is on my mind
concerning us?" 

 Meg was quiet. He looked at his hands, turning them over slowly. He shook
his head. 

 "What was the likelihood of our paths ever crossing again, Meg?" 

 She laughed quietly. "I know." 

 He straightened and looked up at the night sky through the treetops. It
was almost as if the wind had stilled to match the breathless pause in his
heart. Where would they go from here? They had been given a second chance,
and he was grateful. He looked at her. 

 "What are you thinking now?" he asked. She found his hand with hers. 

 "Thank you for explaining, for being honest," she answered, resting her
head on his shoulder. He turned his head towards her there and closed his
eyes, feeling again like there were tears, but now for an entirely
different reason. "I think I understand a little more now," she said.
"Seeing you living in Fort Liard, in this environment, and seeing the way
that you are part of the community and the way the people respect you;
it's the first real chance that I have gotten to see you where you are
most comfortable--where you can be yourself." She shifted slightly. "You
are changed, Ben. Somehow more peaceful, and I think I have begun to see
why. You just need to learn to trust yourself more." 

 "And trust others, I think," he said. 

 "Yes." 

 "And...God, as well? I don't know," he said. Meg frowned down at their
clasped hands. Now there was one person she had never been at peace with.
Somehow though, at this moment beside Ben, she felt that some of her
oldest hurts were being softened within her. Who knew what the future held
for them? There was something appealing about the simple faith of the
Glens, and even Dave and Caryn. 

 They sat in that position for a long while, just listening to the other
breathe, and thinking. At long last, Ben finally swallowed and leaned away
slightly from Meg, and she sat up and faced him. He appeared about to say
something, and then he changed his mind and slid off the boulder and
turned to look up at her. He offered her a hand, and she took it and slid
off the boulder to stand beside him. 

 "I liked the other way better," she said with a grin, nodding towards the
rock. He smiled in response, and then took both her hands in his own. He
looked down at them and then looked squarely at her. Her heart was racing,
and from the look in his eyes, so was his. The rumble of a train beneath
their feet went through her mind, and she caught her breath as he bent
towards her. Their lips met softly and she felt a tear run down her cheek.
She squeezed his hands, and he returned the press with his own. 

 "Do you think we can do this?" he asked her, when they separated. 

 She nodded, slowly. "As long as we're both honest and we take our time,"
she answered. 

 "Marry me," he whispered. She closed her eyes for a moment, searched, and
then opened them to meet his. 

 "Yes." 

 "Thank you," he said, relief diffusing through his features. He pulled
her close. She felt his tears quickly cooling on her forehead. 

 "Thank you," she answered, smiling against his chest. And for one moment,
she closed her eyes and thought, Thank you, to whomever should hear it. 

 Behind them, Robert Fraser smiled, turned, and faded quietly away. 

End Fort Liard by Rachel Smith Cobleigh: rcobleigh@gmail.com

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