Once Upon A Yesterday    Once Upon A Yesterday by Voyagerbabe

 Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

 Author's disclaimer: 
There once was a group in Toronto, 
Who made the world's best TV show. 
People, wolves, places, and plot, 
All the rights they have got, 
But here I can do what I want to!

 Author's notes: (ARCHIVISTS NOTE: Voyagerbabe has left the internet for
an indefinite period of time. Her works are still being posted through a
network of friends. The address link for the author will actually take you
to one such friend, Courser, who will happily get all feedback to VB.)

  

 "Once Upon A Yesterday"
 Voyagerbabe 

 March 11, 1884. 

 Dear Mrs. Scott: 

 I am writing to thank you again for you kind hospitality November last.
Although you stated that no recompense was necessary, I hope that you will
agree to accept this token of my gratitude. The final decision remains
yours of course, but should you be inclined to accept, I shall be passing
your door upon my regular patrol in some three months time. It would be my
honor to offer escort and safe passage to the nearest train station, or a
destination of your choosing. 

 Constable T. Fraser 

 *** 

 The letter had been written on coarse, cheap paper, and the ink was a bit
smudged in one corner where a splash of water or snow had encountered it
between the author's pen and her hand. Although the words were those of an
educated man, the lines of script wavered loosely across the paper, the
handwriting heavy and occasionally splotched with loose spots of ink. She
ran her finger over the words, smiling slightly. 

 If she closed her eyes, she could almost see him. She knew for a fact
that his handwriting was usually smooth and graceful, so he must have been
tired when he wrote to her. The picture her mind conjured saw him sitting
by the light of a small oil lamp, leaning too close to the paper as his
hand moved slowly across the lines of text, occasionally stopping to dip
into the inkwell when the letters began to fade. If his hand was
trembling, as a few words suggested, he would have simply clenched the pen
tighter, thickening the already blocky script. 

 He wouldn't have admitted to himself that he was exhausted, that he
perhaps should have waited until the morning to write her. He had promised
to write as soon as he reached the post, and he would have done so. The
Constable was stubborn that way, in the same charmingly exasperating way
that he burned the bacon and refused to admit to his need for spectacles. 

 Carefully folding the letter, she laid it gently next to her tea on the
table. Reaching into the envelope, she drew out his token of gratitude,
still not quite able to believe what she was seeing. She knew how much it
had cost him, and it was no small sum. Even now, looking at it for the
hundredth time in the half hour since she had slit open the letter, she
still couldn't quite believe it. 

 *** 

 April 3, 1884 

 Dear Constable Fraser: 

 Your supposed 'token' is generous beyond the humble capacity of words. I
will not bother with platitudes, as you are well aware of its meaning to
me, and I am well aware of its cost to you. Suffice to say that there was
no hesitation involved in my choice. It would be my hope that this letter
should reach you in time to inform you that I gratefully accept your
offer, but should the post be delayed, or should this letter find you
absent upon some business, then I will simply await your arrival as stated
in your letter. 

 Mrs. M. Scott 

 *** 

 Margaret Scott signed the letter with a delicate flourish, then folded it
precisely. Her hands were shaking as she slid it into the envelope,
penning the Constable's name on the outside. Though she had now officially
accepted his gift, the implications were only beginning to sink in. 

 A soft muzzle nudged against her skirt, and she reached down, scratching
Winchester's ears before he degraded himself with begging and whining. The
presence of the large mutt was warm and familiar, and she took a sip of
tea with the hand that was not occupied in his wiry fur. Swallowing the
slightly sweet brew, she looked down at him. "Do you remember Constable
Fraser, Winchester?" 

 The rapid thump of his tail against the table leg and his tongue-lolling
grin assured her that he did, and she laughed. "I thought as much. You
should be ashamed for proving to be such a truly abhorrent guard dog. You
gave me no warning of his arrival." 

 Her fingers continued to scratch, satisfying Winchester, but her tea grew
cold as it lay unattended. Margaret was staring past the flickering flame
of the oil lamp, staring into a night just over half a year past. 

 *** 

 She had quite nearly shot him. 

 A cabin in the far reaches of the Northwest Territories of Canada
received few visitors. Indeed, in the six years she had lived within those
thick log walls, she had received the grand total of three: one Cree
Indian, one traveling parson, and one salesman. None of those were
received in November, when the snow drifts piled past the windows, driven
by the same howling wind that could tear its teeth through the thickest
clothing to snap away warmth. Certainly, none of them were received at
nine o'clock at night. 

 When she had heard the pounding on her door, she had first thought it a
trick of the wind. When its persistence had proved otherwise, she had
become frightened. Images of savages come to rape and murder swirled
through her mind, goaded by more childish fears of ghastly monsters that
would walk out of snowstorms and snatch her soul. Clad only in her
nightgown and a woolen shawl, she had taken her Colt from its drawer in
her bedside table, checking the chamber to confirm the presence of all six
bullets. 

 The click as she cocked the hammer soothed her fears only slightly. She
was wound tighter than a watch spring as she unbarred the door and flung
it open, thrusting the muzzle of the Colt ahead of her into the gut of
whatever vicious creature was waiting there as she screamed, "I'll shoot!"


 The vicious creature had simply let out a very non-vicious "Oof." This
was followed by a quiet male voice. "Please don't." 

 Not even feeling the cold air that was rushing into the warm confines of
the cabin, she forced her eyes open. Until that moment, Margaret had not
even realized that she had shut them. 

 What she was holding at gun point was not a rampaging mountain man with a
bloodied ax and sprawling beard, nor was it a fanged snow beast. It was a
man, a man who looked drawn and exhausted beneath his thick swaddling of
furs and leather. He leaned against the door frame heavily, all of his
energy clearly involved in the simple task of holding himself upright. His
face was mostly concealed behind a thick woolen scarf, but the scarf had
become thickly crusted with the same ice that caked his eyebrows and hung
like tears from the lashes that rimmed his blue eyes. 

 Her own eyes narrowed. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" 

 "Constable Tom Fraser, ma'am." His voice was hoarse and wavering, 

 "Could you please let me...let me in..." Suddenly, his hand slipped from
the door frame and he stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees and
knocking the Colt from her hand. 

 The Colt and the accompanying fear forgotten, she quickly reached to
catch him, helping him pull himself through the doorway enough to close
and bolt the heavy wooden portal. Snow had drifted in onto the roughly
hewn boards of the floor, and the temperature within the cabin had
plummeted, but Margaret didn't notice her own shivering. 

 The Constable barely made it through the doorway before sagging
completely to the floor, all but unconscious. His clothes almost looked to
be made of glass, thickly caked with snow and glazed with ice that gleamed
and glittered as it melted in the warmth from the fireplace. He was
adequately dressed for winter travel in a thick parka, heavy leather and
fur leggings, and good, sturdy boots, but no one could survive for long in
that weather without shelter. She wondered what had possessed him to be
out in such a remote area alone, but it didn't really matter. What
mattered was getting him warmed up. 

 He was almost six feet tall, broad shouldered and solidly muscled, and
she knew that there was no way she could move him on her own. Rushing over
to the cupboard, she retrieved a bottle of whisky, dusty with disuse, and
poured a good measure of the amber liquid into the hot tea she had already
prepared for herself. Gently lifting the man's head into her lap, she
spooned the warm mixture between his lips. At the second spoonful, he
sputtered and coughed, his eyes fluttering open. 

 He had begun to shiver violently, and she knew that she didn't have much
time. It took her almost fifteen minutes to get him over to the bed, half
carrying him all the way. By the time he lowered himself onto the simple
mattress, the last of his strength had been sapped. Margaret had to
wrestle the soaking wet clothing off of him by herself, tugging at heavy
boots and pulling at fasteners that didn't seem inclined to cooperate.
When she finally reached the warm, dry woolen long johns that she had
decided to leave quite firmly in place, her arms ached, and she was
dripping wet with a mixture of sweat and the melted snow from his
clothing. 

 She paused, looking at him. He was fairly young, but not a child like so
many of those who had come west, perhaps in his early thirties. It was a
boyish face, surprisingly smooth and handsome given the harsh climate, and
she almost laughed as she heard her mother's pragmatic voice remind her
that if a frozen man was going to fall into her cabin and ruin her night,
he should at least have the decency to be handsome. His chin was shadowed
with dark beard, and his deep brown curls were unruly and didn't seem to
have seen a barber in some time, but he seemed to take care of himself
nonetheless. At the very least, he didn't stink as badly as most of the
fur trappers and miners that she met when she ventured into town. 

 His entire body shook fiercely with the cold, but all she could provide
were plenty of blankets and some more whiskey in more tea that she spooned
into him. She was pleased to see that at least his eyebrows no longer
looked like snow banks. Margaret had intended to keep a vigil, but the
unexpected exertion of the night refused to allow it. She slept with
Winchester that night, curled by the fire as the nearly frozen stranger
slowly began to thaw. 

 *** 

 She awoke to the smell of bacon burning. It was a surprising smell, as
she had not had bacon in the cabin for nearly a week, much less burned
any. 

 Her second realization of the morning was that she had been relocated. No
longer was she on the floor in front of the fireplace, but tucked neatly
between the warm layers of blankets on the bed. Confused, she sat up,
blinking the sleep from her eyes as she looked around the single tiny
room. 

 The man from the night before was standing at her stove, trying to wave
away a thick pall of smoke rising from a frying pan he held in one hand.
His movements were a little stiff, but he seemed to have recovered rather
nicely from his brush with hypothermia. He was also completely dressed,
having donned the now-dry shirt and trousers he had been wearing beneath
his thick outerwear. "You're looking well." 

 He nearly dropped the pan as he spun to look at her, clearly startled.
"You're awake!" 

 "Quite. You seem to have thawed enough to prove yourself a poor cook."
She observed dryly. 

 He smiled sheepishly, a surprisingly boyish blush tinting his deeply
tanned cheeks. "I'm terribly sorry about putting you through such trouble
last night. It was really inappropriate of me to..." 

 "Nonsense." Margaret swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her shawl.
She wrapped it snugly around her shoulders as she walked over, taking the
smoking pan from him and plunging it into the pan of soapy water where her
dishes soaked. "You were nearly frozen. The only inappropriate actions
were mine in almost turning you away from my door with a bullet." She saw
the rasher of bacon that lay on the sideboard and reasoned that it, along
with the dried apples and raisins nearby, must have come from his pack.
Motioning him to the table, she began to cut new slices from the thick
slab of meat. "I admit, however, to some curiosity as to what brought you
here. Perhaps you could shed a bit of light on the subject?" 

 Conceding the breakfast preparations to her without complaint, he began
to take plates and cups from her cupboards to set the table. "I'm not
quite certain if I told you last night, but my name is Tom Fraser, and I'm
a Constable with the Northwest Mounted Police. I was a schoolteacher
before that, then I rode out with George French to stop the whiskey
runners in '73. I've patrolled this area with my partner for nearly a year
now, but that storm yesterday seemed to arrive on the winged heels of
Mercury. I lost sight of my partner within the first hour, and I can only
hope that he found some shelter. When my horse caught his leg, I was
forced to shoot the poor beast and continue on foot. I consider it my
great fortune that I came upon such a warm cabin and such a beautiful
hostess before I succumbed to the temperature." 

 Her hand froze on the bacon as she felt herself blush. It had been a long
time since she had been given a compliment of any sort, and she had to
admit that it was not an unwelcome occurrence. There was a smile in her
voice as she lightly admonished him. "Mr. Fraser, I thank you for your
flattery, but I am very aware that I am both quite plain and quite
recently widowed. Too recently to be interested in a man's advances." 

 "I'm sorry." There was real sympathy in his voice. "Not for the first,
but the second. May I inquire as to the nature of his passing?" 

 She told him. She told him about how she met Charles, how he was so bold
and brash and full of adventure and how she was so young and eager and
ready to escape the stuffy confines of Ontario society. She told him of
coming west, of building the cabin and settling so far from civilization.
She told him of the nights spent worrying about the fate of her
fur-trading husband, and how she had nearly lost her mind when she had
been told he had disappeared. She told him how she had hoped and prayed
for nearly a year before his body was found, and how she had wept when her
hope was gone. She told him how lonely it had been for the past ten months
of utter isolation, how she had begun calling Winchester and the other
dogs her "boys," as though they were the children she had never been
given. 

 She didn't notice when she abandoned the breakfast, or exactly what
moment he took her in her arms. Margaret simply melted there, wordlessly
grateful for the presence of simple human contact, a literal shoulder to
cry on. She did cry. She cried for a full hour, then slowly, her tears
began to run out, her breathing to calm. 

 Embarrassed at her display, she pushed out of his arms, wiping her face
on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. That was completely...." 

 "Understandable." He smiled gently, and she was surprised to see that
there was nothing more than sympathy in his eyes. He didn't seem to
consider her a fool, nor did his earlier comment seem to have been the
precursor to additional romantic overtures. Standing, he fetched the tea
kettle, filling both their cups. 

 She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, breathing the steam deeply. "I
don't know whether to chide you for your accommodation of my feminine
emotions or commend you for it, Constable. Your own wife has found herself
a remarkably empathetic husband." 

 "My wife is dead." 

 "Oh." Their eyes met, and in his clear blue eyes, she saw their shared
grief. He held the contact only a moment, then looked away. "You do
understand." 

 "I joined the Mounted Police to escape her shadow. You must share this
cabin with his. I understand that you're far braver than I." 

 "It's a bravery born of necessity, Constable," she admitted, "I loved
this country because he did. I would desire nothing more now than to
return to my family in the east." 

 There was a long pause as he measured a small spoonful of sugar into his
cup, stirring slowly, almost pensively. He didn't look up, but his voice
was measured as carefully as the sugar as he spoke. "Could you return by
train?" 

 Margaret laughed. "If I had that kind of money, I could do many things." 

 He had laughed as well, and they had made breakfast together, talking of
anything and everything except for dead husbands, dead wives, and far away
dreams. She had enjoyed his company, and enjoyed the sound of her own
voice conversing and laughing with another in the lonely cabin. When he
finally left on snowshoes two days later, she had almost begged him to
stay, but quickly squelched the selfish desire and resigned herself to
being alone once more. 

 She would treasure those days, and she would not wish for more. After
all, it had been a fair trade, had it not? She had given him refuge and
warmth, and he had given her something in return. 

 He had given her understanding. 

 *** 

 Winchester had fallen asleep at her feet, and the lamp had burned down to
a dim flame that barely cast shadows across the table top. It was just
enough light to reflect off the thin tracks that tears had traced down
Margaret's cheeks as she held the small slip of paper in her hands. 

 She didn't need to see it. The printing on the paper was burned into her
mind, her heart, her very soul. It was his token of gratitude...a one-way
train ticket to Ottawa. She closed her eyes, remembering that odd tone in
his voice when he had asked her if she could return by train. She knew now
that he had been planning to give her something, something far greater
than even his understanding. 

 Her sense of fairness demanded that she give him something of equal worth
in return, but her sense of reason told her that there could be no such
gift. 

 How could anyone repay someone who gave you the rest of your life? 

 *** 

 Inspector Margaret Thatcher's hands were shaking as she slowly closed her
great-grandmother's letter. Her eyes flickered towards the door of her
office, as though she could look beyond and into the nearby office of her
Deputy Liaison Officer. 

 It couldn't be. It was just a surname, after all, and a relatively normal
one at that. There must be thousands of them. Finding the name in a letter
had to be a coincidence. That the man had served in the same organization
that was a tradition in her Fraser's family had to be a coincidence. That
he had lived and worked in the same sparsely populated and desolate region
of Canada had to be a coincidence. That the description of her
great-grandmother's Fraser could almost have been a twin brother had to be
a coincidence. 

 Or were those too many coincidences? 

 She looked at the letter, then again at the door, envisioning the
Constable standing in front of her desk, at rigid attention for another
dressing down. Only in her imagination, he wasn't wearing the modern dress
reds. 

 He was wearing the uniform of a Northwest Mounted Policeman. The tunic
had been much the same, but with far fewer adornments, and the belt had
been simple and straight, rather than the complicated cross-strap of the
Sam Browne. The trousers would have been the same dark blue with the same
yellow stripe, only they would not yet have been jodhpurs, but simple and
straight-legged above the high brown riding boots. The biggest change
would have been the hat, not a Stetson, but a shako, brown leather with a
yellow fringe. Conservative and old-fashioned, but eminently masculine.
The overall image was not unappealing. 

 Was that what Constable Tom Fraser had looked like? Was that what her
great-grandmother saw when he came to collect her at her door, dressed in
his parade best? She had laughed at that, but he had claimed that it was
no less than his obligation to his angel of mercy. 

 She had promised herself to repay him somehow, but she had never found a
way. 

 Could her great-granddaughter perhaps take a bit of the burden from her?
Opening her desk drawer, she returned the letter to it's resting place,
but a determined smile remained in her eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to
be a little bit kinder to the Constable for a few days. 

 Just in case it wasn't a coincidence. 

 *** 

 Constable Benton Fraser's hands were shaking as he slowly closed his
great-grandfather's journal. His eyes flickered towards the door of his
office, as though he could look beyond and into the nearby office of his
Commanding Officer. 

 It couldn't be. It was just a surname, after all, and a relatively normal
one at that. There must be thousands of them. He knew Thatcher's mother's
maiden name from Consular paper work, but finding it in a journal had to
be a coincidence. That she had mentioned an ancestor who lived and worked
in the same sparsely populated and desolate region of Canada had to be a
coincidence. That she had claimed to have been named "Margaret" for a
great-grandmother had to be a coincidence. That the description of his
great-grandfather's Margaret could almost have been a twin sister had to
be a coincidence. 

 Or were those too many coincidences? 

 He looked at the letter, then again at the door, envisioning the
Inspector standing in the doorway his office, ready to protect herself in
one breath, but to give compassion in another. Only in his imagination,
she wasn't wearing a harshly cut business suit or the red uniform. 

 She was wearing a crisp white cotton blouse that she had somehow kept
perfectly clean despite the trials of the frontier. Delicate embroidery
and careful gathers trimmed the edges his great-grandfather had described,
speaking of a woman who possessed both patience and talent. Her chestnut
hair fell softly over her shoulders, a shawl of scarlet wool clutched
around her body. Dark woolen petticoats hid her legs but clearly outlined
her slender waist and hips, falling to her ankles. Conservative and old
fashioned, but eminently feminine. The overall image was not unappealing. 

 Was that what Margaret Scott had looked like? Was that what his
great-grandfather saw when he came to collect her at her door, dressed in
his parade best? She had laughed at that, but he had claimed that it was
no less than his obligation to his angel of mercy. 

 He had known a train ticket was a poor compensation for his life, and he
had promised to fully repay her some day. 

 Could his great-grandson perhaps take a bit of the burden from him?
Opening his desk drawer, he returned the letter to it's resting place, but
a determined smile remained in his eyes. He would redouble his efforts to
be the ideal subordinate, and maybe he would turn down a few of Detective
Vecchio's proposed extracurricular activities for the next few days. 

 Just in case it wasn't a coincidence. 

 THE END