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Wilderness Wife

By Delores Topliff

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Chapter 1
Indian Country, Central Canada, 1810

I kneel at the river cleaning the fish our Tom catches for our winter supply. For weeks the children and I have listened for the musket shots my husband will fire from the river bend to signal his return. Icy weather will come soon. Each day our children ask, “Is Father all right, Mama?”
“Of course," I say, trying to sound confident. “Few men have his skills.”
But then, although I hear no sound except the river’s music and see no shadow on my path, I sense human eyes. My hand flies to my throat as Alex MacKay stands before me, his arms crossed, his bearded face intense under his shaggy blond hair.
After ten months of being away, my explorer husband is back.
“Alex! You’re home.” I plunge my tanned hands into the river’s icy current to rinse them, then rub them dry on my rough skirt as I scramble to my feet. He stands unsmiling and unmoving as I rush forward and fling my arms around him in case he’s an apparition that may vanish if I don’t take hold.
“Hello, Marguerite.”
I reach up and smother him with kisses. “Why didn’t you send word? Or fire your musket from the river bend for your hero’s welcome?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Tom ran to the river bend twice this morning and offered to go farther. I’ll call the children.” As I lift a hand to my mouth, Alex grips my wrist.
“Not yet. We must talk. You are beautiful. I wish to remember you as you are.”
“Remember me? Must you leave again? Does Mackenzie require another journey?”
“Not Mackenzie.” He stomps one boot against a stone, freeing a dirt clod from his heel. “Helping him makes me famous, too. He brags that no one possesses my wilderness skills. We’ve done what no other man achieved and proved it by carving our names and date on a boulder by the Pacific.” His eyes gleam. “It doesn’t hurt that he’s my cousin either.”
“We’re so proud.” I hug him again, but seeing his expressionless face, I release him. Success with Mackenzie has changed him. I easily read the woodland around me—today’s frost-touched crimson foliage announces winter soon—but can’t read my husband’s face. “Alex, what’s wrong?”
“With Mackenzie knighted, I’m also sought after. I must go to Montréal.”
“So far?” I glance toward our cabin. “Then we must prepare.”
“No. I can’t take you or the girls—only Thomas.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes. This is my chance for fame.”
“Tom’s only eleven. Do your parents need support? Is that it? We’ll all go. I’ll care for them.” I have heard of my husband’s parents but am not sure they know of me.
Alex bristles, pushing a hand through the shaggy hair I love to caress. “Marguerite, you don’t understand.”
My clenched hands fall to my side. “Then help me.”
“I must secure my fortune. And his.”
I tremble, like I am seven again seeing Father shot to death by a trading partner as Mother and I stand helpless. Except this death is happening now.
“What of our daughters? And me?”
He shrugs, his face impatient.
“You and they belong here in Indian Country. When they are older, I’ll try to arrange good marriages for all three.”
My lips form words, but my heart is stone. “Alex, what are you saying?”
The light in his blue eyes dims, as if he sinks beneath ocean waves. The right half of his mouth lifts in the crooked smile he uses when he knows his words will hurt. “It’s plain enough. You’re lovely but of mixed race. Tom has your father’s and my lighter coloring and European features. He will be accepted.”
“By people who are not family?” I tug his unyielding arm.
“Each man gets one chance in life to be something. I won’t waste mine.”
I release him to barricade my arms across my chest. “They are your daughters, and I—I am your wife.”
He barks a hollow laugh. “My wilderness wife—a façon du nord frontier marriage recognized in this wilderness, but not legal in Montréal. Most North West Company men, including your father, left families behind to come west. I was young and unmarried when I came. I love you, Marguerite, but it’s time to choose my society wife.”
“Do I not matter to you?” His words attack like diving ravens. I tug my hair as my head pounds with confusion.
“Ours was a trading post contract, not the binding vows of a clergyman or priest.”
I mask my emotions, but tears wet my cheeks. “There was none, only the fort clerk, but our vows meant much to me. As you said they did to you.”
“They were enough then, and you’ve done me much good.” He speaks with his detached voice that can drive me almost mad. “Mackenzie being knighted makes my fortunes rise.”
He pulls me into the crook of his arm, but I resist.
“You’re the best thing I’ve known, but this part of my life is over.”
Alex has always been ambitious, but this sinks in. He is leaving us as completely as Father did. I cannot breathe. I see and hear Father dying again, smell the blood, taste the horror that he’s never coming back.
No. There must be something I can do to keep him. “Why, Alex? Our girls love you.”
“And I love them. Perhaps one day you can visit me in Montréal, although I could not acknowledge you. Thomas will find better prospects there than he could have here.”
Fire scorches my breast as his hand strokes my coppery arm. He steadies me as I stagger. “Marguerite, it is sad. If only society were kinder.”
“If only you were kinder.” I shake off his hand. “I’ve seen you free screaming rabbits from snares because you felt sorry for them. Won’t you spare us?”
“I wish I could. Please don’t make this hard.” His eyes warm with approval at seeing the new moose hide stretched nearby. “That’s a fine animal. You’re as good a shot as ever.”
Alex is fortunate I do not aim my musket at him.
He surveys the rainbow trout Tom brought from the creek. “Those are large fish.”
“He’s downstream catching more.” I point that direction. “Every morning he has searched for you—twice today.” I gesture to a tall grove of evergreens. “Our girls are there picking cranberries and chirping like birds. Give your special call.”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. First, walk with me to the house. Cook these splendid fish while I explain the generous arrangements I’ve made.”
“Without you.” I search his eyes, trying to recognize the man I married.
He cups my chin and studies my face. “You often speak of Sault Sainte Marie, your favorite childhood home. I’ve arranged for canoes to take you there. Your old friend, Peter Arndt, is in charge of the fort. I’ll send enough funds for you to start over. You won’t be destitute. Please make our parting sweet. Don’t be sad in front of the children. I’m doing what I must.”
I try to rush ahead to our cabin, but he holds me back with his hand on my waist.
“Is my travel trunk still in the attic? Tom and I will leave in the morning.”
I almost stumble. “You will take my son from me that fast?”
“Snow will come soon.” He kicks dirt free from his other boot and points its toe at crimson bushes by our cabin door, their leaves curling with frost.
“Yes, your trunk is stored there.” I spit the words, sounding like the hoarse woodland spirits my Cree mother described.
He shakes his head. “Don’t take this so hard. I’ll call the children now. We’ll talk more tonight.” He lifts a hand to his mouth and gives the sharp cry of a hawk.
“Father’s home!” our girls shriek. They come running, bringing heaped baskets of wine-colored berries.
Tom rushes to us carrying a bigger stringer of fish. As the children embrace their father, I try to calm myself. Perhaps Alex did not explain himself well but has a plan that will not destroy our family.
After enjoying his favorite braised trout and fried crispy potatoes, Alex pushes back from the table and pats his stomach. “Wonderful! As tasty as always. We don’t get food like this while exploring.”
“Mama is a good cook.” Tom’s pleased smile tears my heart.
Alex gazes fondly at our children. Soon he climbs the ladder near our fireplace and lowers down his trunk, then digs through its layers. He reaches in and removes woodland treasures he once gathered—a cunning whistle, a reed flute, the beaded belt my mother made him. He gives those to our girls. The city clothes he has not used for years are at the bottom. He lifts them now and shakes them free of dust.
“Girls, Thomas and I go to Montréal tomorrow.”
“On an adventure?” Tom’s face brightens.
“A grand adventure. We will have fun.” Alex flashes his winning smile. “Take your best clothes but leave everything else. We’ll buy new things there.”
“When will we return?” Thomas asks.
“I’m not sure. We have much to pursue.”
As night settles and all four children go upstairs to their beds, I linger in our living room rubbing imaginary dust from the silver wedding candlestick that gleams on our fireplace mantel.
Alex stands in our doorway. “Come to bed, Marguerite.”
When I follow, he closes the door behind us. As he reaches for me, I whisper, “What about our marriage contract?”
He sighs, his forehead scar vivid. “Please understand. These have been good years. You’ve given me much. Don’t be sad.” He kisses my cold cheek as one comforts a crying child. “I’ll never forget and always wish my future could include you, but I can’t have two families, now can I?” He strokes my arm. “I ache for you when I’m away.”
“And I for you, but how can you ask such a thing?” I must not let my hunger for him betray me now. I bite my lip and taste hot coppery salt.
A frown unites his eyebrows. “Because I am your wilderness husband.”
My heart pounds. I pull away before my emotions unravel. “Seventeen years is payment enough. Besides, the time of women is upon me.” God, forgive my lie.
“I didn’t want it to be like this.” His hand drops, and his voice carries disappointment.
As he climbs into bed and pulls the blanket to his chin, I flee to our living room, taking refuge in the maple rocking chair he carved for me to soothe our babies. My mind wars until I fall into a restless sleep.
In my dream, a fully rigged sailing ship races to escape a massive storm on tossing seas. It struggles to reach shore but flounders and breaks apart on jagged rocks. The man at the wheel turns my way, and I see Alex, the zigzag scar on his forehead white with strain. His blue eyes flash a desperate message I cannot read.
“Jump, Alex. Jump!”
He throws his shoulder against the wheel to change course, but wild waves splinter the deck and swallow ship, crew, and Alex, the last man to go down. Debris and oil stains ripple the water that calms at last. White seagulls circle and cry overhead.
Bolting upright, my breath comes in labored pants. I add a log to the fire and begin this morning’s tasks. I cook a hearty breakfast before rousing Alex and Tom. While they eat, I mend Tom’s coat and pack food for their journey. We say little. Miraculously, our girls still sleep.
“Au revoir, Marguerite. I’ll send word when I can.” Alex pecks my cheek and heads off without looking back. I hug Tom fiercely until he pulls free to catch his long-legged father, not realizing there’s no promise we will see each other again.
Everything in me aches like a bird whose nest is robbed of its young. Can nothing end my pain? As a half-breed woman, I have no rights apart from my husband. Dear God—fight for me!
In our bedroom, I take our marriage contract from the wooden box Alex carved as my wedding gift. Worthless paper? I had believed it to be so much more. Now I want to tear it to shreds. But what if he changes his mind and returns? Instead, I slide the paper back into its box.
Perhaps I should have expected problems, knowing how poorly many North West Company men treat their wilderness wives. Many left families behind in eastern Canada when coming here. Most never returned, yet Montréal is where men must go for promotion and advancement.
Alex had been young and single when he chose me. He said he was happy with me, and I believed him. Kneeling by the bed still warm from his body, prayer spills from my lips. “Lord, my father taught me to trust You. You knew when I married that this day would come. Give me wisdom and help me understand the dream You gave. Keep Alex and Tom safe. Keep me strong for our girls. Don’t let me fail them.”
Tears prickle my eyes. I choke back sobs our girls must not hear. My jaws clench as heat blisters my heart. My hands fist until my fingernails cut my palms.
Lord, never leave us—like Alex, like Father. .
My father had no choice. I will not let Alex’s decision destroy us. Although my married life has ended, our daughters born of this failed marriage must not feel abandoned. My mind recalls this morning’s vivid dream that seems more real than this gray day. I repeat my prayer, proclaiming my trust in God. Even if hungry rocks beneath the ocean’s tossing surface devour our family, surely God will show a way to survive.
When at last I rise, a stronger woman gazes back from my mirror. She resembles my mother, but greater resolve shines from her eyes. I think she is a woman who will not easily give up.

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