Chapter Three

      On Sunday morning Abram rolled out of the bottom bunk while it was still dark. He shivered in the cold and glanced out the window at the end of the long room.

      Snow fell gracefully from the black sky, brushing against the windowpane and gathering in the corners.

      Winter always frustrated Abram. Once the river stopped flowing, his saw would stop, too, and so would his income. Of course the snow and cold would come eventually, but he had hoped and prayed it would hold off a bit longer. At least until he had come back from St. Anthony. The trail would be difficult to travel now and the drop in temperature would make it more uncomfortable. But it wouldn’t stop him from going. He’d leave before the sun was up the following morning.

      He pulled his cold denim pants over his long johns. They felt grimy against his skin, but he had nothing else to wear. They would have to do for now.

      The other men continued to snore, so he tried to be quiet as he pulled on his shirt and buttoned up the front. He didn’t want to disturb them on their one morning off. All four of them had gone to Crow Wing village, about twenty-five miles north on the river, the night before, and they had crawled into bed in the wee hours of the morning. He wished they would come to church with him at the Belle Prairie Mission, but none of them had any interest—especially after a night of carousing.

      Abram grabbed his boots from the end of his bed and tiptoed toward the door. He would see to the Sunday morning chores, like he did every week, and leave the rest of the afternoon and evening chores to his men so he could spend the day with his sons.

      The hallway was dark and no light seeped from beneath Charlotte’s door. She had worked hard yesterday and had gone to bed as soon as the dishes had been wiped after supper.

      He slid past her room and down the stairs, hoping not to wake her, either.

      He’d never seen someone clean the way she had. No wonder she’d gone to bed early. There was not a nook or cranny of the main floor that had not been touched. She had even taken Susanne’s books off the shelves and hand-dusted each one. The place practically glowed. While he had sat next to the fireplace the evening before, after Charlotte had gone to bed and the men had left for Crow Wing, he had admired the way the firelight danced on the shiny windows again. She had outdone herself—and he sensed it was to prove him wrong.

      But that didn’t bother him one bit.

      The kitchen door was outlined with light and Abram could smell the first hint of coffee on the cold morning air.

      Charlotte?

      He pushed open the door and found her standing in front of the cookstove in a fresh yellow dress, snug against her slender waist and belled out around the bottom. She wore a large apron and had her hair done up in a fancy knot. She stood with one hand on her hip and the other flipping a flapjack in a frying pan. Her right foot was tapping and he heard the soft sound of her humming “Oh! Susanna.”

      A smile teased his lips as he paused over the threshold, surprised at how nice it felt to have a lady in the house again. The breakfast table was already set with a butter dish, a pitcher of cream and a little bowl of white sugar. Six plates were set with a fork and a mug beside each.

      Everything looked homey and snug. Warmth curled inside his chest—but then a pang of guilt rocked him back on his heels, stealing the smile from his face. What was he thinking? This was Susanne’s kitchen. How could he feel good about another woman in her place?

      Charlotte grabbed the plate of flapjacks and turned to put them on the table. She glanced up and her brown eyes registered surprise at his appearance. “Good morning.”

      He cleared his throat and mumbled, “Morning.”

      She turned back to the stove and flipped another flapjack, glancing over her shoulder. “Eat up while they’re hot.”

      He took his place at the head of the table, his mouth watering at the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of steam rising off the flapjacks.

      “Will the others be down shortly?” she asked.

      “They’ve only been asleep for a couple hours. I don’t think we’ll see them anytime soon.”

      She brought the coffeepot from the stove and set it on the table. “They’re not going to the mission with us today?”

      He shook his head and reached for the flapjacks. “No.”

      She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Where were they all night?”

      It felt strange to have her hand on his arm, so he pulled out of her grasp. “They went to Crow Wing. It’s a trading center north of here.”

      “What do they do there?”

      “I don’t ask and they don’t tell.” Crow Wing had a reputation for being lawless. It was a mecca for transient fur traders, trappers and Indians. At any time, there were usually about two hundred people living there and very few things were off-limits. He was sure his men had enjoyed themselves.

      Charlotte crossed her arms and looked at him with disappointment. “You let them do this?”

      “They’re grown men. What am I supposed to do?”

      “Tell them to stop.”

      He took a flapjack off the top of the stack and put it on his plate, his stomach growling. He almost closed his eyes to inhale the warm scent but refrained—only because she was watching. “I can’t tell them what to do.”

      Her foot began to tap again but this time she wasn’t humming. “Well, I can.” She marched around the table and out of the kitchen, her skirts swaying.

      Abram scrambled up from the table. “Charlotte!” He raced out of the kitchen and through