due SOUTH

Fort Liard

Rachel Smith Cobleigh

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, manoeuvering 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 seventies 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 council 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 the 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, he 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 lo