The Way Lies North by Jean Rae Baxter

Author:Jean Rae Baxter [Baxter, Jean Rae]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781553802440
Publisher: Ronsdale Press
Published: 2007-01-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter fourteen

It was burning hot, as hot as a July day could be — not a breath of air stirring. Charlotte felt dizzy and her head ached from the scorching sun. She had been picking raspberries all morning. Red and black raspberries filled the camp kettle.

The lake beckoned. Down at the shore there was cool, clear water to drink, to splash over her face and to bathe her feet. Through the tangle of wild raspberry canes she pushed her way to the shore. She sat down on a rock ledge to pull off her moccasins, the ones that Okwaho had given her; now that it was summer, she wore moccasins instead of boots.

The limestone ledges at the shoreline descended like broad, shallow steps into the water. Holding up her gown, she stepped down to the first submerged shelf. The water reached just above her ankles. One more step and it was up to her knees. Her skin tingled deliciously at the shock of cold.

Something tickled her toes. Glancing down, she saw a brown and yellow perch carefully inspecting them. It nudged her toes with its mouth, found them to be of no interest, and swam away.

If she had an island all to herself, Charlotte thought, she would strip off her clothes and swim sleek as a fish through that green underwater world. How far did it stretch? All the way from Carleton Island to Fort Niagara. At least two hundred miles. Squinting into the dazzling light over the lake, she saw blue water, green islands, gulls wheeling overhead, and in the furthest distance a black speck.

Charlotte studied the speck. A floating log. Or maybe a canoe. She raised a hand to shade her eyes. Definitely a canoe, and it was coming toward Carleton Island.

The canoe carried only one person, and it rode high in the water. So it wasn’t a trader’s canoe, laden with goods and furs. A courier, then? That was nothing to get excited about, since she had no reason to think it was Nick.

Whoever he was, the man paddled well, with a strong, steady rhythm. When she thought about it, there definitely was something about him — perhaps it was merely the set of his shoulders — that reminded her of Nick. But he could be anyone.

Charlotte waded back to shore and sat down at the edge with her feet still in the water. Everything was so quiet. The heat of the day had silenced the birds in the thickets behind her. The lake was still. The canoe seemed to be the only thing moving, and every minute it came nearer.

The paddler wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down to shadow his face. If he would only take it off, she could see his face.

Now the canoe was passing the spot where she sat. It was about one hundred feet offshore, heading for the fort’s landing place. In a minute it would be past her and the paddler would not hear her if she called. But of course she wasn’t going to anyway.

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