"Why?" She leaned forward. as if she could pull the rest of the story out of him.

"We made it to the coast--folks call it Pacific, but that there is one fierce ocean. Then we was ambushed whilst we was camped on the Umpqua. If'n some of us hadn't been out scoutin' a trail to the north, we'd 'a been dead along with the rest of 'em." He spoke of the loss of their season's work as if it was minor damage, but Hattie knew, from other tales, how difficult and exhausting that work had been.

"If it hadn't been for the White Eagle, we'd 'a wasted the whole two years. He sent his men down there and got most of our furs back. Bought 'em off us, too, and paid us in good British gold."

"Who was White Eagle, an Indian?"

"Wagh! He's the biggest he-coon of 'em all. Ol' John McLoughlin, factor at Fort Vancouver." And he told her stories of his stay at the fort on the Columbia, where he'd parted with Jedediah Smith, who'd gone north, to Flathead Lake while Buffalo had gone home to his family in the Grande Ronde Valley.

Emmet was frequently absent, sometimes for several days at a time. He claimed to be hunting, but Hattie knew he was often simply wandering. Oh, he brought home meat--there were two frozen elk carcasses hanging high in the trees. She tried to tell herself she didn't miss him.

The cold weather that persisted until the only water they had was what Buffalo dipped from his bathtub, just below where the hot spring boiled from the hillside. Everything else was frozen solid, even the river.

The oxen were on starvation rations, eating willow twigs and scant handsful of hay, carefully fed to each one every morning. The milch cow got a larger share of the rations, since Emmet insisted she be kept fresh until Hattie reached civilization.

She had been keeping track of the date, although she might have lost a few when she was burning with fever. So it was not completely a surprise when Emmet rode in and unloaded a small pine tree from his mule's back. "Tomorrow's Christmas,"

he offered in explanation. He seemed almost embarrassed.

"Wal, that's prime," Buffalo said when he saw the tree. "I ain't had a Christmas since I came West."

Hattie was surprised. "You didn't celebrate with your daughter?"

"Injuns celebrate a powerful lot of things," Buffalo told her, "but Christmas ain't one of 'em." He stepped to Emmet's mule and removed the saddlebags. He peered inside one, then held it out to her. "This'll do you more good than me."

Hattie took the bag. She looked inside, but all she saw was a mass of dark, shriveled pellets. "What is it?"

"Dried gooseberries," Emmet said, "and underneath, there's some honey. I stopped by the Bannock camp and traded some tobacco." He slapped the gelding on the flank, sending it into the corral. Reaching down, he held up a gray-and-black bird. "Ever cook a goose?"

Hattie clapped her hands. "Not in a fireplace," she admitted, "but I can learn."

She took the bird, surprised at how heavy it was. Oh, but it would taste good, after months of venison and fish.

She spitted the goose and let it cook slowly above the fire, her mouth watering at the smell. Craving fresh vegetables, she made a salad of cat-tail root, pickled and sliced. As the goose cooked, she steamed the crisp root with chunks of elk bacon and baked a dressing of corn bread flavored with tiny dried onions, slivers of smoked trout and leaves of the sagebrush that grew everywhere. For desert she served dried gooseberry pie, sweetened with honey and thickened with the ground root of the camas, and topped with honey-laced clabbered cream, much to the men's delight.

"Wal now, that was jest about the finest dinner I ever et," Buffalo told her after wiping a crust of bread around his plate to pick up the last trace of berry juice.

Emmet said nothing, but his smile, when he looked across the table at her, was reward enough.

"I've made you some surprises," Hattie said, carrying the plates across to the waiting dishpan. "I'll just set these to soak first."

Emmet rose and helped her. She would never get used to his assistance around the house. Karl had never lent a hand to any household chore, even when she was so sick with the ague two winters back.

Buffalo rose too. "Be right back," he said, stepping outside.

When they'd cleared the table, Emmet lifted the tree back onto it. "You sure prettied it up nice," he told Hattie. "I like those little bows." He touched one of the bows she'd fashioned of fabric scraps left from her baby clothes. "And the rose hips are pretty, too."

"The best thing about them is that they make such good tea," she said. Buffalo had brought them in last week when she'd mentioned using the last of the rose hips she'd been able to collect nearby. Instead of storing them in muslin bags as she usually did, she'd had the thought to string them on thread and use them to decorate the cabin. When Emmet brought her the tree, they'd been all ready.

She looked up at him, struck again by what a handsome man he was. If only he were not a wanderer.

Buffalo opened the door, stamping his feet before entering. "Snowin' again," he said. He carried a peculiar object, a flat board with attached leather straps and pouch. "This here's for you," he said, thrusting it at Hattie.

She took it, not wanting to admit her ignorance.

He chuckled. "Not sure what it is, are ye, missy?"

Shaking her head, Hattie smiled up at him. "No, but I'm sure there's a story to it."

"Wal, thar sure is, but it'll save," he said. "It's a cradleboard, that's what it is. Jest like the one I made for my leetle Flower." He took it back and showed her how to sling it on her back. With a little adjustment, it was made to fit her and she was amazed at how comfortable it was. "This way you can take your young'un with ye and still have your hands free to work with."

Hattie slipped her arms from the straps and held the cradleboard so she could look at it. The wood had been shaped and smoothed with a loving hand and the leather parts were soft and strong. Even the black-and-red plaid wool that lined the pouch was soft, obviously the remnant of a well-worn and oft-washed coat.

She set it carefully on the table and embraced Buffalo. "You are so good to me,"

she whispered in his ear. "I love you so much." She kissed his cheek above the bristly white of his beard. "Thank you."

"You jest go on now," Buffalo said to her, his face as red as the wool. "Twarn't nothin'."

"'Twar too," she contradicted, smiling. "Now, you sit yourself in your chair and I'll get your gift." She pushed him toward his great chair, pulled cozily close to the fire.

"I got to git your man's present," he said, resisting.

Emmet laid a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me where it is and I'll go after it myself. I can't wait for an old turtle like you to drag it in here."

Surprisingly, Buffalo didn't protest. He told Emmet he couldn't miss his gift, if he was to just look inside the leanto. "Fetch it in hyar so's you can use it." Emmet left.

"Come here, gal." Buffalo reached out to her, pulling her close to him. "I been watchin' you and Ol' Em. He's runnin' scairt, and that's why he's off wanderin'

so much. You jest be patient and he'll settle. He's got mighty strong feelin's for you."

She wished she could tell him the truth, that Emmet would only stay with her until she was settled in the Willamette Valley, but she hadn't the heart. Before either could say more, the door opened again. Emmet entered, carrying a mate to the peeled-pine and rawhide chair that was Buffalo's, but not so large. Of course, not many men were as wide as the old trapper, or as heavy. Beside him, Emmet looked slim and boyish.

"I'm beholden," Emmet said to Buffalo after he'd placed it on the opposite side of the fireplace from Buffalo's. He sat, squirmed a bit. "Fits just like it was made for me," he pronounced with a grin.

"Figgered it was the least I could do. I got mighty tired of seein' you squat there beside the fire to eat your supper." Emmet had used a section of log as a seat ever since Buffalo's arrival, refusing to take either the old man's chair or Hattie's stool.

During the men's bantering, Hattie had gone to the bunk and pulled her wooden box from underneath. She removed two folded linen rectangles from it and held one out to each man. "These aren't much," she apologized, "but I though you might like them. My mother...." She cleared a throat suddenly grown tight. "My mother always said every gentleman needs one fine handkerchief."

Emmet took his without a word. He laid it on his thigh and smoothed it with one finger.

Buffalo was more vocal. "Wal, I swan! Ain't that jest as purty a leetle rag as ever was!" He unfolded it and held it up to the light. The embroidery in one corner caught his eye. "Lookee that! 'B-J.' Now ain't that fine!" Like Emmet, he smoothed the handkerchief across his thigh, stroking it with a rough hand. "When I was a leetle tyke, I wanted one of these," he said, his voice more subdued than Hattie had ever heard it. "Then I got a mite older and knew... wal, never mind. Thankee, missy. Thankee kindly." He carefully folded the handkerchief into a small square and stowed it in the bag suspended from his belt that he called his "possibles."

"Thank you, Hattie," Emmet said when Buffalo eventually fell silent. "I've never had anything so fine either." There was a note in his voice that she'd never heard. It was almost as if he cared for her.

But she couldn't help but notice that he'd had no gift for her.

Emmet cursed as he saddled his gelding. The cabin was simply too small for the three of them.

It would be too small if Buff were not here, for it held Hattie.

If he stayed nearby, sooner or later he would weaken. And once he laid a hand on her, once he tasted her again, he'd not be able to stop himself. Not until he'd lost himself in her.

Great God, but he wanted her!

For a week and more he wandered, seeking beaver sign, until another snowstorm made the going rough for his horse. Then he went overland, calculating he'd strike the Boise River somewhere along the upper valley where wagon wheels had left a scar across a hillside.

The river was still frozen, even though the snow had blown in on warmer winds.

But the ice was rotten, soft and thin in places, treacherous. Emmet was glad he didn't have to cross, for to do so would be courting disaster.

He made his way along the valley, in and out of the willow thickets, dismounting to cross the marshy pockets of bulrush and cat-tail. He would be glad to get home--to the cabin--where he could warm his feet and fill his belly with something more than pemmican and jerky.

A sound, barely heard, brought him to a halt. He put hand over the nose of his horse, his eyes searching the distance. For a long time he waited, still as a stone, listening, watching, sniffing the breeze. Finally he heard it again. A dog's whine.

Looping his horse's reins on a branch, he stepped lightly across the frosty ground. He chose each footfall carefully, for there was ice on the frequent puddles, ice which could crack with a sound like a pistol shot.

The willow band bordering the river was wide here, perhaps a hundred feet. Emmet slipped between the slim stems, often detouring where they formed an impenetrable screen. Eventually he drew near enough to see the dog.

It was a big, brindle beast, part hound, part God-knew-what. Crouched over something on the ground, it at first appeared to be feeding. Then Emmet saw a round, dark shape between its front paws.

He almost turned away. Any dog out here was more than likely one of the half-wild ones belonging to the Indians. Then he saw the collar--a braided hank of fabric, faded blue and red bandannas, it looked like--wrapped around the thick neck.

The dog was gaunt, half starved. He could count its ribs. While he watched, it nosed the dark object, then stood and pawed at a bundle, whining again.

And all of a sudden Emmet saw what the dog worried. The dark, rounded object became a woolly head, the bundle a wet, filthy coat, rent and stained. Emmet slipped his boot knife free of its scabbard. He took one, then another stealthy step in the dog's direction. He managed to approach within ten feet before the dog noticed him. When it did, it crouched over the limp figure, snarling protectively.

Emmet had never had a dog, but he knew when one was warning him off. He stood perfectly still. Softly at first, he spoke. "It's all right, boy. I'm not going to harm your master. I just want to see what I can do for him." He wasn't certain the man was alive, for he'd once seen a trapper's dog keep everyone away from the cold carcass for three days before letting it be buried.

The dog lowered its head, its black lip still lifted in a snarl. It kept its eyes on Emmet.

Well, hell!Emmet was cold and he was hungry. The last thing he wanted to do was stand here, facing off a dog near as big as himself, acting the Good Samaritan.

He took a step forward.

The dog snarled.

Another step, and the dog lowered itself, almost lying across the man, but it still snarled.

Emmet reached out a hand, wondering if he'd pull back a bloody stump. "There boy," he murmured. "There. Just let me see if I can help." He inched forward.

The dog continued to bare its teeth, but made no other threatening sign. When he was close enough, the dog became silent, its ominous rumble fading away. It slowly eased forward until its nose all but touched Emmet's hand.

For a long moment they posed, still as two statues. Then the dog whimpered again and gently nosed Emmet's fingers.

The man was damn near frozen, but his breathing was deep and even, almost as though he slept. A few minutes shouldn't matter. Emmet backtracked, hoping to find a pack or anything that might belong to the enormous Negro. There was nothing to mark his passing except a trail through the last ten or so feet of rotten, broken ice, showing where the man had struggled to escape the tenacious hold of the icy river.

With nothing but scrub willow growing nearby, Emmet knew he'd never make a fire big enough to warm the unconscious man. He'd have to take him back to the cabin.

There was nothing like Buff's bathtub for warming a man all the way through. He wrapped his blankets around the big man's legs, his bear robe around his body, and tied him across the gelding's back.

All the way to the cabin, a tedious journey lasting half a day, Emmet alternately swore at his own damfoolishness and the half-drowned stranger's desperate attempt to cross the frozen river.

He ought to be looking for ways to reduce his responsibilities, not increase them. It was enough he had the care of a wife and a sick old man.

Of course, he hadn't exactly taken on Buff. He and Hattie had moved into the old man's house, never mind Buff had since given it to Hattie, even offered to write her out a deed so no one would question her right to live there. But if Emmet hadn't been forced by Hattie's accident to take refuge in Buff's cabin, he'd not now be feeling responsible for the old man while he waited to die.

Emmet wasn't even sure he believed Buff. There were all sorts of ailments that could make a man feel like something was chewing his guts to shreds. They weren't necessarily fatal.

Were they?

All he knew was that Buff looked fit enough, if a mite skinny. Of course, he wasn't eating enough to keep a jackrabbit alive, let alone a big old fella like he was. Come spring, he'd get his appetite back, then he'd be hale and hearty again.

And if he doesn't, what then?

Emmet did his best to ignore the small voice of doubt. He was going on to Fort Vancouver come spring, Hattie and Buffalo be damned. If they wanted to come along, he'd get them there. If they didn't, well, they had the choice.

The dog ranged wide of his path, coming back every few minutes, seemingly to check on their progress. He was ugly as sin, looking like somebody had taken the broad head and floppy ears of a hound and tacked 'em onto the body of one of those curly-haired dogs he'd seen so many of in France. And then they'd screwed a little stump of a tail on the hind end, just for trimming. His coat looked like it had been taken, one hair at a time, from three different dogs--one red, one white, one black.

He called out as he entered the clearing around the cabin. Buff came to the door and Emmet motioned him outside.

"What in tarnation?"

"What's it look like? I found him down at the river." With Buff's help, he slid the man off the horse. They half-carried, half-dragged him to the tub and undressed him. When Buff pulled his ragged shirt off him, Emmet gasped at the sight of the man's back. He'd seen the results of flogging at sea--there were few captains, even today, who didn't believe that a few stripes with a whip were incentive to work harder and better. But he'd never seen the kind of determined viciousness that would leave a man scarred like this. It looked like he had been whipped within an inch of his life--more than once.

The stranger was still unconscious when they bedded him down in Buffalo's leanto. Hattie made broth for the men to feed him, but didn't object when they wouldn't let her help. He was so big, so dark, that she feared him. Instead she went outside and called to the dog.

She thought she caught a glimpse of the animal, out among the cottonwoods, but she couldn't be sure. So she set out a tin plate piled with scraps of venison and the heads of the fish Buffalo had caught for supper.

A dog would be welcome. She would feel safer when the men were absent with a dog to protect her and warn her of approaching strangers.

The next morning, Emmet warned her to keep the door barred, while he tended the stock and Buffalo cared for the stranger.

"But it's so dark," she protested, and you'll both be nearby." She'd planned to sew again today. Now that Emmet was back, she wouldn't be running to look out the door every time she imagined hearing a noise.

"Woman, we don't have the foggiest idea of who that man is or where he comes from. Do you want to be murdered in your bed?"

She shook her head, not looking at him. Even the mention of bed was more than she needed. Last night, while Emmet slept in the bunk above hers, she had lain awake, imagining his shape in the sag of the ropes supporting him. She had thought of the feel of his hard body against hers, wondered if she would ever feel it again. It wasn't that she wanted him in... well, in an intimate way. She just missed his touch, for he'd not laid a hand on her in weeks.

"If he's unconscious, I doubt I'm in any danger."

"Maybe not, but you keep that door barred, all the same," Emmet said, "You can't ever tell. He's been beat more than once, so he may not be a real peaceable fella."

"How did he get here? How could he get here, this time of year?" She shuddered to think of anyone walking alone across that empty land between here and Missouri.

"Hell, I don't even know where he came from," Emmet said. "All I know is he's one more goddam ball and chain, holdin' me here!"