Heart of the Wilderness (2 page)

“What do you plan to do?” Maggie asked the question as they lingered over another cup of breakfast coffee.

The sigh seemed to begin somewhere deep inside him and gradually make its way through his whole being, ending with a little shudder.

What did he plan to do?
The words echoed in the air between them.

“I must see her—as quickly as possible,” he answered Maggie, but both of them knew that his words did not really address the question.

Maggie nodded and waited for him to go on.

He shook his head, his eyes looking deep and troubled. His left hand stole to his beard again.

“It’s so—so—so unfair,” he almost spit out. “For a child’s father and mother to be taken and—and leave her—alone.”

Maggie nodded again.

His head jerked up and his eyes filled with anger as he turned to her. “What were they thinking of, Maggie,” he demanded, “to leave a child and go off on some—some helter-skelter expedition into the wilds? Had they no—no thought of—?”

Maggie reached out and placed her hand gently on his trembling one. “Now,” she said softly, “you know better than to think like that. After all, you’re the one who taught Mary to love those wilds. They’d made trips like that over and over in the past and nothing had happened. It was an unexpected accident, George. An unexpected and unexplained accident. Nothing more. It—it does happen. It doesn’t mean that they were uncaring or—or irresponsible parents. They loved her. Did everything for her.”

“But—but—
both
of them. Why both of them? The two of them could swim. Why both of them? And why—why take on rapids that they couldn’t handle? Mary knew—they both knew the danger of—”

He had to vent his feelings. He had been burying them deep inside ever since he had gotten Maggie’s message. He had to let those feelings out. And who better than Maggie to share his pain—his confusion.

“The Mountie said there was a snag under the water,” Maggie explained softly. “A broken tree—with a jagged break. The canoe caught it and spun out of control. When they went in—well—they figure he swam to shore. He made it. His heavy boots were found there—on the bank—together. He must have placed them there. But—Mary. I know she was a good swimmer. But for some reason— she got into trouble. Maybe got a bump as they were thrown out. Guess we’ll never know.

“But he went back for her.” She stopped and sighed. “We’ll never know,” she said again. “They went down together. Found their bodies downstream from the rapids. He was still holding her. Still had shreds of her clothing clutched in his fingers.”

Hearing the story of the death of his daughter—his only daughter—and his son-in-law filled him with such pain and sorrow that some of the anger was pushed from his heart. There was simply no room for him to hold all the feelings. No room. He felt as if his heart would burst with pain. He wanted to bury his head on his arms and sob until the hurt went away, but he knew it was not that easy. It would be a long, long time until his heart began to mend and memories of his precious Mary would bring pleasure—not sorrow.

Maggie wiped at the tears that ran down her cheeks. George wished he were free to express his grief as easily. He swallowed, hiding his eyes, brushing with an angry hand at the beard that shadowed his face.

“Where are they buried?” he managed to ask, his voice shaky with emotion.

“Beside their cabin—just at the base of the stand of spruce to the west.”

He nodded. It was the place he felt Mary would have chosen.

He stood up quickly, two conflicting desires drawing him. He longed to visit the grave of his daughter. The grave of the young man she had learned to love. The man who had given his own life in his unsuccessful effort to save her. Stu Marty. The man George felt he had hardly known—and now would never really know, though he had longed to claim the young man for the son he’d never had. But the miles—the miles had kept them apart. He could not leave his own wilderness—nor could he ask them to share it with him.

And he also wanted to rush to his little grandchild. Little Kendra— now an orphan. His daughter Mary’s only child. The child he had not seen since she was little more than a baby. How he chided himself for his error. How he wished that he had taken the long journey, visited his daughter, her husband, her baby girl, more frequently. But there was no going back. No reclaiming of the years that had slipped by so quickly.

“I need to go,” he said to Maggie. “I need to—” He stopped and licked his lips. He still had not answered her deeper question.

“Sit,” she said, nodding her head toward his vacated chair. Only Maggie would have dared to address the big man in that fashion.

He sat down. Silently. Dutifully.

Maggie waited until she sensed he was ready for her to speak.

“Have you made any plans?” she asked again, softly.

He shook his head, his left hand working vigorously on his beard.

“Shouldn’t you?” she persisted after a pause.

“I—I don’t know. I—I don’t know what to do—how to plan. I’ll need to work it through. Figure it out.”

Maggie nodded, her expression telling him she knew it was hard to make plans. Hard for a man to be able to think when he had traveled so many miles in such a short time. To know how to properly respond to the present situation.

“Where was she when—?” he began, and Maggie guessed his question.

“They had left her with one of Mary’s friends. A neighbor. I—I think she might have wanted to keep her, but she is expecting her first baby. Had to come to the city for delivery.”

He nodded.

“She may be willing to take her . . . after,” Maggie went on.

He brooded over her words. It seemed so—so difficult to think of trying to arrange for his grandchild. To “place” her. To farm her out.

Just as though—as though she were some—some animal that needed care. He shook his head.

“You know I would have taken her—would still take her,” went on Maggie softly. “But—but Henry—he needs so much care.” She hesitated, studying her thin hands as she rubbed them together in helpless agitation. “I—I really don’t think that—that this house is—is the right place for a child to grow up,” she finished lamely. “You understand?”

She sounded so remorseful. So filled with shame that she couldn’t reach out to her friend in time of need. Her words wounded him. It was his turn to reach for her. He took her two hands in one of his own and gently squeezed in understanding. His tears did fall then. Full and unrestrained tears that made soft damp trails down the weathered cheeks and hid quickly in the heavy, dark beard.

“My dear Maggie,” he said huskily. “I know that you’d help me if you could. I know that you loved Mary almost as much as I did. As Polly did. You couldn’t take the child in—with Henry needing you like he does. I don’t know—I’ll never know—how you manage to keep going day after day with all the care he needs. I—I—should have been here to help you. To—”

“Nonsense,” said Maggie stirring restlessly in her chair. “I haven’t minded the caring for Henry.”

She withdrew her hands and blew her nose noisily on a sturdy cotton hankie.

He wiped away his own tears and fought to get himself under control again.

“You still haven’t—” began Maggie.

“I’ll just have to find a good home—I don’t know how—or where. I won’t leave her where she is, I know that. I couldn’t. Not in a Home.”

“They do give them good care,” put in Maggie softly. “Mrs. Weatherall is a good woman.”

He nodded, glad to hear the words and at the same time rejecting what they implied.

“I can’t leave her in a Home. She needs family. A sense of belonging to—someone. It’s important to a child.”

She nodded her understanding.

“She won’t know me,” he went on almost absently. “It’s been almost two years since I’ve seen her. She was just a toddler. She won’t even know me—her own grandfather.”

Maggie said nothing.

“Do you think the beard will frighten her?” he asked, sudden alarm in his voice. Before Maggie could answer, he spoke again. “Perhaps I should shave it off.”

“She wouldn’t be frightened of a beard,” put in Maggie. “There are bearded men all around. Her own papa had one. Not dark and bushy like yours—but a beard nonetheless.”

He looked relieved. Then he stirred restlessly, dreading what lay ahead. Seeing little Kendra in the charge of the matron at the Home would be such a final recognition that his Mary was really gone.

Maggie placed a hand on his sleeve, willing him some of her strength for the ordeal. “Come back,” she said, compassion coloring her words. “Come back—whenever—Stay with us for a few days. As many days as you like.”

He nodded his head and reached for his coat and hat. The mornings were still chilly in spite of the fact that they were moving into spring.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Tell Henry. I’ll be back.”

He moved through the door and closed it softly behind him. Then he lifted his shoulders and braced himself for what lay before him. He was facing one of the most difficult days he had experienced in all his life.

Chapter Two

Belonging

“I understand you have my granddaughter,” he said to the prim young lady who sat behind the wooden desk in the little room that served as reception area and business office.

Her expression did not change. She still wore the smile with which she had greeted him.

“You will want to speak to Matron,” she said, the smile tilting her full lips. He did wish she would wipe the silly look from her face. This was not a lighthearted matter.

“Matron?” he repeated.

“Mrs. Weatherall.”

“Mrs. Weatherall?”

“Yes. You will need to speak with her. She answers all inquiries concerning our wards.”

He nodded and waited, expecting her to summon the Mrs. Weatherall referred to. She sat where she was, still smiling.

He shifted his weight to his other foot, twisted his hat in his big hands, then lifted the left hand to rub at his beard.

“Mrs. Weatherall?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said the smiling young lady.

“Does she come to me—or do I go find her?” he asked impatiently.

“Oh—she’ll come. When summoned.”

“Then summon her,” he ordered, a bit too gruffly. Too impatiently.

“Yes, sir,” she responded, and for the first time he saw the smile slip. She quickly regained her composure and returned the smile to its rightful place, rose from her desk, gave him a brief nod and an even bigger smile, and left the room.

He paced the small space. Two steps to the window, three back to the door, three to the window, and back again to the door.

A tall, full-figured woman with a kind face entered the room followed by the still-smiling younger woman.
The Matron,
he thought, and felt that she indeed looked the part. She moved directly to him and reached out a hand. For such a small one, he was surprised at the strength in the clasp.

“Won’t you come into my office,” the woman invited, and nodded her head toward the door that she had just entered. Without a word he followed her.

She indicated a chair and he took it while she proceeded around her desk and sat down facing him. There was no smile pasted on her lips. He thought he read compassion in her eyes.

“Miss Wilson says that you have a grandchild with us.” Her voice was full, yet soft with feeling.

He nodded his head, finding it hard to come up with words. She waited, seeming to know that he was fighting hard for control.

“A—a granddaughter,” he managed at last. “A little girl.”

He didn’t stop to think that his few words were redundant.

She nodded patiently, waiting for him to go on.

“They called her—” For one moment he choked, thoughts of his Mary flooding over him. Mary with her head bent over a new baby girl. Mary with laughter in her voice and love in her eyes. Mary, his little girl, as a mother. He pushed away the thoughts and tried to speak again. “Kendra,” he managed. “Mary named her Kendra.”

“Kendra Marty?” asked the woman softly.

He could only nod.

“You must be George McMannus,” she went on easily. “Mrs. Miller told us that we could expect you—once you got the word.”

He nodded again and swallowed hard. So Maggie had already prepared the way.

“Let me offer my condolences. I am so sorry about your daughter and her husband,” the woman said, and he could sense the deep and honest sympathy in her voice. He wondered if she had lost someone to be able to feel his pain in such a fashion.

He couldn’t answer. He toyed with his hat with the fingers of his right hand and reached his left to his beard. He could not look up.

He could not face even understanding eyes.

“I will have one of the attendants get little Kendra,” she went on as she rose from her chair. “We have a comfortable little room just for such meetings. Or would you rather meet in the garden?”

“The garden,” he said quickly. He was pleased he could escape the closeness of the stuffy rooms. He needed air. He needed space.

“You go ahead. Right through the door at the end of the hall. I’ll bring Kendra out to you.”

She turned to go but he stopped her quickly. “She won’t remember me,” he blurted. “She—I haven’t seen her for almost two years. She’ll have forgotten—by now.”

The woman nodded. “Perhaps I will stay nearby for your first meeting,” she answered, and he knew she was thinking of the little girl and her many exposures to pain and strangeness in such a short time.

“That would be good,” he said simply and left the room for the garden.

He paced about, trying to quiet his troubled thoughts and get control of his mixed feelings when the same gentle voice spoke behind him.

“Grandfather McMannus. Kendra is here to see you.”

He stiffened. He wished to wheel around and embrace the child now within his reach. At the same time, he longed to flee. It would be so hard to see Mary’s baby—alone.

Reason told him that he had to be careful. Cautious. Slow and deliberate and gentle or he would frighten the little one half to death. She had already been through so much. So much, for such a little tyke.

He knew that the title “grandfather” had been for the sake of the child. To perhaps stir some memory. Make her realize that the stranger before her was somehow connected to her. That they belonged together, the big man and the little girl. Inwardly he was grateful to the woman who seemed to understand so much. If only—if only he knew how to approach the small child. How to let her know he loved her. If he could only reach across the span of time—and miles—and be a—a real grandfather. Could let her know what he felt in his heart.