Heart of the Wilderness (3 page)

He turned slowly, took a deep breath and looked first at the woman. She stood silently, seeming to will him her strength. He knew that tears were in his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. Would they alarm the little girl? He mustn’t cry. He mustn’t. He almost choked on the intensity of his feelings, then let his eyes drop to the little person who clung to the matron’s hand.

She was such a tiny thing. So small. So—so vulnerable. One small child, clutching firmly to a worn rag doll. He remembered the doll. Mary had made it. Kendra had toddled about the cabin, dragging the doll behind her when he had visited them the last time. Mary’s baby—smiling and gurgling over her own baby. Dollie.

She had grown so much since he had seen her and held her in his arms. Yet she was still so—so small to have lost so much. He shuddered, fearing that he would not be able to move—to speak. And then she lifted large green eyes to his face. Mary’s eyes. His Mary in miniature.

He felt the pain rend his heart. He wanted to sweep this child into his arms. To hold her and weep and weep for what he had lost. For what they both had lost. But he could not move. He could not speak.

Kendra broke the silence. But she did not speak to him. She spoke to the matron. Her words were clear, but confusion made the little voice tremble. “Is this my grandfather?” she asked simply.

“Yes,” the woman replied in a firm, soft voice. “You have not seen him for some time, so you might not remember him well. But he is your grandfather. Your mama’s father. He remembers you when you were a baby—and as you grew a little bit bigger.”

Her eyes turned back to him again. He still had not moved.

“Hello, Grandfather,” she said, and again her voice trembled.

“Hello, Kendra,” he managed. He didn’t think he ever remembered speaking such difficult words.

They looked silently at each other.

“I’ve asked Miss Jane to bring milk and cookies to the garden,” the woman said. “We can have them together.”

For the first time the large green eyes took on a sparkle. It was clear to him she thought milk and cookies a wonderful treat.

“Shall we sit down?” offered the matron, moving toward a small bench. Kendra did not release her hold on the hand she clutched tightly.

Kendra did not sit. She stood, holding Dollie under one arm, leaning up against the knee of the woman. George McMannus could not take his eyes from her little face. She looked so much like his small Mary. Only the shape of her mouth and the color of her hair were like her father’s.

He longed to talk to her, but what could he say?
How are you, Kendra?
He knew how she was. At least he felt he knew.
How do you like living here?
That didn’t seem like a proper question for a little girl who had been taken from a loving home and thrust in with a group of strangers.
What arrangements would you like to make for your future?
No. The child knew nothing about the difficult decisions that were ahead. The decisions that he, as her grandfather, must make on her behalf.

He raised his eyes to the face of the woman who sat on the small bench. Her hand rested lightly on Kendra’s back, pressing the child up against her knee. There was caring in the touch. Caring in the eyes. If Kendra could not be in her own home—then perhaps—perhaps the best place for her was here.

He stirred restlessly, brushing away the thoughts. He couldn’t leave her here. He knew he couldn’t.

A young woman in a stiff, clean uniform arrived with a tray. There was tea for the man and the woman, milk for Kendra, and cookies for all to share. He was glad for the distraction. Though he had never cared for tea, he was willing to accept the cup offered to him. At least it would busy his hands.

Kendra seemed to relax as well. She settled on the bench with her milk and cookies, her too-short little legs swinging back and forth as she prepared herself to enjoy the refreshment.

George saw her tilt her head and look up into the branches when the song of a bird lifted against the late morning sky.

Just like Mary,
he thought, and the pain stabbed him again.

“Is that a robin?” she asked the matron, interest in her voice.

“That was a chickadee,” responded the woman. “I have not seen or heard a robin yet this spring. But they should be coming back soon.”

Kendra looked pleased at the fact. Then she said merrily, “Mama and I like the chickadees best anyway. Papa likes the crows, he says. But he’s just teasing. He doesn’t like the crows. They make an awful squawk.” She giggled at her own little joke.

Her words surprised her grandfather.
Didn’t she know?
Had no one told her? She was speaking of her parents in the present tense. Surely—surely he wasn’t expected to be the one to tell this little child that her parents were both gone and that she was alone in the world. That she really had no one—except for one errant, distant trapper grandfather who came to call so seldom that she didn’t even know him.

He lifted his eyes to the woman, accusations deepening his gaze.

But the woman looked unperturbed. She was stroking back Kendra’s soft curls and repeating the child’s words, but in her way. “So your mama used to like the chickadees and your papa used to tease about liking crows,” she said, her smile warm and friendly.

Kendra nodded but her eyes became serious. “They used to,” she agreed with a solemn nod, her eyes becoming clouded.

“Your mama and papa liked the birds,” the woman went on. “They loved everything about the outdoors.”

George McMannus looked again to the woman. He wondered how she knew so much about his Mary.

“It’s nice to be in God’s outdoors,” went on the woman. “It’s nice to enjoy His creation. Perhaps when you are older, you’ll love it and know about it like your mama and papa did.”

Kendra nodded. She was quiet again.

The woman stirred and lifted her eyes to the man who sat silently staring at his delicate teacup. He looked up.

“Did you tell your grandfather that you will soon be four?” the matron prompted Kendra.

The little face took on a sparkle again. She carefully raised a little hand and tucked her thumb against the palm. “I will be four—this summer—in August,” she informed him.

Yes—it had been August. He remembered it well. Mary had hoped that Kendra would be born on his birthday, but the infant had arrived eight days later. “Your ‘almost’ birthday present,” Mary had teased as she handed the small Kendra to him on his first visit to see them after the baby had been born. Even at that time he had thought she looked like Mary. He remembered that now.

He nodded to the small child. “August seventeenth,” he said, keeping his voice as even as he could.

“How did you know?” she asked, both curiosity and excitement edging her voice.

“I’m—I’m your grandfather,” he reminded her. “I—I remember when you were born.”

“Were you there?” she asked quickly.

“No. But I came as soon as I could.”

“Came from where?”

He hesitated. How could he explain the “where” to the child. There wasn’t even a known name for the wilderness he called home, though the locals referred to the small post and settlement as Bent River Crossing.

“From where I live. From the—the mountains and the woods and the—the rivers—where I live.”

To his surprise her eyes widened. Something was going on in the small head.

“Are you
that
grandfather?” she asked him, the green eyes widening with puzzlement, then with understanding.

He hardly knew how to answer her question. What grandfather? He knew that she only had one in Canada. Her papa’s folks were in England.

Before he could answer she spoke again. “My trapper grandfather?”

His heart leaped. They had some connection. Bless Mary! She had linked them in the short time she’d had with her daughter. With his granddaughter.

“Yes. Yes,” he answered quickly before the moment was lost. “I’m that grandfather.”

She smiled at him. The first tentative little smile she had given to him. It stirred his very soul.

Chapter Three

A Difficult Decision

“I’ll need some time,” he told the matron after Kendra had been taken back inside by one of the uniformed attendants. “I haven’t had a chance to make any arrangements. I just got into town.”

He did hope she wouldn’t push for him to take the child before he had a chance to carefully select a place for her. He couldn’t place her just anywhere. She needed love. She needed family. She needed more than just care.

“I understand,” said Mrs. Weatherall. “You need time—and Kendra needs time.”

His surprise must have shown on his face.

“Kendra has been through a very emotionally devastating time for a child,” went on the woman evenly. “She has faced pain and confusion to the fullest measure. She has been brought to a house filled with strangers. Caring strangers—but strangers nonetheless. She has just begun to adjust to this new life here—and we are going to ask her to make another big change. It will not be easy for her—and should be done as slowly and carefully as we can manage.”

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You are very important to Kendra,” she continued. “You are a link with her past. Even though she does not know you well, she does remember her mother speaking of you. That is important. It not only gives her family—it gives her a living memory of her mother. Something to tie to—to anchor her. She is not totally alone now. Do you understand?”

He nodded again. It was all so hard for him. To see the child—to remember Mary. He was still wishing for a quiet place where he could let the tears flow. Ease some of the pain.

“We all need some time,” said Mrs. Weatherall. “I know you are a busy man, but I do hope you can give us some time. Time for you to just spend with Kendra—while she is still here. Then when she is ready—and moved—time to let her become adjusted in her new home—before you leave her. That will make such a difference for her—to have that transition spanned with love.”

He silently agreed with the wisdom of the words. He determined in his heart that he would be there—for Kendra. He would make it as easy for her as possible. Already he felt such love for the brave little waif.

“I’ll be here—for as long as she needs me,” he managed to say.

“Good,” said the woman and she seemed relieved. “Take as long as you need to find the right home. In the meantime you can visit Kendra as often as you like. It will be good for her to have her grandfather. I’ll tell her that you’ll be calling. Tomorrow?”

He was about to agree when he thought of Mary. He had to go to her. He just had to. His heart would find no rest until he had made that final call.

“Not—not tomorrow,” he mumbled through stiff lips and saw the disappointment in the eyes of the woman.

“I have to—have to go see my daughter,” he tried to explain. “It’s a full day’s trip—each way. I—I have to see—I have to,” he finished lamely.

“I understand,” she replied, her voice low and echoing his pain.

“You can tell Kendra that I’ll be here first thing Friday morning,” he went on.

“I’ll tell her,” agreed the woman. “And with your permission I’ll also tell her where you have gone.”

“Do you think—?” he began to question.

“I think it is important for Kendra to know that you loved her mother and father. That you are sharing in the pain of their death.”

“Do you think—?” he began again, then quickly checked himself.

“No, I guess not,” he answered his own question.

“Think what?” the woman pushed him.

He shuffled uneasily. “Well, I was just wondering—just thinking— but it wouldn’t be wise.”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Well, I was wondering if the child—Kendra—if she’d like to—to go with me, but I don’t suppose—”

“Could you wait?” asked Mrs. Weatherall frankly.

“Wait?”

“Could you put off your trip for a few days—until you and Kendra have a chance to know each other a bit better—and then decide if it would be wise to take her or not?”

He thought about his answer before he voiced it. It would be hard to wait. He had longed to go to Mary ever since he had heard of the accident. Then he pictured Kendra. Would the trip be right for her? She was only a child. Would it be right to take her to the grave of her mother and father? To her former home? He didn’t know.

He lifted his eyes to the woman. “What do you think?” he asked frankly. “I’m willing to wait—if it would be the right thing.”

“Kendra has not been back to the cabin since the accident. Perhaps it would be healing for her to see where her parents have been laid to rest. I don’t know. We can only judge that when we—when we see how she learns to feel about you. I think—I think that Kendra herself will be able to tell us. We’ll have to let her take the lead.”

He nodded, his heart still heavy.

“Then I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said simply and rose to go.

“I’ll tell her,” said the woman.

With a nod he left the small office and moved out into the sunshine of the spring day, glad to fill his lungs with clear, fresh air.

“I don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” George McMannus said to Maggie across her kitchen table. George had just fed Henry his supper of broth and custard. Now they sat down together to partake of the meal Maggie had prepared.