Page 28 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Yet he did not.

Was it because of her beauty? Was it this which made him hesitate?

“Other men will want a pretty wife for their own,” came Grandfather White Elk’s voice from out of the past. “Always some man will covet her. There may be fights, jealousy, you may wonder if she is true to you. Peace will become a stranger in your home. Choose wisely when the time comes for you to marry, grandson, and know that ofttimes it is best to take a plain-looking woman as your bride.”

Yet, his advice, though good, was of no use to Grey Coyote. What was done was done, and since he could not undo it, and since he and the woman were to be together for several weeks, it would behoove them both to come to some sort of understanding.

He opened his mouth. Realizing he had no idea how to start the conversation; he closed it. Once more he tried. Again, he shut his mouth and remained silent.

At last, he plunged in and asked, “What awaits you in the village of St. Louis?”

“What?” Her golden eyes stared up at him as though he had startled her.

He repeated, “Is there someone who awaits you in the village of St. Louis?”

“Someone, who… Oh, no, no one waits for me. It is only that I will be able to engage a boat there, which will bear me home.”

“Hau, hau.” He bobbed his head in understanding. “Where is your home?”

“England,” she said, the inflection of her voice causing the place to sound as though it were holy. “But England is far from here. However, though it is distant, it is the place where my heart belongs.”

“England,” he repeated. “I have never heard of this village.”

“Oh, it is not a village. Not as you think of villages. It is a country.”

“Hau, hau. I understand the word, country. Tell me, is your country as beautiful as mine?”

“Oh, yes. But it is very different from yours. Here, there is a rugged beauty; here, there is sun and wind and heat, and open spaces. England is more a land of rolling green hills filled with wildflowers and forests. The sky is blue, the clouds are white and dainty. The moors are quiet, the villages quaint, and there are lazy afternoons that beg one to do no more than lounge.”

He nodded. “You must love this place. I can hear the admiration of it in your voice. It will be good when you return to it again.”

“Yes. Yes, it has been many years since I last saw her shores, fourteen to be exact.”

“Ahhhh,” he said, drawing out the word. “And so this must be the reason why you are content to hurry across my country without pausing to get to know her? So that you might see your home again soon?”

“Yes,” she agreed, although at the same time a frown marred her brow. “However, there is another, more vital reason why I am most anxious to return. You see, I…” She paused mid sentence, sending him a surreptitious glance. Then, straightening, she continued, “But enough about me. What of you? Why are you here, traveling alone in a country which is hostile to you?”

Although more than aware that she had censored her thoughts, he chose to let the incident pass without comment. “I am on an errand for my people.”

“Oh?”

“Hau, hau.” He nodded. “I am charged with a duty, and I seek a white man—one who looks much like the scout, LaCroix—for this man holds something which is important to my people.”

“Really?” she asked, as though in speculation. “Is this why you let Mr. LaCroix gamble away everything he owned?” Her voice carried a note of disapproval.

Grey Coyote sent her a frown. “The scout LaCroix knew what the wager held; he understood what he had to lose. Besides, he remained in custody of a few of his possessions even in the end.”

“Oh?” Her softly spoken word conveyed reproach.

Grey Coyote chose not to react to her. Instead, he poked at the fire. A log fell, sparks shooting up from it.

After a time, she said, “So you are charged with a duty?”

“I am.”

“And it weighs on you?”

Again he met her question with silence. In essence, there were some matters a man did not discuss.