Heart of the Wilderness Read online

  “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.

  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 giv
en 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.