a human face to the story—into what was often mere facts and history. She could feel the girls looking first at her, then at the hills. Even Logan listened intently as she spoke.
The silence that followed her story told her she had done her job.
“After the massacre the Canadian government sent the Northwest Mounted Police, later known as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to this area. They started out from Manitoba and ended up in Fort Benton to replenish their supplies and get some information on the massacre. When they came to the place Fort Macleod is now, the whiskey traders had taken off. Knew the Mounties were coming.” Sandra winked at Brittany, relieving the heavy atmosphere her sad story had created. “Knew the Mounties always get their man.”
She answered a few more questions the girls had, trying each time to work in some pertinent information. She knew that history told was one thing but history experienced meant much more.
She also knew that history, even when told in an entertaining manner, was only interesting for a short period of time.
“I guess we should head back to the main fort now,” she said, noticing the shuttle bus pulling into the parking lot.
Bethany and Brittany hurried toward it.
“Hey, girls. Slow down,” Logan called, but the girls didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.
“Relax, Uncle Logan,” Sandra said with a grin at how protective he was. “They’re not going anywhere we aren’t.”
“Maybe, but it’s still too hot to run.”
Sandra frowned. “My goodness, Logan, they won’t melt. From what they told me, they’ve been in warmer climates than this.”
Logan’s gaze sliced sideways, then back. “They told you about their parents?”
“Just a little.”
She waited to hear something, anything, more, but he didn’t offer any information. Merely stepped aside so Sandra could get on the bus.
Without looking at Logan, Sandra walked to an empty seat directly behind the girls and sat down. To her surprise, Logan sat beside her.
Brittany and Bethany glanced back and immediately moved to the front, but Logan stayed where he was.
She wanted to ask him more about the girls’ parents but didn’t think that he would be very forthcoming.
But with each lurch of the bus, Sandra grew more self-conscious, more aware of him sitting silently beside her. He said nothing, did nothing, but Sandra felt every time his elbow brushed hers, each time a hole in the road threw her against him.
She pulled herself closer to the side of the bus and away from him, turning to stare out the window.
The bus stopped, and the girls were the first ones out. By the time Logan and Sandra got out, the girls were waiting for them, full of good cheer. “Can we have some ice cream, Uncle Logan?” Bethany asked, tipping her head coyly. “Pretty please?”
Logan was already digging in his pocket. He pulled out a bill. He glanced sidelong at Sandra, his dark brows pulled together in a light frown. “These girls have an insatiable appetite for ice cream. Do you want one?”
Sandra shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“I’ll wait out here for you then,” Logan said, handing the bill to the girls. “And I expect to see the change.”
Brittany and Bethany flashed him demure smiles, shared a grin and ran into the building.
Without looking at Logan, Sandra turned and walked up the hill overlooking the valley, then sat down, determined to put some space between her and Logan.
But to her surprise, Logan followed her and sat beside her. She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. She resented the awkwardness he created in her, and she tried not to let it show.
The best defense is offense, she thought.
“So, you aren’t chafing to get back to your work,” she said, her heightened reaction to him giving her voice an unexpected bite.
Logan leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows. He looked over the valley below them. He seemed surprisingly at ease.
“I can do this,” he said, tucking his chin on his chest. “Even though I do need to get back to work.”
“Ah, yes. Uncle Logan the upwardly mobile man.” Sandra couldn’t stop the little gibe. It seemed better to put him on the defensive rather than to look at him and notice the faint wave to his hair, how it curled over his ears.
The way his sudden smile eased the harsh line of his features.
“Do you ever run out of smart remarks?” he asked.
“I think life is too serious to be taken seriously,” she replied.
Logan let out a short laugh. But he didn’t answer her question.
Note to self, she thought, biting her lip. No more smart comments. At least not to Logan Napier.
She wasn’t usually this flip. Usually she could carry on a normal, intelligent conversation, but Logan’s calm self-possession touched a nerve.
At any rate, she had better learn to put a curb on her tongue if she wanted to stay in Logan’s good graces and keep this job.
She looked over the sweep of the valley. The hills here were softened, smoothed by the wind that swept across the open plains of Montana and Saskatchewan and sifted around this oasis in the prairie. She sighed lightly, waiting for the utter peace of the place to slowly soothe the tension she felt sitting beside Logan. But try as she might, she couldn’t ignore his strong presence.
And he seemed content to just sit, saying nothing.
Once again, his silence unnerved her. In spite of her resolution, she sought to find something, anything to ease the discomfort he created.
“So how long have the girls been living with you?” she asked, resting her chin on her knees.
Logan plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “About a year and a half.”
“Did they come right after their parents died?”
Logan nodded, still looking away.
“That must have been difficult,” she said quietly.
“It was. At first. I think kids grieve differently than adults do. They dive in deep and hard, but they come out of it quicker. Their sadness is different….” Logan stopped, twirling the grass faster.
“Different than what?” Sandra prompted.
He looked at her then. “Different than adults, I was going to say.”
“Their mother was your sister, wasn’t she?” Sandra asked, holding his steady gaze, wondering at their relationship.
“She was my only
