“Uncle Logan,” Brittany said. “You have to.”
“I think your uncle Logan is too busy working to come with us, Brittany,” Sandra said with a lift of her chin.
Logan couldn’t help but pick up the challenging note in her voice.
“Not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want, Miss Bachman.”
“Oh, yes, we do. It’s all in what we choose to give up to do what we want. You’ve chosen to sit inside and work instead of enjoying the wonderful outdoors.”
“I’ve chosen to try to make a living,” he said with a short laugh.
Sandra held his gaze for a split second, then looked away, a faint grin teasing her mouth. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Logan was about to defend himself, to explain how necessary this project was, when a faint niggling doubt wormed its way into his subconscious. He remembered seeing the family going to the beach this morning. He thought of the project he wasn’t having much luck putting together. Maybe some time off with the girls would be good for him.
And, he reasoned, he could keep an eye on Sandra Bachman. After all, the girls were his responsibility, and she had only been teaching them for a short time.
Brittany sensed his hesitation and jumped on it. “So, are you going to come with us, Uncle Logan?”
“Please, Uncle Logan?” Bethany added her entreaty.
He looked at the two girls and wondered if there was ever going to come a time that he wouldn’t give in to them.
“I could do that,” he said, careful to make it look as if his capitulation came at a price. “If Ms. Bachman doesn’t mind,” he added as a concession to Sandra.
“Seeing as how Ms. Bachman doesn’t own a set of working wheels, Ms. Bachman doesn’t mind at all,” Sandra said, finally looking up from the paper she held. “As long as Mr. Napier is willing to work with me.”
Logan recognized the challenge and rose to it. “I believe in being diplomatic, Ms. Bachman.”
She smiled. “Ah, yes. Diplomacy. The art of letting people have your own way.”
Logan couldn’t help the smile that tugged on his mouth at her snappy answer and decided to let it go. He sensed that he would be the loser in a verbal battle with Sandra.
“So set a time and we’ll be ready to leave,” he said.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Sandra replied. “I’d like to go before it gets too hot.”
“We’ll be ready.”
As the innocuous words were tossed back and forth, Logan stifled the faint dart of pleasure at the idea of spending time with Sandra. He was only coming along to supervise. That was all.
Chapter Four
“So how did you like a taste of Whoop Up Country?” Sandra asked as they left the stockaded fort known as Farwell’s Trading Post.
“Hot,” Bethany said, fanning herself with a brochure.
“Can you imagine what it was like in those days when no one had air-conditioning?” Sandra asked with a laugh. She lifted her hair from her damp neck, wishing she had worn it up.
“You girls would have roasted in those long dresses they had to wear in those days,” Logan added.
The girls groaned in sympathy.
“Men didn’t have it a whole lot better,” Sandra added, glancing at Logan’s short-sleeved shirt. “You look a lot cooler than Farwell, owner of the trading post. Or how about those poor Mounties in their red serge. Hot, hot, hot.”
Heat waves shimmered from the ground, attesting to how warm it really was. The short grass crunched under their feet as they walked toward the tour bus.
“I can’t imagine how the grass even grows here, it’s so warm.” Brittany poked the ground with her toe.
“This grass is very high in protein,” Sandra explained. “The buffalo survived quite nicely on it. That’s how Fort Benton, in Montana, got started. It was a fur and buffalo robe trading post stuck in the middle of buffalo country. From Fort Benton, traders for both furs and whiskey ended up taking the Whoop Up Trail into Canada where there was nothing but trouble. No law, no rules. People did what they wanted.”
“So how did that stop?” Bethany asked.
Sandra paused, looking at the hills. So peaceful, it was hard to believe that at one time the fear-filled cries of Lakota Indians rang through these hills. As she retold the story of the Cypress Hills Massacre, she tried to inject a feeling of humanity—putting 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