Nevada Nights

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  He moved forward and stared down at her. "Cameron," he said gently. "You are a woman of many surprises."

  A woman! She had never been called that before. She felt herself blushing right down to her toes.

  "And that arm of yours is giving you much pain," he added.

  "Oh!" she gasped. "How did you know?"

  "I just know," he whispered. Then, looking over her head, he said aloud to Reverend Mother, "When the doctor comes today to check Sister Leona, have him look at Cameron’s arm." Glancing down at her once more, he said, "Goodbye, Cammy, short for Cameron. Stay well."

  He lifted both her hands to his lips and kissed them lightly.

  He turned, mounted his horse, saluted them all, and rode smartly away.

  No one moved until he was out of sight. It was as though none of them wanted this to end. Michael Gray’s visit had been an extraordinary event in their tranquil lives.

  Chapter Three

  A week later, an attendant from the ferry arrived at the convent bearing a huge gift box. It was addressed simply to "Cameron" at the Convent of the Sisters of Divine Charity.

  Sister Adele, holding her skirts above the rows of vegetables, came scurrying to the garden to find her.

  "Come quickly, Cameron. Reverend Mother wants you in her office."

  Cameron followed the little nun to the office, only to find most of the sisters already clustered around Reverend Mother’s desk. Cameron stared at the mysterious box. Except for the clothes from her father’s lawyer each year, she had never received a gift.

  Slowly, she lifted the lid on the box. Inside, wrapped in layers of tissue, she discovered a pair of fawn-colored suede jodhpurs, a beautifully tailored black velvet riding jacket, a matching black derby, and a soft ivory shirt with a high neckline and mother-of-pearl buttons. At the very bottom of the box was a pair of hand-tooled leather boots. The box bore the name of a very exclusive ladies’ shop in Ottawa. A tiny handwritten card was tucked into the folds of the jacket. It read simply "Michael."

  Cameron held up the jodhpurs. They were the right length. She slipped on the jacket and buttoned it. It fit. She slipped off one shoe and slid a dainty foot into the soft, glove leather boot. It fit as though it had been made just for her.

  She shook her head in wonder. "How could he have guessed my size?" she asked shyly. She looked at Reverend Mother. "May I keep them?"

  Reverend Mother, whose face registered her amazement, studied his card, then nodded affirmatively. Setting down his card, she said dryly, "I see no return address for our Mr. Gray. I think you have no choice but to keep them, Cameron."

  The slim young woman hugged Reverend Mother and carried the box of clothes to the privacy of her room. She wanted to wear them always, and to read and reread his name, written in his own hand. Michael. Oh, Michael! she thought. How did you know my exact size?

  Cameron stared at her reflection in the mirror. Had he studied her that carefully? Her pulse raced at the thought.

  Just thinking of Michael Gray, of his dark eyes, of his muscled strength, of the deep timbre of his voice when he spoke her name, would carry her dreamlike through the long, bitter winter on her island in the Ottawa River.

  Chapter Four

  After Michael’s visit, Mother Superior became aware of a gradual transformation in Cameron. The green eyes would soften and take on a dreamy, faraway look. Although she still rushed headlong around the convent and grounds, Reverend Mother noted that Cameron occasionally slowed her pace, moving in a fluid walk, her hips unconsciously swaying with natural feline grace. The child was there still, but she was becoming submerged in the woman.

  Alarmed at hearing nothing decisive from Cameron’s father in all these years, Mother Superior decided that she must take steps to ensure the future of her young charge.

  Reverend Mother assigned Cameron to assist with the small, one-room schoolhouse at the French settlement of Chapeau on the north shore of the island.

  There is a special look about children who are denied love and affection. They have a hungry, yearning look about them. Cameron discovered that she could always spot a child who needed special attention. It seemed strange that she, who knew no family except the sisters in the convent, never grew up feeling deprived of love. She could feel affection emanating from all the women who surrounded her. She was a sort of special bonus to them. They had embraced this lifestyle believing they would never know the satisfaction of raising a family. They had turned their backs on marriage and family life to dedicate themselves in a special way to God’s work. Suddenly, they found this noisy, inquisitive little girl growing up in their midst. Although there were times when they yearned for peace from the constant rush of a whirling, wild little tomboy, still, she brought a special joy to their lives, and they showered her with love and affection. She grew up feeling very secure.

  After some weeks of teaching, Reverend Mother asked Cameron to her office for a serious conversation.

  "Sit down, Cameron." The old nun paused, clearing her throat. "Mr. Bassette was here earlier today to ask me about you."

  The two Bassette children attended the island school. Since their mother’s death several years earlier, they had become shy and withdrawn, unable to recite aloud in class. Cameron’s heart had gone out to them. She had been working patiently with them, encouraging them, offering praise whenever they did especially notable work. She had even mentioned to their father not long ago that she felt they were responding well to her encouragement.

  "Have I done something wrong, Reverend Mother?"

  "No, Cameron. Mr. Bassette was here to ask some—personal questions."

  "Personal. I don’t understand."

  "He particularly wanted to know your status—whether or not you contemplated becoming a sister. You are, after all, an object of some curiosity here on the island."

  Cameron sat for a moment, letting this sink in. Then, suddenly realizing what this was leading to, she let out a gasp. "Oh! Reverend Mother! What did you tell him?"

  "I told him the truth, Cameron. That you grew up here—that you have a father somewhere in the United States. That you are an excellent teacher. Apart from that, there is nothing more to say. If you wish Mr. Bassette to pay you court ..." She shrugged, staring intently at the young woman.

  Cameron’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the nun. A man was seeing her as a woman he wished to court. She thought of the thin farmer, shy to the point of being barely able to speak to strangers, and of his two sweet children, who needed the love and attention of a mother. Cameron’s heart went out to all of them. And her heart soared at the knowledge that a man could see her as a potential wife. But marriage to him! Mother to them!

  Her eyes softened as she stared into space, and another picture sprang unbidden to her mind: a tall, compelling figure on a black stallion, whose mere touch caused her skin to burn. As long as there existed such a man in this world, she could never consent to be a shy farmer’s wife.

  She looked up to see Reverend Mother staring thoughtfully at her, and she wondered how much had been revealed on her face. Instantly, she glanced at the floor, allowing her thick lashes to veil her thoughts from the astute woman across the desk.

  "No, Reverend Mother. I couldn’t even consider it." Her strong voice spoke her conviction. "My father shall send for me one day, and I must be free to go to him." Lifting her head proudly, she faced the nun. "Shall I tell Mr. Bassette myself?"

  Reverend Mother smiled gently. "I suspect Mr. Bassette would run to the far side of the island if you dared to speak to him about such a personal thing as courtship. I will tell him for you."

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother."

  As Cameron walked from the room, the old nun watched her with a sigh. For too long this young woman had lived on the fragile thread of hope that her father would send for her. She whispered a silent prayer that Cameron’s faith in him was justified.

  * * *

  Even during the harshest part of the winter, Cameron invented ways
to escape the boredom of her confinement. She had mastered snowshoes and skiing, although all of the sisters steadfastly refused to attempt to ski with her. She rode horseback whenever she could, and though Reverend Mother still disapproved of her going anywhere without a chaperone, she occasionally permitted Cameron to go out alone, especially during the bitter days of the winter.

  On these solitary outings, her eyes would scan the frozen landscape, remembering that perfect summer day. She could remember everything about Michael Gray—his eyes, dark and probing, his strongly chiseled features, his mouth, firm, inviting, and the touch of his hand on hers. Her heart would forever recall the smell of him, the touch, even the way his warm voice and laughter trickled over her senses like warm butter.

  Whenever she spotted a figure in the distance, her heart would hammer in her chest, until drawing nearer, an islander would wave or call. Momentary disappointment would wash over her, and she would chide herself for entertaining such romantic notions.

  It had been an especially harsh winter in a land that was accustomed to hard winters. Allumette Island, exposed on all sides to the raw elements, took a battering from the ice-choked waters of the Ottawa River. Several feet of ice had piled up on the northern tip of the island, and the ferry had been unable to run from the mainland for over a month.

  It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and Cameron was enjoying helping Sister Leona feed and water the stock in the barn. Sister’s arm and shoulder had healed satisfactorily after her accident, but her rheumatism seemed to cause her more severe pain with each change of season. Not that she complained. No one ever heard Sister Leona mention it. But Cameron noticed that she carried her arm stiffly at times, and her face often wore that pinched look of pain.

  Young Sister Marie shoved the huge barn door open, causing the snowflakes to swirl in on a gust of wind. Her eyes, normally downcast, were bright with excitement.

  "Cameron! Come quickly! Reverend Mother is waiting for you in her office with a stranger!"

  Cameron glanced wordlessly at Sister Leona, then dumped the rest of the feed in a trough and hurried after the young messenger.

  The wind tore at them as they crossed the flat stretch of land between the barn and convent. As they braced the door against the cold blast of wind, Cameron asked, "How ever did a stranger get to our island in this weather?"

  Sister Marie whispered, "I heard that he hired the ferry just to bring him across. He was the only passenger. Can you imagine!" she added in wonder.

  Cameron couldn’t imagine. It was unthinkable that the ferry would travel from Pembroke to their little island for just one passenger, especially during the treacherous winter. He must be very important.

  Cameron hurried to Reverend Mother’s office, unmindful of the fact that the wind had whipped her unruly hair about her face and that the mounds of snow on the ground had thoroughly soaked her stockings and the hem of her skirt.

  She knocked.

  "Come in," Reverend Mother called.

  Cameron stared at the short, balding man seated across from the desk. He was staring at Cameron with keen interest.

  "Cameron, this is Mr. Georges Bouchet, a representative from the Canadian office of your father’s attorney."

  The man rose and took her hand.

  "Miss McCormick," he said in heavily French-accented English. "I have been instructed to take you to your father."

  Once, when Cameron was eleven, she had come flying down the darkened hall of the convent, rounded a corner, and had all her breath knocked from her lungs as she had hurled all her young weight against an ancient vault which workmen had removed from the bowels of the cellar. Falling backward, she had nearly blacked out from the impact. Struggling for breath, she had sat, stunned, lightheaded from the blow.

  She felt that same way now. She stared at this stranger. There were no words to speak.

  For as long as she could remember, she had dreamed of this day. But in her daydreams her father had come in person to fetch her, a tall, handsome man who wrapped her in his warm embrace and declared his undying love for his daughter. The sun was a brilliant globe in a summer sky. The day was like no other. Trumpets sounded. The whole world stopped.

  Why now? On this drab, dreary day, like so many other days, why had she been summoned? And why had her father not come himself? Her heart stuck in her throat. Was he too old or ill? Worse—dying? Was the danger that had threatened her safety all these years now threatening him? Was she so unimportant in his life that he would not come to her himself?

  Pulling herself together, she angrily brushed these thoughts from her mind and grasped the only important fact. Her father wanted her. He had sent this stranger to fetch her home. Her mind whirled. Her father must be very wealthy. Hadn’t the ferry been dispatched for just this one courier? No. For her. Her very wealthy, very powerful, very important father wanted her. Whatever danger had been hanging over her was now removed. She was finally free to go to him.

  Frantically trying to scramble through the maze of thoughts that raced through her mind, she glanced helplessly at Reverend Mother. The nun’s usually placid face was wrinkled in a frown, the lower lip trembling. Cameron’s eyes widened in horror as she realized that Reverend Mother was fighting for control.

  Please, God, don’t let her cry, prayed Cameron. If Reverend Mother cried, she would lose her composure and cry also. And she didn’t want any tears to mar this joyous news. She was going home. Her father had sent for her.

  "When?" she asked softly, hearing the tremor in her voice.

  The bald man smiled at her apparent confusion. "Why, now, Miss McCormick," he said casually. "As soon as you can get your things together. They’re holding the ferry for us. But we must leave before dark. The ice is treacherous in places, and the captain will attempt the crossing only during daylight hours."

  Cameron didn’t move. She continued to stare at the stranger. She couldn’t just pack up all the eighteen years of her life in a few minutes. He acted as though she were leaving after a week’s visit. What right did he have to disrupt her life so completely and expect her to meekly follow him to some strange new place? She glanced in fury at Mother Superior. She would understand and demand more time.

  Reverend Mother turned her back on them, pretending to be busy searching through her files. Over her shoulder she ordered, "Go up to your room, Cameron, and pack your trunk."

  "But the children, Reverend Mother. I have to be at the schoolhouse Monday. Who will teach them?"

  Mother Superior was in control again. Taking a deep breath, she said calmly, "We have always known this day would arrive, haven’t we, Cameron?" Turning slowly, her sharp eyes met and held the young woman’s. "Go now, and pack. Your father is waiting for you."

  Turning to the lawyer, Reverend Mother asked dryly, "Would you prefer tea or hot cocoa, Mr. Bouchet?"

  Cameron, realizing that she had been dismissed, turned stiffly away.

  Up in her room, Cameron slumped on the edge of her bed as warring emotions battled within her. She had begun a new life this year, teaching the island children. She had discovered hidden talents within herself. There was a sense of satisfaction in the work she was doing. Now it was being snatched from her. Why was her father sending for her at this time? Was he punishing her for making an attempt at independence? She dismissed that thought almost immediately. There had to be a purpose for this. It had to be more than the fact that her father wanted finally to see her. He’d had nearly eighteen years to want to get to know her.

  The danger. Somehow this was connected with the danger. She was sure of it. Whatever threat of harm had been hanging over her life had now been removed. Cameron clenched her hands tightly in her lap. It would have been so wonderful if her father had come for her himself. She had always pictured him as tall, and handsome, and dashing, a knight on a white horse—someone strong who would carry her from this tiny island into the world of excitement beyond. Lifting her head higher, her chin thrust defiantly, she seized a new thought.

>   Her father was far too busy, his duties too demanding, to allow him to come for her. That was why he was sending an emissary. Her busy, important father would be waiting impatiently, counting the hours until he could be united with his daughter. She mustn’t keep him waiting. And a new thought sent her rushing to pack. Somewhere beyond this island was Michael Gray. She had known by looking at him that he belonged to the wider world beyond her shores. Now there would be a chance of their paths crossing. It didn’t matter that that was a big unexplored world out there. Somehow, she and Michael were fated to meet. With that thought to lift her spirits, she began methodically packing her trunk.

  Giving one last look around the bare room, Cameron picked up her heavy cloak and dragged the huge trunk along the hallway.

  Downstairs the sisters had assembled in the main parlor. Cameron noted with a smile of relief that Mr. Georges Bouchet was waiting on a rough bench in the hallway. Obviously, Reverend Mother wanted their last goodbye to be personal. Cameron took a deep breath and drank in the faces of the dear sisters who had been with her all of her life.

  Reverend Mother walked forward and handed Cameron a small tin box. "This contains all the documents which were given me when you were brought to us as an infant. When you have some time alone, you will want to go over them." She sighed sadly. "I’m afraid they hold no answers. They are woefully inadequate. But soon you will have all the answers you seek. You are going to your father, Cameron. And all of us here wish you well. I will not worry about you. You have a great well of strength within you. I am confident that we have taught you well." She embraced the girl and said firmly, "Go with God, Cameron McCormick. You are a fine woman now. Do us proud." Wistfully, she added, "Perhaps someday you will come back to visit us."