by Roh Morgon
Copyright Information
DARK DREAMS PUBLISHING
http://www.darkdreamspublishing.com
THE LAST TRACE
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First electronic edition published December 2012
Second electronic edition published April 2013
First trade paperback edition published April 2013
Published by Dark Dreams Publishing
Second Electronic Edition
Copyright 2012 Roh Morgon
All rights reserved
Cover photo by Eti Swinford, courtesy of Dreamstime.com
Cover design by Roh Morgon
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
LICENSE NOTES
This ebook is licensed for personal use only and may not be re-distributed. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you.
For Janine
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
The Last Trace
Acknowledgements
Music Playlist
About the Author
Other Titles
Excerpt - Watcher: Book I of The Chosen
Copyright and Publisher’s Information
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The aspects of 1840’s mountain man life depicted here are the result of research conducted on a variety of websites devoted to the time period and its people. Much of the information came from the extensive website Malachite’s Big Hole, www.mman.us, along with personal correspondence with the site’s owner, Michael Schaubs. My deepest thanks go to Michael for his review of the manuscript and his patience in answering my many questions.
Any historical inaccuracies, whether intentional or not, are entirely the fault of the author.
Thanks also go to my beta readers Earl, Lissa, Mitch, Nate, Cynthia, Lex, Tyler, Janine, and Vanessa, and to Melanie Smith for her editorial assistance and her continuing support of my writing career.
I’m deeply indebted to my editor, Jodi Renée Lester, as well as her husband, Mike, for their comprehensive efforts to help me bring this story to maturation. Not only did the story blossom under their guidance, but so did my skill as a writer.
And last, but never least, a big thank you to my parents for their encouragement, to my kids for their enthusiasm, and to my husband, Bruce, for everything he does to keep me going, and for his unwavering belief in me.
MUSIC PLAYLIST
Much of my writing and editing is done to music. I don’t usually search for music to go with a particular story – it’s more like the song finds me just when I need it. I’ll hear it on the radio, or on a friend’s iPod, and immediately know the scene with which it belongs.
The lyrics don’t generally match, although sometimes they eerily do. It’s the tone of the song that’s important, whether it’s soft and bittersweet for moments of a character’s anguish, or hard-driving rock for those scenes of violence.
The main characters in my stories tend to have their own songs. Trace’s song in The Last Trace is “Amsterdam” by Coldplay. In fact, his playlist is entirely Coldplay songs. Visit their website, www.coldplay.com, for information on obtaining copies of these works.
Trace’s playlist:
Square One
Low
Poor Me
X&Y
Fix You
A Message
Don’t Panic
A Whisper
Spies
Talk
Twisted Logic
Moses (Full Band Live)
High Speed
White Shadows
A Rush Of Blood To The Head
Amsterdam
As for Angelique . . . her chaos is best represented by the soundtrack to the 2012 movie The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, available from www.nullco.com.
Canadian Territories
~ September 1842 ~
She crouched behind the dense brush at the forest edge, unaffected by the chill in the night air, and watched the red people sitting around the campfire in the center of the village. Most were boys, too young to be warriors, but too old to be in their mama’s tipi this early in the evening. Their attention was fixed on a tall brave speaking across the fire from them, his guttural words occasionally punctuated by sweeping gestures.
There was something different about this man. Though his dark coppery skin and long black hair marked him as a native of this land, he stood out from the others. He was taller than the villagers, his features more refined and rather pleasant, and he wore a mixture of native and white man’s clothing.
She wasn’t sure what it was that fascinated her, whether it was his light brown, almost golden eyes, or the bright curiosity and fierce intelligence that shone from them. She wondered what it would be like to talk to him.
The scarlet madness suddenly clawed at her thoughts and they danced away, curving and twisting like the sparks rising from the campfire, and one by one they flared out. No longer sure why she’d paused here so close to the village, she brushed the matted blond hair from her eyes and slipped back into the darkness behind her. Her ragged and stained coat caught on a branch and she hissed as she tugged it free, wincing at the almost inaudible snap as the branch broke. Fear of discovery fueled her escape and her bare feet made no sound as she disappeared into the trees.
~ ~ ~
Trace Pierre Tasman couldn’t shake the feeling he was being stalked as he traveled south to the Green River. He thought about the two hunters from his relatives’ Cree village who’d gone missing in recent weeks, and the people’s whispers of an evil lurking in the surrounding mountains. Trace had hidden his smile at their superstitions, attributing the disappearances to a passing war party, though no sign of such had been found.
But now, sitting at his small fire surrounded by a black and moonless night, doubt wormed its way up his spine. He could feel something out there in the darkness, watching him. His palomino gelding stared out into the forest, his attention focused eastward, but the horse otherwise remained calm. Trace forced himself to relax.
You’re acting like an ol’ woman, he chided himself. It’s nothing that a bullet won’t take care of.
Trace leaned forward and nudged another small log into the fire, thinking back to the last night of his visit to the village. He smiled at the memory of the rapt expressions on the young braves’ faces as he told stories of the faraway lands he’d read about in Father Dugan’s books.
He’d talked about the white man’s city he’d once visited, and how the people there all lived in brick houses and didn’t move to new hunting grounds with the changing seasons. He chose not to tell the youths about the hatred and fear glaring from the whites’ eyes when they looked at him, nor the muttered comments about “murderin’ savages.”
They’ll learn soon enough, he thought, shaking his head.
The sharp crack of a breaking branch in the forest behind him sent Trace to his feet, his rifle ready. His horse snorted and danced nervously at the end of his rope.
“Who goes there? Show yourself!”
He held his breath and listened, his finger poised against the trigger of his rifle.
Deathly quiet was his only answer.
A cold chill rippled across Trace’s skin and he swallowed. He peered into the darkness between the trees, but whatever was out there was either gone, or staying absolutely still.
A movement in the low brush to his right startled him and he spun
around and crouched, ready to fire.
The brush moved again, and a rabbit bolted into the small clearing. It jerked to a stop and stared wide-eyed at the campfire, nose twitching and ears standing straight up.
Trace slowly stood. The rabbit pinned its ears and dashed back into the brush.
Sonuvabitch . . .
He took a deep breath and shook his head. He studied the forest, listening for other sounds, but there was nothing more. After a while, he sat back down on his buffalo robe, rifle cradled in his arms, and stared across the fire.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
~ ~ ~
She smothered a giggle as she watched him from the trees. Catching the rabbit had been a brilliant idea. She nearly laughed aloud again as she recalled how it had leapt away when she released it, then ran straight into his camp, just as she’d planned. She couldn’t decide who’d been more scared—the rabbit or the man.
He sat up well into the night, alert and watchful, and showed no sign of going to bed. She was beginning to regret her little ruse when he finally stretched out next to the fire and closed his eyes.
After what seemed like an eternity, she allowed herself to creep up to him, silent as a ghost. When he didn’t stir, she leaned in closer, noting the thin scar that ran across one cheek. She studied his unlined face, guessing him to be in his mid-twenties. His nose arched gracefully, framed by strong cheekbones and a square jaw, and she decided his appearance pleased her. He was wrapped in a dark fur robe, except for one arm hugging a rifle to his chest. An image flitted through her mind of that arm hugging her, and she felt a stirring deep within her body.
It had been a long time since the arms of a man she held were not pushing her away as he fought for his life.
His breath was warm as his chest rose and fell, and she tried to imagine what it would be like to feel his warmth inside and out. A hazy memory rushed at her, of tumbling bodies and blood and the laughter of others watching. The spectacle shattered into red fragments as hatred and rage gripped her, and the violence that was her only companion threatened to erupt through her skin.
Her vision took on a crimson hue, and she looked down at the sleeping man and felt the Need blossom to life. But she did not want to kill this one, not just yet, and before the madness could take hold, she forced herself to move away, erasing her retreating tracks as she slunk back into the forest to seek other prey.
~ ~ ~
Daylight was just about gone when Trace finished gathering enough wood to get him through the night. He set down the last armload next to the fire already blazing away and took a final look around the camp. Keeping hold of his rifle, he walked over to his horse and stroked the palomino’s velvety nose, and the gelding nodded his head up and down as was his habit.
“Well, horse, it’s our last night on this trail. Sure will be glad to get off it. This has been one helluva trip.”
Trace had never felt so uneasy in his life. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched, and couldn’t decide if it was a man or a critter, or just all in his head.
He grabbed his saddlebags and sat down on his robe next to the fire. Opening one, he took out several strips of dried venison, then closed and set the bags beside him. He thought about his mother’s savory stews, and realized how much he’d missed them, missed having someone cook for him.
He shook his head.
Well, I had my chance.
His musings shifted to Winter Moon and her upcoming marriage to Swift Eagle, and regret tugged at his heart.
She was so beautiful, with her dark eyes and shy smiles, and though it was against his nature to stay in one place for very long, this past year he’d found himself unwilling to wander too far from her village.
Trace warmed at the thought of waking up every morning with her in his arms, her body soft against his. He wondered what it would have been like to hunt and provide for her, to raise children with her, to grow old with her.
It was during his last visit she’d made it plain she wanted to stay among her people and build a life in the village. But village living was not for him, and now Winter Moon was building that life with another.
I wanted to take her away and show her the world.
The idea of leaving everything she’d known frightened her. The idea of staying in the same territory for the rest of his life scared the hell out of him.
Trace reached into the leather pouch on his hip, took out a small deerskin bundle, and unwrapped it. He picked up the folded piece of dirt-stained paper contained within, then opened it, carefully, reverently, frowning at the small worn holes at the corners of the creases.
The drawing was hidden by shadows and he turned so the flickering firelight could reveal its details. The fine black lines resolved into a three-masted sailing ship, its bow perched high above the waves crashing around it. Tiny sailors hauled on the rigging, and a captain stood near the wheel with a spyglass to his eye.
Naw, Trace thought with a rueful smile. I ain’t ready to settle down.
He’d spent most of his life haunted by the desire to see the places and things he’d read about in books—stone castles, palm trees on sandy shores, the strange creatures in the land of the black-skinned people. But most of all, he longed to see the ocean, to see if it really stretched all the way into the setting sun like they said.
He studied the sketch for a few more moments, lost in his dreams of sailing the world, then put it back in the pouch. Pulling his robe around him, he clutched his rifle to his chest, lay down next to the fire, and drifted off to sleep, his mind filled with visions of the exotic lands waiting for him across the sea.
~ ~ ~
She stood over him, watching him breathe. She wanted him so badly, but she was enjoying the game too much to end it just yet. As she stared down at him, an idea began to form, and she slowly smiled at its daring. It was a big risk, and if she failed, it would ruin all of her plans. And that alone made it all the more thrilling.
His soft snores kept their even rhythm as she knelt beside the sleeping man. Her blood racing with excitement, she stretched out and lay next to him. She eased closer and closer, until she could feel his hot breath caressing her face. His masculine scent floated around her, rich and intoxicating.
A shudder of desire passed through her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Emboldened by her success, she pressed her body even closer, almost touching his. The fur of his buffalo robe tickled her skin as he breathed in and out, and the delicious sensation made her feel as though she was going to burst.
The Need suddenly asserted itself, setting her veins afire. Her muscles tensed and the red madness began to tear away her ability to think.
A vision of the man wearing nothing but a robe of blood danced before her eyes, enticing her.
But she didn’t want it to happen like this—to end like this, mindless and out of control.
Trembling, she summoned the last of her will and eased back from him, then pushed herself to her feet and fled without making a sound.
~ ~ ~
Trace packed the last of his gear on the nervous palomino. The horse pawed the ground, anxious to get moving, as he had been most of the two weeks they’d been traveling south. Once they got on the trail, he knew the gelding would settle down. Whatever had the horse on edge only seemed to come around their camp at night, after they were asleep. It had Trace pretty spooked too.
Trace stroked the golden neck, gathered the reins, and stepped up into the saddle. They set off down the trail at a brisk walk, though he wasn’t in any hurry to get to their next stop.
He expected to arrive at his parents’ cabin before nightfall. He figured he’d spend a day or two with them before continuing on to rendezvous with a group of trappers at the Green River.
It had been three years since he’d last visited his parents, and he knew his mother would be pleased to see him. He had presents for her, including some from her relatives in the village, and he smiled as he thought about the
way her dark eyes would shine when he handed her each one.
He sobered when he thought about his father. The big French Canadian had a temper, and the few good times they’d had when Trace was a boy were fractured by curses and fists and the bruises that went along with them.
Trace sighed and nudged his horse into a trot, hoping this visit wouldn’t be as bad as the last one.
Unorganized Territories
(Present-Day Montana)
~ October 1842 ~
Trace stopped and knelt in the middle of the narrow trail. Even in the fading light of dusk, the deer’s track stood out in sharp contrast to the blurry, older prints scattered along the tree-lined path. He touched the track’s sharp edges, noting the damp soil in the deepest part of the print.
He slowly stood, nocked an arrow, and drew back the bowstring. His moccasins absorbed the sound of his careful steps as he closed in on his quarry.
A twig snapped up ahead and Trace stopped, becoming as still as the boulder next to the path. He took a deep breath and stretched the bowstring a little tighter and waited. A small, four-point mule deer walked out of the pines and stood at the edge of the trail not thirty feet ahead.
Trace released the arrow along with his breath, and the feathered shaft hissed through the air to sink into the buck’s side, just behind the shoulder.
The deer coughed and leapt forward, then bounded up the trail. Trace hung back, watching the white patch on the animal’s rump until it disappeared over a small rise. He broke into a quiet jog, slowing as he topped the hill. The buck was down, about sixty feet ahead. The arrow shuddered in rhythm with his shallow breaths.
Trace padded up to the deer. As the animal tried to lift his antlered head, Trace pulled his knife from its leather sheath, knelt, and slit the pale-furred throat.
He whispered a prayer of thanks in his mother’s Cree tongue, keeping his hand on the buck as it died.
With a glance at the darkening sky, Trace stood and tied back his long black hair. He shoved his buckskin shirtsleeves up along his forearms, bent to the fallen deer, and picked up his knife. Within minutes, he’d gutted and cleaned the carcass. He straightened, wiping off his blade with a handful of dried grass, then looked up.
