Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  “How do we know each other?” Isabelle tried another approach. “Where did we meet? Here or in Portland?”

  This was the most information she’d gotten out of Ren and she was anxious for the flow to continue, but already she could see the defensive shutters coming down. Ren was building another wall of shadows between them. Her gaze shifted around the room, she seemed unable to look at Isabelle. She stood and moved to the fire, unease pouring off her. Isabelle watched her and surmised that while Ren was not lying to her, she was being selective in what she chose to reveal.

  Ren knelt by the hearth and stared at the dying embers, She made as if to reach in for something, but with a quick sideways glance at Isabelle turned her back on the fire and began to talk.

  “We met in the Bella Coola Valley. There’s not much to say, and you’ll remember it all soon enough. Your aunt has a holiday lodge in Hagensborg. You were staying with her and we met when I called over with Atwell’s medication.”

  “My aunt?” This was exciting news.

  “Mary Palmer.”

  Isabelle frowned. Mary Palmer. The name wasn’t familiar and that disappointed her. “Who’s Atwell?”

  “Her Pomeranian. He’s got diabetes.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle blinked. Aunt Mary had a sick dog. “Poor Atwell. Maybe we can go visit when the roads are passable?” The thought of nearby family cheered her up, but already Ren was shaking her head.

  “Mary left already. She was only here to lock up for the winter.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle felt gutted. “Have I any other family in Bella Coola?”

  “No.”

  Her face must have shown her disappointment, for Ren became agitated and moved toward the kitchen. “Would you like tea?” she asked.

  “No more drinks, thank you. Every time you give me something to eat or drink I conk out.” Isabelle tried to shake off her gloomy mood with a weak joke. So her aunt had already left. Isabelle had to remember she was lucky. She’d had a nasty accident and was being looked after by a family friend. It could have been so much worse.

  Ren’s eyebrows rose. “You conk out, do you? I leave you all tucked up in bed and return to find you reading on the couch with a glass of my good port.”

  Isabelle squirmed. Ren didn’t know the half of it. Her snooping had kept her tirelessly occupied for most of the evening. She’d investigated every square inch of this place. She knew more about its nooks and crannies than the mice.

  “It seemed like a nice place to sit and watch the flames,” she said.

  Ren shrugged. “Okay, no tea.”

  She tugged off her padded shirt and pulled her T-shirt over her head and tossed them on the nearby chair. Her jeans soon followed. Ren’s naked torso was athletic and tan, and puckered with dozens of small cuts and scars across her belly and breasts. The air around Isabelle condensed into a thick brume of heady scent. An image flashed before her of dappled sunlight on bronzed skin, before it tensed and folded into thick bunched muscle and black fur. It frightened her. Ren reached for the waistband of her black briefs.

  “Keep your clothes on,” Isabelle said, almost panicked. “Please.”

  Ren hesitated and looked at her questioningly. Isabelle felt heat scorch her face as an unreadable mask dropped over Ren’s features, but not before she read disappointment there. Ren grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it back on.

  How can she do that? Isabelle was stunned at the casual way Ren had displayed herself. She was unself-conscious in a way Isabelle knew she could never be with her own body. She wanted to ask about the marks on Ren’s chest and belly but didn’t know how. Ren’s nudity upset her. It triggered thoughts and flashbacks to things that confused and frightened her. Yet, another part of her looked at Ren with deep interest. She wanted to ask questions about her scars, to talk about her wounds, but instead Isabelle had rejected her. She felt like the worst prude in the world.

  Unhappy with her illiberal behavior, she decided to go back to her own bed and fret. She was about to go when Ren vaulted over her prone body onto the couch and settled in behind her as naturally as if they did this every evening. Isabelle started in surprise. Ren did not seem to notice her reaction and dragged the Indian weave blanket off the back of the couch over both of them. Isabelle lay there in mild shock as strong arms gathered her close. She liked the sensation of being held.

  “You’re cold,” she muttered, trying to sound cordial, though her heart thumped like an express train.

  “Not for long,” Ren said. Already warmth was radiating off Ren’s thighs and belly into Isabelle’s body. She crept a little closer, leaching off the heat, bemused at the contentment and comfort she found in Ren’s arms despite her finicky objections. Ren’s hand gently smoothed the fabric of her robe, stroking her arm, down over her hip where she pinched the flesh.

  “You’re too thin. I need to fatten you up.”

  “You make me sound like a Christmas goose.” Isabelle slapped her hand away, but not unkindly.

  “I want to look after you. Make you big and strong.” Ren snuggled into her, and despite herself Isabelle felt a rush of pleasure at the closer contact and caring words. “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.”

  Isabelle objected to Ren’s words. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll be the one doing that from now on.”

  The propriety in Ren’s voice made her uneasy. She changed the subject.

  “Where did you go?” she asked. “I thought the roads were impassable.”

  She was pleased that they had moved beyond their earlier awkwardness. Here they were, lying before the fire in the warmest room in the cabin, chatting away. Perhaps if she changed tack Ren would open up again. Isabelle could not allow herself to get so comfortable she forgot her number one priority, to remember as much as she could and as soon as she could.

  “I managed to get where I needed to go.” Ren’s face was in her hair, and Isabelle could feel her breath puff against her neck whenever she spoke. Ren’s hand continued to stroke her upper arm, soft and reassuring through the thin cotton. “I was checking on a sick animal. Go to sleep. You must be exhausted. We can sleep in here by the fire.”

  Isabelle was tired. She’d been fighting sleep since suppertime, but lying with Ren gave her stomach butterflies, and the last thing she wanted to do was close her eyes. She wanted to savor this moment of security. Her dreams still scared her. Though she didn’t dare admit it, she was much happier now that Ren had returned to curl up beside her.

  “You’re healing well.” Ren’s fingertips slid under her collar and trailed over the welts on her bruised shoulder.

  “It hardly hurts at all.” She settled into a more comfortable position and the curve of her bottom nestled into Ren’s groin. She froze, and then relaxed, surprised, yet at ease with her new audacity. “You smell nice,” she said shyly.

  “Oh?” She could feel Ren smile, her face pressed into her hair. “What do I smell like?”

  Isabelle was unprepared for the unusual question.

  “Trees and grass. Stuff like that.” She felt stupid. What a stupid thing to say.

  “Good. I’m glad that’s what you scent,” Ren said, though she sounded slightly disappointed.

  “What I scent?”

  “Yeah, scent. What you smell off me. Scent can tell us lots of things.”

  Isabelle considered this. It was a weird thing to say. Then she remembered the strange imagery triggered by sniffing Ren’s clothes. Perhaps it was more than the medication playing with her head?

  “Do I have a scent?” she asked, then cringed inwardly. What a stupid question. I’m full of them tonight.

  “Yes, you do.” Ren continued to stroke her shoulder, gently running over the ridge of knotted stitches. She buried her face in Isabelle’s hair and inhaled deeply, holding the breath in. Isabelle’s flesh goose-bumped delightfully and her spine tingled its entire length. She, too, was holding her breath. Ren exhaled and tightened her arms around Isabelle. “Your scent is forev
er.”

  Chapter Seven

  Isabelle sat up and shivered. The fire had burned out and she was alone on the couch. A cold dawn illuminated the room with flat, gray light. She looked over at the empty hearth. Ren had raked out the ashes, and kindling and a fresh supply of logs were set nearby, ready for a new fire to be built. She wondered that there was no other form of heating in the cabin. It was a very basic home, more like a vacation rental that hadn’t been upgraded for year-round living. The threadbare furniture and fittings, the basic build of the kitchen, told her money was tight in this home.

  Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she wandered to the kitchen hoping Ren might be there, but in her heart she knew she was alone. Her insecurities rose and she had to wrestle them down, losing herself in the routine chore of making breakfast to ignore her misery.

  In a corner of the kitchen an antiquated kerosene heater belted out heat, and Isabelle blessed the small luxury. Ren had left sooty fingerprints all over the countertop from her earlier hearth tending, and Isabelle tutted loudly as she wrung out a dishcloth and quickly wiped the surfaces clean. Job done, she started foraging for breakfast.

  Herbs, plant roots, and stems seemed to be all Ren’s kitchen had to offer. It was not well stocked with food. Isabelle peered into the barren depths of the fridge and begrudgingly settled for a meal of leftover bread and cheese. A strong pot of coffee took the edge off her meager meal. If the roads were impassible there was a good chance they would starve to death, unless Ren had a secret larder somewhere else.

  Isabelle sat at the table and planned her day. She needed to sort out clothing. She couldn’t bear to slob around in this robe any longer. She felt cooped up and wanted to go outside into the fresh air and explore her surroundings.

  She took her breakfast dishes over to the sink, and noticed her teacup from last night on the drainer. She had forgotten she had left it on Ren’s bedroom table after the beastie had peeped through the window. Her cheeks heated. She’d been caught out snooping. Returning to the scene of her crime, she found the room pristine. The clothes were tidied away, the bed made, and the suitcase stowed on top of the armoire. All the shoes were lined up in regimental rows. The room had been restored to its natural order, but she was embarrassed Ren knew she had intruded.

  She showered and carefully inspected her wounds. Her shoulder hurt less and had a bigger range of motion than yesterday. She shrugged and rotated it, flexing and stretching under the stream of hot water. It was improving day by day. When she shampooed the gash on her hairline, the newly formed blood crusts washed away, leaving a thin pink line. She examined it in the mirror and was pleased at her rate of recovery.

  The bruising around her face and body looked fainter. Her older scars drew her attention. She touched the cut on her lip and the bump on the bridge of her nose. Ren had told her she’d been battered. Isabelle traced these old wounds, expecting some emotion to resonate within her—anger, upset, maybe even sorrow. All she felt was shut down and cold. She remembered the bloody dish towel pressed to her mouth and the man’s voice pleading for forgiveness. Was he her phantom husband?

  She stood straighter and looked herself in the eye, hoping for an answer. She could believe she’d come all the way from Portland to avoid an abusive man. Her heart was hard. She could feel it, flinty and sharp-edged in her chest. She’d come to Canada to visit family and be rid of him. Isabelle shook her head at her reflection. She had no idea where she belonged—Bella Coola, Canada, or Portland, America? For the moment, the answers could wait. Today, she felt healthy and invigorated. Her body was vibrant and alive, totally reenergized, as if she were emerging from a cloud of heavy pollution into fresh, open fields. All she needed was for her mind to follow.

  Back in her own room she was pleased to find clothes set out on her bed. They were Ren’s and far too big for her, but they would have to do. The shirt hung off her shoulders, and the jeans fit with the help of a belt strapped tight around her waist. The pant legs were long and she had to roll them up like a seaside paddler. There were thick woolen socks, but no shoes.

  In a flash of inspiration, she ran into the living room and knelt to peer under the couch. Her luck was in. Ren’s discarded snow boots lay under there from last night. She hauled them out. They were far too big, but she stuffed the toes with extra socks until she could stomp around quite happily.

  The day had opened up, filled with excitement and purpose. She had explored the inside of the cabin, now she would explore the outside and see where she had ended up on this strange journey. She would have loved Ren to be her guide and was a little disgruntled at being abandoned yet again. Tamping down her anxiety at Ren’s mysterious comings and goings, she stopped to steal one of Ren’s coats from the hanger behind the front door, a waxed jacket that swallowed her. As an afterthought, she snatched a wool hat and crammed it on her head, then she stepped outside.

  She took a deep breath that made her convalescing lungs tingle. She felt giddy with the clean mountain air. Isabelle looked around. The cabin backed up under a wall of mountain before the ground rolled away to a steep meadow. A swath of fir and spruce flanked its exposed east side and kept the worst of the weather at bay. This was where her visitor had disappeared to last night, stealing into these trees. New snow had covered any tracks that might have been left, but Isabelle didn’t care. This morning the world had opened up to her, and what a beautiful world it was.

  There was no furniture on the porch, no chair or table. No one sat here and looked out at the stunning views on a snow-sharp morning such as this, and Isabelle thought it a shame. Frosted treetops pointed up from the valley floor, twinkling like candied minarets. They shivered in the swirling wind that blew from the surrounding mountains, throwing ice in the air in a million crystalline points of sunlight. It was a small, deep valley, no more than two miles across surrounded by steep walls of forest and the snow-capped peaks beyond.

  The ground below the porch steps was churned and muddy from multiple comings and goings. A well-used path led straight to the meadow. Below, she could see the sharp pitch of a shingled roof.

  Isabelle followed the trail to find a small barn and two long, low outbuildings that looked like old stable blocks or storage rooms. They huddled around a large, open-ended gravel yard. The snow was cut up by several sets of tires. It was used as a parking area but this morning it was empty. She glanced around. No one was about. Uncertain of where to go next, she noticed the barn door stood ajar. The gleam of a tractor grill winked out from the shadowy interior. Isabelle slid through the opening into the dry and cozy gloom.

  The barn smelled of clean straw and engine oil. Hand tools hung on hooks, and canisters and storage bins lined the walls. The tractor was an old Case 400. Isabelle walked around it, her hand skimming the burnt orange paintwork. She knew the tractor make, it was a showpiece dating back to the fifties. She liked that something this big and solid meant something to her.

  A battered motorcycle was propped against a workbench. Was it Ren’s? Did she rebuild these old vehicles? Isabelle wished she knew. She wanted to build up an image of Ren as much as she wanted to understand herself. They were both mysteries to her.

  Toward the back of the barn, straw bales were stacked six feet high. Some had toppled over and the straw had burst into a large, disordered mound. The center of the mound was indented, and several old blankets were scattered in the depression. Isabelle stood and examined the large nest-like shape. What slept there? Maybe dogs?

  “Ren?” a sleepy voice asked from the straw. Isabelle watched in amazement as the far edge of the nest rustled, then erupted, and a face peeped out at her. A young girl sat bolt upright in a straw-strewn flurry, confounded at seeing Isabelle standing before her.

  “No. Not Ren,” Isabelle said and smiled. The child was perhaps eleven or twelve, not quite in her teens. Her straggly, long brown hair had stalks of straw poking out at all angles, and her face was smudged with dirt. Her clothes, what Isabelle could make of them half bu
ried in the straw, were grimy with dried mud.

  “I’m Isabelle,” she said. “I’m staying at the cabin up the hill.” The girl blinked in surprise and examined Isabelle’s borrowed waxed jacket and ridiculous rolled-up jeans with deep suspicion.

  “Where’s Joey?” she asked suddenly, seemingly satisfied with the introduction.

  “I don’t know who Joey is. Who are you?”

  “Mouse. Joey’s getting me breakfast.”

  “Mouse?” Isabelle smiled at the nickname. Small, brown with dirt, and ferreted away in the straw bales, the moniker fitted her perfectly. “Lucky you, getting breakfast in bed. Do you usually sleep here, Mouse?”

  “I don’t like the bunkhouse. Noah and Patrick snore.”

  More new names. Isabelle had already met the unwelcoming Patrick, but she didn’t know anything about a Joey or Noah. How many others were living at Ren’s place? Did they work here? Where were Mouse’s parents? Did they live here, too?

  “Hey. Is there a Mouse in the house?” The barn door creaked as someone shuffled in to join them. Isabelle turned toward the smell of cooked food, her stomach growling as if it hadn’t been fed in years. A young man on a crutch hopped precariously across the barn floor, balancing a tray with his free hand. He had dark blond hair cut in a shaggy surfer style and looked like he pumped iron all day long. He was big, looked to be in his mid to late teens, and seemed extremely cheerful despite his awkwardness with the crutch.

  “It’s you should be getting me breakfast in bed, Mouse,” he said, all attention on the tray. “I got the bad leg. Have you any idea how hard it is not to tip this dang thing over—” He broke off when he saw Isabelle. “Oh.” His guileless blue eyes blinked and his jaw slackened. Her appearance seemed to throw him.

  “Let me help.” She went over and took the tray from him, and brought it back to Mouse. She had crept over to the edge of her nest and now hung over watching them both, refusing to leave its confines but anxious for her breakfast to arrive. Isabelle set the tray down before her. A plate was piled high with bacon, steak, and eggs and swimming in a sea of spilled orange juice. It was more than enough food for a grown man, never mind the diminutive girl before her, but Mouse fell on it with a gusto that made Isabelle jealous.