Heart of the Wilderness Read Online Free PDF Page B

over into his own heart.
    She nodded and climbed to her feet, but much of the excitement of the morning seemed to have left her.

    In the afternoon, she slept, her rag doll, Dollie, held closely to her chest. He worried about the sun shining down upon her and managed to make a shelter of sorts to shade her face. He also worried about the mosquitoes that buzzed endlessly about her, but there was very little he could do about them.
    He still wondered if he had done the right thing. Should he be bringing her on this journey of sorrow? Could he hide his own pain enough to be a source of comfort for one lost, bewildered, heartbroken little girl?
    Many times during the day of paddling, he felt a strong urge to turn the canoe around and beat a hasty retreat back to the city. He wondered if he could face the pain that lay ahead in seeing Mary’s grave. It was too much. Too much to add to the pain of the past. The pain of losing Mary’s mother. He had to get away. He had to brace himself against all the anguish he was feeling. He had to get back to the mountainous wilderness where he was sure he could find some measure of calm and serenity and begin to heal again.
    But what of Kendra? He looked at the slight body, the pixie face, as she slept. She still clutched her worn rag doll that Mary had made for her. She had called him her trapper grandfather. She had also dubbed him with Mary’s pet name. They were linked together as surely as they would be if actual chains bound them. It brought him joy—and deep sorrow. What would he ever do about Kendra?
    The two stood, heads bowed, hands clasped tightly. Before them were two mounds of scarred earth. At the head of each a small cross stood, carved from the nakedness of a forest tree. No words were on the crosses, just simple initials. On one was carved M.M., on the other, S.M.
    The lump in his throat was so intense that he feared he would choke. He did not even dare let his gaze rest on the silent little figure beside him. She was so still—so quiet. Even in his own grief he was thankful that the child did not understand—could not possibly grasp the meaning of the two mounds.

    “Which one is Mama, Papa Mac?” a small, trembling voice whispered.
    His body gave a start. Perhaps she did understand. He swallowed, trying to gain control of his voice that he was sure wouldn’t work properly. “That one,” he managed to answer, fighting to keep his voice even.
    “Can I hug her?”
    “Hug her?” He did not understand.
    She pulled her small hand free, moved from him, and with one quick motion fell beside the mound, reaching out with little arms to embrace the dark, bare earth. Tears came then. Not just the tears of the little girl, but the tears of her grandfather as he dropped down beside her and gathered her close. They cried together for the mother, the daughter, they had lost. They cried until they were finally able to whisper a goodbye and move on to the next silent grave to cry and whisper again.
    When their tears were spent, he picked her up in his arms and cradled her close. She put her arms around his neck and held him tightly. At last he turned from the two graves and carried her down the hill the short distance to the small cabin that had been her home. They did not speak. He longed to say words of comfort. To ease her pain. But what could he say?
    He did not know what the little girl might be thinking. She could not share her thoughts of loneliness and sorrow with him. But he knew what he was thinking. They belonged together —the two of them. There was nothing that could change that. He should have known it from the first time he looked into her large green eyes. She was his. He was hers. There was no way he could ever turn his back and walk away from her. Not if he found the best home in the city. No, she would never be alone again if he could help it. She was going with him—back to the wilderness. Back where she could hear the song of the birds. Away from the “many