On the ice road the horses whinnied to each other in the winter sun, touched noses and broke into a fast trot while Lily looked back over her shoulder at Montreal, numb not so much from the cold as from confusion.

Now that she was on her way home she couldn't remember, quite, why she had been in such a hurry to leave. She thought of Ghislaine and the other servants in the steamy kitchen, of Monsieur Picot, who had thundered at her when she told him she was leaving, and Monsieur Duhaut, who had wept a little and pressed a present into her hands: a miniature of herself, so beautifully done that Lily had felt immediately guilty.

How often do we find love in the world, that it should be set aside so thoughtlessly?

The thought came from her in her mother's voice, and for a moment Lily regretted that she had not been kinder to Monsieur Duhaut, who was far from home, as she was, but with no way to go home, as she was doing now.

People had come from all over to wish her a good journey and well in her marriage, words that made her jump and twitch, which people took for a bride's shy manner because they could not see the truth of it. Lily would have preferred to keep the whole thing quiet for she was not sure, yet, that she would marry Simon; that was something she dared not say aloud, but it was still the truth, no matter how foolish: she was not ready, not yet, to concede that Nicholas was lost to her.

But in this matter Luke and Simon agreed: the engagement must be announced. Otherwise the gossips would claim that Luke's sister had eloped with his business partner, and both men were too proud to have such things said about themselves, or her.

“He is thinking ahead,” said Ghislaine when Lily complained about the fuss her brother was making over this engagement. “You may want to come back to Montreal and make a home here, one day.”

And that was the problem exactly, Lily realized as Montreal disappeared from view. She did like the city; she liked everything about it, the people and the noise and even the smells, though in the summer, she was warned, she would change her mind. She liked Montreal and she missed her home, and she felt herself caught between them. If by some miracle Nicholas Wilde might still marry her—and it would be a miracle, she understood that—she would never see this place again. For as long as she could remember she had wanted Nicholas to claim her; she wanted it still, she reminded herself, but the cost was higher now.

The one thought she could hold on to was this: she must know, once and for all. Had Simon Ballentyne not agreed to take her back to her mother, she would have soon been desperate enough to have done something truly foolish.

Like pledging yourself to a man you hardly know.

She pushed the voice away and settled back in the furs, taking the chance to study Simon, or the little bit she could see of him that was not well covered. All of Montreal believed that she was about to marry him. Lucky you, the baker's daughter had said, hardly hiding her disappointment. Lucky you.

Simon sent her a sidelong glance, a smiling one from the way his eyes creased at the corner, and spoke a few firm words to the horses.

Lily was warm and comfortable, which was a good thing, indeed, for she would be spending a great deal of time just like this, sitting beside Simon Ballentyne on her way home to her mother and father and her own bed under the eaves, to her brother and cousins and friends. To Nicholas Wilde.

In time the rhythm of hooves on the ice lulled her away into sleep, where she stayed until late in the afternoon when the sleigh came to a stop in front of a cabin deep in the woods. A trapper's cabin like a hundred others, with nothing to distinguish it except that it seemed deserted, no smoke coming from the chimney or snowshoes on the porch.

“A good six hours without an argument, but then you slept for most of it so I suppose it won't count.” One of the horses, the one called Pete, turned its head to nudge Simon and he laughed out loud and clapped a hand on its neck, as he would a friendly dog.

Lily sat up, confused and sputtering, but Simon was already gone, leading the horses off to brush and feed them in the lean-to stable. She sat for a moment and watched him, and then she fought her way out of the furs and the sleigh, holding her wraps around her as she waded through snow to the tiny front porch and then stumbled through the door into the dark cabin.

Lily found the flint box on the mantel and enough kindling to start a fire, her fingers stiff at first and then warming quickly to the familiar task. If Simon Ballentyne thought she was helpless he would have to think again, for she had been brought up on the New-York frontier and knew more of this kind of life than he could begin to imagine. For months she had lived in a house with servants, but it would take far longer than that for Nathaniel Bonner's daughter to forget how to take care of herself in a cabin in the woods.

The fledgling fire showed her the rest of the little room: one window with shutters nailed in place for the season, two cots with threadbare blankets over sagging corn-shuck mattresses, a rough table and stools, a few tin dishes and cups, a box of candles almost empty. Somewhere nearby there would be a well or a stream or a rain barrel, but that job would require an axe, too, to get through the ice and she was content to leave that to Simon. Instead she put her cloak back on and made trips back into the dusk: for her satchel, for provisions, for three armloads of firewood from under the tarpaulin against the north side of the cabin. She was full awake now and hungry and glad of the work.

When Simon came in from looking after the horses and the rig he found the fire blazing, the beds made with furs from the sleigh, and the table set for supper. Without a word Lily handed him the water bucket and he backed out again, smiling at her but saying not a word. Later while she set water to boil he cleaned his guns and then they sat down to a simple meal of bread and cold meat and tea.