It was cool and pleasant on the beach. The dog made a halfhearted charge at a group of gulls who squawked and lumbered off like cranky old men. Since she had been traveling with them the red dog had become less of a hunter, and she seemed only slightly mystified at her lack of success. With a philosophical woof to the gulls, Treenie galloped off down the shoreline after Robbie, who was gathering driftwood for a cook fire.

"Oh, the summertime is comin'," he sang softly as he went about his work. "And the trees are softly bloomin'." His voice faded as he disappeared around the curve of the little cove. Out on the water, Nathaniel sat in the canoe with his gaze fixed below the surface and a fishing spear balanced lightly in one hand.

Treenie came back along the beach, her wet coat clogged with sand, and lay down. Elizabeth joined her, content to sit for a while looking out at the lake to watch Nathaniel fish. The setting was beautiful, but she was so sleepy. Sometimes it seemed that she would never again be fully awake. With a little sigh of irritation, she roused herself finally and climbed the bluff to camp, where she left the mussels by the cook pot for Robbie to deal with. Then she took her rolled blanket from her pack and joined Treenie in the flickering silver shadows of the birch and hickory trees, where she made a quick tent and collapsed into jagged half dreams.

* * *

It was a cool and clear evening that provided a sunset over the mountains in a thousand layers of color, the kind of sunset that never failed to lift her spirits. The evenings were Elizabeth's best time, and the nap had done her much good, although her appetite was not quite restored. There was bass grilling over a latticework of black willow splints, and a stew of mussels, dried beans, and wild onions, which she ate with forced enthusiasm. She had a secret longing for Curiosity's best Sunday biscuits of wheaten flour, even as she crumbled the good Kahnyen’keháka corncake into her bowl.

They were sitting on an up cropping of rock. Nathaniel was next to her, his empty bowl balanced on the long, flat plane of his thigh. From the corner of his eye, he was watching her eat while he threw bits of fish to Treenie. Robbie was on his third bowl of stew, and showed no signs of slowing down.

"Splitting—Moon told me that it was natural, you not being hungry," Nathaniel offered. "The child takes what it needs, one way or the other, so you might as well give in, gracious like. Ain't like you got much choice, either way."

"Despotic leanings already." Elizabeth smiled. "An ominous beginning."

There was something he wanted to say; she could see it on his face, along with the reluctance. She raised an eyebrow in encouragement.

"Sarah never was sick, with either of her times," he said. "It worried my mother. She said that a child setting properly will make itself known. If that makes it any easier."

Elizabeth glanced up at him. In her misery it had never occurred to her that the nausea might be a good sign. And she hadn't thought about—hadn't wanted to think about—the fact that Nathaniel had been through this before, and was better acquainted with the process than she was. He knew enough to be worried about her, and to comfort her, too. She felt selfish, suddenly, and very self—centered.

He almost laughed. "You should see your face," he said. "Only you would manage to feel guilty because you don't like being sick." He hugged her one—armed, while he tossed more wood on the fire. "It'll pass, Boots, and you'll be able to get back to teaching. That's something to look forward to, at least."

"There is quite a lot to look forward to at Hidden Wolf," Elizabeth agreed. There were things to worry about, too. How it would be to share a small cabin with four other adults was something that kept her awake at night, knowing that there was nothing to be done about it and also that the lack of privacy would be the biggest challenge she would face. As she didn't know how to raise this question with Nathaniel without sounding demanding and dissatisfied, she quickly sent her thoughts in another direction.

"It would be nice to know that I'll have any students to teach. And there is always the possibility that my father has reclaimed the schoolhouse to use as a pigsty."

Robbie looked up from his stew, the white crescents of his brows knitted together in surprise. "But Nathaniel's bought the ian' and the schoolhoose, too, fra' yer fait her so ye ne edna fash yersel'. His voice trailed off as he saw the exasperated look Nathaniel sent his way, and he threw up one shoulder as if to ward off a blow.

"Laddie, ye'll hae tae for gi me. I disremembered that she didna ken."

"Pardon me?" Elizabeth asked, looking between the two of them. "You bought the schoolhouse?"

"Yes, and the land," Nathaniel said. "From your father's agent while I was in Albany. I meant it for a surprise, on homecoming."

"Yes, I see that," she murmured.

Robbie looked warily between them and then suddenly stood. "I've mind tae take a wee walk doon the shore. It's time I had a wash, for I fear I stink sac bad as a new recruit's shirttail after his first battle. Will ye join me, Treenie?"

The dog was immediately at his side, her tail generating a significant breeze.

Nathaniel began to rise, but Elizabeth put a hand on his forearm.

"Oh, no," she said. "I think not. You and I have things to discuss. Treenie is good company, and she's more Robbie's dog than mine now, anyway."

The old soldier glanced at her, his head cocked to one side. "Do ye mean it? She is verra fond o' ye, lass."