Page 1 of Hotshot Mogul

PROLOGUE

Anneliese

1640

Trading Post at Fort St. Joseph, near le Grand Lac

(Southwest Michigan near Lake Michigan)

I stirred the kettle of venison as Étienne, my husband, had demanded. He was drunk, as usual. When his snores could be heard throughout the trading post, I would leave.

“Your hair,” Étienne screeched. “Cover it.”

A strand of my wavy dark hair had escaped from my cap. I tucked it away and made a show of tending the fire. He snorted, spat, then staggered to where we slept. It wouldn’t be long, now.

Étienne was so sure he would make his fortune fast in the New World. The highly prized beaver that the Native people trapped in the New World was used for garments and hats back in Europe. Nigan, who was Native—and was not my husband—was best at the skill of trapping. Étienne only made trade deals with those who trapped. It was Nigan who held my heart, not Étienne.

I opened the door and stood in the doorway to let out my husband’s sour odor. I hoped the moon would peek out of the clouds to light my way that night. Nigan, my true mate, waited in the glade. I slid my hand over my still-flat middle where Nigan’s baby grew. I would tell him tonight.

If I stayed with Étienne in this place that had taken so long to reach, he would know the baby couldn’t be his. I looked toward where my sister, Geneviève, lived with her husband and wiped away the tears sliding down my face before Étienne saw them. I would miss her.

Honk, snort, honk. Étienne was asleep. It was time. I picked up my sack that held my comb, ribbons, and skirt from its hiding place.

As I stepped out to the cloak of darkness into August’s warm breath, Geneviève appeared. “Tu pars ce soir.” You are leaving tonight. It wasn’t a question.

I hugged her hard. “Oui. Je t’aime.”

She locked arms with me. “Nous marchons ensemble.” We walk together.

The sky cleared and the moon rose higher as I explained that Nigan said he would be waiting in the glade. I asked Geneviève where her husband was.

She shrugged. The wind rustled the leaves in the maple trees we tapped for sap during the spring thaw. Gen wagged her finger at me. “Les fées. Ne les déranges pas!” The fairies. Do not disturb them!

I laughed. Gen was remembering the wild tales that Kiera, a Celt who hailed from the north of France, had spun during our months-long, dangerous sea voyage to trap and trade.

Gen walked us toward a huge oak tree and touched the bark. “L’homme vert.” The Green Man.

More of the Celt’s tales. Kiera said Green Man made crops and babies grow. He was shown, she said, as a kindly face peering out of trees or leaves. He was guardian of the forest. “Lise, tu dois le toucher. Je peux lui sentir.” You must touch it. I can feel him.

I shrugged and touched the craggy bark. Sorrow, so profound it stole my breath, swamped over me. It was like the waves that drenched us when we travelled in the long boats—les voyageurs—in the long, cold river to reach the trading post at St. Joseph.

Gen snatched me back. “Lise, tu n’es pas bien.” You are not well.

We continued toward the glade. “C’est absurd.” That’s nonsense.

I called it nonsense, she scolded, but I would forsake my baptism for Nigan’s people’s teachings?

I could know both, I argued. She had embraced both Kiera’s tales and Père LeBec’s sermons, I pointed out. Besides, I added, I couldn’t stay because Étienne would know the baby was not his.

Nigan, an Neshnabémwen speaker who also spoke my language, had brought beaver pelts to the trading post while Étienne was gone for three months in springtime. Étienne was negotiating a trading agreement with the Huron, with help from the missionary priests who spoke their language.

We spoke of our parents and the ague that killed them both within days, how we’d had to marry or starve. Étienne had such grand plans for all of us, until he got into the drink, Gen said.

She pulled up my sleeve and ran her thumb gently over my fresh bruises. They weren’t visible in the moonlight, but she had seen them on washing day. She made the sourest of faces and clenched her fist. “Quel mari horrible!” What a horrible husband. “Je lui déteste.” I hate him.

We passed stands of white pine. I stroked the soft needles. The fragrance mingled with the night air. “Anna?” Nigan called.

“Là.” Here.

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