the falling temperatures, and the lynx prowls, his gray fur blending with the trees and snow-covered logs. His alerteyes jeer out at you, burning brightly. He is too elusive for your trap. You rush over in hopes of success and the fur for a cap only to find a dead hare in his place. Heâs too sneaky. To lure and ensnare him, you must think like him. Bright colors against a white canvas will make you stand out. His peaked ears indicate his exceptional hearing. Your skill as a tracker will be proven by your ability to outsmart a lynx.
Jonathan was a bit of a lynx. Far too smart. Smart enough to make everything look like the simplest accident.
But tracing the untraceable was second nature to a Mountie. As was every part of keeping oneâs kit and schedule. Rise at dawn as the first bird begins its chatter. Lay out kit in perfunctory order, having dressed for the day. At the top of the palliasse * near the pillow were brushes for boots, hair, and horse. Gloves on either side of the blanket with armbands. All items of clothing neatly folded. In winter, if moccasins worn, ensure spurs are shiny and shown on long boots.
A Mountieâs dress was his identity; it was his emblem of pride. Jonathan was always far more efficient at keeping his kit bright and shiny and without the slightest crease. Under Grandfatherâs watchful eye, they polished and ironed, folded and tucked. Jonathan was better at tucking sheets with military precision into all four corners of the bed. Jonathan was better at tying the lanyardâs exhibitive Turkâs knot. Jonathan was better⦠Jonathan was betterâ¦
Having hired detectives did not deter his desire to keep tracking. To keep moving. It was like any hunt: One needed patience and stamina. To always be encouraged by a paw print or a scent or the carcass of a dead animal. To understand that if oneâs prey remained elusive, a trek in the woods must still not be wasted, and one should focus instead on a different target.
Tracking was in his blood.
But Toronto, now, Toronto was a new experience. In Fort Glenbow, the only police presence was the one in the lone cabin at the edge of the village, smoke drawn from the chimney and pulled up into the sky. Here the police guided traffic and rapped their sticks on the street. During dinner at the Empire he leafed through old editions of the Hog propped up in one hand while balancing his fork in the other. Toronto had a Morality Squad, of all things.
⦠often done in private with no formal trial or charge. A woman you know may be with you at work one day and gone the next. Any crime, perceived or realized, from drunkenness to petty theft, are all punished by the cityâs undying concern about moral cleanliness. Where is the line drawn between penalizing women who intentionally break the law and watching for women in a vulnerable position, be they penniless or immigrant?
Benny had little experience with the members of the fairer sex. In the Yukon, he was most familiar with Indian women who were respected as a great asset to their tribes. They offered healing, medicine, and wisdom. They ensured that the homes were kept clean and smelled of herbs and flowers during ceremonial moments of the year. They raised children to be strong warriors. They were as brave as the men, often having to balance the responsibilities of their home sphere with the harsh nature of the elements.
What would they think of a woman like Merinda Herringford? At the thought, Benny blushed the color of the tunic he had laid out on his hotel bed with regimental precision.
After leaving Merindaâs flat, Benny had spent the better part of the day in the pulsing heat, taking the city in stride in search of Jonathan. An unnecessary waste of time. Did he honestly think Jonathan would appear when he turned a street corner? After hours of talking to the construction workers, the men repairing the trolley tracks, and the police, heâd returned to the Empire
Jonathan was a bit of a lynx. Far too smart. Smart enough to make everything look like the simplest accident.
But tracing the untraceable was second nature to a Mountie. As was every part of keeping oneâs kit and schedule. Rise at dawn as the first bird begins its chatter. Lay out kit in perfunctory order, having dressed for the day. At the top of the palliasse * near the pillow were brushes for boots, hair, and horse. Gloves on either side of the blanket with armbands. All items of clothing neatly folded. In winter, if moccasins worn, ensure spurs are shiny and shown on long boots.
A Mountieâs dress was his identity; it was his emblem of pride. Jonathan was always far more efficient at keeping his kit bright and shiny and without the slightest crease. Under Grandfatherâs watchful eye, they polished and ironed, folded and tucked. Jonathan was better at tucking sheets with military precision into all four corners of the bed. Jonathan was better at tying the lanyardâs exhibitive Turkâs knot. Jonathan was better⦠Jonathan was betterâ¦
Having hired detectives did not deter his desire to keep tracking. To keep moving. It was like any hunt: One needed patience and stamina. To always be encouraged by a paw print or a scent or the carcass of a dead animal. To understand that if oneâs prey remained elusive, a trek in the woods must still not be wasted, and one should focus instead on a different target.
Tracking was in his blood.
But Toronto, now, Toronto was a new experience. In Fort Glenbow, the only police presence was the one in the lone cabin at the edge of the village, smoke drawn from the chimney and pulled up into the sky. Here the police guided traffic and rapped their sticks on the street. During dinner at the Empire he leafed through old editions of the Hog propped up in one hand while balancing his fork in the other. Toronto had a Morality Squad, of all things.
⦠often done in private with no formal trial or charge. A woman you know may be with you at work one day and gone the next. Any crime, perceived or realized, from drunkenness to petty theft, are all punished by the cityâs undying concern about moral cleanliness. Where is the line drawn between penalizing women who intentionally break the law and watching for women in a vulnerable position, be they penniless or immigrant?
Benny had little experience with the members of the fairer sex. In the Yukon, he was most familiar with Indian women who were respected as a great asset to their tribes. They offered healing, medicine, and wisdom. They ensured that the homes were kept clean and smelled of herbs and flowers during ceremonial moments of the year. They raised children to be strong warriors. They were as brave as the men, often having to balance the responsibilities of their home sphere with the harsh nature of the elements.
What would they think of a woman like Merinda Herringford? At the thought, Benny blushed the color of the tunic he had laid out on his hotel bed with regimental precision.
After leaving Merindaâs flat, Benny had spent the better part of the day in the pulsing heat, taking the city in stride in search of Jonathan. An unnecessary waste of time. Did he honestly think Jonathan would appear when he turned a street corner? After hours of talking to the construction workers, the men repairing the trolley tracks, and the police, heâd returned to the Empire
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