Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel by Ruth Glover

into it. A cold room. Laying aside her wraps, Mrs. Buckle went about lighting a fire.
    Slowly Allison undid the fasteners of her cloak and slid it off. Almost blankly she looked around. The mess she left had been cleaned up; the room seemed barren, strange, almost unfriendly. And there was no Fifi.
    “Fifi—” she questioned, desperately looking for a welcome, needing to hold someone or something soft, loving, caring. It was not to be.
    “In Miss Sarah’s room,” Mrs. Buckle explained briefly.
    When the fire was blazing, the housekeeper—not too tidy herself, weary of face, stooped of form—hesitated for a moment, as though she would speak. Then, apparently thinking better of it, she picked up her heavy cloak, laid it over her arm, and turned toward the door.
    Allison had the impulse to call after her, “Wait! Don’t go!” But of course she did not. Protocol prevailed, and she stood silent and alone as Mrs. Buckle slipped through the door and shut it behind her.
    Shut it, and turned the key in the lock.

W hen the last rig had departed, the last farewell salute given, Parker Jones opened the door to his small home, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
    April, and no sign of spring. But it could come at any time now. Tomorrow could be the day of the chinook. There would be the soft wind, the change in the snow—a faint honeycombing of the vast whiteness, a dimpling as the snow grew wet and sank and settled. There would be the first beginnings of the runoff, the building of the countless sloughs in every hollow.
    Next the sounds of honking overhead would bring the winter-weary settler to the door, to the window, to watch the first geese fly overhead, the graceful wedges pointing north. Of a morning, ducks would be found paddling in the sloughs, bobbing on the lakes, skimming the sparkling water with wide, scalloping wings.
    There would be the splendid changing of air from the north to that of the south. Soon the blessed songbirds would follow, ushering in the season filled with sound, where all had beensilence for so long. From sky and meadow, fence post and tree, it would lift, tone challenging tone, melody competing with melody—the music of the North.
    There would be a little betting concerning just when the ice would go out on the Saskatchewan River, a river that, early on, had been recognized as the highway of the fur trade, a river vital to the expansion of the Territories. Known as a fickle waterway with its swamps, sandbars, rocks and rapids, and tawny waters—north and south branches splicing Saskatchewan—it was passionately appreciated by the people of the bush, as by the prairie dwellers. Last year it had “gone out” on May 6, and the sound had boomed across the community of Bliss, five miles away.
    Once again Parker had to remind himself that there was no immediate need to hasten to his mother’s side, a good thing, because as yet, the world seemed gripped in a frigid, iron grasp. It was as though winter’s hand, frozen and stiff, would not, could not, loosen.
    At the first sign of a thaw, the first drop of melt from the eaves, Parker would leave the bush.
    He would not wait for the log raising. The timbers that had weathered all winter were water soaked, heavy to lift, making for a slow job. The board’s plan to get them raised would be more delayed than they liked to think. Parker could not afford to wait that long. And anyway, his living arrangements would be torn up for some time; it might be a good time to be gone.
    The supper that had so enticed him now seemed tasteless; his mind was elsewhere, wrestling with thoughts of winter’s bondage, his mother’s need, Molly’s reaction . . .
    Pushing the supper dishes aside, pouring himself a cup of tea, Parker drew a tablet toward him:

    Dearest Mother,
    How my heart aches to be with you. Having just received your letter, I realize you and Samantha have been through a very hard time, and I haven’t been there to be a comfort. It is