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no show of modesty or tidiness whatsoever. Her skinny little body was as filthy as her jeans and sweater.
Jenna followed, clucking and fussing over the discarded clothes. Once she d seen Mouse safely into her bath,
she dumped the lot into a washing machine tucked into the farthest corner and started a wash cycle.
The bathroom was charmless but practical, and together with the rows of cots in the other room gave an
austere, institutional feel to the bunkhouse. Isabelle longed to ask Ren about this place and its young
inhabitants, but she had no idea when she would next see her. Ren s constant comings and goings were
beginning to irk her. Which was another strange thing. She wanted to know where Ren was every minute of
the day and became anxious when she didn t. What was all that about?
The steam encouraged Jenna into a fit of coughing. She struggled to catch her breath, but finally pointed at
Mouse.
Scrub hard and I ll come back and do your hair. And don t forget behind your ears and under your nails.
Jenna left Mouse splashing contentedly in the bath. Despite her earlier complaints, she was happy to play in
the big, suds-filled tub.
Come on with me. Jenna brushed past Isabelle, collected her tray, and led them out of the bunkhouse and
back into the yard. The wind had dropped away and the midmorning sun had warmed the air by a few
degrees.
Wind chill had to be a major factor in the valley, Isabelle thought. She looked up at the peaks that surrounded
them. In the summer it must boil in its own little microclimate. She remembered the tractor in the barn and
wondered what crops they managed to grow on these steep slopes and how long their season ran. Her brow
knit. Once again, she was surprised such questions dropped into her head from nowhere. It confirmed once
more that she somehow knew this region, or a place much like it. That she was in some way connected to the
land to consider crops and growing seasons, or even the topographical lay of the valley for farming.
As Jenna led her across the yard, their boots scraped through the mud-streaked snow to the loose gravel
beneath. The tire tracks were melting away.
How many vehicles do you have here? Isabelle asked. She was still on a mission to find out all she could
for herself.
Jenna shrugged. Three or four bikes and a few quads. Ren and Patrick have trucks.
Isabelle kept fishing. Oh, I saw a bike in the barn, but it was in bits.
Joey and Noah are fixing it up between them. It s an old bike Ren found for them to work on.
Was the tractor a project, too?
We ve always had it. I think Ren fixed that up herself. It was here before I arrived.
It was the opening she d been waiting for. Where do you come from, Jenna? What do you all do around
here? Apart from fix machinery.
Jenna gave her a sideways look. I came in from Ontario. And we fix fish around here.
Fish?
There s a natal stream for sockeye running through this valley. We farm the eggs for the big hatcheries in
Bella Coola, and keep a pink channel.
A pink channel? Isabelle had no idea what that was.
It s a man-made river with flow control. We use it to raise salmon fry. Ask Ren, she ll maybe take you down
and show you. It s more conservation than commercial.
It sounds fantastic. Baby salmon. Isabelle wanted to go and see the pink channel now, but her stomach
groaned again and food took precedence. It had to be the fresh mountain air giving her the appetite of a bear.
The cookhouse sat opposite the bunkhouse. Isabelle noticed there was no woodsmoke hanging over its
shingled roof; the stove must be stone cold with breakfast over for the morning. Still, she would soon have
Ren s old burner lit up for cooking. The thought cheered her up. She needed routine in her life. She needed
function and structure.
Jenna stepped up onto a wide porch that ran the entire length of the building. It was furnished with an
assortment of chairs and bench tables. Isabelle guessed this was the gathering place on balmy summer
evenings when cool breezes wafted down the mountainside. It offered a fantastic view of the valley and its
perpetual crown of snowcaps. It had to be a wonderful place to sit and eat outdoors, no matter what time of
year.
She noticed Jenna was a little breathless after the walk. She pushed open the door to the cookhouse without a
glance at the majesty around them, too busy concentrating on her breathing. Isabelle followed, entering a
huge, modern kitchen. It was not at all what she expected. No primitive wood stoves burned here. This room
was fitted out to a very high standard with professional kitchen equipment.
Well-scrubbed wooden countertops wrapped around two walls of the room. Two large refrigerators stood
shoulder to shoulder near the entrance, and a huge propane range in gleaming stainless steel sat against the
far wall. A double drainer sink stacked with drying dishes was tucked in under a large picture window
opposite the door. Whoever did the cleaning could dream the chore away looking out at the distant mountains.
The windowsill was lined with more of the hand-painted pots and plants Isabelle had seen in Ren s bathroom
window. Sunshine poured through the glass and bounced off the shiny surfaces, bathing the room with
warmth. The range pulsed out heat, along with the mouth-watering smell of baking bread.
The center of the room was dominated by a long pine table with bench seats. Paperbacks and magazines on
all manner of interests lay scattered over it. Some were for a younger age group, and Isabelle imagined these
were for Mouse. It was obvious this was the real home hub, not the barren bunkhouse. The butter yellow walls
resonated with goodwill and homeliness, and Isabelle could see by the way Jenna bustled around the kitchen
that she was its heartbeat. This was her space, her domain.
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