Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel by Ruth Glover
Authors: Ruth Glover
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unexplored, most of it still unsettled, Birdie snapped the map back into place and turned, cheeks pink, eyes bright, face alive with her enthusiasm. Turned, to find a man of massive proportions standing, hat in hand, on the other side of her desk.
Big Tiny.
Big Tiny—Wilhelm Kruger—was not unknown to Birdie. Church, Sunday dinners, and school functions such as the Christmas “concert” and Field Day had been times of getting acquainted with the parents of her pupils. Big and Little Tiny lived on his homestead alone, wife and mother having met the fate of so many women of the day and place—death in childbirth.
Perhaps it was his size, perhaps it was the twinkle in his eyes, but Big Tiny Kruger tended, for some foolish reason, to intimidate Birdie Wharton. And so when she spoke now, it was sharply.
“Heavens! Don’t creep up on a person that way!”
“Creep?” Big Tiny repeated, his cheeks crinkling as laughter touched his eyes. “Me, creep?”
It was ludicrous, having been wrung from Birdie in reaction to being found defenseless, relaxed, guard down.
The pacs on the big man’s feet—a leftover reminder of colder days—had quite successfully silenced his advance from door to desk.
“You surprised me, that’s all,” Birdie defended, making an attempt to settle her ruffled feathers.
“I should have knocked,” Big Tiny was quick to offer. “I’m sorry.”
Knocked, on an open door? And apologizing for not doing so?
Birdie found herself flushing, a most unacceptable reaction. Would a flush—caused by aggravation—look like a blush? Birdie Wharton despised, above all things, blushing, simpering women.
“I was studying the map,” she felt impelled to explain. “That’s what had my attention.”
“Ya, I saw.” Big Tiny, a dozen years or so from the Old Country and speaking and reading English very well, still showed strong traces of his roots in his accent and speech. “It has Bliss on it?” he asked, his gaze going over her head to the maps, once again neatly rolled.
“No, Bliss is far too small. But it does have Prince Albert—”
“Ya?” Interest lit the broad face, shone in the blue eyes, eyes that showed an intelligence often overlooked because of the slow speech, the patience, the stolidity of the man. “Would you mind pointing it out to me?”
“Of course not.” Actually, it was the delight of her life, and Birdie turned again to the wall, pulled down the map of Canada, and fondly pointed out the meandering line that was the river Saskatchewan, locating Prince Albert and the Y and Bliss’s approximate location.
“There are no red men along the Saskatchewan, I’ve heard it said,” the big man said.
“You are right,” Birdie said, surprised. “Swarthy, brown, or dusky is what they are. The explorers and fur traders recognized that and stated as much in their journals. That’s probably where you learned it. Are you a reader, Mr. Kruger?”
“Only a little, I’m afraid,” Big Tiny said quickly. “Books—they are hard to come by. And when I was in school, in the East, we never studied about the Cree in the territories.”
Quick to notice an opportunity, Birdie said, “I could see that certain books come your way, if you’re interested. Are you, Mr. Kruger?”
“Very much. I’d like that!” Big Tiny said from his great height. “You could send them with Little Tiny—that is, Nelman. I’d take good care of them and see they get back to you safely.”
Birdie looked up speculatively at the big man, face shining with good humor and expectation. “Did you know,” she said on impulse, “that among the chiefs—Sweet Grass, Poundmaker, Red Pheasant, and the others—Big Child was actually a small man for an Indian?”
Big Tiny, so called because he was large, threw back his head and guffawed delightedly. Apparently there was drollery in Indian camps, as in white.
“Right here,” Birdie said, pointing to the map and in spite of herself taking pleasure in
Big Tiny.
Big Tiny—Wilhelm Kruger—was not unknown to Birdie. Church, Sunday dinners, and school functions such as the Christmas “concert” and Field Day had been times of getting acquainted with the parents of her pupils. Big and Little Tiny lived on his homestead alone, wife and mother having met the fate of so many women of the day and place—death in childbirth.
Perhaps it was his size, perhaps it was the twinkle in his eyes, but Big Tiny Kruger tended, for some foolish reason, to intimidate Birdie Wharton. And so when she spoke now, it was sharply.
“Heavens! Don’t creep up on a person that way!”
“Creep?” Big Tiny repeated, his cheeks crinkling as laughter touched his eyes. “Me, creep?”
It was ludicrous, having been wrung from Birdie in reaction to being found defenseless, relaxed, guard down.
The pacs on the big man’s feet—a leftover reminder of colder days—had quite successfully silenced his advance from door to desk.
“You surprised me, that’s all,” Birdie defended, making an attempt to settle her ruffled feathers.
“I should have knocked,” Big Tiny was quick to offer. “I’m sorry.”
Knocked, on an open door? And apologizing for not doing so?
Birdie found herself flushing, a most unacceptable reaction. Would a flush—caused by aggravation—look like a blush? Birdie Wharton despised, above all things, blushing, simpering women.
“I was studying the map,” she felt impelled to explain. “That’s what had my attention.”
“Ya, I saw.” Big Tiny, a dozen years or so from the Old Country and speaking and reading English very well, still showed strong traces of his roots in his accent and speech. “It has Bliss on it?” he asked, his gaze going over her head to the maps, once again neatly rolled.
“No, Bliss is far too small. But it does have Prince Albert—”
“Ya?” Interest lit the broad face, shone in the blue eyes, eyes that showed an intelligence often overlooked because of the slow speech, the patience, the stolidity of the man. “Would you mind pointing it out to me?”
“Of course not.” Actually, it was the delight of her life, and Birdie turned again to the wall, pulled down the map of Canada, and fondly pointed out the meandering line that was the river Saskatchewan, locating Prince Albert and the Y and Bliss’s approximate location.
“There are no red men along the Saskatchewan, I’ve heard it said,” the big man said.
“You are right,” Birdie said, surprised. “Swarthy, brown, or dusky is what they are. The explorers and fur traders recognized that and stated as much in their journals. That’s probably where you learned it. Are you a reader, Mr. Kruger?”
“Only a little, I’m afraid,” Big Tiny said quickly. “Books—they are hard to come by. And when I was in school, in the East, we never studied about the Cree in the territories.”
Quick to notice an opportunity, Birdie said, “I could see that certain books come your way, if you’re interested. Are you, Mr. Kruger?”
“Very much. I’d like that!” Big Tiny said from his great height. “You could send them with Little Tiny—that is, Nelman. I’d take good care of them and see they get back to you safely.”
Birdie looked up speculatively at the big man, face shining with good humor and expectation. “Did you know,” she said on impulse, “that among the chiefs—Sweet Grass, Poundmaker, Red Pheasant, and the others—Big Child was actually a small man for an Indian?”
Big Tiny, so called because he was large, threw back his head and guffawed delightedly. Apparently there was drollery in Indian camps, as in white.
“Right here,” Birdie said, pointing to the map and in spite of herself taking pleasure in
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