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Andrew stared at Mr. Glass as they sat together in the small cottage. Scars, familiar to him, were scattered over the man’s chest. He’d sewed those together, but Glass must have tended to them himself afterwards. He could see marks at the skin of his throat. It looked as though it had been burnt.
The horrors he must have experienced. Andrew couldn’t help but think his body was a map over the distance he’d traveled. His encounters with violence and wilderness could be read in everything from the marks the grizzly had left, to the way he bit his marred lips when he spoke of the man who had murdered his son.
Hawk had been so very young.
Glass’s grief was plain on his face. He wasn’t afraid to die anymore, he’d said. He didn’t have anything – anyone – left to lose.
Guilt clawed at Andrew’s throat. It had been his mission, his responsibility, and he’d failed. He had lost so many men. If only they’d left their camp sooner, before the Arikara reached them. If only he’d seen through Fitzgerald’s deceit. If only…
Regretting the past wouldn’t help. He had to find Fitzgerald. He wanted – needed – to do something for this man who had endured so much. Mr. Glass didn’t seem to want his help though. He wouldn’t stay at the fort, where he would be safe.
Andrew could understand that. He felt hatred too, betrayed by one of his own men. But he hadn’t lost his family and been forced to witness as they were taken away from him.
He hadn’t suffered like Glass had, but he would damn well make sure that Fitzgerald did.