"Here it is, Inspector, Endicott's campsite last night. His trail leads off towards the west. Shall we camp here or continue our pursuit?"
"Let's camp here. No use exhausting ourselves. And there is a supply of fresh water already on hand. Would you prefer to prepare dinner or pitch the tents?"
"Tent, not tents, sir."
"Excuse me, Constable?"
"Well, sir, it seems that when Constable Pelletier assembled our packs, he must have determined that there was no reason to carry two tents as we would already have to carry food for five days. He was after all, instructed to pack light and for winter camping. A single waterproof tent with extra insulation is preferable in these conditions to two lighter tents."
"I guess that makes some amount of sense," The inspector replied grudgingly.
"It will make more sense when we don't wake up cold in the morning."
"Fine I'll pitch the tent. What sort of nourishment did Constable Pelletier pack for us?"
"Looks like lots of beef jerky, some dried fish, dehydrated fruits and vegetables and pemmican. I think I can throw something together. The weather and wood supply are such that we can have a hot meal tonight without giving away our location."
As Inspector Thatcher pitched the tent and set out the sleeping bags, she stole several covert glances at Fraser as he was bent over the beginnings of a cooking fire, always diverting her glance just before he looked in her direction. She stood up from tying down the last of the guy wires, took a step toward the tent, and almost tripped over one of the packs she had yet to stow in the tent. She turned around to find Fraser not even half a meter from her. She froze, startled at his close presence. He leaned around her, reached into a bag, and, smiling, pulled out a cooking pot. Not saying a word, he nodded and headed back to the fire. The inspector took a deep calming breath. He always had this effect on her. Especially after the incident on the train. 'Focus on the mission, Meg,' she thought to herself, "only the mission."
As the sun sank, Thatcher and Fraser ate their dinner. Thatcher lifted a spoon full of stew to her mouth, expecting it to be the barely edible but nutritious trail food she had eaten on other field assignments. She was quite surprised at the lightly spicy flavor of the broth and the tender but not over cooked bits of vegetables and meat. The quality of the dish was on par with some of her favorite restaurants in Toronto. She knew that Turnbull had a knack for baking, but she never knew that Fraser had quite a talent in culinary endeavors. She looked up at Fraser and asked "Where did you find the vegetables for this stew? They are unfamiliar, but quite good."
"This time of year produces some of the most delicious, yet not commonly known foodstuffs, especially in the wetlands surrounding northern creeks like this one. The fibrous roots of the kinachoot plant we spotted earlier compliment the beef rather well. Almost as well as moose."
"Kinachoot? The psychoactive one?" Thatcher was appalled that Fraser would subject her to anything that could affect her mental acuity while they were in pursuit of a fugitive.
"Yes, sir. But boiling them in a stew has two advantageous effects. The first is to soften them enough so they are acceptable for human consumption. The other is to nullify the psychoactive substances."
"Ah, well. The stew is… satisfactory. Thank you, Constable," she said as she finished her bowl of soup, and had another.
When the dishes were done and the fire was banked, they both turned toward the tent. They nearly ran into each other going through the tent flap. They looked up and their eyes met. Fraser looked away first.
"I'll just, um, go for a short walk."
"All right, Constable."
After Fraser had left, the Inspector closed the tent, turned on a small lantern and began to get ready for bed. Fraser, who had returned to get his toothbrush, looked at the image cast on the tent wall of his superior officer pulling her shirt over her head. He watched for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it. But clearing such images from his mind was not as easy as a simple head shake. He let his mind wander back to watching her pitch the tent. There had been plenty of opportunities to observe his superior officer from various angles. He had tried to resist taking advantage of opportunities she had unwittingly provided, but he was ashamed to admit to himself that he had not been successful.
He walked back away from the tent without his toothbrush.
When he returned, the inspector was already in her sleeping bag, laid head to foot with his own. Their packs were tucked into the outside edges of the tent, as is standard layout taught in the Academy for the most efficient use of tent space. Fraser entered the tent and closed the flap behind him. Thatcher was turned away from his bag apparently already asleep. Fraser undressed down to his RCMP issue red long johns, crawled into his sleeping bag, and with a quiet "Goodnight, Inspector," fell asleep.
Or at least tried too. He can still smell Thatcher's shampoo over the pleasant aroma of her. He could almost feel her presence so close to him. It was quite some time before he could fall asleep, as memories of that train ride played through his mind.
Thatcher, for her part, was also awake trying to banish thoughts that have no place between two members of the RCMP working closely together, much less officer and subordinate. After far too long, she heard Fraser's breathing steady into that of deep sleep, and she, too, could rest.