WRITERS NOTE
Hello, after a long break I am finally back, sorry for the wait! I would like you to know that I have rewritten and updated the earlier chapters as well, also combining the old chapters 3 & 4 into one. A re-read isn't necessary, as the essence remains the same, however it might be nice to refamiliarize yourself with the story. Thank you for reading, hoping for reviews :)
The following day, dinner was an extra quiet and tense affair in Thomas's household. The events of the previous night still weighed on him, leaving him both exhilarated by the mystery and apprehensive about what lay ahead. His day had been filled with efforts to locate the puppy's owner; he had spent hours speaking with neighbors, inquiring up and down the main road, and even scouring nearby farms. Unfortunately he had returned empty-handed and a bit discouraged. Despite this, he had finally managed to wear down his father's initial resistance and gain his approval to keep the puppy.
"I've had enough of your incessant whining - fine," his father relented with an exasperated sigh "You'll feed it yourself, you'll train it yourself, and if it dies - you'll bury it yourself."
Thomas quietly celebrated. He was careful not to argue when his father added, "And it'll be sleeping in the stable, not in the house."
With a subdued nod, Thomas accepted the condition. He ate his dinner quietly, grateful that his father had not caught wind of his true activities the previous night. Thomas had concocted a flimsy yet plausible story about finding the puppy during an innocent walk, a tale his father seemed to have accepted without much scrutiny.
After dinner, Thomas cleaned up, hoping the gesture might ease any lingering doubt in his father's mind. Once the dishes were put away and the table cleared, he slipped outside, making his way to the stable where his new companion waited.
Inside, the puppy was exploring the straw-strewn floor with a mix of curiosity and caution, its small nose twitching as it investigated the earthy smells of hay and wood. Now dry and fed, the little creature looked far healthier than it had the night before, and Thomas felt a wave of pride at seeing how quickly it had perked up.
Thomas crouched down, extending his hand towards the little creature. The puppy sniffed his palm tentatively before licking it, its tiny tail wagging with shy enthusiasm. Thomas sat beside it, feeling a warm sense of companionship fill him as he contemplated a fitting name for his new friend.
He ran through a list of potential names in his mind - each more unsuitable than the last. Nothing seemed to capture the spirit of this unexpected arrival. But as the hours grew late and the stable settled into the quiet hum of night, Thomas decided that the name could wait. He gave the puppy one last pat, ensuring it was comfortable and safe in its makeshift bed of straw.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispered, the warmth of the puppy's breath on his hand a gentle reminder of the life he had saved.
The next morning, the sun was barely up when Thomas was woken by his father who had yet another task prepared for him.
"The hides and furs from your hunts are done curing," his father said, "they need to be sold. The meat moves quickly in towns like Carmedy, but the furs - those will need a trip to Charlottetown."
Charlottetown was a good distance away, a journey that would take the better part of the day.
Before he could muster a response, his father added, "And while you're at it, you should pick up some more ammunition. I see that we're running low."
"Consider it done," Thomas groggily replied, his tone betraying his lack of enthusiasm.
As Thomas shrugged off his shirt and reached for his travel clothes, his eyes caught sight of the suit he had worn to Barry's party. The memory of that night, with its unexpected revelations rushed back to him. A spark of an idea flickered in his mind - perhaps this trip to Charlottetown could serve a dual purpose.
Thomas quickly donned his travel clothes and descended the stairs. He found his father in the yard, inspecting the saddlebags and ensuring they were securely fastened to the horse.
"Can I ask you a question?" Thomas ventured nervously, fiddling with the strap of his coat.
His father, who rarely entertained idle chatter, looked up with narrowed eyes, signaling he was listening.
"The other day, at the town hall meeting," Thomas began, choosing his words carefully, "I was wondering, did you catch the name of the company that issued the soil testing certificate?"
There was a tense pause as his father's eyes bored into him, evaluating the question. Thomas shifted his weight, the silence stretching on uncomfortably. Finally, his father told him the name of an institution in New York.
Relieved, Thomas nodded. He had been counting on his father's keen eye for detail, and he wasn't disappointed. Without pressing further, his father returned to adjusting the saddlebags. Thomas gave a silent sigh of relief and turned to mount his horse, but his father's voice stopped him.
"Your revolver?" his father inquired, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Thomas sighed. He didn't particularly enjoy lugging it around, but his father insisted on it for protection during long journeys. He trudged back inside, retrieved the weapon, and strapped the holster securely to the back of his belt, hiding it under his coat.
Back outside, he gave his father a final nod, a gesture that was returned with a grunt of approval. He mounted the horse and set off down the path, the steady clop of hooves echoing in the quiet morning.
Charlottetown bustled with activity as Thomas rode into town, the city alive with vendors calling out prices, carts clattering along cobblestone streets, and townsfolk chatting in clusters. He guided his horse to a familiar corner near the market square, where a shop window gleamed with all manner of goods: from tanned hides to rare spices and trinkets from far-off cities. After securing his horse, he collected the hides and pelts he'd brought, feeling their rough weight in his arms as he walked toward the merchant who he was already accustomed with. A quick exchange of words and a handshake later, he was paid, his pockets feeling satisfyingly heavier.
With his father's tasks in mind, Thomas next made his way to the gun store. The smell of gunpowder and oil permeated the air inside, and racks of rifles lined the walls, some polished to a high gleam, others worn and scarred with use. He approached the counter, greeted by a burly shopkeeper who raised an eyebrow in surprise at seeing Thomas again but then nodded approvingly as he listed his needs.
Now, with his father's tasks complete, he could focus on his own personal the shop, he scanned the street until his gaze settled on a small, unassuming building with faded paint and modest signage: the post office. Here, he hoped to take the next step in his quiet investigation.
He walked inside, noting the gentle hum of activity. The counter was staffed by a middle-aged man whose thin spectacles rested low on his nose. The man barely glanced up from a pile of paperwork as Thomas approached.
"What can I help you with, young man?" the clerk muttered, his eyes not leaving the page in front of him.
Thomas took a breath, steadying himself. "I'd like to send a telegram."
The clerk finally looked up, peering over his glasses with a hint of skepticism. "Do you now?" he said, his tone dismissive. "Well, telegrams aren't exactly cheap. Perhaps you'd best run along home."
Unfazed, Thomas reached into his pocket and produced a small coin purse, jangling it softly to show he could pay. "I've got coin," he said firmly.
The clerk's expression shifted, the glint of coin evidently enough to earn his attention. "Very well, then," he said with a resigned sigh, sliding a telegraph form across the counter. "You'll need to fill this out with your message."
Thomas took the form, feeling the weight of his purpose settle over him. This was his first time using a telegram, and he realized how crucial it was to get his message right. He started writing out his request to the geology institution in New York, describing the certificate, his suspicions, and his need for confirmation. But as his words filled the lines, he saw the clerk watching him with a raised eyebrow.
"Best keep it short, lad," the man interrupted, tapping the price board mounted on the wall. "A message that long will cost you nearly half a month's pay."
Thomas frowned, casting a quick glance at the price per word and feeling a bit foolish. Setting the paper aside, he began again, this time focusing on the bare essentials.
He handed the form to the clerk, watching as the man reviewed it with a nod. "This will be sent off soon," he said. "Now, how would you like to receive your reply? You'll need to give us an address."
Thomas hesitated, realizing that having his father discover a telegram might raise difficult questions, yet gave his address in Avonlea anyway.
The clerk wrote down the address with a grunt of approval. Then came the payment. The price felt high, but he reasoned that the answer, if he got one, would be well worth it.
"Your message will be sent shortly," the clerk said, tucking the paper away. "Now, if you've nothing else, I've got work to do."
Thomas thanked him, tucking away the receipt with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety. There was little left to do now but wait and be patient. With the telegram dispatched, he made his way back to his horse, ready to begin his journey back home.
It was late afternoon by the time Thomas arrived back in Avonlea, the sun dipping toward the horizon and casting a warm, amber glow over the fields. Luna, his faithful mare, moved at a relaxed pace, her steps steady but slow after the long ride. Thomas stroked her neck, whispering a quiet word of gratitude for her endurance as they approached familiar territory.
He felt the day's journey weighing on him and was anticipating a quiet evening, but another, more insistent urge pulled him in a different direction. As he was passing by Green Gables, he thought of stopping by, telling Anne of his suspicions and what he'd been up to today. He found himself pulling the reins, guiding Luna toward the gate without a second thought. Just as he drew closer, doubt began to creep in, whispering at the edge of his mind. What if he was wrong? He had nothing concrete, just suspicions and a telegram sent off to a far-off institution. Surely it was unnecessary, maybe even foolish, to involve Anne.
Caught in his indecision, Thomas barely registered that he had arrived. By the time he looked up, he was already in front of the house, staring at the whitewashed porch and the soft lamplight spilling from a window. With a sigh, he dismounted, securing Luna by the fence. Steeling himself, he walked toward the house, his steps hesitant.
Just then, two voices broke the gentle quiet of the afternoon air. Thomas froze, recognizing the figures on the porch: Mr. Dunlop and Nate. They hadn't noticed him yet, so intent were they on a heated, whispered exchange. Their voices rose just enough for him to catch fragments - something about an arrangement, a timeline - before both men turned sharply, eyes landing on him.
"Hello," Thomas said, forcing his voice to sound steady.
Mr. Dunlop's face lit up in a smile, almost too quick, too bright. "Well, if it isn't young Thomas," he said warmly. Nate, however, remained silent, watching Thomas with an unreadable gaze, his eyes dark and wary.
"Is Anne home?" Thomas asked, his tone casual, though his pulse quickened. "I was hoping to speak with her."
Mr. Dunlop's expression softened into a look of polite regret. "Ah, I'm afraid not, lad. She's over at the Barry's for the afternoon."
"I could convey a message, if you'd like," Mr. Dunlop offered.
"No. No, that's all right," Thomas replied a little too hastily, "It wasn't important."
Thomas offered a polite farewell and turned to head back to Luna, sensing Nate's gaze like a weight pressing between his shoulder blades. He mounted quickly, keeping his composure until he had rounded the bend in the path and was out of sight.
Back on the porch, the air felt thick with unease. As Thomas's figure receded down the road, Nate turned to Mr. Dunlop, his mouth set in a thin line. "Do you realize who that kid is?" he muttered, his voice tight with irritation. "He's the one who was snooping after us back in Charlottetown."
Mr. Dunlop raised an eyebrow, his skepticism barely concealed. "When we robbed the French kid? Are you sure?"
Nate's expression darkened, his jaw clenched as he kept his eyes on the road. "I didn't recognize him before, but he fits the description exactly. What's he doing snooping around here?"
Mr. Dunlop shrugged, casting a dismissive glance at the empty path. "What's there to worry about? He's just a kid. Avonlea's full of them."
"I don't like it," Nate replied, voice low and simmering with suspicion as he watched the lingering dust from Thomas's departure settle back onto the road.