Tuesday Tales: From the Word FINGERNAIL

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Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Welcome to this week’s edition of Tuesday Tales. We are days away from the official start of Spring. Are you ready for it?

Tuesday Tales is a weekly blog that invites you into the inner thoughts of a select group of writers as they work on their novels. This week, we have a word prompt, FINGERNAIL, which means our posts will be 400 words long. I continue with my historical romance suspense, The Price of Courage.

Lucien scowled. That logo was familiar since the French West India Company had taken control of the fur trade after the Compagnies des Cents Asssociés had its charter revoked by the king last year. Didn’t Guy suspect they might be behind the plan to destroy the settlement?

Knowing neither he nor Okwaho would sleep in a dead man’s bed, Lucien retraced his steps, the sheet of paper held tightly in his fist, his fingernails leaving imprints in the brittle paper.

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Stepping off the ladder, he entered the cells, looking for anything that might identify the men who’d been prisoners here. Nothing. Moving into the kitchen, he discovered someone had ransacked it, removing whatever foodstuffs it had once held.

“Maudit merde,” he cursed, his teeth gritted.

No one had sickened and died here. The story the fake Bouchard had given him had been a cover up for a prison break and murder, but why now in the dead of winter? Of course, it could’ve been planned weeks, even months, earlier. What had tipped the odds in their favor? Why choose to leave at this time of year?

Since the house was built similarly to most farmhouses, Lucien shoved the heavy kitchen table aside and lifted the woven rug covering the floor. As expected, he found a trap door leading down to what was a storage area. Opening the trap door, he angled the candelabra into the dark and expelled the breath he’d been holding. No bodies. So where were they? Unlike the kitchen, none of the supplies had been taken. In addition to food, there were heavy coats, scarves, tuques, and boots, enough for at least four men, which begged the question where were the others, and why hadn’t Bouchard and his men availed themselves of these riches? Obviously they’d left in a hurry. Leaning back, he let the door fall into place once more. Okwaho could have a look tomorrow and see if any of it might be of use to them. While he would never steal from anyone, taking what could be of use to the living from men long dead could hardly be considered a crime.

The door opened and the Mohawk entered, dragging the toboggan inside, the sled holding not only their supplies but enough wood to see them through the night.

Thanks for visiting. On Tuesday and later, don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.