To Love and to Cherish (24 page)

“Forgot?” Thomas sucked in air and blew it out. “In two seconds’ time, you forgot?”

“We could go after it.” Eli’s lower lip trembled. “You could still get it.”

“You disobeyed me, son. You put yourself in danger. That tells me you aren’t as old as I thought you were. You’ll hang the rifle up in my bedroom until I decide you are ready to hunt.” In any event, Thomas had no desire to hunt an animal as dangerous as a coyote with his eight-year-old son in tow. He bottled up his anger—brought on by fear for Eli’s recklessness—and lowered his voice. “We need to get back. It’ll be dark soon, and there are chores to be done.”

“But we didn’t get the turkey.” His face crestfallen, Eli ducked his head and kicked at the snow with his boot. “Groossmammi will be disappointed in us.”

Eli was the one disappointed, but he had to learn.

“You scared away every turkey within five miles.” Thomas started walking. “Lesson learned, I hope.”

Together, they trudged through the trees toward the open field. The dirt road that led to his house was just behind it.

Now that there was no need to be quiet, Eli didn’t say a word. Thomas understood his disappointment, but right now, he was more concerned with teaching Eli to behave himself properly on a hunt. Otherwise, he could hurt someone—or himself. Thomas wanted that coyote dead, but he would get it another time. The right time.

The
clomp-clomp
of horse hooves made him look up. James Daugherty and his wife Susannah drove toward him. Thomas could see where Helen Crouch got her roly-poly build. She looked just like her mother. He tipped his hat to them. “How goes it?”

James doffed his hat. “We had to pick up a few last-minute things in Bliss Creek. We have a houseful of visiting relatives here for Thanksgiving.”

“Good for you.” Thomas expected them to keep moving, with all the preparations they surely had to make for tomorrow. To his surprise, James tugged the reins and brought the buggy to a halt. His wife craned her head at him, an earnest look on her face. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow for a piece of pie? Helen is baking. She makes the best pumpkin pie in this part of the state.” Susannah looked so pleased with herself. “I’m sure your mother won’t mind if you stop by after her feast. Bring the kids. Rebecca loves to play with Betsy.”

Another thing Helen must’ve inherited from her mother—the gift of gab. Thomas plunged in when she stopped for air. “Thank you, but—”

“No buts. The more the merrier!”

“Fine. I’ll…we’ll be there.” Flustered, Thomas backed away. “I better get moving. Chores to do.”

“Wonderful. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Still looking pleased with herself, Susannah kept waving even as they moved off down the road.

Thomas shook his head.

“What, Daed?” Eli looked puzzled. “Don’t you like pumpkin pie?”

Thomas stared at the disappearing buggy. He liked pumpkin pie just fine. It was the matchmaking that bothered him.

E
very muscle in Emma’s body sagged with relief. She sank onto her bed and sat still for a few minutes. The sheer joy of being in her own house and in her own bedroom buoyed her. Annie’s tiny, ladylike snores told Emma her sister had succumbed to sleep not long after her head hit the pillow. After wondering aloud where Catherine was, Annie had been too tired to wait up for her. Courting maybe? Emma hoped so. Catherine might be moving on, leaving the horrors of last summer behind.

She brushed her hand over the rough patches of the quilt. Perfectly stitched with love and laughter. Nothing like that in the hotel room. The lovely quiet of her home deserved its own prayer of thanks after the relentless noise of the city. Even in the middle of the night, noise beat at the windows—people argued, horns blared, sirens screamed. The trash trucks clanged every morning with their huge pincer-like lifts that whined and shrieked under the weight of the enormous trash bins in the hotel parking lot.

Emma slid under the cold blankets and breathed in the nippy air. No dry heat like the hospital. She embraced the cool freshness as she stuck her hands under her pillow and snuggled closer. Her fingers encountered something hard and square. Surprised, she pulled the package out and squinted at it in the murky darkness. It felt like envelopes.

She threw back the covers, snatched her robe from the hook, and
tugged it on. Shivering, she padded downstairs and lit the kerosene lamp. She held seven envelopes tied together with a white ribbon. Catherine’s neat script covered a note slipped under the ribbon.
Carl left these for you the day after you went to Wichita. He made me promise not to tell anyone and not to read them. I kept my promise
.

Emma ran her fingertips over the top envelope. It was addressed to her in Carl’s outlandish, swirling cursive. It looked yellow with age. Nibbling at her lower lip, she plopped into the rocking chair. Her legs felt too weak to hold her. What did Carl hope to accomplish by giving her these letters? He had been right not to correspond with her during his long absence. But now, now she could know what he had been thinking and doing during those difficult days after he walked away. While she cooked and sewed and cleaned and tried to forget. Her mind said to let it go. Not to rip open old wounds. But her heart, despite its still tender scars, wanted to know.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully pulled out the flap on the first envelope and removed the folded paper with trembling fingers.

Emma folded the letter and slipped it back in its envelope. She blinked back burning tears. Carl counted on her forgiveness. He thought of her as being better than she really was. In her mind’s eye, she could see him pouring over his books, studying, doing algebra problems just as he had in school. Always quick with numbers, he delighted in trying to stump her. Their friendship began in the schoolhouse. Those had been lighthearted, carefree days.

She held the stack of letters to her chest and willed the tears not to
fall. Despite her best efforts, a few refused to obey. They slipped down her cheek, traitors every one of them. She wiped at them with the back of her nightgown sleeve. It came away wet. If Mudder were here, she’d shake a finger at Emma and remind her of the importance of a handkerchief. Mudder. Emma longed to hear her soft voice, so full of love and wisdom. She’d know what to do. Mudder would tell her to get a backbone. Chin lifted, Emma swiped at her nose. She was a mess. She straightened her sagging shoulders and sniffed hard. A creaking noise made her jump. The front door. Someone was coming in. She stuffed the letters under her robe.

“Emma? Are you all right?”

With another quick wipe of her face, Emma turned to face Catherine.

Her coat tucked over one arm, Catherine gave her a tentative smile. “What are you doing up so late? I thought everyone would be asleep.”

“I guess I’m off track because of the time at the hospital.” Emma swiped at her face with the back of her hand.

Her expression suspicious, Catherine cocked her head. “Have you been crying?” She stuck her hand in her apron pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and held it out. “Your eyes are red and your nose is running.”

“I could be getting a cold.”
God, forgive me a small lie
. Emma snatched at the handkerchief. She needed to move the conversation away from the telltale signs on her face.
“Danki
. What about you? It looks like you had a good evening.”

“I’m…I was…just you never mind!” Her smile grew brighter. “It’s late. I’d better get to bed. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day of thanksgiving.”

She started to turn, then stopped, her smile gone. “Did you find the letters?” She frowned. “I almost didn’t accept them, but then I thought that it wasn’t for me to decide. You could return them, if you wished.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We should get to bed.” Gripping the letters, Emma stood. “Tomorrow will be a great day.”

Her face puzzled, Catherine nodded. “I’ll be up as soon as I get a drink of water. Pleasant sleep.”

Upstairs, Emma slid the letters back under her pillow, the best place for safekeeping. She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, contemplating whether she would read more. Her head and heart continued to argue. Carl had given her the letters to reestablish a connection severed by time and distance. Instead of going forward, they were going backward.

Emma knew that. She also knew she would read the rest of the letters. It would be like picking at a hangnail. She couldn’t help herself.

And Carl knew that.

H
er shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, Emma shuffled down the stairs and padded through the living room. A cup of hot coffee would help keep the pre-dawn chill at bay and chase away the cobwebs left from spending time reading a letter instead of sleeping. Resolutely, she pushed away the thought of those letters, safely tucked under her pillow. Thanksgiving ranked as one of her favorite days of the year. She wouldn’t allow it to be spoiled by ancient history. She glanced at the windows. A tiny bit of pink streaked the dark above what must be the very edge of the world, heralding a dawn yet to come.
Thank You for another day
.

The first thank you of a day dedicated to giving thanks. She smiled. Their first Thanksgiving without Daed and Mudder. The painful prick subsided after a few seconds. Daed and Mudder would be present in each one of her brothers and sisters and each one of her aunts and uncles and cousins. She would be thankful for the wonderful memories of two loving, caring parents. She would be thankful for all they had taught her, how they’d brought her up in the Plain ways and helped her build a fortress of faith. For that she was determined to be thankful.

Besides, they had much to do to prepare the food they would take to Uncle Noah’s for the feast. But first chores had to be done and then they would gather for devotions, as they always did on Thanksgiving
morning. She headed toward the kitchen. Soft voices mingled, rising and falling beyond the doorway. She slowed. Someone had risen earlier than she. That didn’t happen much.

She cocked her head, listening. Maybe Annie had decided to make one more pecan pie or another pumpkin pie. That would be so like her. She sometimes sang church songs as she worked. No, it was Luke’s deep voice mingled with Leah’s softer, higher voice. Emma approached the door, intent on saying good morning and praising the day. Something in the murmured tones made her bide her time. She peeked around the corner.

Luke stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hand on Leah’s enormous belly. Emma started to back away. Neither her brother or sister-in-law seemed aware of her presence. Luke had tears on his cheeks. “I am thankful for this, Leah, believe me.”

“You’ve been so far away for so long, I’d begun to think you no longer cared for me,” Leah whispered. “Or for this baby.”

Luke’s face contracted. “It’s hard for me. You know that. It’s hard for me to say the words. You want me to be someone I’m not. You think that’s easy for me?”

“As hard as it is for you, you know I need to hear those words. Not every day, but often enough to know.” Leah’s voice faltered. “Every day I’m thankful for you. I’m thankful for my boys, but living here is hard.”

Emma winced. She had to do more to make Leah feel that she lived in her own home now. They all did.

Luke’s arms went around Leah in a hard embrace. “Forgive me?”

“What’s going on?”

Emma turned at Josiah’s voice. She lifted a finger to her lips. He slipped closer and peeked around the corner. To her surprise, he smiled and jerked his head toward the living room. Alarm raced through her. He wore his coat. The sling that cradled his arm close to his shoulder was gone. “You’re not leaving, are you? Where are you going?”