The Heirloom Brides Collection (18 page)

When she rolled her eyes, he grinned. Some things never changed.

“It will take a bit for the water to heat.” She snatched up the kettle. “I’ll have it ready in a half hour. In the lean-to.”

He dipped a nod.
“Takk.”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

“Sorry. I meant ‘thank you.’” A hard habit to break, that language.

Her mouth set in a straight line. Did she hate the whole country of Norway? Or just him?

Probably better that she couldn’t answer that.

“You’re welcome.” She turned away.

With her gone, he waited his half hour, trying not to listen to the low murmurs of her and her mother below. A peek out the window showed the twins weeding the neighboring field. Wren’s brothers were mere tots when their father died. Wren had been twelve, four years shy of his own sixteen. He did the math in his head. That was seven years ago, which meant the twins were close to eleven if not twelve. How time flew.

Feeling a tremble, Tate thought of that bath and moved to his pack, but no matter how much he shuffled through it, there wasn’t a clean thing left. He cursed the idea of putting the same shirt and pants on, but that’s what he was going to have to do. Tomorrow he would ask Mrs. Cromwell if there was somewhere he could do his wash. Maybe he’d even take it down to the creek to be out of their way.

With his arm paining him, going down the ladder was harder than climbing up, and Tate was glad when his feet landed on the bottom floor. He shot an exhale against the pain and stepped into the yard. His shirt clung to his skin, and he remembered Wren’s worry that he had a fever.

The lean-to was on the back of the house, the little door propped open. The faint scent of soap hung in the air. He stepped in just as Wren was pouring another steaming kettle into the sloped metal tub. He hated the thought of her doing this work for him, but he’d paid her—and handsomely—and if he knew one thing about Wren, it was that she had a system to everything. He would no doubt be in her way if he started fumbling around.

“You can put your things here on the chair.” She eyed him. “Where are your things?”

“I’m wearing them.”

“Hmm.” She glanced from his threadbare shirt to his face, then moved to the tub and checked the water. Her dark hair, loosely tucked and pinned off her shoulders, caught the light. “Soap here. A washrag. Towels in the cupboard along with a shaving kit should you want it.” She pulled a towel out and draped it over the chair, and turning to leave, she hesitated. “Will you…” She didn’t quite look at him. “Will you wait just a moment?”

“Uh… sure.”

She slipped away, and Tate watched the water steam from the tub, craving everything about getting out of his clothes and climbing in. But he stood as she’d asked him to. She returned not two minutes later with a bundle in her grasp.

“Take these.” She held out the little pile. “These were Papa’s.”

He thought of the doctor’s jovial smile. His goodness. All they’d lost. “Please, I can’t…”

“Take them. If you want, you can give them back.” Her eyes finally found his. “But you don’t have to.” When Tate didn’t move, she held the offering closer.

Slowly, he took the stack of clothing, and with a weak smile and a twirl of her skirts, she left.

T
he room smelled thick of meat and spices. Cooling bread.

Fresh from his bath, Tate ducked into the cabin and fought a wince as he closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat.” Standing at the stove, Wren motioned him to the bench along the wall.

His hair still damp, Tate dropped his bundled clothes on the bench and cursed the fact that he was shivering. In passing, Mrs. Cromwell pressed her hand to his forehead as Wren had done. He feared what Wren might have told her mother when he was gone. They practically asked him where the cut was in unison. If he had any energy left, he would have smiled at that.

Wren was nearest as he rolled back the right sleeve of the shirt she’d given him. He unwound the bandage, then rested his forearm on the table and set his palm up so she could see the stitching that could hide the infection no longer.

Behind him, Mrs. Cromwell cleared her throat. He really didn’t want to see her expression.

“Tate,” Wren breathed out his name. Eyes round and wide lifted to his. “What did you do?”

He relayed the story in a better fashion than he had at his brother’s. Of how his ship had been off the coast of New England—nearly home. How his mates had mixed tuna fishing with too much rum. A poor cast… the rip of the hook across his arm.

Though the sun was still up, Mrs. Cromwell lit a lantern and set it near.

“We need to open those stitches,” Mrs. Cromwell said.

Tate released a thin laugh. “Can’t we just pour more whiskey on it? I have some in my pack.” He tugged the bottle out and set it between them when she traded places with Wren.

“I’m afraid not. Who stitched this?”

“Um…”

Wren watched the exchange. A lie flitted through his mind, but he left it where it fell. “A friend.”

“You needed a doctor.”

“I didn’t have a doctor.”

“Wren, if you’ll boil some water, I’ll fetch my sewing basket.”

Tate sat there as the women bustled about. The door opened and the twins burst inside, followed by the
clackity-clack
of a dog’s paws. Seconds later, a brown mutt crashed into Tate’s leg.

“No, Destry,” Mrs. Cromwell cried.

One part furry, panting mess, one part curiously guarded, the dog backed up, tail wagging furiously against the ground. Wren bent to rustle his ears. The twins spotted Tate and looked about to rush him as well, but Mrs. Cromwell halted them with a promise of supper and time with Tate within the half hour. Clearly disappointed, they obeyed and took in what Wren was making.

“Sugar!” one of them cried. “We haven’t had real sugar since—”

Wren shushed the freckled-faced boy. A few whispered words for her brothers and she shooed them out. The dog, she shooed out as well, but he turned and lay in the open doorway. Panting tongue hanging down, watchful eyes on Tate. Shaking her head, Wren smiled a little. She quietly sprinkled the spoonful of sugar into a cornmeal batter, and Tate prayed they ate this well without company on hand, but by the way she eased the jar onto a high shelf, he feared they didn’t. He hoped she wasn’t going to any trouble for him. He’d eat boiled potatoes a lifetime over if he could just sit across the table from Wren Cromwell.

Her mother disappeared into the bedroom, poured a trickle of water, and returned wiping her damp hands with a towel. “All right, let’s see.” The woman sat across from him again. Having been married to a naturalist who was renowned for his knowledge of homegrown remedies and the body’s ability to heal itself, she turned Tate’s arm slightly and studied the stitches. “How have you cared for it?”

He told her of trying to keep it clean and dry. Changing the bandage every day. And how once he realized something wasn’t right, he’d flushed it with soap and water as hot as he could stand it. When that failed, he’d moved on to the whiskey.

“You did very well, considering.” Mrs. Cromwell slid the bottle back to him and must have sensed his regret when she gave him a kind smile. “These things just happen sometimes.” Lifting the lid on her sewing basket, she pulled out a sharp tool, which he really hoped was just for the stitches. Still, his arm was so tender that the slightest touch shot fire into the tips of his fingers, up to his shoulder.

She motioned with her head toward the glass bottle.

Blowing out a slow breath, Tate uncorked it with his free hand and took a swig, feeling Wren’s nearness as he swallowed the bitter liquor. It warmed him from shoulder to shoulder. Not wanting any more, he set the bottle aside.

Mrs. Cromwell fetched a bowl and filled it with hot water and rags. “Wren, please go to the garden and see if there are any fresh plantain leaves. If not, I have some dried in the pantry. Then start a poultice.” She pressed her finger near the swollen gash, and Tate winced.

With her brow furrowed in clear confusion, Wren stepped out.

Mrs. Cromwell looked at him. “I’m going to need to clean this well. And there is no plantain in the garden right now.”

Tate glanced in the direction Wren had left, realizing what Mrs. Cromwell had just orchestrated. “You’ll do this before she gets back?”

Her response came in the way she lifted her thread cutter and wrapped her other hand around his elbow. Without speaking, she set to work. The first thread snapped, and she had to tug it free. Tate couldn’t even fight the grunt that ground from his throat. He clenched his jaw.

Another snap of the thread and she pulled that slip free, giving it a gentle yank when it was as wedged in as the last. Tate hissed in a sharp breath. Mrs. Cromwell peeked up at him.

“Keep going,” he blurted.

And she did, making quick work with her thread cutter. Pulling the string loose, the gash in his arm burning as if he were being singed by hot coals. Then with water so hot it made his head light, she flushed the cut and cleaned it with her rag. Tate crushed the heel of his boot against the floor. He could do this. He could do this. He could—

“Finished.” Mrs. Cromwell leaned back and gave him a wry smile. “And here I thought you would have sworn like a sailor.”

He chuckled weakly, his stomach feeling like it was upside down. “Complete myth.” He drudged up a faint smile, glad he hadn’t spoken the choice Norwegian words that had rushed his mind. Sweat slicked his brow, and he used the clean rag she offered him.

Mrs. Cromwell smiled as she poured another splash of hot water on the wound. Tate winced, relieved that Wren was just returning.

“This is infected. Which is why it’s so tender.” She worked with quick, practiced hands. A testimony to all the years she’d spent assisting her husband. “And why you’re feverish.”

He nodded and realized just how hot his skin was when she pressed her cool hand to his forehead. From a cupboard, Wren pulled out a mortar and pestle. Next, she fetched a jar from the pantry and set to scooping out dried leaves.

“I’ll put the poultice on it tonight, and that should help.” Mrs. Cromwell adjusted the strap of her apron when it slipped down her shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll replace it fresh. We will do that until it’s better.”

“Thank you.” The words felt so inadequate.

She pressed a warm strip of fabric to it. “This will keep for now until the poultice is ready. Just sit back and take it easy. Dinner will be ready soon.” Mrs. Cromwell set about putting her sewing things away and wiped down the table with a steaming cloth. When the wood was dry, Wren draped and smoothed out a fresh tablecloth. Set a loaf of bread on the center, then disappeared outside. She returned with the twins bounding in after her. They barreled into Tate.

As if on cue, the dog hopped up from his lounging position and sniffed Tate’s boot. His wagging tale thumped the leg of the bench.

“Easy!” Mrs. Cromwell called.

Tate brushed the dog’s head, then gripped the boys’ shoulders one at a time. “Look at you two.” He poured as much strength into the words as he could muster. “As tall as church steeples.”

They flashed him identical smiles and, barely drawing breaths, pelted him with questions.

“Wait.” Tate held up a hand before letting it fall back to his lap. “Which one is which?”

“Odin,” the twin on the left said. “Ansel.” He thumbed to his brother.

Behind them, Mrs. Cromwell made a little motion to hint that they’d switched identities.

Tate chuckled, enjoying the sight of their shining faces, realizing how much they looked like their father, who had been one of the finest men he’d ever known. “I’ve got something for the two of you. It’s upstairs. The pack is by the bed, if one of you can grab it.”

“Really?” they cried in unison.

Tate made a motion of crossing his heart. “And I have something for your ma.” Though already he knew it was so inadequate.

Mrs. Cromwell smiled at him over her shoulder.

“What about Wren?” Odin asked when Ansel beat him to the ladder. He watched his twin climb up.

Stirring a pot at the stove, Wren slowly looked at him. A little lock of dark hair draped one side of her forehead. The setting sun that lay golden against it traced along her cheek, the hollow of her throat.

“I have something for her, too,” Tate said, unable to look away. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, and he swiped it with his arm. Ansel scampered back down the ladder with Tate’s pack slung over his shoulder. Tate took it and, using his left arm, dug down to the secured bundle at the bottom. He finally fished it out and, with Ansel’s help, had the twine-bound canvas undone.

From there, he pulled out a paper-wrapped parcel, which he handed to Ansel for Mrs. Cromwell. With awe in her eyes, she opened it to reveal a white apron. Bold, lacy embroidery in an X pattern ran the length of the hem. She gasped and smoothed her fingers along the airy shapes. “Tate, this is stunning. However did you?”

The side of his mouth quirked up. “I’m glad you like it. It was from a village near Kristiansand.”

“It’s beautiful.” She clutched it and gave him a smile so kind, he only wished he had more to offer. “Thank you.”

“Now us!” Odin cried, and Mrs. Cromwell scolded him gently.

Tate pulled out two whistles. “For the able seamen.”

With grins, they took them and began tooting away, which sent all hands over ears. Laughing, Mrs. Cromwell waved them outdoors. “What on earth are those?” she cried when the noise was mostly out in the yard.

“They’re brass whistles. The same we use at sea. If they get a taste for adventure, I’m so sorry.” But he knew his smile probably said otherwise.

Mrs. Cromwell laughed again. Beneath the bench, the dog whimpered, then rubbed his ears against the side of Tate’s pant leg.

Tate ducked his head to speak to the poor pup. “Sorry about that, boy.”

Wren was yet to say a word, but she was watching it all with wide eyes, giving Tate just enough strength as he slipped a small parcel free, followed by another, which was bound up in a thin cloth. He beckoned her closer, then his fingers nearly touched hers as he handed the bundles over. In a whisper of skirts, she sank on the bench beside his pack and stared at what she held.