The Heirloom Brides Collection (19 page)

“For me?” She looked over at him.

“It’s not much….”

The newspaper crinkled in her grip, but she barely moved.

“Well, let’s see, Wren,” her mother said kindly.

A gentle tug on the string and Wren opened the first bundle, pulling out a pair of dark blue mittens that were embroidered in vibrant colors. Her bottom lip fell a little, awe showing in her green eyes before she blinked the emotion back some.

Tate spoke softly. “Those were made by an eighty-year-old
Sami Duodji
.”

With a fingertip, Wren touched the wrists, which were decorated in colorful knots of red and gold. A glorious, curving pattern detailed the backs of the hands. Tiny stitched flowers sprung off the twists, formed with such detail she couldn’t begin to count the hours the woman must have sat with needle in hand.

“What does that mean?” Ansel asked, rushing through the open doorway with his brother.

“A Sami Duodji? It’s an artisan from way up north in Lapland.” When Ansel looked just as confused, Tate chuckled and promised him a geography lesson soon. It would have to be when he was feeling better, because right now, his head was spinning. And with Wren suddenly looking at him with wet eyes, his heart pounding.

“Oh, Tate,” she murmured. “I can’t take these.”

“They’re a gift.” He drudged up a wink. “You have to.”

“Thank you.”

She said it softly. Just enough to give him hope that she might one day forgive him. Tate swallowed hard, willing his heart back in its place. He had a bad habit of getting ahead of himself.

“Those, as you might guess, are from Norway. And this one”—he touched the package she was yet to open, then fought a wince when he used the wrong arm—“this one is from England.”

“England?” She turned the package—wrapped in a lace handkerchief—over. “You were in England?”

He smiled a little, wondering if he would one day get to tell her the tale. “For just a short while.”

The embroidery on the handkerchief bore her initials, yet it looked aged, as if it had borne them for a life much longer than her own. “What for?” she whispered, clearly overcome.

“Just open the package, Wren.” His gentle tone matched hers.

Wren pinched the knot and unraveled it. The handkerchief fell opened in a whisper. Inside were thin paper packets. Seeds. Wren turned them over to reveal that each one was laced with a faint, delicate script. She squinted at the writing.
Forget-me-nots.
Then turned to another.
Hollyhocks.
Another said
Pansies.
With an unsteady finger, Wren traced the curlicue on the
P.

Then she seemed to realize that beneath the seed packets was a small book. Tate’s vision felt unsteady, but he was pretty sure her hands were trembling as she opened it. She glanced over to her mother, who was watching with shining eyes. Wren gazed down to the pages that fell still when her fingers did. The same airy script filled every available spot. Closing it again, her thumb grazed little dips on the leather cover, and Wren turned it to see
W.C.
in worn gold lettering.

Her grandmother Willow.

“How did you…” She blinked quickly as if to ward off tears.

“I used a map.” He smiled, though the rest of him felt unsteady. “England’s actually quite easy to find once you walk in the right direction.”

“You walked to England?”

“I was somewhat close. It took a bit of asking around to find her, but the folks there were friendly. She was surprised to see me standing on her stoop, but…” Despite himself, he smiled again. “I think she knew who I was—”

“Tate?” Wren’s voice seemed distant.

He realized he was still trembling. Mrs. Cromwell must have noticed, for suddenly she was pulling the boys away with an order to wash up.

The twins did as they were told, though they pushed and shoved the whole way, reminding Tate of his brothers. Jase had always been the biggest, but Tate and Timothy had been scrappy enough to take him if they teamed up. Tate thought of Timothy, who was still at sea. How many days and weeks had they spent by each other’s side? Through gales that tugged at their fur-lined hoods to seas so calm they could see their reflection over the bow of the ship as the sun darkened their backs.

The crunch of ice beneath their two-man saw. The sea’s freezing spray in their faces.

“Would you like a blanket?” Wren whispered.

Standing over him, she lowered herself to a crouch.

“I’m all right.” But he was so cold.

In her hands she held a bowl. He could only guess it was the poultice. She motioned for his arm, then replaced the cooled rag with a smear of warm herbs. He watched her face—some reaction. A wince or even outright disgust at the inflamed cut, but she worked quietly, a thoughtful look in her eyes. A trace of worry. When she finished, she rinsed her hands, then carefully wrapped a thick bandage around his forearm. Sealing in the steaming herbs that already soothed.

She looked up at him. “Just…” Lifting her hand a little, she hesitated. “I’m sorry, I just need to check you.” She touched his jaw, then the side of his neck. Her skin so, so cool.

The fight long since dead in him, he closed his eyes. She said something to her mother, which he didn’t hear. Then a bowl of soup was in front of him. Followed by a slice of crusty bread and butter. He waited for grace and ate slowly, struggling with only his left hand as he’d done for days now. Exhaustion tugged at him. The air in the room hot and heavy.

Though the soup was rich and filling, he couldn’t seem to reach the bottom of his bowl. Or was he no longer eating? Again, a hand to his forehead, fingers grazing gently into his hair. He heard Wren speak to him.

“You should go lie down.”

Yes. But he wasn’t sure how.

Her arm slid behind his back, and she gripped his side. “Come on,” she urged, rising. “Up you go. You can lie down in the guest room.”

“No, I’m fine.” He shook his head to force the room into focus and spotted the ladder. “I can get up there.” He was slow up the rungs but managed. In the loft, he spotted the bed, and casting not a care to pants or boots, laid down and let the world go black.

W
ren slid her bare feet from the sheets. She rose, grabbed her robe, and wrapped it snug around her nightgown. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed half-past midnight. Thinking of Tate above and the fever he’d gone to bed with, she debated as to whether or not she should check on him. From his spot in front of the door, Destry tipped a floppy ear and lifted his brown head. The dog looked at her—quiet and still. Wanting to reassure him that nothing was wrong, Wren scratched the top of his head.

Straightening, she nibbled her bottom lip. Dropped her hands to her sides.

There was a time in her life when she and Tate hadn’t been friends. Though they went to the same schoolhouse with a dozen other children, she hadn’t spoken to him until a few days after her ninth birthday.

Each student in school was to bring something from home. An object that was dear to them, then tell the class about it. Wren had toted in a teapot that her father had brought from England as a young man. With his body growing weaker with an ailment he couldn’t seem to cure, she had prepared a little speech about his childhood, including his mother, Willow Cromwell. An Englishwoman who, by the tales, had a grand heritage.

Wren had shown the teapot and told of how her father had left the small manor where he was raised to study naturalism in these American woods. A pair of school chums had later teased her for the rest of the day. Curtseying and calling her Lady Wren. Wren had tucked the teapot out of sight, wishing she could disappear as well.

She was sitting on the side of the schoolhouse at day’s end, still swiping tears, when a tall boy came around and spotted her. He’d knelt, his eyes as golden-brown as the acorns beside her fingers. She’d known before he even introduced himself that he was Tate Kennedy. A new student at school. He hadn’t attended before, as his parents kept him and his brothers home to work.

For the show-and-tell, he’d brought in a Civil War canteen—describing the different aspects of soldier life. The strap was broken, and the children had snickered. Though Wren knew from her parents’ quiet conversations that the Kennedys were much poorer than her own family, Tate had talked on as if he hadn’t a care in the world, proudly displaying what he’d brought. A few years older than her, they hadn’t spoken yet, but he took her hand that afternoon, pulled her to her feet, and said he would take tea with her any day.

She’d smiled at that.

As they had walked toward her home, he’d asked more about her grandmother, her family, and her father’s knowledge of plants and animals. He told her how nice her name was and that wrens were considered small and inconspicuous but that their songs were complex. How they were even known to sing in duets.

Wondering how he knew all that, she asked as much, and he confessed that he read a lot of books. Something about not having been to school before. Learning at home when he could carve out the time. She’d asked about that as well, and he told her how he worked the fields—potatoes, corn, and wheat, depending on the time of year. Then she’d told him that she’d never seen a war relic quite like his. He’d grinned over at her. Her cheeks had long since dried by the time he’d escorted her to her door.

“Thank you for the walk, Little Bird,” he’d said, smiling.

The following day, he was waiting for her after school and picked up their conversation right where they left off. He walked her the rest of the week.

And the next. For two years, until necessity forced him back to the fields. And though he never set foot in a school again, he was rarely found without a book in hand.

Now Wren glanced up at the ceiling. She was fooling herself if she didn’t confess that she was desperate to check on him. Never liking to be far from her, Destry wined when she climbed the ladder. Wren took care to listen that Tate was asleep before lifting her head above the opening in the loft floor.

The bed creaked when Tate shifted. Wren climbed quietly to a stand. She stepped across the floor, certain the rickety boards would alert her mother to her presence here, which was just as well, for she really didn’t want to be up here alone.

She felt his neck, and a brush of her hand against his shirt only sealed the damp fabric to his skin. Wren hurried back to the loft opening. “Mama,” she called down. “I need you.”

At the sound of stirring, Wren knew her mother wouldn’t be but a moment. Wren moved back to Tate’s bedside. Even in the dim moonlight, she could see that he still wore his boots. She unlaced the first and was starting on the second when her mother appeared.

After sliding a candle to the nightstand, Mama felt his skin. Next, she moved to the window and opened it. A cool breeze trickled in. “I’ll brew a tea for his fever. He needs it to fight that infection, but we oughtn’t let it rise any more. That damp shirt needs to come off. Better wake him.” She moved back down the ladder.

Wren patted his hand. “Tate, wake up.”

He didn’t stir.

“Tate. I need you to wake up.” She patted more firmly, then moved her hands to the sides of his face to try and wake him that way. He was burning up. And not stirring. Quickly she listened to his breathing. It came out ragged. Rushed. Before she could change her mind, she started on the top button of his shirt. And then the next.

Nothing to it.
But it felt like a lie, especially as she moved to the one below it, the tips of her fingers grazing the smooth dip in the center of his chest. She was relieved that he was asleep. Then again, if he were awake, she wouldn’t be doing this. Her nervous hands stilled.

“Tate!” She called to him louder. “Wake up.”

He groaned and moved to roll over.

“No, no, no.” It took all her strength to hold him fast.

Suddenly he grasped her wrist. She bit back a yelp at both the jolt and fierceness of it.

Eyes clamped shut, he mumbled something about what had happened to the last man who’d tried to rob him. His grip burned on her arm.

By the size and strength of him, fear twisted her stomach, and knowing of nothing else to do, she spoke her name to him. His hand gentled. Air lodged in her throat; she waited, realizing that though his touch was tender, he wasn’t letting go. Eyes still closed, his voice was husky as he whispered words in a language she didn’t know. Gentle words. His thumb traced across her fingers. Sweat dripped down his temple. He finished with her name on his lips.

Her eyes smarted. “Shhh,” she said softly. “It’s going to be all right.” She dared not move until he laid back. Her hand cooled as his own fell away.

Chest rising and falling slowly, he seemed asleep.

Best just to hurry and get it over with. She worked her way down the buttons of the shirt, and when the last was freed, she knelt with a knee on the edge of the bed. Leaning over him, she slid her thumbs beneath the collar, pulling it away from his neck and down, baring his shoulders.

Her cheeks flushed.

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

This wasn’t Tate. Not her Tate.

Oh, but it was.

Wren! Don’t think!

She slid the shirtsleeve past his bandage ever so carefully. Moving around the other side of the bed, she lifted his shoulder and tried to coerce the rest of the shirt from beneath his back. The damp fabric clung to his skin, lodged beneath his weight. He stirred, muttering something about blueberry pie and half a deck of cards before falling quiet.

Hovering over him like this, Wren didn’t realize how loud she was breathing until she clamped her mouth closed. Just another tug, perhaps.

“Wren Cromwell!” Her mother blurted.

Suddenly pulling too hard, Wren fell back against the end of the bed with an
oof
!—the shirt victoriously in her grasp.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I did it!” Wren uttered in triumph.

Humor warmed her mother’s face as she carried another flickering candle over. “I can see that.”

“I’ll wash this tomorrow.” Wren set the shirt aside and moved to the washstand, where she rinsed and wrung a rag.