The Heirloom Brides Collection (23 page)

Tall and steady, he plucked up his pack.

“You’re not going to Kentucky, are you?”

His brow pinched. “Right now?”

“I—I thought maybe you were.”

“This late in the afternoon?” He said it dryly, then hefted what she now realized wasn’t but a half-empty pack.

At a loss for words, she asked where he was going. Tate just eyed her curiously, took her hand to help her up from the dirt, then started off the way he’d been heading.

Destry circled her, whining. As if torn.

Wren watched Tate walk out over the low hill. It was there that he slowed as a stranger drew near to him. They shared a few words, and nodding, Tate pointed back to the house. The stranger—who she assumed was the same man from earlier—limped toward Wren. After watching the man for several steps, Tate turned and vanished over the hill. By the look of the strange man’s small, worn satchel, he was a traveler. Wren greeted him and, after leading the silver-haired man toward the house, brought him to her mother, and they swapped familiar introductions. Destry sniffed at the man’s shoes.

The dog had an uncanny way of greeting guests, and with his coat smooth and settled, tail wagging, he gave every indication that the guest—who she learned had hailed from Virginia Beach—was about to pass the test.

Which meant they would have company for the night.

Knowing she couldn’t stand in the yard all evening, Wren led the way to the house. Mama showed their guest—a Mr. Parkinson—to the front bedroom as Wren fetched the packages Tate had left on the table.

“Have you an idea where Tate is heading?” she whispered to her mother.

Stirring a pot of stew on the back of the stove, Mama just shook her head. Puzzled, Wren toted the bundle to the back bedroom.

Promising their guest water as soon as it was hot, Wren reached for the stack of plates. A little
thunk
had her glance over to see Mr. Parkinson hanging an old coat on the rack behind the door. She offered him soap and a rag, then filled his basin from the steaming kettle.

His quiet thanks clipped to an end when the twins elbowed their way toward the house. With slicked-back hair and shining faces from the pump, they entered with a scuffle. Odin reached out a hand of greeting to the stranger, and as if not wanting to be outdone, Ansel did the same. Wren smiled at the way they suddenly acted like little men. She bid Mr. Parkinson to take a seat. He thanked her heartily for the stew she placed beside him, then slipped her his charge. Wren tucked the coins in the tin can beneath the wardrobe in the bedroom.

As was always the way with company, supper passed in a flurry of conversation.

Yet still, Tate didn’t show.

When the road-weary guest was fed and settled in his room, which he requested for several nights, Wren sat on her narrow bed. A frog croaked beneath the open window as she splayed Tate’s small brown envelopes out. Seven packets in all. She gave each a rattle, smiling at the bright jangle of the tiniest seeds, the
clickity-clack
of the larger ones. She thought of her grandmother, who had shared a love of gardening with her. Though they’d never met, letters had journeyed back and forth since Wren was old enough to hold a pen. Recipes, stories, even a few drawings… and Wren had felt a little less lonely in the world.

She turned her attention to the book and studied each page slowly. Her grandmother’s writing was so small and fine, it would take some time to read through the many entries with care. She spotted
self-seeding
in reference to hollyhocks and
Mrs. Thompson’s favourite
beside a drawing of English lavender. And on another page,
Do not place Queen Anne’s lace on the table when Beatrice is coming to call. It put her into a sneezing frenzy.

Wren let out an airy laugh, struck afresh by how much her father and grandmother had shared the same pluck. The twins were no different, and she loved them all for it because she herself had always been too sensible. Too orderly and practical. Which had the daring Tate Kennedy winning a lot more than smiles the day they’d met.

A fresh ache in her chest, Wren closed the book and tucked it in her lap. She blinked out the small window.

Running fingertips over her forehead, she closed her eyes. Why, oh why had she told Tate she couldn’t take them? This was a gift indeed. Desperate for sight of him, Wren rose and strode to the front door. Opening it she saw the last bits of daylight fading on the horizon. She glanced out the dimming window. There was no sign of him.

It wasn’t until any trace of the day was but a memory, everyone quietly in bed, save her and her mother, that Wren heard the door open again.

Tate ducked out of the night and looked at her.

Mama glanced up from her sewing. “We missed you at supper.” She went to stand, but Wren motioned her down.

“I’ll put something together,” Wren said.

“You don’t have to do that.” Tate looked at her.

“I don’t mind.” She gave him a smile, knowing he deserved much more.

His brow furrowed, but he sat. She poured him cider, then sliced bread, cheese, and pickles. She added a hefty dollop of apple butter to the bread and carried the full plate to Tate. He thanked her and ate quietly. Mama went out to the porch rocker. The silence wore on, and after breaking off another piece of bread, Tate glanced around the small room, and Wren was struck by how alone he looked.

“Thank you for the gifts,” she whispered.

He lifted his head.

She stepped closer and, still trying to make sense of this afternoon, placed her hand on his shoulder. Knowing only what lived in her heart, she kissed his cheek softly. A thrill shot through her at the warmth of his skin. She nearly regretted the action when she saw how taken aback he was by it. In little ways, she could see the boy she remembered, but it was a man that was wearing those stunned eyes that peered up at her and in the deep-timbred voice that whispered, “You’re welcome.”

His gaze fell to his shoulder where her hand had just been.

“I’m so sorry for earlier. Might you accept my apology?”

Slowly, Tate nodded.

“I’ll plant the new seeds tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll keep those lovely mittens as well, if you’d let me.”

“Might you wait a little while?”

“For the mittens?”

A light hit his eyes. “To plant the seeds.” Setting his fork down, he unfolded his napkin, thumb fiddling with a frayed thread. “Could you wait a month, perhaps?”

A month? With spring here, it was the perfect time.

He must have sensed her hesitation. “Two weeks, then?” Which was followed by a wince of regret. But he pressed on. “There’s something… there’s something I want to do first. If you could just maybe…” He searched her face. “Trust me.”

The very thing he’d lost. The very thing she wanted to give him the time to rebuild.

“Will you trust me?”

She wished she could give him the answer he wanted, so she gave the best she had. “I’ll wait.”

W
hile Wren had mentioned the incident about getting lost in the boat with a sparkle in her eye, once she had been genuinely in danger. More than once he’d led Wren on an adventure that had gone asunder. More than once he’d put her safety at risk by his own fool-headedness.

God help him, he wouldn’t do it again.

Surveying the land he’d spent four years working toward, Tate prayed that he wouldn’t do it again. He’d spent countless hours thinking about the land. Deciding where the house should go, a barn, and a well. All the things needed to support a family. Tate crouched, picked a blade of spring grass, and tore it in two. He looked out across the meadow, a thousand thoughts whirling in his mind. Wren didn’t need a ring from him. She didn’t need promises. She needed so much more.

And with this blasted gash on his arm, he knew he was going to need help. Because he’d just sealed himself into a tiny window of time—two weeks.

Two weeks? To build Wren a whole house.

There was timber to be had nearby, but he couldn’t swing an ax just yet, which meant he’d needed to find someone who could. He hadn’t been about to ask his brother, which left few options. So he’d spoken to Mrs. Cromwell, and she’d agreed that the boys were old enough. He’d promised to pay them as Mr. Paddock did. He knew what the extra money would mean to Wren’s family, and he could play a role in teaching the boys carpentry, a skill that would surely come in handy down the road.

Which was why Ansel and Odin had walked with him to the meadow this morning, axes slung over their thin shoulders. And why they were standing behind him now, one of them clearing his throat.

Rising, Tate nodded for them to follow him across the meadow and toward the woods that bordered his—and hopefully Wren’s—land.

Tate had spent the time before breakfast watching the twins sharpen the ax blades, and now with a hefty prayer that he’d bring them back home in one piece, he led them to the creek bottoms where they set to work. The twins had assured him that they’d been chopping firewood for years, and Tate tried to rest in that as he showed the eleven-year-olds which trees he wanted to come down.

Swinging the ax with one arm, Tate made a gash in a tall, slender oak. “You can start here, Odin.”

“Yes, sir,” the lad replied solemnly.

“Keep your feet squared and a good grip on that handle.”

Odin nodded.

Tate explained how the tree would fall where they’d direct it, and after Odin chipped away at the trunk, Tate helped him form the wedge for a precise fall.

“You yell ‘timber’ when it starts to give.”

Odin nodded again.

Tate stepped back and watched him work. The twins were good listeners and caught on quickly.

At Odin’s shout of “Timber!” the first oak snapped, and after a few long seconds of leaning, it crashed to the forest floor. Never had Tate seen such a moment of pride on a young man’s face.

Letting Odin rest, Tate set Ansel up for his turn, and by the time he had promised to have them back for dinner, seven thin trees were felled. Tomorrow Tate would have to brave a visit to his brother to see about borrowing a wagon, but for now, he left the logs where they lay and, with a pat on Ansel’s back, led the twins toward home. As promised, the boys ate quietly, saying not a word to Wren as to what they were up to.

Tate watched her sweep beside the hearth, her broom making a soft
swish-swish
sound. That brow of hers folded in confusion at their evasiveness.

“Will you be back for supper?” she asked her brothers, who exchanged glances before looking to Tate for direction. Having advised them on absolute silence, they were proving to be excellent students.

“Absolutely.” Tate gave her a smile, which only seemed to confuse her more.

The three of them walked back to the meadow side by side, and while Tate had mused over the idea of felling a few more trees, he knew the boys would be sore enough in the morning as it was, so they spent the rest of the afternoon staking the corners for the house. Tate had spent the last year envisioning the layout, but now, standing in the very meadow he’d promised to Wren years ago, he suddenly felt overwhelmed.

“What do you think?” he asked the twins. Using his hands as a frame, Tate held them up. “A kitchen window here? It faces west, which would catch the sunset.”

The boys looked at him as if they’d rather be catching frogs than sunsets. Tate chuckled, then set them to work breaking up the sod to lay the footings, which left him to worry about windows and doors and nineteen-year-old females. Tate twisted his mouth to the side. He had just enough money to spare for six windows. If he hewed the floor, doors, and furniture himself, that would leave enough to live on a little while and buy seed corn and potatoes for planting.

Seeds. Planting. Farming. The very existence he’d once tried to run from. How much of his life had he spent in the fields? How many years had he toiled under the sun amid the whisper of the wind through shoulder-high wheat? Counting off the days of his life amid rows upon rows of something steady and sure and common. It clashed in his mind mightily with the memory of a seagull’s cry. The creak and moan of a great ship and the shouts of a hundred sailors at the sight of dry land. A clearing storm. Whales cresting beside the bow.

As a yearning for the latter life rose, it was tempered with the memory of missing her.

Of missing her so fiercely he was willing to trade the wonder of the sea and of distant lands for the chance to simply see her face again. The determination had turned to a prayer, and that prayer had led him back here. A prayer that he could build her something strong and safe. A steady place to call their own.

Clipping the blade of his ax against the nearest log, Tate stripped away branches. He worked until his arm burned, then let Odin take over. It was a simple task really. Something a boy would learn from his pa at a young age. When Odin got off to an unsteady start, Tate directed him with each splice of the ax, and Odin’s instincts soon kicked in. Tate smiled at that and the way the young man’s concentration hinted at memories of Mr. Cromwell with the very same expression. The way the man had befriended Tate when he was that same young, green age.

Wren had been twelve when her father passed away. Dr. Cromwell had once described his ailment in terms Tate hadn’t quite understood, but it had whittled the man’s body away until there was little left to bury. It was only weeks prior that Tate had requested a few minutes at Mr. Cromwell’s bedside. Knowing the man was fading fast, Tate had asked him a question—if he might marry his daughter. She was still a girl really, but Tate had wanted to give Mr. Cromwell the chance to answer him and for the doctor to hear his vow that he would cherish her always.

A wet sheen in his eyes for reasons Tate couldn’t even begin to imagine, Mr. Cromwell had consented, asking only two things in return.

The first was that Tate not dabble around with her affections. A bit embarrassed, Tate had scratched his head, and with a sparkle in his fading eyes, her father had simply told him to make sure she was of age and better yet that there was a wedding on the horizon before he even so much as thought about kissing her. Tate vowed that he would hold to that.