The Heirloom Brides Collection (25 page)

He ran his hand over his mouth. His hair was askew. A little cowlick tempting her fingers.

“Um… honestly?” He pressed his glasses against his face. “I don’t know what will happen after this.” He looked up at her. “But I’m hopeful.”

She drew in a breath. Held it. Then let it out slowly. “I wish you the best, my friend.”

Eyes falling closed, he rose and pressed his hands to the table. Tate lowered his head between his arms. He seemed to be fighting something, and when he slowly shook his head, she wondered which part of him lost. “I don’t want to be your friend, Wren.” The words—softer than his touch had been. “I mean…” He peered over at her. “I want to be your friend. I just thought maybe…” His shoulders rose. Then he set his mouth. “Do you still have those seeds saved? The new ones?”

“I haven’t planted them yet.” How she wished she could know what he wasn’t saying.

More so when he straightened, collected the book, and touched it to his heart. “Thank you.”

F
or the next three days, Tate worked on the beginnings of the house with the twins, and each afternoon they pestered him as to whether or not he was going to marry Wren. He’d evaded their questions for the first two days, but by the third, as they hounded him during their lunch break, he gave up.

“I’d like to,” he finally said. “That’s my hope.” Tate finished the last bite of his sandwich and licked the tip of his thumb clean.

“I thought that’s what you were up to, seein’ as you tried to get her to go for a walk with you yesterday,” Odin said.

“How did you know about that?” He was glad Odin didn’t mention the way Wren had politely declined.
Really
glad the kid didn’t bring up how she’d declined the day before and the day before that. Wren’s first excuse had been sheets awaiting a hot iron, and her second involved a pail and a scrub brush, while yesterday she’d simply mumbled something about grubby windows—a sparkle in her eyes giving him a mind to keep trying until she ran out of things to clean.

Odin eyed him. “You do realize what trouble she is?”

“I’ve got an idea.” Tate smiled.

“And she’s awful bossy.”

Tate tipped his head at that, his smile growing.

“And she’ll want you to wash behind your neck, and you’ll never be able to leave your shoes in front of the door.”

“Oh.” Ansel hit his brother’s arm and spoke around his mouthful of rhubarb pie. “Don’t forget to mention the snoring.” He gulped a swallow. “She hates snoring. She’s always throwin’ her pillow at me.” Never had an eleven-year-old’s warning been more somber as he scrutinized Tate. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

Tate gave into a chuckle. He certainly had. Wren could throw her pillow at him any day of the week. He said as much, and the twins made faces that reminded him of himself at that age; when Wren had been by his side and he hadn’t quite known what to do with her. She’d been his friend, yes, but not anything more.

Time changed that awfully quick.

His chest tight over thoughts of her, Tate knew he needed to get back to work. He wiped his hands clean on his pants. The hot sun overhead had faded any trace of the cool morning air. Not wanting to make more laundry for Mrs. Cromwell, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it aside. Within a minute, he glanced over to see the twins doing the same. Their thin chests and shoulders reminding him of his boyhood spent in this very meadow. They watched him, then looked to each other and tried to stand a bit taller and broader. Reaching for his ax, Tate bit his bottom lip to keep a smile from inching up.

By no means had he been small growing up, but without enough food on the table and the hours spent in Pa’s fields, his strength had been lean. Maybe it was hefting 120-pound blocks of ice for seasons on end, but the years away had changed him. Though he wasn’t the only one. Tate thought back to the sight of Wren in the garden but a week ago. Which gave him a mind to carry her—blushing and all—over this threshold.

If he could just finish the threshold. And if she would let him.

Feet stationed on each side of the nearest log, he squared his grip on the ax handle and cut at the notch. While still sore, his arm was holding up all right. Thanks to the Cromwell women, the infection was all but gone, even if he wasn’t exactly following their orders to take it easy. Tate pulled the ax back and sliced it into the soft spruce. Pale woodchips flew, and he did it again.

After years with ice saw and gaff in hand or climbing masts and binding sails, labor calmed him. His body hungered for it. Arms, back, shoulders. With a tool in hand, his muscles began to relax, and sweat formed along his spine. Despite the muted throb in his forearm, he swung and chipped, grateful for this work.

He’d cut so many over the last few days, he could do it in his sleep, but he kept his gaze on the task and carefully scored the end of the log so it would fit against another. Layer by layer, log by log, the walls would grow. It would be a home.

Tate glanced over to see Odin pausing for a break. The boys were working hard. Harder than plenty of the seamen he’d met over the years. He told the lads as much, and they beamed.

Every night that week, he and the twins had collapsed into their seats at the supper table, and more than once, Tate was awoken by Mrs. Cromwell’s gentle nudging. Last night he’d startled awake to mashed potatoes on his elbow and Wren gently shaking his shoulder. He’d blinked up only to see her smiling down at him with a rag in hand. The twins were nowhere in sight, and she admitted to having nudged them off to bed. Starving and more than a mite embarrassed for falling asleep again, Tate downed his supper and thanked her for the fine meal. A smile in her eyes, she’d helped him stand.

He’d liked that. Her closeness. Her thoughtfulness when he climbed up to the loft only to see that she’d turned down his bed for him. She had even left a lit candle so he could make his way in the dark. He’d blown the flame and, missing her company terribly, knew it was time to bring her to the meadow before the week was out. Even if the house wasn’t finished, he’d at least show her what he had.

He felt no fear over that. Only hope.

Panting and lowering his ax, Tate eyed the shape of the foundation the twins had helped him lay. He ran a hand over his mouth. The shape was just as he’d planned it. A quaint front room with a place to dine and a spot for a kitchen. Off that, a bedroom, and above the living space, a loft. It wouldn’t be very large, but it would be cozy. He liked cozy—and had a hunch Wren did, too.

“There he goes again,” Odin muttered. “That silly grin on his face.”

Feeling his neck warm, Tate told the kid to hush up and get back to work. Tate nudged the nearest log with his boot. Already, the house was two logs high, and once it was tall enough to begin thinking about a ceiling, the loft beams could go up. The going was slow, thanks to his arm, but at least it was going. Tate tugged at his hair, counting up the days.

With his request for two weeks, he had five days left.

Which meant he had an ax to swing. Tate gripped the wooden handle and got back to work. He had both ends of the log notched and ready to roll into place by the time the twins had finished off a jar of sweet tea. He’d been working them hard, and with their tasks in the fields, perhaps too hard.

Tate took a few chugs of the tea, remembering what he’d learned of the men who worked under him—how to motivate and reward. “What do you say we get this house three logs high and then go swimming?”

The boys heartily agreed and spent the afternoon making good on the deal. With sweat making a mess of his hair, Tate worked between the boys as they notched, then lifted yet another log. And then another.

When they reached their stopping point, the twins whooped, and Tate went over to his toolbox. He pulled out a squat bag of money that he’d stashed under some nails. Tate counted the bills as the twins watched on with wide eyes.

Freckled cheeks bookending their open mouths, they each took their payment.

“I’ll have the same amount for you again when we’re done.”

“Are you serious?” Odin finally breathed.

Tate made a point to shake each of their hands. “More than serious. You two are working hard.”

Still visibly awed, they stashed the bills in their pockets.

“Do you think…” Ansel began, pulling the bills back out. He peeked at his twin a moment in that silent exchange Tate was getting used to. Then Ansel took Odin’s money, and his own, and handed it back to Tate. “Maybe you’d better hold on to it until we get home. Just so nothing happens to it.”

“I’ll keep it safe,” Tate said, tucking it in his toolbox.

The boys scampered away for their tools, laughing and musing over the things they’d buy if they could. At the top of Ansel’s list was a gun. Odin said something about putting it in the bank. Tate watched them gather their tools and knew they’d give it to their mother when they got home. That she’d tuck it in that hiding spot of hers, and it would put food on the table.

When Tate was their age, he would have had to do the same thing. He would never gripe or complain, because Jase never did. Tate would just stand beside his older brother as they lowered earnings from any side jobs into the can and heard the coins clink at the empty bottom.

He could still remember the autumn when the work never ended. He could never seem to find the end of it. For the good side of a month, all he saw of Wren was on Sunday mornings, and even then they’d only been allowed to greet each other quietly before taking their seats.

For weeks he’d been trying to carve out time to spend with her. It wasn’t until the day the last of the wheat was finally shocked, leaving him with a few unexpected hours of time. And just like that, he’d gone off looking for his little Wren. They’d gone on a walk, some direction never gone before by the two of them. And thanks to him and his ill planning, had ended up getting lost. They hadn’t come home until well after dark.

Jase hadn’t seemed too pleased by that when Tate finally wandered in to find his brother sitting up, smoking a pipe. “Where were you?”

“Got lost in the woods. Why?” Tate had stepped in and closed the door.

“Was that Cromwell girl with you?”

“What of it?”

Blowing a puff of smoke, Jase had eyed him. “Sure you were lost?”

Lowering his hand and his tone, Tate had stepped closer. “Do you have something you want to ask me?”

“Jase, give it a rest,” Timothy had added from up in the loft, his voice just reaching young manhood.

Still eyeing Jase—and aware of his implications—Tate had gone off to bed. It wasn’t until the winter winds had blown in and he and Timothy were elbow deep in snow and ice that they spoke of it again.

“It’s the way you two are always together,” Timothy had said. “I think people have begun to wonder.”

“Begun to wonder what?”

“Why you two spend so much time together. Why don’t you just up and marry her?”

Wondering why people couldn’t just mind their own business and leave him and Wren well enough alone, Tate reminded Timothy that, at fifteen, she was rather young.

“Well, she follows you everywhere you go. It just sets people to talkin’. You might as well just keep your distance for a time. It’ll all blow over.”

Keep his distance? From the best friend he had in the world. And the only thing he wanted when it came to all and forever.

But he’d heeded Timothy’s advice and, after working their time at Shirley Plantation, had kept on down the road. Walking with his younger brother until he saw that glittering gray and blue. Because he’d realized something in the hours before that moment. The moment when his boots first touched the deck of that great ship. That his time with Wren was only making folk talk, and one way or another, that would end up hurting her. Which meant he needed to keep his distance for a spell. Give her the time she needed to grow up. That’s what he told himself anyway, while the crew first lowered the sails, the ship blew from the harbor, and his heart tore in two.

Tate asked her not to plant the seeds. He didn’t say she couldn’t at least ready the soil. And with their guest, Mr. Parkinson, a few days gone, Wren had the time to spare. With a gloved hand, she furrowed her spade through the garden earth and pondered what might go well there. It was nearest to the house, so the hollyhocks would be fitting as those grew tall and spindly. “Then here,” she said to herself, poking at the soil beside the gate. “Can be the lavender. Easy to reach down and pluck a few sprigs when need be.” She’d read in her grandmother’s journal that one of lavender’s many benefits was to slow bleeding. Wren smiled to herself. With Tate around, she would need plenty.

Then she sobered.

What was she thinking? It wasn’t likely he’d be here much longer.

“Tate Kennedy.” Resting back on her tucked legs, she pointed her spade to a fence post as if it were the man himself. “Always making me hope for things I can’t have.” The soil around her shadowed.

“I said no such thing.”

Wren’s head shot up.

Tate grinned down at her, hair damp, an amused expression on his face.

“I was—I was just…”