The Heirloom Brides Collection (28 page)

So this was what he’d been doing. Had… had someone hired him? Perhaps he had been working to save his money. But remembering his words from the day before, something else was rising up inside her. The realization that he had wanted to meet her. Here.

The jolt that had her pressing her hand to her stomach.

He hadn’t…

No. Not possible. She drew closer and, with a final glance around, hiked up her skirt and climbed over the low wall. Even before she landed in the grass that would someday be a floor, she saw the lunch pail Odin had forgotten the day before. Her pulse beat faster, rushing hot through her when she spotted a pallet in the far corner. A few blankets and a pillow. All askew, but all very clearly…

Tate’s.

Wren’s chest lifted as she forced herself to draw in air. She released it in a rush, suddenly dizzy. It was well past four now. Where was he? Overwhelmed, Wren turned. She looked around at the rough-hewn logs and sank down on unsteady legs. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but at the sound of cheery whistling, she rose and looked to the west. Tate was walking through the grass, ax slung over his shoulder. The logs rising no higher than her chest, she had a clear view of him. She knew he spotted her when he slowed. He glanced around, then back to her.

“Wren,” he breathed when he drew near. “What are you doing here?” Sweat laced his brow and the breeze ruffled his slit-top shirt. The very one he’d been wearing when the winds had blown him back to her.

“You told me to come. Four…” She gulped, struggling for words. “I believe it’s past four now.”

“No, it’s not.” He glanced up at the sky and studied it a moment, then he lowered his head and thunked himself in the forehead with his fist. “The sun is in the wrong spot in this country.”

Wren didn’t mean to laugh, but a giggle bubbled up.

He squinted over at her—his expression equal parts flustered and amused. “I can’t believe I did this.”

“Tate, what have you done?” She must have said it too soberly, for he smiled.

“Well, as you can see, nothing’s
done.
But this is what I wanted to show you.” He seemed nervous. It was just as well, for she was shaking. “Would you like me to give you the grand tour?” He gripped the top log of the low wall and climbed over, landing on the other side where she stood. He turned to her, that light in his eyes. “I promise we won’t get lost.”

She smiled.

“This”—he motioned around them—“is a house, as you can see.” Then his hand was on hers, warm and strong and perfect. “Here will be the kitchen—I think. And here.” He pulled free to shape a frame with his hands. “Will be a window. But that could be changed. And here”—he pointed up—“will be a loft. There’s still some things to do before I start it. But I thought that would be a good place to put little people.” His eyes widened as if he hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

Biting her lip, Wren took his hand again, missing the feel of it.

He pulled away a moment later only to help her over the side of the house again. He hopped back over himself before leading her around the outside corner of logs. A small picket fence edged this side of the house, and a knobby arbor cast lacy shadows on freshly tilled soil. The warm-springy scent of it rose up, greeting her.

He motioned with his arm toward the back meadow. “There’ll be crops, of course. But this would be just for flowers, herbs. Whatever you like.” He hesitated on
you.
As if just realizing he was making an assumption.

Wren was ever so glad he was. She touched the gate—her eyes taking it all in at once.

He stood silent as if to give her time, then he spoke softly. “Those seeds your grandmother sent with me… there’s a story there that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Turning, Wren gazed up at him.

“I just need you to know something.” He tossed his hand back and forth through his hair. “There were other things your grandmother thought to send that day. She showed me all around the different rooms of her house. Where your father used to play.” He smiled softly as if aware of the bittersweet way that knowledge washed over her. “She sat me down in the kitchen. Turns out she makes really good gingerbread.” He winked. “We talked, and she asked all about me and you and the boys. Everything. We talked for hours. I think she kind of adopted me.”

Her heart bursting, Wren smiled.

“We also sat in the garden for a spell. You’d have loved it. She showed me her potting shed and all around the grounds.” He lifted his gaze to the horizon, then back to Wren. “You might like to know that she had eyes like yours. And laughed just like your father used to.”

Her throat tight, Wren pressed her palms together and leaned against the logs. Felt their strength. Took in his words.

His brow furrowed. “There were other things she thought you might like, but nothing I could fit in my sack.” He flashed her a hint of regret. “Then as we were talking, I realized that she was preparing those little packets. I always knew the two of you swapped seeds, so I didn’t think much of it. But when she finished, she slid them in my hand and said they were for you. For a new beginning.” He tilted his face to the ground and kicked at a clump of dirt with his worn boot. Finally, he looked back at her. “Something about making a home.” His broad throat dipped. “With me.”

A slow draw of air didn’t seem enough time to take in those precious words, so Wren did it twice.

Such vulnerability lived in his eyes. “I was just chatting away about you and all the things I loved about you, all the times we had together… and there she was, planning a garden.” His sleeve brushed hers as he stepped nearer and leaned against the wall beside her. “And…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Skimmed his fingers down the side of his temple.

Wren sensed there was more he wanted to say, but he looked a few moments shy of needing to sit down.

Not wanting him to feel rushed with what he might have to say or, as he’d phrased it earlier, ask, she peeked over her shoulder. “What goes in there?” she asked to try and ease him. Wren looked over the low wall that would surely rise much higher than her head before long. “I mean”—she leaned on the edge and pointed to where the loft would go—“If that’s to be for little people…” Her heart soared at the thought of a family—with Tate.

“Oh…” He followed her gaze to the wide space beside them. “This is for the big people.” He grinned impishly. “I was thinking you and me.” He leaned on the edge of the wall beside her, his shoulder pressing strong against hers.

“I like that idea,” she whispered.

Head bowed between them, his words were soft. “Do you?”

She nodded, which seemed to do something for his nerves, for he smiled again. His eyes were the warmest brown as he bent to kiss her hair. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

She held her breath, having waited for this for so long.

Straightening, he squared his stance. Hope in those eyes of his. “Wren Cromwell. If I promise to never forget to wash behind my neck and to leave my shoes in front of the door only occasionally and to… to never, ever leave you again until the good Lord takes me home, would you do me the honor of being my wife?” Then he quickly added that he would do everything in his power not to snore.

Every hope she’d clung to unfurled. Joy bursting forward. Wren opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

He made a face as if that had come out all wrong. He wet his lips and seemed to struggle before blurting, “Can I try that again?”

But every word had been perfect.

Squinting down at her, he clearly disagreed. “Have you ever heard of the Northern Lights?”

As desperate as she was to answer him, she wanted to let him finish. “No.”

“They’re colors in the sky. Brilliant colors. It would take your breath away.” When he tilted his head to the blue sky, she did the same as if a hint of them might appear. “I watched them shine more nights than I could count, and every time I did, I wished you were there to see them. I know I didn’t write you any letters, but I was writing you in my heart. As I watched those lights color the sky, I sat and talked to you. I probably sounded like an idiot.” He gave her a half grin. “And I wondered what you were doing and if I might have lost you. And it only made me want to work harder and quicker and be stronger so I could hurry up and come home to you and have something to give you.”

Tate watched the sky, and she watched him.

“There was something about those lights. Maybe it was the way they moved or the way they changed. Or the sheer impossibility of it all. Color up in the sky.” His eyes found hers. “And that’s what kept me holding on. That if God could make a miracle like that, then surely He could get me back to you.”

Tears rising, Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. She thought of the way he’d walked up to her that day in her mother’s garden. Having come so far…

“You’re already my best friend.” His fingers grazed her sleeve, reaching around her back, holding her gently in a way he’d never done before. “And life just isn’t right without you.”

Needing him more than she’d ever confessed to him, Wren clutched his sun-faded shirt, then slid her hand to the top of his chest before gripping the back of his neck. She rose up onto her toes. But then he was backing away, only to bump against the side of the arbor he’d built for her. The knobby branches trembled, and he sidestepped, almost stumbling again.

“You’re about to break my promise to your father.” An ardent look in his eyes made her realize how strong his struggle was.

She wondered if so simple a word could ever be sufficient. “Yes.” She stepped closer, and he didn’t back away. “Yes. If you’ll have me.”

He stared at her, then ducked his head, closed his eyes, and seemed to collect himself. As if he hadn’t been certain that would be her answer. Her throat tight, she remembered every moment of their years together. Even the ones spent apart. The ones readying his heart for hers. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Rising back onto her toes, she slipped her arms around his neck again.

A muscle in his jaw shifting, he looked at her—uncertainty on his voice—a readiness in his eyes. “Now, I’ve never done this before, mind you.”

“Me, neither.” She gently tugged his ear, suddenly unsteady for so many reasons.

The boy who had always had her heart grazed his fingers against the waistband of her apron, pulling her closer. There was a warmth to Tate Kennedy. Maybe it was the life in him, his jovial ways. Maybe it was his years beneath the sun. Or the goodness that beat beneath her palm when she pressed it to his chest… the way he had always kept her safe and how he was the only good thing she could remember about the year her father died. Wren laced her fingers into his hair, holding on. The last thing she saw as his faced brushed hers was his smile. And then he kissed her, as if they never had another place to be but there.

“So where are you taking me first?”

Tate looked over at Wren when she spoke. With her hand in his, they walked across the meadow—the sun sinking in the sky just behind them. “
First
?” He squinted playfully. “Who’s going anywhere?”

“Well, you’ve got to take me somewhere.”

“Is that so?”

She smiled up at him.

“How about Virginia Beach? I think you’d like it there.”

Tipping her head to the side, she nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll take you, then. First chance we get. Rent you a cottage, and you can collect seashells.”

She all-out grinned now.

“And then one day, we’ll go a little farther. What would you say to that?”

She squeezed his hand as they walked on. “I’d like that. I’d like that a whole lot.”

Joanne Bischof
has a deep passion for Appalachian culture and writing stories that shine light on God’s grace and goodness. She lives in the mountains of Southern California with her husband and their three children. When she’s not weaving Appalachian romance, she’s blogging about faith, folk music, and the adventures of country living that bring her stories to life. She is a Christy Award finalist and author of
Be Still My Soul, Though My Heart Is Torn
, and
My Hope Is Found
(WaterBrook Multnomah).
www.joannebischof.com
.