The Long Road Home (29 page)

“You found your way out, you old cow!” he shouted with a measure of surprise and pride. Then he thought of his ewes in the northern pasture, and his smile fell. If this snow kept up, all the trees and branches’d be bent over with snow. They’d be corralled up there, unable to roam back to the barn, unable to graze. They could all die.

Seth looked back toward the road. A few feet more and he’d be out of the field. His heart was chugging like a locomotive pulling a full freight, and sweat was dripping down his back. He knew the thing to do was wait for C.W. and his sons to get here. He just had to get to the road, then it’d be downhill all the way home.

“Baaaaaaaa,” came the call from Brutus. Farther away he heard the feminine, higher-pitched bleats of ewes.

Seth shook his head and made up his mind. This was his battle and he meant to fight it. There wasn’t time to wait for C.W. and the boys to get back. His girls had to be freed before the trees started falling. They were up there because of his decision and he’d be the one to get them out. Same as he’d always done.

“I’m comin’, Brutus,” he called. “It’s up to you to settle the ladies.” He turned his back to the road and headed up into the northern pasture.

He wasn’t stupid, he took it slow. Trudge, trudge, trudge, and it was time to take a breather. The storm fought him each step of the way, throwing snow in his face, blowing away his scarf and blanketing the moon and the stars. Trudge, trudge, and he heard Brutus calling nearby. Encouraged, he pressed on, walking uphill against the wind toward an area of thick brush. It was so steep here he had to grab tree branches
to steady himself against the incline. A branch snapped and scraped his face.

“Where are ya?” he called out, winded. “Come here, you old woman or are you gonna make me fetch you in that jungle?” His heart was pounding painfully. He brought his hand up to rub the soreness beneath the folds of fabric and fat. Around him, the wind gusted, catching him full in the face and causing him to swallow in the cold. He couldn’t catch his breath! A stir of panic brought up the hairs on his neck. Despite the cold, he broke out in a sweat.

“Brutus!” he shouted, “if you ain’t one stubborn old…”

In one agonizing, bursting sensation, death strangled his heart and radiated down the left arm. Seth blindly reached out in the darkness, took one final step forward, then collapsed upon the earth. Gasping, his face against the ice, he clawed through the several inches of snow with his bare hand, down to the black soil beneath. Clenching a fistful, he brought it up to his heart and held it there, close, while he suffered his last spasm.

Then Seth lay still, at peace. The earth at his heart and in his nails.

In somber silence Nora and C.W. searched for Seth in the blizzard. Tied at the waist with rope, they headed toward the northern pasture, where the sound of frantic bleating could be heard over the roar of the storm. In the distance they saw the lanterns of the Johnstons bobbing in the dark mountains like a string of holiday lights.

Nora stopped and pulled the rope. “C.W., listen. That bleating is coming from over there.”

C.W. closed his eyes and moved his hat from his ear. “That’s Brutus. Let’s go.” Holding her hand tight, he guided her at a steady pace up the steep incline.

Even with C.W.’s help, it was a difficult climb. With each awkward step her ominous feeling of dread increased. Nora’s instincts alerted her to what lay ahead in the quiet darkness, beyond the brush, pierced only by the occasional guttural cry from the teaser.

As they approached the pasture, Nora balked. The atmosphere of death was overwhelming. “C.W.,” she said, pulling back.

He turned to meet her gaze. Snow and ice hung from the rim of his hat and littered his reddened face. From beneath his brows, C.W.’s eyes shone bright blue with pain.

“I know. I’ll go.”

Nora shook her head and raised the rope that bound them. Squaring her shoulders, she took a step forward, even as waves of fear swept over her.

“Oh, Seth,” was all she could say when she found him, sleeping in the fields, covered with a white blanket of snow. Brutus stood beside him, shaking his head, nudging Seth’s shoulder, searching for grain from the old shepherd who would not awaken.

Nora knelt beside him and gently brushed the snow from his face. He looked peaceful, she thought. Then she saw the earth in his nails, and with a trembling lip, she knew she’d carry that image in her heart for the rest of her life.

“Sleep well,” she whispered before placing a kiss upon his cold cheek.

Turning slowly, she rose and moved toward C.W. The stark pain on his face arrested her advance. He stood, ramrod straight, with his hat clutched in his fists. Snow gathered on his head and ears without notice.

“We must get help,” she said, reaching out for his hand.

He did not seem to hear her but stood still, save for an oc
casional twitch at the corners of his mouth and the quivering of his pupils.

“C.W.?” she called.

He took a deep breath, nodded, then grasped her hand. As he led her out of the thicket, she looked once more over her shoulder, marking the spot where Seth lay in the field.

The snow had already covered his face.

Good news and bad news travel fast in the mountains. Neighbors left their own troubles to suffer the storm and bring Seth home. John Henry Thompson, Fred and Emily Zwinger, Joe and Elsa Cronin, Darryl and Debra Weaver, and others. Kind words, pats, hugs, and tears were shared within the Johnstons’ pale green house. No one sat and commiserated. A storm raged outdoors and there was work to do. Though the feelings ran deep, the words were blunt and to the point. Seth would have approved.

The Johnston family, with the exception of Frank, had retired to Seth’s room to mourn in private. Frank surprised everyone by assuming his role as Seth’s eldest with the dignity and finesse of the old man himself. He and C.W. worked together to organize the following day’s chores and tools. Junior and Zach signed up the volunteers. Dawn was a few hours away, and a full day of bringing in the sheep from the north pasture lay ahead.

“All right everybody, listen up,” Frank called out when he caught sight of a sagging May emerging from the bedroom at one a.m.

C.W. looked for Nora and found her standing at the sink, washing cups and spoons. She had changed into a pair of Esther’s work clothes and resembled a waif in the oversized, folded-up overalls.

“Go on home and get some rest,” said Frank. “There’s
nothing worth doing around here tonight.” Frank’s voice choked on the final word.

Everyone noted Seth’s epitaph in silence and quietly filed out the door. In admiration Nora turned and watched them leave. They were a fine people: unafraid of hard work, accepting of life’s joys and difficulties, and in tune with nature. They formed a family for her, and she felt included in their protective circle.

Seth had left a place for her to fill. She’d worked hard for the spot—she’d earned it. It felt right. With her, the circle would remain unbroken. She could hear Seth smile and say, “Yeh-up. Life is like that.”

C.W. approached her and gently tapped her shoulder. When she faced him, she offered him a reassuring smile. His hand moved from her shoulder to her face, and she rested her head in his palm, eyes tightly closed. “Let’s go home,” she whispered.

There was nothing he wanted more.

NORA AND C.W. LEFT the Johnston house together to climb the mountain to the big house. They cut deep strides through the snow that now reached her knees. In silence they climbed, C.W. pushing back bent branches for her, holding her lantern while she crossed a broken limb, and grabbing hold of her hand as she struggled through drifts.

A quiet peace had settled in the mountains. The battle had been fought, the howling wind was spent. Over her head the clouds slowly dispersed to the south, leaving a hazy moon and a few stars to illuminate the snow below. The ice crystals sparkled in the shafts of light like millions of infinitesimal diamonds.

As the hike grew long and weary, Nora was conscious only of the loud crunch of their footfalls. The steady beat acted like a drummer, keeping them trudging forward in the night. Occasionally, the sharp crack of a snow-laden limb rifled through the still air, followed by the muffled thud of its graceless landing.

They made it to the house after an hour’s climb. Nora was
too numb with cold and grief to care that the electricity was out, the phones were dead, and the temperature inside was as frigid as it was outside. Yet, despite their exhaustion they set to work. They lit fires, lugged logs indoors and hauled jugs of water up from the root cellar. It could be days before electricity was restored. Survival was an automatic response.

Upstairs in her room, Nora sat on her haunches before her rosy-brick fireplace. She carefully laid out a few logs, stuffed newspaper between them, and struck a long match. It left a long trail in the damp flint but did not ignite. She tried another, then a series of them until the logs were littered with thin wooden twigs tipped in red, blue, and green.

Behind her came the sound of a match taking light.

“Allow me.” C.W. bent over and put the small flame to the paper. The dry wood took to the fire immediately, its bark curling in the heat and snapping out bright sparks.

Nora sat back on her heels, absently staring at the leaping flame. Depression numbed her of all the problems that faced her tonight, tomorrow, and beyond. Her lids began to droop and she swayed off balance against C.W.’s legs.

“Come on,” he said gently, taking her by the shoulders and raising her up. “Your teeth are chattering. You must be freezing.”

“I’m okay. Really,” she chattered back.

“Then why do you sound like a locomotive?” His eyes were teasing as he rubbed her shoulders and hands vigorously. “Let’s get you dry.” The teasing in his eyes turned to a warmth that rivaled the fire. He pulled off her jacket, then guided her feet out of the bib overalls, one foot, then the other, rubbing each one in turn. Then he released each of the long row of pearl buttons on her ruffled blouse, his tapered fingers nimble with the tiny plastic disks.

Nora closed her eyes. Half-awake, half-asleep, she felt both
the gentle tugs at her chest and the radiating heat of the fire. Her teeth still chattered and her body shivered, but she let the blouse slide from her shoulders, down her arms, and onto the pile of clothing at her feet.

For a moment nothing else happened. She pried open her eyes. C.W. stood before her, mute, but obviously not blind to her milky white breasts covered only by the intricate design of her lace bra.

“Where are your pajamas?” His voice was as raspy as the wind outside the window.

Nora pointed a shaky finger to the large armoire in the corner. C.W. walked to the chest, yanked open the second drawer as if he knew where they were stored, and pulled out a long, pink flannel gown. He rolled the soft fabric in his palm before handing it over to her.

“Thanks,” she whispered before slipping it over her head. He sighed and turned to go but she reached out quickly to clutch his hand.

C.W. turned, so slowly, that it seemed each degree of the turn was measured. When he faced her, his brows were so closely knit that they formed a long shadow over his doubtful expression. C.W. was still fully dressed for the outdoors in his layers of flannel shirts and socks, covered by a midlength lambskin jacket.

“Where are you going?” she asked. Her shivering stopped.

“Perhaps I should sleep elsewhere. So much has happened. So much to think about. I don’t want to confuse you at a weak moment.”

“It’s too cold out there,” she replied.

He looked at her face, drawn and pale in the flickering light. Her eyes held no promise of passion, but they were warm
and welcoming. Her voice was not trembling with desire, but cajoling, like a mother’s to a favorite child.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she continued. “Won’t you stay by me? Keep me warm?” She paused, whether in indecision or fatigue, he couldn’t tell. “Please?”

He squeezed her hand and held it, searching her eyes for some answer.

She squeezed his hand in return, then quickly turned and scrambled onto the king-sized bed where the mountain of covers invited her in from the cold. She pulled them back and crawled under their folds upon the icy sheets, rubbing her feet together.

Trying to keep her teeth from chattering, she lay back and listened to the rustling noises of C.W. as he removed his layers of clothing. Two thuds, one boot after the other, the slide of his leather belt, and the scratchy hum of jeans falling off of his long legs.

The sound of a man undressing in her room was still somehow unfamiliar. She peered over her blankets at the shadowed figure. In the darkness it could have been Mike, broad shouldered and tall. But when the figure bent to pick up the clothes and lay them on a nearby chair, she knew the athletic grace was C.W.’s. And for sure, Mike would never have bothered to pick up his clothes.

“Come to bed,” she called out to him.

The bed bounced with his weight as he lay down. Then he swept her up in his arms, tucking her bottom close so they lay like spoons. They cuddled in the shared warmth, neither speaking. This was good, thought Nora. Too much had happened tonight. They were tired. They needed to sleep. Yet she was aware of C.W.’s chest rising and falling behind her, and the breath he expelled was too ragged for him to be asleep. As the minutes passed in agonizing slowness, she could feel
through her gown the bristle of each of his chest hairs and his arm felt like a hundred pound weight over her shoulder.

Suddenly, a tremendous crack exploded in the woods. The windows rattled. Nora jumped, and C.W. tightened his arm around her. The ripping noise that followed told of a mighty tree crashing against its brothers, bringing a number of their limbs down as well. It hit the earth with a resounding thud not far from the house, and the aftermath rustling and snapping continued for seconds more. Then all was deathly still.

Nora’s heart still pounded in her ears.

“That must have been a big old tree,” C.W. murmured in reassuring tones. “I doubt it could stand up against the weight of the snow.”

Nora imagined the old tree. Probably one of the ancient maples, she thought, with roots deep in the earth, many rings around its center, father to scores of saplings.

“Like Seth,” she whispered aloud.

She heard him swallow.

Saying Seth’s name brought to surface all the buried sorrow. The darkness heightened the pain and brought back to Nora ghosts of a lifetime of partings: her father, her mother, her grandmother…Mike. Her shoulders shook as she wept, feeling no shame for these tears.

C.W. gently turned her toward him and cradled her head upon his bare shoulder. Nora felt her tears pool against his skin. As she wept, his fingers ran along the fuzzy fabric, gently caressing. She nestled in his arms, gradually settling, rocked by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Why did he have to die?” she asked so softly he had to tilt his ear toward her mouth.

His shoulders shrugged under her head. “It was his time.” He gently stroked her arm. “Seth was an old man with a heart condition. He knew better than to go out there. He took a risk
he shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t afraid. He did what he felt he had to do. Seth often said he wanted to die in the harness.

“But Nora,” he continued, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. “We’re young. We must take risks—risk it all. Don’t you see? Life is a series of risks. Trust, and you’ll sometimes be hurt. Love, and someone will die. Life is joy and pain. If you don’t risk the pain, you lose out on the joy. This was Seth’s final lesson to us.”

Nora swallowed hard. “I’m afraid to die,” she confessed.

C.W.’s fingers stopped stroking. Slowly, deliberately, they traveled up to her face. With his thumb he wiped the tears from her cheeks. With his hand he swept the hair from her face and tilted her chin. She stared into his eyes.

“Don’t fear death. Death is life’s companion. If you fear death, you fear life.” His hand tightened on her chin. “Nora, don’t be afraid to live.”

Her breath stilled in her throat. Suddenly, it was all so clear. What did it matter if she made a life for herself on this farm, if that life didn’t include this man? When she died, what would matter except that she loved and was loved in return?

Nora brought her arms around his neck. “Oh, C.W.,” she cried, her broken voice barely able to speak his name. The emotion was too strong. “Oma and Seth both told me to trust my instincts. I won’t be afraid any longer. I don’t need to know anything more about you than I do right now. Love me, C.W.”

“I love you.” In a rush of emotion, his lips met hers and the vows were sealed.

C.W. lay awake for the remaining hour before dawn. Rubbing his weary eyes, he prayed he’d have the strength to get through the day. He had loved Seth like a father, and he
mourned Seth as any son would. His death turned a page in his life. It was time to write a new entry.

And Nora’s name would be the first word on the blank page. Forever after, what was written about him would include her. Each pronoun would be plural: we, our, us, they, their.

He watched her sleep upon his shoulder. Her hair was golden in the firelight and soft upon his skin. A primal urge surged unbidden. She was his. He wanted to protect her, to ward off others, and to breed within her yet another generation. This feeling stirred in his gut with the knowledge that this commitment to her was not for one night or one year.

His teeth clenched and he resisted the urge to hold her tightly against his chest, to keep her physically close even as her mind drifted far away. He couldn’t imagine life without her. She had come to him like a gift during his bleakest hour, and nothing—not a dollar, not a word, not an act of God—would take her from him.

Yet, his heart was heavy knowing that though their commitment tonight was very real, the play had not yet ended. Tonight she had loved a man called C.W. Until the mask was off, until she knew that Charles Walker Blair was not the villain but the hero, then the play had to continue. Though his intent was good, his lines were false, and still he had to perform. What else could he do? Another act followed, just one more, and he prayed the ending would follow the script.

A wave of weariness swept over him as he heard the throaty call of the bluejay outside the window. The room was dark, and the stillness of the earth sleeping under a blanket of snow gave an aura of peace.

He knew it was just a facade.

Nora woke to a gentle shaking of her shoulders. Roused from a druglike sleep, she was vaguely disoriented. In the
fireplace, the flames had diminished. Beside her, rumpled and with dark circles against his pale skin, sat C.W.

“I know it’s early,” he began, “but we’ve got to get a head-start on the day.” He brushed the hair from her face. “Are you up to working in the fields? I’d understand if you weren’t.”

“No, no. I want to. We’re in this together, remember?”

“Of course.”

He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. The kiss he bestowed on her head was chaste. What she wanted, what she really needed, was a tremendous bear hug and some assurance that everything was going to be all right. She swallowed back her words and told herself to be brave. Yet it was with dismay that she watched him climb from their bed.

“I can’t make you coffee this morning,” he said, scratching his head with vigor. “Hardly the honeymoon. We’ll have to hike down to the Johnstons’ and hope they have electricity. We could be out for days up here.” He walked to the window and looked out. “Do you want to move down the mountain?” he asked in a serious tone.

The gray veil of cold, and the muffled silence told her without even looking that the snow outside was deep. The electricity could be out for days, and there would be precious few comforts after their long hours struggling in the snow. They would, however, be alone. And this was home. “No,” she replied. “Let’s manage up here.”

She stretched then, sat up, and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. The memory of their lovemaking was as fresh as the scent upon her sheets. So was the memory of Seth’s death. She closed her eyes and shielded them with her palm.

The squeeze he gave her chased away her worries like a specter at dawn’s light. That single clutch conveyed the affection Nora craved following a night of lovemaking and commitments.

“I needed that and I feel better.”

“Now, up and at ’em, old girl,” he said with a smile and a tug on her arm that sent her flying.

In minutes Nora was slipping into her outdoor armor: layers of long underwear, multiple pairs of socks and pants, topped with her new thermal bib overalls and a down jacket, two pairs of mittens, a lambskin hat, and a wool scarf.

“You look like the Michelin man.” C.W. laughed.

“I don’t care if I look like the abominable snowman. I’m warm.”

“How are you ever going to survive a winter up here?” He was smiling, but his worry was real.

“Looking like this,” she answered.

“Hmmm, I guess we’ll be spending a lot of time in bed. I’ll keep you warm.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

They were parrying, trying to keep the mood light. For outside, they both knew disaster awaited them.

Nora’s stomach was growling, her head was screaming for coffee, and moisture was already gathering on the scarf across her face by the time she waddled to the door. C.W. was right behind her. With a deep breath, she pushed the door and stopped with a throaty “whoof!”