Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “They will.”

  His assurance heartened her. The lamb, impatient, bleated an entreaty. Cade laughed. “Go feed your little friend, Sarah. I’ll be in touch.”

  A small part of Sarah’s heart loosened at this overture, the olive branch extended. “Thanks, Cade.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Sarah reached for the lamb. Angling the bottle, she mulled Cade’s words.

  Losing the children could push Rita over the edge and the fear of suicide worried Sarah. If they could get help for Rita while the kids stayed on the farm, that might help.

  Liv wouldn’t like this. She was a town girl. Her daddy had looked down his nose at farmers, and the girl took after him. That should be interesting.

  Brett? A little uncertain, but definitely an easier-going personality. And he had an intrinsic love for nature, if not for sheep dung.

  Both in the thick of puberty. Adolescence. Oh, man. An additional form of insanity right there.

  And Skeeter. Skeeter needed someone to care for her, watch over her. Share in the joy of each new day when she wasn’t whining or complaining about something, which was fairly often of late. Simple, by comparison.

  But not one of them was accustomed to the sights, sounds and smells of a working farm.

  St. Lawrence County boasted multiple classes of people. Those who farmed, including the Amish, their quaint wagons and roadside stands dotting a countryside thick with agriculture.

  Then there was the upscale staff and alumni of Clarkson and St. Lawrence Universities. Throw SUNY Potsdam and Canton into the mix, and you had a diverse dynamic at odds with itself. Town kids might be raised within two miles of some of the best northern farmland in the U.S., but have little association with product or producer, fairly certain food came from the local grocer.

  Sarah grimaced, remembering her family’s expressions when she announced she was starting a farm.

  They blamed her mother’s Abenaki blood. The urge to be at peace with the land, one with the Spirit.

  The aspersions to her mother’s memory stung. Peg “Bent Willow” Slocum had been a good woman, a strong Christian who cherished her mix of heritages. Maybe if she’d lived, things would have been different.

  But she hadn’t and Sarah could pinpoint the day and time when she’d known where her own destiny lay. It was her first summer away, the end of her freshman year of college. She’d stayed in Cortland, working a sheep farm by day and waiting tables at night. She’d made enough money to guarantee her second year of studies and celebrate her freedom from the Slocum domain, the “me first” mind-set prevalent at old Tom’s table. Her father was not a nice man.

  She found the faith her mother inspired at a white clapboard church and a Bible passage that brought shepherds to a newborn babe, laid in a manger.

  She found home.

  Practicality insisted she finish her degree. A girl had to eat and farms weren’t an easy venture.

  Angling the bottle to keep the lamb from sucking air, a smile tugged Sarah’s mouth as she regarded the tiny creature before her. Not easy, by any means. But worthwhile.

  Chapter Five

  Craig careened to a stop and pushed out of the car, instantly enamored of the view. “This is it.”

  His home site. He was sure of it. His new house would sit there, right there, at the apex of the hill, its south-facing windows benefiting from the winter’s sun. Evergreens rose beyond the hill, close enough for privacy, far enough to let the winter sun shine unfettered. The slope angled toward the road in an easy climb, nothing too difficult for winter months. The adjoining land was farmed, but this parcel lay unplanted, ready for building. Native trees surrounded enough open land to offer fun. He pictured Rocket ambling through the woods, ears perked, hunting new sights and sounds. Maybe it would pep the old boy up, to have fresh grounds to explore.

  Craig strode forward, oblivious to the weariness he’d felt moments before. He grabbed his cell and dialed Laraby Realty. “Steve? Craig Macklin. Listen, I’m staring at a piece of property on Waterman Hill. It’s perfect. It lies between two farms. Across from another. Probably seven to ten acres I’m eyeing up. Yeah, that’s right. The south side.” Walking as he talked, Craig studied the site.

  Home. He was home. He knew it the moment he rounded the bend. Now, depending on who owned the parcel—

  Craig turned, his signal fading. “This is part of Ben Waters’ land? I was at his place this morning, treating a cow.”

  Craig paused, listening. “I’ll head there now.” At the Realtor’s caution, Craig shook his head. “I understand, but you know how old-timers are. If Ben’s interested in selling, he’ll be up front with me. Who’s got the property on either side?”

  To the west stretched old cornfields, stubbled and brown. Beneath the rise to the east lay a hay lot. Alfalfa. Across the street pastureland extended right from a barn adjacent to the road. He could see the peak of another building, back and behind. Left of the barn a small, dark house nestled among trees. The scent of wood smoke tweaked his nose, increasing the ambience. “I’m heading to the Waterses’. I’ll call you after I’ve seen Ben.”

  Excited, Craig retraced his steps. Arcing a U-turn, he headed north. An hour later he emerged from Ben Waters’ kitchen, stuffed with Etta’s banana bread and the promise of a deal. Ben’s handshake was aged but solid. “Have Laraby draw up the papers. I’d always thought little Ben would build there, but he’s gotten used to the city.”

  Craig choked back a laugh. Little Ben was fifty-plus, and the city Ben referred to was the edge of Canton, off Route 11. Young Ben didn’t have his father’s farming instincts, but had made a good name for himself in investment circles. He’d orchestrated the retirement plans for half the county, both business and personal, doing well for his family. Things would have turned out quite different if Gramps had used Ben instead of Tom Slocum, but that was a useless complaint at this juncture.

  “Thank you, sir.” Craig clasped the offered hand, then surprised the old man with a hug. “I’m grateful. I love that piece of land.”

  “Well, now…” Old Ben scratched his chin, thoughtful. “I might hold out for another thousand or two if you’ve taken that kindly toward it.” Craig’s chagrined expression drew the old farmer’s chuckle. “Gotcha. Tell your Realtor to come by with papers. I’ll sign ’em. The building approval is up to date. I jes’ kept renewing it, thinkin’ it would pay off.”

  “I’ll subcontract the work right away. That way I can finish the interior by the end of summer.”

  “I’m a good hand with plumbing,” acknowledged Ben. “You need a hand laying pipe, I’ll step in.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Craig gazed into the worn, blue eyes of the smaller man. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Congratulations, son.” Jim Macklin clapped Craig on the back. “That’s pretty country up there. And nice that it’s a quick closing, no contingencies.”

  “Which means we can get things moving ASAP,” Craig replied.

  His mother seemed happy but unsurprised. “I prayed you’d find the right piece.” She smiled as she handed him a hunk of fresh-baked bread, slathered with butter, her confidence that God had time for such little things amusing to Craig. “I asked God to provide everything you needed in a home site.”

  “Like God doesn’t have better things to do than diddle with my building lot.” Craig spoke around a bite of bread, then waved the chunk in appreciation. “This stuff’s perfect. I was starved. I didn’t stop for lunch and made do with cookies in the car.”

  “And coffee, I’d wager.”

  He grinned. “Long day. Longer yet,” he noted, eyeing his watch. “I’m supposed to meet Marc at the park. We’re running an eight-mile loop tonight.”

  “So showering now would be useless.” She wrinkled her nose in his direction.

  Craig laughed and frowned. “Sorry. I should have showered and gotten rid of the clothes before I came into the kitchen.”

  “That would be a switch.” Sh
e nodded to the large kettle on the stove. “Can you shift half that pot into the eight-quart kettle for me, please? Dad’s got a fishing crew on the Deborah I and they’re due back. I want supper ready when they get here.”

  “Will do.” As he poured half the soup into the smaller kettle, he angled a brow his mother’s way. “So. What did you ask God for?”

  Her quick smile brightened gray-blue eyes. “The usual. Affordability. Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.” She didn’t mention Rocket by name. They both knew the inevitability of the old boy’s future. Talking about it didn’t make the outcome easier, although Craig hoped the Lab could make the move with him. Time would tell. “And I love that section of the county, so close to the state park. Beautiful land, Craig.”

  “It is.”

  “And it’s a family home you’re building.”

  “Yup. Me and Rocket.”

  At his name, Rocket almost perked an ear, but it was obviously too much effort. The misnamed hound let out a whine, passed gas, then stretched, his paws kneading air in his sleep.

  “I was referring to the human variety, but…” His mother slanted a grin Rocket’s way. “He’s a solid beginning. Kind of.”

  “I don’t think finding the right girl is as easy as you make out,” Craig argued. “Can’t say my luck’s running any too good in that direction.”

  “Depends on where you’re looking,” she shot back. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to expand your horizons, my boy. Search outside the box.”

  “Girls don’t come boxed,” Craig pointed out. “That would make things way too easy.”

  “Or Stepford,” Deb replied. “When God puts the right woman before you, you’ll know it. There’ll be no doubts.”

  “None?”

  “Nope.”

  “Like you and Dad?”

  “Exactly like that,” she agreed. “We’ve weathered some storms, but haven’t capsized yet.”

  “And you knew right off the bat,” Craig teased, grabbing another slice of bread, then re-thinking the decision. Eight mile runs and full stomachs weren’t a great mix.

  “I was sixteen,” Deb laughed, poking his arm. “But yes, Craig. I knew.”

  On his way upstairs to change into running shorts and shoes, Craig spotted Grams sitting on the side porch, a blanket drawn around her shoulders as the evening air cooled. He decided to drive fast and take a minute with her. Life had been crazy busy this spring and their shared moments had been few and far between. “Grams?”

  She smiled and turned. “Craig. I was just thinking what a beautiful day this was and now it’s even better.”

  He grinned and sank into the rocker alongside hers. The wraparound porch, barren now, would teem with flowers once the nights warmed. His mother didn’t care that most of their reservations were hunters and fishermen. She believed people should appreciate God, flowers and good food.

  Grams leaned his way. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”

  “Crazy,” he agreed. “And you?”

  She laughed. “Your Aunt Cindy kept me hopping these past weeks. I helped when Lisa had her baby, and oh, my, that was a walk down memory lane.” She patted his knee. “I remember you children being born like it was yesterday, your mom and I walking you and Cade through town in your strollers. Then on trikes. The idea that thirty-five years have passed…” she paused, staring outward, then gave a little jerk. “Anyway, it’s nice to be part of this new generation. Watch you youngsters have babies of your own. Your grandpa would have loved that.”

  The wistful look in her eye magnified Craig’s inner guilt. If Gramps hadn’t died of a heart attack, he might be here to play with Lisa’s baby. Or her little boy, Jack.

  But no. Gramps was gone and hadn’t known the joy of his great-grandchildren, except Kyle.

  And whose fault is that, his conscience prodded.

  Craig surged from the seat and noted the time, then hurried off, unable to meet Grams’ look, a mix of trust and loss. Would she hate him, knowing what he’d done? That he’d spurred the old man on?

  Did it matter? He hated himself for the brash actions of youth, the foolish yammering of a young man who thought he knew so much.

  He was living proof of the old adage his grandfather liked to quote: “Better to close your mouth and let people think you’re stupid, than open it and prove them right.”

  If only he’d learned the lesson sooner.

  Chapter Six

  The first scream brought Craig’s head up. It was followed by a second and a tirade of crude words Craig hadn’t heard since party nights in college.

  “I hate you! I really, really hate you! I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you, you little worm!” The threat was followed by the slamming of a door, first once, then twice. As Craig hurried down the drive, a runner hurtled toward him, full tilt, arms pumping, an expression of half fear, half triumph lighting the boy’s face.

  Behind him pounded a girl, tall and lanky, her athletic prowess outstripping that of the huskier boy. Reaching out an arm, Craig caught the boy, noted the look of surprise and confusion, then held tight while the girl barreled toward them. “What’s going on?”

  “Let me go!” The boy struggled against Craig’s grasp.

  Craig tightened his grip. “Be quiet. Now.” He directed a calm look to the agitated girl whose knowledge of words unsuited for God-fearing ears was most impressive. Keeping his eyes impassive, Craig stared her down. “Swearing isn’t going to help your situation. I’m not turning him over to you until I know what he did to deserve the beating you can’t wait to dish out.”

  The boy squirmed. Craig sent him a look meant to quell. It did. Keeping his body between the antagonists, he angled his head. “What’d he do?”

  “Besides reading my journal to his stupid friends over the phone? Even the most private parts?” The girl’s pitch heightened significantly. With good reason, it seemed.

  Craig squelched the boy with a stern expression. “Her journal? You would stoop that low?”

  Trying to wriggle away, the boy realized the futility when Craig’s arm clenched tighter. “It’s just a stupid old diary.”

  “It’s hers.” Craig’s tone allowed no leeway. “Private. Confidential. What were you thinking?” Staring into the boy’s light eyes, he issued a challenge, man to man.

  “I just wanted to see what girls write in those things.” Reading Craig’s expression, the boy turned sheepish.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about women, kid,” noted Craig. He was about to continue when a swift-moving figure emerged from the far side of the barn. Startled, he recognized the tawny skin and raised planes of the cheekbones. Huge brown eyes, deep and dark, complementing the long, thick black braid. She’d obviously been working; she bore the look and scent of barn labor.

  The girl rolled her eyes as Sarah approached. Then she sniffed, unimpressed, the sound insulting. The boy stilled as if ashamed.

  “What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice held the same calm, flat intonation he’d come to know. Tilting her chin, she met Craig’s eye. “You may let go.”

  “Of course.” Irritation at being told what to do rose within him. “Now that I’ve saved his life, I’m expendable.”

  She didn’t smile. Grim, she addressed the girl. “Who’s watching Skeeter?”

  The girl flinched. “She’s watching cartoons.”

  Silent, Sarah didn’t move. She used the full force of those dark, impenetrable eyes to subdue the teenager. Defeated, the girl fidgeted. “I’ll see to her.”

  The teen flounced back to the small green house set in the trees, her posture indicating displeasure at life in general.

  Sarah’s gaze turned to the boy while the sound of a motor bore up the rise of the hill. As a group they moved the few steps to the road’s edge, allowing room for the oncoming vehicle. “What have you done, Brett?”

  Craig started at the name. Realization set in. Brett. Brett Slocum. Tom and Rita’s son. The girl must be the older daughter. Thinking
back, he remembered her from her father’s funeral. She’d been in junior high then. Must be high school, now. Pretty name, too. Liddie? Tivvie? Something like that.

  The approaching car drew abreast. Glancing up, Craig recognized Maggie James’ polished silver coupe. She smiled and waved, then tooted the horn before she pulled ahead, angling her car to the side of the road.

  Brett’s look turned hopeful, maybe thinking his aunt wouldn’t chastise him in front of others.

  No such luck.

  “Brett?”

  He scuffed a toe into the scrabbled dirt along the road’s edge. “I read her stupid book.”

  “Her book?” Sarah’s exaggerated confusion flustered the kid. “She was upset because you read a book?”

  “A journal,” Craig supplied, keeping his countenance void of emotion with no small effort. Seeing the boy writhe under Sarah’s surveillance brought back plenty of memories. Her interrogation tactics were not unlike his mother’s.

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open. She gasped in righteous indignation. Her look implored the boy to set the record straight, declare the accusation untrue. Oh, yeah. Craig remembered the routine, front to back. Guilt 101. Did they teach that to women in class or was it intrinsic, inherent to the gender?

  Brett’s toe scuffed harder. Head down, he refused to face the look of disappointment on his aunt’s face. Craig couldn’t resist. “There’s more.”

  Brett shot him an affronted look and jammed his hands into ragged pockets. Glancing from Craig to Brett, Sarah made no acknowledgement of the approaching woman, focusing on her nephew. “Tell me.”

  “I told Matt DeJoy what it said.”

  “You didn’t.” Her dismay increased exponentially. “You shared your sister’s journal? Her private thoughts and dreams?”

  The boy’s toe dug faster as the charges compiled. His cheeks reddened. His shoulders twitched. He jerked his head. “It’s just a stupid diary.”