Afton shook her head. “I looked there. And down the lane.
“Did you try the hill?” Lorna asked. She glanced at the hill rising above the cabin. Harry wandered daily up that hill expecting, Lorna believed, to find Iain there. Instead, he found a wooden marker and a biting wind. Afton, too, looked at the hill, her eyes hopeful. Lorna nearly offered to climb the hill in search of Harry, but the ache in her chest choked away the words.
“I’m sure he’ll come home,” Lorna said. “He always does.” But from Afton’s expression, Lorna knew there would be no more clearing trees till Harry was found. Lorna sighed. That dog got into more scrapes—with bobcats and porcupines and hostile badgers—that at some point Lorna knew his luck would end. She watched as fear creased her daughter’s face. She wanted to smooth away those creases with whispered words and gentle kisses, but kisses and words would not assuage Afton’s fear.
“Give me a minute, kitten, all right?”
Afton nodded and gave a hint of a smile. Two hands again on the saw, Lorna hewed through the rest of the tree. Its severed body dropped lifeless onto the stiff, browning grass. She placed the saw on the ground, gripped the two small saplings she had felled by the ends of their narrow trunks, and dragged them around back of the cabin, well away from the cabin wall so no critters would welcome themselves inside. Lorna returned to Afton, retrieved the saw, and held out her hand. Afton wiped a grimy hand across her wet cheek, leaving a streak of dirt. She took Lorna’s hand, and they walked along the front of the cabin, across the yard, past the chopping block and the paltry woodpile, to the barn. Past Nanny tied to a post where she nibbled back the dying grass.
Lorna lifted the wooden latch, shoved it open. The damp dung smell pushed out from the barn’s depths. Another job—mucking out Goldie’s stall—which would have to wait. The shadows of the barn faded as Lorna’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Goldie whinnied. Lorna walked to Iain’s workbench opposite Goldie’s stall and replaced the saw. She turned to Afton, who looked at her expectantly. Lorna swallowed. What should she do? Saddle up Goldie and roam thousands of acres of swampy woodland to find a dog that didn’t know he was lost?
“We’ll walk up the hill and look.” She cleared her throat. “If he’s not there, we can go along the north road toward Spring Wells.”
“What about the woods,” Afton asked, “on the other side of the stream?”
Lorna stared at her daughter but didn’t actually see her. Instead, she saw Goldie, riderless, wandering from the woods beyond the stream. The sound of barking brought a squeal from Afton, and she spun and sprinted out of the barn. Lorna heaved out a breath, relieved—though not at the safety of Harry. Lorna touched Goldie’s soft muzzle then walked out into sunlight. Up the lane Harry walked—limped—alongside a man. A trapper Lorna had never seen, though she had seen plenty of these grizzled men trading fur in Spring Wells. A thick beard covered most of the man’s face, and animal pelts coated the rest of his body. A donkey, burdened with animal furs and skins, ambled behind him. Lorna’s stomach knotted. She wished Iain’s musket was close at hand and not ferreted away beneath her bed.
Harry continued to bark and hobble, his left forepaw lifted and held close to his body. His tail wagged frantically at the sight of Afton.
“Harry!” Afton called, undaunted by the burly man towering beside the dog. She ran to Harry before Lorna could call out to stop her. Lorna hurried forward. Afton dropped to her knees and allowed Harry to lick her face.
“Mama said you would come home, you naughty dog,” Afton prattled. “But what did you do to your foot? Have you fought with a porcupine again? Better than a skunk. Mama wouldn’t have let you into the house smelling of skunk.”
Afton inspected Harry’s paw, which he seemed reluctant to let her touch. Coming near, Lorna felt the man’s eyes on her before she was able to see them amid the low-slung hat and overgrown beard. The hair on her arm prickled, and she reached for Afton instinctively.
“Mama,” Afton protested to Lorna’s grip on her arm. “Harry needs help.”
“Take Harry into the house,” she instructed without looking down at her daughter. “We’ll tend him inside.”
She trained her eyes on the trapper as Afton escorted the hobbling Harry to the house, her stream of chatter unabated. The intensity of the trapper’s eyes—vibrant blue eyes the color of cornflowers—startled Lorna once she found them. Yet he had a distant, almost distracted look. Too much solitude, Iain had once told her. These trappers spend months alone in the wilderness. Solitude makes them crazy, Iain said. Was this man crazy? Lorna wondered. Again she thought of Iain’s musket.
“Thank you, sir, for bringing Harry home,” she said hesitantly.
The man nodded and passed his donkey’s lead rope from one hand to the other. He seemed to be waiting for something, but Lorna wasn’t sure what. His expression was hidden, impossible to read. With his hand—nails black, skin brown and leathered—he pushed his hat back on his head, revealing a shock of curly, matted blond hair. It seemed as if he intended to tip his cap then thought better of it. Instead, he rubbed the back of his knuckles across his forehead then pulled his hat back down.
“You’re welcome.” His voice was gravelly and low, as if unaccustomed to use. A small feather of sadness settled on Lorna for this man alone in the wilderness. She looked back at the cabin and saw Afton had gone inside. Lorna turned again to the trapper but didn’t know what else to say. From behind the trapper came the whinny of a horse. Lorna looked past the large, fur-clad man to see Mr. Edgar riding up the lane. He slowed his pinto as he neared Lorna and her visitor. The donkey snorted and sidestepped at the arrival of a new, larger beast.
“Mrs. Findlay,” Mr. Edgar said, though he did not dismount. Lorna cocked her head, surprised at the cold edge of Edgar’s voice.
“Everything all right, Mrs. Findlay?” Edgar asked without looking at her. He trained hard, dark eyes on the trapper. Lorna could see the trapper would be easily a head taller than Edgar. Was Edgar intimidated? She couldn’t tell. It seemed Edgar stayed on his horse as if wanting to keep the upper hand, the higher ground. The trapper showed no signs of fear.
Lorna nodded. “This man just returned our Harry to us. Afton and I are quite relieved.”
“Charles Grayson.” Edgar edged his horse closer to the trapper. The trapper lifted cold blue eyes to Edgar. He gave a nod to acknowledge the curt greeting then turned again to Lorna.
“Good day, ma’am,” came the voice again from deep in the folds of fur. He gave the lead rope a yank, which brought an ornery haw from his donkey, then turned and walked down the lane to the road. He didn’t shuffle or amble as Lorna would have expected, as even his beast did. He walked as though solitude hadn’t yet broken his pride.
“I came to help chop some of that wood,” Edgar said, dismounting. Lorna knew Mr. Edgar had come to see about something besides firewood. She studied the trapper’s retreating form.
“Thank you, Mr. Edgar,” she said. “The ax is in the barn. Excuse me. I should check on Afton.” She left Mr. Edgar standing in the cold with his horse.
For nearly an hour, Lorna listened to the steady whump of the ax. The wind whistled through the thatched corner of the cabin. In waning daylight, Lorna shrugged on her coat and went outside. A potato-and-carrot soup made mostly of broth bubbled in the pot over the fire. Afton had wrapped Harry’s wounded paw—a wound that appeared superficial—in a scrap of muslin Lorna had torn from an old petticoat. Lorna walked toward the woodpile, stopped, and watched Mr. Edgar. His back was to her, and his hands gripped the ax handle, poised directly above his head. He heaved down. The wood, with a splintering sound, divided and toppled off both sides of the block. The ax blade lodged, rigid, in the chopping block. Mr. Edgar raised his fist to his mouth and blew hot breath into it.
Guilt nudged Lorna. Edgar had been good to them—when Iain was alive and after. It was Edgar who had helped Iain clear the land for the cabin. It was Edgar who had gone with Lorna into the fore
st to look for Iain. It was Edgar who had tried to comfort her when they found the blood smeared across the fallen tree and trailed into the forest. So much blood. Lorna’s chest tightened and stomach churned at the memory of blood. For three weeks she had kept that memory, that gruesome image, from her mind. Again she heaved it away and stepped forward.
“Mr. Edgar?”
He spun, the ax still lodged, its handle stiffly pointing to the sky. “Mrs. Findlay, I’m sorry, I—” He appeared flustered, which unnerved her, and she wasn’t sure why.
“You’ve been out here awhile,” she said.
“I said I’d chop your wood,” he replied. He retrieved the split pieces of log, walked to the woodpile, and stacked them. He turned to look at her, and she tried to smile but couldn’t.
“Would you like dinner?” she offered.
He watched her for a second, as though trying to interpret the intent of her invitation, then looked at the sky. “I should get along. Don’t want to be caught out after dark.”
She nodded, knowing the darkness in this land was palpable, had a density that swallowed a person left alone without a lantern.
“You didn’t come here just to chop wood.” Lorna had to force the words out, not knowing their result, not wanting any more change.
He sniffed. “You certainly need it.”
“I do.” A small corner of her mind reminded her it could be wise to accept him. Everything else within her resisted, as though a voice down in the deeps of her spirit whispered, Wait. She knew if she waited, she and Afton would be alone. A heavy, empty solitude. The tall form of the trapper came to her mind. The resolve in each of his steps. She drew in a breath of cold Michigan air.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Edgar leaned in. “What?”
“You have been kind,” Lorna said, louder now, “but I cannot accept…your offer.” She exhaled. “I’m sorry.”
Edgar stared at the ground and cleared his throat several times. Lorna frowned. Was he crying? she wondered. Yet when he lifted his head, she saw no sadness. His features had hardened, his jaw flexed as it would if he was grinding his teeth. Lorna stepped back. This hardness, this anger, surprised her. For a moment, the ambivalence of fearing the consequences of the wrong decision and fearing the consequences of the right one nearly sent her fleeing back inside to Afton and the warmth of the fire. Edgar yanked the ax out of the chopping block, stalked to the barn, and disappeared inside. Seconds later he returned, his horse in tow. He mounted, the cold leather of the saddle creaking. Lorna felt the burn of his glare.
“You know what this means?” His voice was gruff. Lorna stuck out her chin and brought her eyes to his. A shiver of fear ran through her, but she refused to shift her gaze. “Enjoy your first winter in Michigan.” Edgar gave his horse’s flanks a kick and galloped down the lane. The yowling wind—or was it a coyote?—devoured the sounds of his retreat.
Chapter 4
December 1, 1830
How much farther?” Afton asked, her voice muffled against Lorna’s back, her arms around Lorna’s waist. “My bum hurts.” Giant breath-clouds puffed from Goldie as she plodded along the uphill trail that led to Sissy’s farm.
Lorna patted Afton’s arms. “Soon.”
The crest of the hill flattened into a grassy plateau that overlooked a basin of land. At the front edge of the shallow valley stood a solitary cabin and barn, a narrow creek snaking behind. A row of hemlocks stood as sentinels just beyond the barn. Acres and acres of fallow fields spread beyond the hemlocks till land blurred into sky. Sissy, despite her rigor, once admitted to Lorna of her inability to manage the planting and plowing alone. Lorna tried to imagine Sissy in young wifehood, motherhood. The budding fields in spring, green with new life.
Pale smoke ribboned from the cabin’s chimney, blended with the ashen sky. The brown, brittle grasses around Lorna and Afton rustled as though surprised by their presence. Lorna nudged Goldie to hurry along.
Lorna saw the barrel of the musket before she saw Sissy peering through the half-opened cabin door. Goldie snorted as Lorna jerked on the reins.
“Should to call out when coming ’pon a homestead,” Sissy said. She lowered her musket and left the shadows of her doorway. Lorna nodded, dismounted, relieved at the feel of solid ground. She reached for Afton, who dropped from the mare into her mother’s arms. As Lorna tied Goldie to a rail nearby, she offered an apology for not announcing their arrival. Then she and Afton followed Sissy inside.
“Tea?” Sissy asked. She set her musket on a high shelf by the door. Lorna stared at the weapon. Soon she would need to hunt, she thought. The stores of meat Iain had smoked and the root vegetables and herbs she had dried in summer were dwindling. Iain had taught her to fire his flintlock. Yet she had hidden the musket, rendered it useless, beneath her bed. She knew Iain would be cross Lorna hadn’t brought the musket with her on the four-mile journey to Sissy’s. Not that she could load it quickly enough to fight off an attacking animal or Indian or any of the other dangers of this wild region. She might do better to club an attacker with the musket rather than shoot. She looked at Afton, who played by the hearth with Sissy’s tabby cat. Lorna resolved to retrieve the musket once they returned home. The fire snapped and spit as Sissy stoked it with a poker. Lorna nodded when tea was offered for the second time, thankful Sissy didn’t serve the bitter coffee Americans—particularly those in the territory—seemed to fancy.
“So why’ve you come?” Sissy asked once tea had been poured. Lorna and Sissy sat at a small, round table. Not a table pounded together quickly, perfunctorily while building a homestead. Someone had taken care to curve its edges, to round its shape to a perfect circle. The table sat next to the cabin’s only window that looked out across the desolate fields. The warbled panes of glass melted and skewed the landscape like a batch of swirling, churning butter.
“You’s didn’t come four miles for tea,” Sissy said. Lorna stopped tracing the rim of her china cup and took a small sip.
“Indeed,” Lorna set her cup in its saucer. “We need a buckboard. My roof needs to be finished, and I haven’t the lumber to do it.”
Sissy nodded, seeming thoughtful. Such a stark contrast from the woman who greeted Lorna with a rifle to the woman who served from a china tea service. Deep creases around Sissy’s eyes and mouth pulled her face down into what seemed a perpetual scowl. Yet the older woman’s hair, silver with hints of the black it once had been, was pulled loosely back and woven at the nape of her neck in a braided chignon, softening the rough lines of Sissy’s face. Lorna had met women—hardened from homesteading—when she, Iain, and Afton had stayed in Detroit before buying their land. The women’s faces were weathered like Mr. Edgar’s hands. Their eyes hollowed. Their hair twisted into tight, unforgiving buns or hidden under dark, shabby fabrics. Lorna shook her head. Edgar was wrong about Sissy.
“Thought Edgar would’ve tended to that roof afore now,” Sissy said. Her empty cup rattled hollowly against its saucer. Lorna pursed her lips and glanced at Afton.
“I see,” Sissy said with a nod. “He wanted payment for his help.”
“I refused his marriage proposal.” Lorna kept her voice low. The words in her mouth tasted foreign, brackish—like stale, unsugared coffee.
Sissy poured herself more tea. “Man’s a weasel for asking.”
Lorna smiled and for an instant felt lightened, thankful for Sissy’s words. Then the familiar weight settled back on her shoulders. “He thinks we won’t survive,” she said. Sissy smacked the teapot down on the table. The lid rattled so hard Lorna thought it might break.
“You’ll survive.” Sissy sounded sure, absolute. She stared at Lorna, who felt the world, for a moment, suspend, all creation holding its breath. Lorna wanted—needed—to believe Sissy. Then a low vibration—not quite a laugh, not quite a moan—came from the older woman, intoning an old sadness. “I buried my husband and five young’uns. When Ronald, my last, rode off ta Detroit for work, I refused ta leave. Tol’
him this ere’s my home. He said I’d not survive.” Sissy looked out the window. “’Twas nine years ago.”
Lorna leaned in. “How did you do it?”
Sissy’s sadness was consumed by something burning just behind her eyes.
“You fight.” Sissy pointed a gnarled finger at Lorna. “Fight ta keep hold a’ hope. Ta keep trust in the Almighty when it ’pears He’s forgot you. He clothes the field lilies. He sees the sparrow. You hold ta that.”
Lorna bit her lower lip. She could almost feel Iain’s finger lifting her chin, pointing her to the heavens. Lorna looked out at the sky. Sunbeams shifted—appearing and disappearing—with the movement of steely clouds.
“Miz Findlay,” Sissy’s voice returned Lorna to the small table, to Afton stroking the tabby that had curled into her lap. “No woman I know woulda refused Edgar, not with winter comin’. You did.” Sissy dropped her hands into her lap, leaned back, studied Lorna. “Goin’ a town next Tuesday. I’ll come early.” Sissy nodded at Afton. “Bring your girl; we’ll get your lumber.” Lorna watched Afton’s small hand stroke the silky fur of the sleeping cat and felt in her gut a slight undoing of the knot of fear.
“Thank you, Sissy.”
Sissy shook her head. “Thank me next spring.”
Lorna kissed Afton’s cheek just next to her ear and whispered, “Sleep well, love.” Afton shifted on her small bed that pulled from beneath Lorna’s. Lorna stood, reached for the candle that danced, its light an orb chasing off some of the night’s shadows. Afton’s hand appeared from beneath the heavy quilt, caught Lorna’s hand, and tugged her back down. The candle Lorna held wobbled, and the flame shimmied then settled.
“Will you pray with me?” Afton asked. Lorna brushed a strand of hair back from Afton’s forehead.
“Pray with you?” Lorna had lost the habit of praying. Afton nodded, the candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. “What should we pray?”
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 15
