“Nothing. Pain in my leg. Something new. It’s fine.” His mind rushed with emotions. He was watching her, just watching her, and it happened. She looked so appealing, so inviting in the yard, and he had felt it. The pain was part of it, but perhaps the pain meant something. Pain might come first, he reasoned, it might be the first sensation before… He was terrified to imagine what he believed would never happen.
Emma stood facing him, watching his face closely. His expression was so unfathomable. It wasn’t anger exactly, not pain either.
He shook his head slightly and studied her face. Her hair was damp, hanging in delicate tendrils about her face. Her lightly freckled complexion was warm from the sun and her cheeks and lips were a rosy pink. Her eyes, a soft brown, were fringed in thick, dark lashes, and she blinked slowly.
“Roland?” she whispered. Her use of his name unnerved him, and now, he felt the pain rising up his thigh again and limped quickly from her.
“It’s fine,” he sputtered. “It’s passing now.” He forced himself to look around the room, seeking any distraction. Overwhelmed, he sank into a chair. As he attempted to compose himself, he watched her walk around the room, arranging something here and there and removing more of the tattered window coverings.
“I’m sorry. I guess I just didn’t see it, being here all alone. I won’t ask you to take care of this mess,” he groaned.
“You won’t?” Emma turned to him suddenly. “Of course you will!” she announced. “You don’t know me very well, Roland, but I am a real pushover for a challenge. This house is just like you right now. A good scrubbing and a few parts pulled out and beaten in the light of day, and it will be better than ever!”
“You have intentions of scrubbing me as well?” He lifted a brow as she moved to the counters in the kitchen and ran her finger along the stovetop.
“Well,” she considered. “Perhaps not literally.”
“Roland?” she spoke softly, her back turned to him.
Why did she insist on using his name so frequently, he thought? He was finding her use of it maddening.
“Yes,” he grunted.
“Do you have any soap?”
Chapter Ten
Emma pointed to the shelves behind the shop keeper. “This filtered vinegar will be fine, and two bars of this please.”
Roland watched her from the front of the hardware supply as she made her choices efficiently, choosing a well-made broom, a scrub brush and two galvanized pails. The salesman sent a boy out to the buckboard with the supplies and Emma walked up to the man and asked him where she might find the grocery store.
From the foods she chose hams and breads and bargained with the grocer. He soon had her purchases tied in a neat cloth. Roland gathered the package and followed the girl out onto the porch. She stopped again to shake a pebble from her shoe, and announced that she had finished her shopping.
“Come with me,” he mumbled. He dropped the bundle onto the seat in the buggy and led her across the street to the cobbler’s.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vancouver. Who is your lovely companion?”
“Mr. Hornsey, this is Emma Harris, cousin to Rebecca Elgerson. I would like it if you could find a pair of shoes suitable for the lady.”
Emma looked up at Roland, her eyes wide. “Mr. Vancouver, she whispered, as the cobbler exited to the back of the shop. “You are acting quite the gentleman, but this is not necessary.”
“Should I watch you drop another pebble from your shoe, Madam, I believe I will go entirely mad.”
Emma frowned and sat politely as the cobbler fitted her into a high, sensible, buttoned boot and then spent the ride back to the Vancouver home admiring her new shoes and thanking the man, using his name often and sweetly.
Roland roamed the yard aimlessly, alternately cursing the girl and hauling the rusty tools into an organized pile. In a while she appeared with the grocery bundle and beckoned him to join her under the shade of a nearby tree. She spread out her cloth and handed him a stacked sandwich and cool mug of fresh milk. He eyed the sandwich doubtfully and then bit into it carefully. The choice of meats was unusual to him, but the taste was delicious and he nodded in appreciation to her as he hungrily consumed the food.
Across the yard Emma watched a large animal stagger in the hot sun and fall to the ground.
“What is that?” she gestured to the man, jumping to her feet.
“What do you see?” Roland struggled to pull himself upright.
“It’s some kind of animal. Maybe a horse?”
Roland limped across the yard hurriedly and Emma caught up with him and took his arm.
In the field they found a young mare struggling to foal on the tall grass, her sides heaving heavily as she strained.
“Is she yours?” Emma fell to her knees near the animal and stroked her shoulder.
“I’ve never seen her before.” Roland nickered softly to the mare and lowered himself gently down beside her. “She’s close,” he observed, touching her side gently.
“I don’t know what to do for her.” Emma leaned over the horse and watched, mesmerized.
“If we’re lucky we don’t need to do much, just help her if she needs it.”
Emma watched raptly, when after several minutes a small nose began to emerge.
Roland situated himself as comfortably as possible behind the mare and allowed her to deliver the fore hooves and head. He struggled to his feet. He could gain no leverage as he tried to assist the mare in her delivery.
“Let me,” Emma planted her feet and grabbed the hooves carefully.
“When you feel her pushing, you pull. Firmly, but gentle, just guide her out, that’s it,” Vancouver instructed as he lowered himself beside her.
The new filly slid out onto the soft grass, its head bobbing while the mare breathed deeply.
“Oh, my,” Emma gasped. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Female,” Roland responded, rubbing the foal gently with handfuls of dry grass. The mare jumped to her feet and Emma scrambled back on the grass. The filly struggled up and teetered several times while Emma watched in amazement and then staggered to her mother and began to nurse.
The man turned to Emma and smiled handsomely.
“Roland Vancouver,” she sighed. “I believe that is the first time I have seen you smile. I didn’t realize that you were such a good looking man.” Tears began to well in her eyes.
He exhaled softly and she struggled harder to contain her tears.
“Are you unhappy? Maybe overcome?” he asked.
“I mentioned before that you don’t know me well. I guess watching the baby coming into the world brought back some memories I fear I may never be unable to call to mind.” She turned to him and looked into his eyes. “Now what do we do?”
Roland led the mare to the barn and helped Emma, as best he could, load the filly into a cart and she was soon situated in a stall with her mother. “There’s no brand on this animal,” he said, looking puzzled. “I’ll ask around about her. In the meantime she’ll be safe in here. I’ll need to repair that door to keep the wolves out.”
“How can I help?” Emma volunteered.
“I’m going up to Elgerson’s to see if Mark can help me out. I’ll ride you back if you like.”
“I’d like to stay and get more done inside if I can.”
As she polished the window to a clear shine she watched the man pull the buckboard out onto the road. She swept the walls and ceiling, chasing out the cobwebs and a spider’s nest in the far corner. She hauled the rugs out onto the porch, tossing them over the railing and beating them aggressively with the broom.
While the carpets aired she began to scrub the furniture with thinned oil, rubbing each piece to a fine glow. Later, she washed the counters and sink while listening to Roland and Mark in the yard sawing and hammering at the barn door.
Emma stoked a fire in the stove and heated water which she used to wash the wooden floor, surprised and pleased at how beautifully the wood s
hone after her scrubbing.
She found a basin hanging on the back wall and hauled it out to the yard, waving at the men and filling it with water from the pump. Then she added sheets and linens, allowing them to soak in the sun.
“Hello, Mark.” Emma wiped her hand across her forehead.
“Hey, Miss Harrison. That’s a fine filly in there, isn’t she?”
“That she is,” Emma smiled. “Thank you for coming out to help Roland.” The man leaned on a sawhorse and smirked at the girl, amused. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her awkwardly.
“What is it?” she asked.
He frowned and took the cloth from her and rubbed the corner against a black smudge on her right cheek.
Mark looked up from his hammering and the exchange of the couple did not go unnoticed. He recalled similar exchanges between his father and Rebecca while they were finding their way and he chuckled to himself. He just couldn’t seem to understand how two people could carry on so shyly when it was plain to him they were falling for one another.
“Is there some rope or something I could use to string up a clothesline?” Roland directed her where to find what she was seeking and Mark helped her string up a line across the yard.
“I’ve known him for a long time,” Mark said to her as he pulled the line taut.
“Rebecca seems to be a bit afraid of him.” Emma said, watching Roland working in the warm sun.
“I think he’d do better with someone to talk to sometimes,” Mark observed. “I’ve never known him to have much in the way of friends. Comes from being foreman, I suppose. He’s got to be the tough one all the time. That’s why my Pa hired him. It’s got to be hard though, when you can’t turn to anyone.” He pulled the rope and tied it off firmly.
Emma washed the sheets vigorously and threw them over the line. She stood admiring how homey the yard looked with the rusty tools stacked neatly, the barn door repaired and the white sheets billowing in the late day breeze.
“Have a fine day!” Mark waved as Roland pulled down the drive to take the boy home.
Emma returned to the house, replaced the dusted rugs and spread the checkered grocery cloth over the wooden table. She found a tall mug in the cabinet, gathered a bundle of flowers from the nearby field, set it on the table and began making up a simple supper.
Emma admired the residence, proud of the work she had done and enjoying the sturdy, comfortable feel of the place. She wondered why the man had built such a fine home for himself when it was clear by the way he lived that a shack would suit him just as well. The furniture was solid and well built, handsome in design and structure. The windows were large and let in so much light, yet he covered them in rags and shut himself in.
Since he had not returned as yet, she decided to assess the cleaning needed in the one, closed room, which she expected to be the bedroom and she opened the door.
The room was like the other, dusty and unkempt, the bed rumpled and the windows covered. She walked to the nightstand stopping dead in her tracks and she froze.
On the table was a familiar brown bottle she knew well. The label was lettered differently. But the description was the same. “Tincture of Opium” it read. It had come in so many forms and she once had them all: tall bottles with fine glass stoppers; flat brown bottles that fit easily in a breast pocket; and, in the end, the bottle on a chain that she wore as a necklace, available at any time.
She lifted it carefully and put it to her nose. The bitter scent set her to shaking and she put it down quickly, stepping back and grabbing onto the bed post.
“The doctor prescribed it after the accident,” The man spoke from the doorway.
“Roland,” she gasped, turning to him, obviously startled.
“I’d heard so many bad things about it frankly, I didn’t want to start the stuff.” He watched her shaking as if terrified.
“You’re much better off for that, I’m sure.” She looked at the floor and tried to calm herself.
“That stuff is exactly the reason I came here,” she admitted, looking at the detested bottle over her shoulder. “It nearly destroyed my life. I hoped I would never see it again, never fight its demons.” She sat on the bed as if drained. “I’m sorry, Roland. It’s odd how one’s past cannot stay in the past.”
He stood in the doorway silently, watching her struggle to stay strong. He recognized her movements, her demeanor. He’d fought the same battle over his leg. If he could stand straight enough, keep his shoulders high enough, he could overcome anything. Sometimes it wasn’t as easy as that.
“I got it from a friend,” she confessed. “It was supposed to be fun. When I took it, nothing mattered. I felt perfect, loved, and content. Then I needed more and then more. The medicine started making demands of me. I gave myself to the gypsy but that wasn’t enough. When I found I was expecting a child I still didn’t push the drug away. It took my child. It took a big part of my life. Then I stopped. It wasn’t easy, but I stopped. I came here to put it away, to put it behind me. I swore I’d tell no one. I thought maybe if I could live a lie I would never go back.”
“Pour the bottle out, Emma.” His voice was firm and steady. “Take it out into the yard and pour it out. Then let it be in the past.”
He limped across the room and placed the bottle in her hand.
Emma shook with fear. In a moment she knew she could drink it down and feel the sweet euphoria again. She looked up into the man’s eyes and saw a strength there she had suspected he possessed. Tears poured down her cheeks and she staggered to the porch, stumbled down the stairs and poured the bitter liquid into the dusty earth. Sobs racked her body as she surrendered to the memory of her addiction and the fight she had overcome to put it behind her.
Roland descended the stairs beside her, lowered himself to the step and cradled her in his arms. She cried out her pain into his firm shoulder and he held her tightly.
Chapter Eleven
Rebecca paced the kitchen with agitation. “Did she say that she would be home for dinner?” she questioned Mark as he sampled the simmering stew.
“She didn’t say she would. I’d guess not. I think she’s still trying to clean out Roland’s house. When I left she was hanging sheets in the yard and I thought I smelled food cooking from inside the house. Boy, that filly they found is something else.”
“I don’t like her being out there all day. What else was she doing?”
“My guess is that they’re busy falling in love,” Mark stated offhandedly.
Timothy chuckled as he entered the room. “Who’s falling in love?” He sniffed at the stew.
“Roland and Rebecca’s cousin.” Mark leaned back casually against the counter. “They looked like the two of you did that day in the barn.”
“Oh, Tim,” Rebecca sighed. “I’m worried.”
“About them falling in love?” Timothy leaned against the counter beside his son.
“Oh, you two!” Rebecca growled with frustration. “How can you both just let this happen? Roland Vancouver can’t make her happy. He’s stubborn and, well, he’s such a bachelor!”
“He’s chicken, I can see that,” Mark stated distractedly. “Just like the two of you were. When I fall in love I’m not going to fool around about it. I’m just going to come right out and say it and get on with the good stuff!” he announced.
“The good stuff?” Timothy looked down at the boy suspiciously.
“Yeah, you know,” the boy winked at Rebecca. “The good stuff.”
“I want some!” Louisa announced as she swung open the door. “I want good stuff, too!” Mark scooped the child up in his arms and carried her out of the room. “You are the good stuff,” he whispered to her, looking back devilishly at the couple standing with shock on their faces in the kitchen.
“I would take you inside, but I don’t believe that this is my house any longer,” Roland smoothed Emma’s hair from her face gently.
“Do you like it?” she sighed and sat up em
barrassed.
“I suspected that only some kerosene and a match might clean it up. Now I can’t even recognize it and there seems to be the smell of hot food coming from inside.”
“Oh, goodness!” Emma sprung to her feet and smoothed her dress. “I left a roast simmering on the woodstove.” She scrambled up the stairs and opened the lid to the heavy pot. A tantalizing aroma filled the air as Roland gathered sparkling clean lanterns and began to light them in the soft dusk.
“There are clean dishes in the cabinets, and rolls here.” She set a basket on the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow to do that back room, and then we can talk about how often you would like me to come.”
“You’re leaving?” Roland turned abruptly to face her.
“I did what we arranged. The cleaning, the cooking. Did I forget something?”
“You are not leaving.” Roland pulled a chair away from the table. “Sit down.”
Emma knit her brow. “It’s not necessary, Roland, really. I’m feeling a bit embarrassed actually. I’m sorry for breaking down like that. That should not have happened. I apologize. I’m glad you like the house, but really I should go.”
“Sit down,” he repeated.
Emma frowned and sat in the chair. Roland struggled with serving, but soon set out two plates filled with the steaming roast and sat across the table from her.
“There are many things you have done today,” he began. “But there is one thing I want more than any other in this house. I hate to eat alone. Tonight you eat what you’ve made with me, and tomorrow you eat what I prepare. Agreed?” He leaned toward her over the table darkly, and then smiled unflinchingly.
The couple ate heartily, the energy they had spent through the day having built healthy appetites in both of them. Their conversation was light, Emma afraid she might fall apart again, and Roland comfortable in a clean home with a friend at his supper table. He stopped after his last bite and leaned back in his chair.
South of Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 2) Page 5
