He had done this before. Many times, probably. “I can’t believe you would tie your own sister to the bed.”
Finella shook her head at him.
He frowned back. “Why not? You saw what happens when you turn your back for a minute. Isn’t it better to know she can’t run off? If you’re… outside, there’s a tree beside the hen house. If you tie her there she’ll watch the chickens and you can…” He stopped short of answering.
Finella could see how a man might need such a plan, but that didn’t mean she did. She’d rather squeeze Molly in the outhouse with her than bind her to a tree. “I’ll store it under the bed for now.”
“I’ll do it.” he passed her the lantern and gathered the rope. “Her bed or … mine. I mean, yours?”
Even with the draught from the open door, heat wrapped around her neck.
“Hers, I guess.”
Mr. Jones dragged the rope in. It took some shoving but he finally crammed it under Molly’s low bed.
“She worked hard today, little imp.” He stroked his sister’s forehead and looked up at Finella. “You both worked hard.”
From behind the door Finella had remained partly hidden. But now, she had nowhere to hide her bare feet. And her loose hair. She gathered it in her free hand and brought the mess over one shoulder.
Midnight blue, his eyes snagged on her own and took her in. Her eyes, her hair, all the way to her toes and back up again.
An eternity passed and she burned in the shadows. Her hand trembled and the lantern cast a twinkle over the room. He’d finished his errand. Stored the rope. Why wouldn’t he leave?
He crouched beside Molly and brought his lips close to her ear. At first, he hummed a tune. Then words, like a low prayer filled the small room.
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.”
Not even the cramp in Finella’s arm could make her lower the lamp. She stood, rooted to the packed dirt floor, while the well-loved chorus washed over brother and sister. But Mr. Jones didn’t stop there. He sang another verse, one Finella had not heard.
“Jesus loves me, loves me still,
Though I’m very weak and ill.
From His shining throne on high,
Comes to watch me where I lie.”
The refrain gathered wing in Finella’s heart and fluttered, like a finch she’d once found, newly born and spilled from its nest too soon.
For a moment her own loss and Molly’s mingled into one. Mr. Jones touched his cheek to his sister’s, and stood.
Heat pricked Finella’s face as if he’d touched her there too and for a second she let her eyes close to hide the scene before her.
A flood of longing crept into her heart for the tenderness of childhood days. It more than matched the ache of washday.
Had her father wrestled with the burden of a motherless daughter? She had no idea. Aunt Sarah had stepped into the void even before Mother had passed away.
She lowered the lantern a little and blinked into the shadows. She wanted to forget the haunted look in Mr. Jones’ eyes. To break the silence he cloaked her in while he stood there like a sentinel over the bed.
She wanted something that had no name.
“Does Molly miss her mother?”
“She mentions her. But she lives in the moment. Doesn’t visit the past too much, doesn’t look forward either. Enjoys the day for what it brings.” He smiled down at his sister. “Knows how to teach a fellow about living, this girl. Wish more people had her spirit.”
Finella set the lantern on the table. “Molly’s a brave girl.”
“We’re all brave, Miss Mayfield. Perhaps, you and I more so than Molly.” He gripped the back of a chair. “You’re brave, to take on a task completely different from the one you expected.”
His tone pinned her and she couldn’t look away.
He took the lantern off the table and ripples of light danced around the room. Held high, a wild beat flickered through the flame.
“And you, Mr. Jones?” Finella sucked in a fortifying gulp of air. “How can you be more courageous than Molly? You have control over your life. What you do, and say. Where you go and how you do so. No one’s tethered you to a tree.”
He watched her, as if looking for something she meant but hadn’t said.
“Don’t be so sure of what you can’t see, Miss Mayfield. Some battles are fought against unseen tethers.” His voice remained low, but soft. Soft enough to creep through the shadows and deep into her.
He’d loosened the end of a coil she’d pressed to her ribs since the day they’d met.
Not enough for the coil to unravel.
But just enough to start the damage.
12
“No more bread.” Resting her head on the table, Molly pouted at Shadrach who shouldered his way into the house with the morning’s eggs. “All gone.”
He wanted to laugh at the crease in her forehead. When had he ever let her go without bread?
“Then it’s time for us to teach Miss Mayfield how we make bread. Bush style. Soon as I’ve finished up outside.”
Molly laid her doll in her lap and clapped her hands at Miss Mayfield.
“And not a moment too soon. Molly’s been fretting all morning.” Miss Mayfield reached into her apron pocket for a faded green ribbon. “Let me tie your hair Molly. My Aunt Sarah says baking begins with the most secure of hair braiding.”
Shadrach’s heart twisted at the mention of Aunt Sarah. He cared very little for the old woman’s wisdom, not to mention her intrusion into his world. Wasn’t it enough she would arrive one day soon and open the way for Miss Mayfield’s departure?
He had until Christmas to find his way to Finella’s heart. Lord knew, she already had a hook in his. If he cared to admit it, she may have managed that the moment he laid eyes on her photograph.
Or was it when she looked at him all tearstained the day he’d rescued her from the pier trolley? Perhaps, it happened when he first saw her hanging blankets between the saplings in his orchard. Like she always belonged on this island with him. On his farm. In his life.
Maybe he couldn’t say for sure when it happened, but he knew one thing for certain. Every time Finella Mayfield cared for his sister, every time she spared a smile for the little girl he loved, she stole a piece of him. And that was a new kind of heart plummet.
Eyes closed, Molly sat still at the gentle fixing of her hair while a storm rose in Shadrach’s chest. Who was he fooling? He couldn’t leave it to the last minute. He had to secure a promise of marriage sooner than Christmas. And to do that, he had some Old World formalities to knock over.
*
“Molly, you won’t be able to see from there.” Finella called to her young charge who sat on the bed, back turned to the goings on at the table. A collection of shells jangled across her blanket, sorted into groups.
As promised, Mr. Jones had returned midmorning for a lesson in damper making, but with Molly in a world of her own, this left Finella his only student.
“Sunny.” He called her this time. “Come help us make bread.”
Molly ignored him.
“She does this sometimes.” Mr. Jones rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Disappears and won’t come out for any coaxing.”
“Not even for bread?” Finella raised her voice for Molly to hear. The girl shifted closer to the wall.
“Shall I try and bring her over?” she whispered.
Mr. Jones dumped a sack of flour onto the table. “Leave her for now. She might join us if we don’t press her.”
He poked the embers in the fire with the poker. “Perfect. Now…this couldn’t be easier, and after that delicious rabbit stew I’m sure you’ll master damper with your eyes shut.”
He winked, and Finella held tight to her breath. She focused on his sun-browned hand, his strong wrist, stronger knuckles, his cup-grabbing grip, the quick swing of his
thumb, the slick command of everything at his fingertips.
Into a basin he tossed three cups of flour. He leaned across the table for a pinch of salt and sloshed in a generous amount of water. With a wooden spoon he mixed the ingredients and then dug his fists in to pummel the mix.
“See? Nothing to it.” He grinned. “A simple bread. Fresh from the fire, it’ll match and beat any oven baked loaf.”
Ignoring his handsome smile she concentrated on the lump he hoped might become bread. Until a glossy ball formed she knew it would not pass Aunt Sarah’s test.
With flour-covered hands held high he stepped back and pointed to the wet dough with his elbow.
“Have a go.”
Finella tapped her fingers to her throat. “Me? But you’re already—”
“Come on.” He hooked his little finger around her thumb. A sticky clump of dough glued it to his. “Get into it. If you do it wrong, we’ll tell you. Won’t we, Molly?” He raised his voice but no words came from the girl.
He smiled and drew Finella closer until her fingertips hung over the pan.
She wasn’t sure if something else held her there. Something more than his grin. Where was angry Mr. Jones? Or sullen Mr. Jones? He was easier to fight.
Something played around the corners of her mouth, a smile to match his own.
“Surely you don’t suggest I am new to bread making Mr. Jones? I assure you, I am familiar with the skill and your attempts are certainly not—”
“Call me Shadrach.”
His voice lowered to just above a whisper. A hush enveloped them at the exclusion of all else and he tugged her hand. Finella’s heart thundered and she hoped he couldn’t feel it in her pulse.
“I’ll be Shadrach,” he pushed her left fist into the sticky dough, “and you can be Finella.” He added her right hand to the mess and let his hands rest on hers. Finella shivered, and he let go.
He rubbed his fingers together and tiny bits of dough fell on the table.
Finella opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck to her tongue, as sure as the dough clung to her fingers and she looked down at the table to hide the flame in her cheeks.
This familiarity must be the Australian way. She’d been warned life would not be what she thought. She guessed it made sense to call him by his Christian name, if nothing else for Molly’s sake.
He nudged the pan closer. “You do know how to knead bread dough?”
She licked her dry lips. “I know enough about kneading to inform you this mix is not even a proper ball yet.” She lifted her fingers from the pan and the tacky dough slid off her fingers.
“Oh, you know enough, do you?”
Finella could hear the laughter he held back.
He leaned against the table. Sure and tall. “Show me how it’s done, then.”
She wouldn’t be baited by his teasing. But, perhaps… with the loosening of decorum, she could give him a bread-making lesson of her own.
“Aunt Sarah says dough is ready for baking when it’s silky smooth. And this will never be silky because you have added too much water.”
She reached for the flour sack, but he snatched it away and held it to his chest.
“Need more flour, do you? Well, if you ask nicely, I might let you have some.”
Finella tried not to smile at his antics.
He opened back the folds of the sack, leaving the top of the flour just beyond Finella’s reach. “Just say… please, Shadrach.” He sang each word, like a magpie’s warble, and Molly hopped off the bed to watch the fun.
Now two sets of blue eyes waited for an answer. Molly sucked on the end of her braid. Shadrach smirked.
Finella rested her wrists along the edge of the pan and looked to the ceiling.
“Please. May I have some flour?”
He drew the sack away. “I’m sorry. Did someone say something?” He sat down in the nearest chair and balanced the bag on his knee. “Do you hear anything, Miss Molly?” He winked at his sister.
Molly nodded. “Brother. Brother’s got the flour.” She looked from Shadrach to Finella and pointed. “It’s here. See?”
“Oh, this flour?” He pried the top open some more. “But, I’m not Finella’s brother. Am I?” He closed his eyes and stretched his legs, lofty-like and lazy. “If only there were some way Finella could get the flour she needs to make us all some damper.” Molly hopped from one foot to the other, waiting for Finella’s reply, and giggling at her brother’s trap.
Tempted to laugh along with Molly, Finella shook her head at the man with the closed blue eyes. If she could steal from under his nose, a large fistful was all she needed.
Seizing her opportunity Finella dug her hand into the top of the powdery bag.
He clamped his fingers around her wrist and opened one eye. “You have to ask. You have to ask, me.”
Fingers stuck in the flour, Finella stood there, pinned by more then his hand. If she didn’t look away now, his gaze might hold her longer than she dared. She knew she had to give in. And what frightened her the most, was the desire to give in completely.
“I would like some flour please. Shadrach.” Flame fired her cheeks.
“Did you hear that, Molly? Finella wants some flour. Should I give it to her?”
“Yes.” Molly hugged her doll and laughed. “Give it to her.”
Shadrach grinned. “Oh, I’ll give it to her.” He pulled down on Finella’s hand, and hid it all the way to her wrist in the cool powder of the flour bag.
A thrill of alarm snapped in Finella’s stomach. He held her by the other elbow and from the smirk on his face, planned some slow mischief.
Well, two could play his game. And this game was not over yet, Shadrach Jones. He loosened his grip, and Finella seized the opportunity.
One swift flick of her fingertips delivered a flour dusting to his face and neck. Not much, but enough to make him cough when he breathed it in. He dumped the bag onto the table and stood.
Somehow, he still managed to hold onto her wrist and he yanked her closer with it. Molly’s laughter filled the room.
“Why, you little minx.” He rubbed one eye and blinked at Finella. “You best be ready for your punishment.”
Finella wasn’t sure if he continued to jest and her tongue thickened with a jumble of excuses. What had come over her?
“You… you baited me. You can’t say you weren’t ready to do the same. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with you… nothing a little brushing won’t fix.”
The upturned corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Perhaps. Perhaps I did bait you. But you’ll pay for it, either way.” A slow smile returned to his white face.
Finella’s cheeks blazed with another flush.
This was not how Aunt Sarah baked bread.
Molly giggled at their antics.
“Think it’s funny do you, Miss?” Shadrach brushed the tip of her nose with the back of his floury hand. “Now who looks like she’s been kissed by cinders?”
Eyes crossed, Molly looked at her nose. “What about Finella?”
Shadrach wiped at his chin. The scraping of his fingers against day old bristles sounded a warning.
“Miss Finella will have to wait for her fun. She’s got a damper to finish. I’m thinking I’ll reserve my revenge for when she least expects it.”
He hoisted the bag of flour onto the table and sat down. “Take what you need, Miss Finella.”
“How can I be sure I won’t end up wearing the flour the minute my back’s turned?” She dipped an enamel cup into the sack and sprinkled a liberal amount over the dough. “I’m not sure I can trust you.”
He leaned back into the chair with a deep smile and let Molly brush at the mess on his shoulder. “I’m not sure you should.”
Finella’s heart skittered with every pull of wet dough. She’d have to watch him or her moment of fun would come back to bite her. “This is better.” Her rhythmic twisting pulled the lumpy dough together. “See, Molly?” She worked to bring it together and th
e supple mix obeyed and drank in the added flour. She mashed and molded with the heel of her palm until a smooth ball emerged.
“Shall I shape a loaf?”
“It’s fine as it is.” Shadrach took the lid off the cast iron pot. “Dump it here.”
Finella eased the ball in.
“And now, you will see why there is no need for a fancy brick oven.”
Shadrach knelt by the fire. A strand of hair covered his eyes. With a quick puff from his lips he drove it away and placed the pot directly into the coals, banking it well with ash all the way to the lid. “Thirty minutes, Miss Molly, and you’ll get your damper.”
He sniffed, and a sneeze shook his whole body. Ash flew around the hearth and the coals glowed under the urging of his breath. He rocked back on his heels and covered his face with both hands for a second sneeze.
He stood and a third sneeze burst before anyone had a chance to speak.
Molly pointed at a long smudge of flour along Shadrach’s left eyebrow. “Oh, Brother.” It gave him the look of a wizened old man. His cheeks looked much the same. A bubble of laughter escaped her, and Finella covered her own mouth with her knuckles.
“What’s so funny?” He wiped his chin and nose.
“You are.” Molly gathered her skirt and stepped onto a chair. Using her thumbs she smoothed his eyebrows and wiped the flour away. “You’re funny.”
“Is that right?” He snatched Molly by the waist and swung her round before tossing her on the bed like her rag doll.
Floppy with laughter, she lay in a merry puddle of fun. Her giddy giggles flooded the room and lit it from within like a shower of stardust. “Again, Shad. Again.”
“You’ll have to wait ’til later, Miss.” He rubbed his knuckles against his chin. “I’m heading out to shave. I plot my best revenge when I shave and I’ve got to come up with something worthy of Miss Finella’s mischief now, don’t I?”
Something bloomed in Finella. A blend of fear and thrill.
“Spin her too, Shad.” Molly pleaded. “Spin Finella.”
He wouldn’t dare. Would he?
Instinct screamed at her to flee. Instead, she clung to the edge of the table and wouldn’t think twice about reaching for a panhandle, if he tried.
Carry Me Home Page 9
