Pen scraped against paper. Norwegian. “Here I’d assumed you Irish as your wife. If that is indeed what I caught in her voice.” His smile was amiable as he added to Thor, “Have you had any success with speech?”
Thor shook his head, and the doctor marked a box on the form beside Oral Failure.
Aven pursed her lips to keep from chiming in. While the few verbalizations her husband managed wouldn’t be heard as words by others, they were most precious to her, especially the brief hint of her name that he attempted at times. Deep and husky from his lips, it always made her warm all over, and awed by the fortitude of this man whom God had blessed her with.
“On a scale from one to ten, with one being a complete void of sound, how would you rate your lack of hearing?”
Thor closed rounded fingers in the shape of a zero.
More notes were taken. “And what is the cause of your hearing loss? Was it the effect of an illness? Accident? Or a defect from birth?”
Reaching over, Thor touched the box on the form to be checked beside Birth, then, borrowing the doctor’s pen, crossed out the word Defect.
Aven smiled.
“And have you any children? Besides the one on the way, that is.”
Handing the pen back, Thor shook his head.
The questions seeming at an end, Dr. Kent brought a canvas strip with a metal attachment out of a drawer along with an ear scope. Upon standing, he used the small scope to examine one of Thor’s ears. After quiet study, he angled Thor’s head to inspect the other. He jotted additional notes and, after capping the pen, rolled up Thor’s right shirtsleeve. “Now for the blood draw.” Practiced hands secured the strip of canvas around Thor’s solid upper arm, turning the metal crank in a tourniquet. The man examined the thick veins in the hollow of Thor’s elbow.
Looking uncomfortable, Thor flexed his hand, then relaxed it. His other, still wrapped up with Aven’s, grazed the side of her rounded stomach as if he sought all the comfort he could get. Dr. Kent’s gaze settled on the exchange as he opened a small leather case to reveal a metal vial. Two needles lay against the black velvet lining on either side, each fitted with a tiny screw cap.
When Thor cleared his throat, the doctor’s ginger mustache lifted cordially. “It’s known as a hypodermic syringe and I assure you is quite undemanding.” He lifted one of the needles and screwed it onto the ribbed tip of the syringe. “Though intimidating on initial glimpse, I reckon. The first man I saw here today didn’t express any discomfort, although he admitted to having been exposed to the instrument before. You should find it a minor prick.”
The doctor gripped the underside of Thor’s bicep with one hand and pressed the sharp tip into his skin with the other. Thor drew in a quiet breath.
Aven stroked her thumb against his palm. “There was another Deaf man here?” she asked, hoping conversation might settle Thor’s nerves.
“Yes.” A slow tug on the syringe pulled crimson liquid into the glass vial. “About a quarter of an hour before you arrived.” As he spoke, the doctor’s focus stayed fixed on his task. “It was quite the chance meeting.”
She hadn’t known of any others in the area, but perhaps the stranger had traveled from a neighboring county. What a pleasing notion—the possibility for Thor to make the acquaintance of another soul who understood the intricacies of living life in silence.
But Thor didn’t seem impressed by the possibility. Instead, he stoically watched his blood being siphoned. Aven gave his hand another squeeze. When he looked at her, she flashed him a reassuring smile and inquired further on his behalf. “’Twas a gentleman, you said?”
“Correct.” The physician slipped the needle from Thor’s skin, then removed the vial of blood from the brass syringe, which he set on his small desktop. “He mentioned his acquaintance with your husband, in fact, and asked me to extend his thanks to Mr. Norgaard for alerting him to the study.”
Puzzled, Aven glanced to Thor, but he seemed as confused as she.
“His name eludes me.” Dr. Kent shuffled through nearby papers. “But he was a tall sort of fellow—one who looked accustomed to hard labor. Light hair and coloring. Full beard rather like Mr. Norgaard’s.”
Aven thought of who might match that description, but she knew of no other Deaf men.
Something wasn’t right. She could see it now in Thor’s pinched brow.
After tying a strip of bandage around Thor’s elbow, Dr. Kent rinsed his hands in the basin of water, then dipped the bloodied end of the needle into the same dish. “He was perhaps mid-forties. One of the finest lip readers I’ve encountered. Understood every word I said without mishap.” He sloshed the needle around, then swiped it dry with a rag. A careful polish made it sparkle.
The physician set the syringe back in its case.
Thor squinted over at the needle now lying in its velvet cradle, then looked back to the doctor and signed, Man name?
Before Aven could voice the question, Dr. Kent spoke. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” He closed the case on the ornate tool. “It came to me through my father, who fought for the Confederacy during the War. It’s served a great many purposes.”
Shaking his head, Thor inquired again.
“He’s asking after the gentleman,” Aven clarified. “I’m afraid we don’t understand, Dr. Kent.”
Closed and then latched, the small leather case was slid aside. “He was a rather stern sort of chap. Rough around the edges . . . burly and a bit unkempt, if you will. He was silent, as yourself, Mr. Norgaard, but his father was here and spoke for him. An old general with a war injury.”
Alarm rose within Aven.
Dr. Kent lifted the lid on the top of his medic case, where a faded Confederacy emblem was pasted in the underside. “The gentleman was missing three fingers on his left hand, but he’s still got a rebel yell in him, if you ask me.”
Thor’s gaze locked on the physician’s face as the crimson vial was labeled with a tag and string. Thor inquired with the sign for father and then gestured the appearance of a patch by covering his right eye.
The doctor implored Aven for assistance. She relayed the inquiry though the only man she knew who matched that description was Jed Sorrel. One of the ruffians who’d been the cause of so much harassment in these parts. Men with their white robes and masked hoods who had tormented the Norgaards for harboring former slaves. Jed and his son were criminal men, banished from the region by Thor and his brothers during a perilous battle of gunfire and bloodied fists four years ago. One fought between neighbors for two different views on freedom.
“His father did indeed.” The doctor opened the icebox and set the vial in. He glanced over his shoulder as he clicked the door closed. “And he’d been most adamant you were acquainted. Fallen on hard times, he’d declared, so the cash was welcome.”
Thor stared at his interviewer as if unable to believe what was being said. Name H-A-R-L-A-N. Then six more letters, just as rapid, and ones that sealed the direness. S-O-R-R-E-L.
Aven’s fingers went numb, the tingling spreading through her body. Not only because Jed Sorrel was Thor’s archenemy, but because his son, Harlan—a man of cunning ways and loose morals—was no more Deaf than she. She needed to express this to the doctor; Thor’s eyes pleaded for it.
“Sir—”
“Come to think of it, he also made mention of some young boys. I had assumed them yours, but perhaps they are relatives.”
Aven could scarcely speak amid a grip of fear. “We have two nephews.” One was three and the other only learning to waddle about.
“Yes. The older gentleman said they’d conversed with the boys just the other day. That they had a rather amiable visit in the yard. He complimented what fine neighbors you all are.”
Thor’s face flushed. He looked around the train car as his brow dug in. Last, he stood.
“Sir, there is a grave problem.” Aven rose as the Klansmen’s hatred and destruction assaulted her memories.
Thor nabbed his paper from the desk
and began to dig for another. Not finding what he sought, he shoved the stack aside and stepped away.
“I fear you have your information wrong,” Aven rushed out—hoping to bring voice to Thor’s distress. With the boys having been mentioned, he surely wanted to make haste back to the farm.
Catching her worried gaze, Thor stepped to the door.
“How did these men find you?” Aven entreated.
“They expressed to me that it was through a connection with Mr. Norgaard.”
Having turned to watch, Thor hit the wall so hard the basin of bloodied water shuddered. Not connected!
Aven touched her husband’s waist, hoping to calm him, but truly her own panic rose that these men were not only returned but rousing trouble.
After ensuring he had his form in his grasp, Thor rammed open the door of the train compartment.
“Sir,” Aven said as he coaxed her out with a gentle hold at her side. “I’m afraid that whoever you just met with was not who he said he was. That vial of blood will be no use to you. That man you saw is not Deaf.”
Thor stomped to the doctor’s desk. He flipped over a blank form, uncapped the pen, and wrote the names of the men, where they had once lived, and what their crimes were.
Thieves. Murderers. The doctor read while Thor added several other crimes, all describing them as the felons they were.
In hurried scrawl, Thor indicated that he would alert the authorities of their whereabouts, then motioned for Aven to step down the narrow hallway. Glancing back, she saw the doctor fold Thor’s note and pocket it.
Aven reached the platform in a gust of chilly air. Thor trudged behind her, furious and rightly so.
Had the Sorrel men come for the money? She prayed that was the reason.
Aven looked to the paper pinched in her husband’s fist, then to the bandage wrapping the hollow of his elbow. A wound that, while small, now bridged the gap between him and an enemy that hadn’t been crossed in years. A blotch of crimson that would be identical to one Harlan Sorrel bore this very day from the same physician.
Last, she thought of her young nephews, who often played in the yard. Though under careful watch, there were moments when the children wandered around the side of the barn—chasing kittens or searching for frogs as little ones did. Was that how Jed and Harlan had come upon them? What if the Sorrel men meant to do it again? Aven quickened her pace to match Thor’s.
The land they called home was too remote for the guardianship of law officers, so for years Thor had surveyed the edge of their woods, and for years his brother Jorgan had done the same. They kept careful stock of ammunition and firearms, with a subtle tending to door locks and a frequent sharpening of knife blades. All while the absence of their third brother and the most cunning fighter weighed on each of their hearts. But though the youngest Norgaard man owned a portion of the farm, and though he had outsmarted the Sorrels that fateful day four autumns ago, no sooner could Haakon protect the land and family than the missing of him could heal hearts yet wounded by his choices. If Haakon meant to be a prodigal son, ’twas best he be one that didn’t return.
With all these tragedies drawn quiet, Blackbird Mountain had become so peaceful that Aven often wondered if their caution was for naught. If there was no need to fear. That perhaps the Klansmen had truly departed this region for good, perhaps even been secured by national authorities. But as Thor led her to the wagon, keeping a keen eye on the rural outskirts of the crowd and a careful grip on her waist, she knew she’d been wrong.
ONE
MARCH 9, 1895
BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA
BUILT OF BOARDS AS BROAD AS A MAN’S BACK, the cidery had stood at the edge of this wooded farm for as many years as Thor Norgaard. That was thirty-two among knowing souls, but to others it meant countless summers and winters that this massive building had endured winds and rains on the northernmost reach of Blackbird Mountain. Much like the Norwegian men who had worked the press and jarred the drink. First Da. Then the three sons who had followed.
Yet gone from within these walls was the sweet aroma of fermenting drink. In its stead were apple butters, pie fillings, and vinegars. Another side of the business that could be dated back to Thor. So long as he’d been sober—four years and counting—the Norgaard family operation of making liquor had ground to a halt.
Straddling the highest peak of the cidery roof, Thor rammed a metal scraper beneath a sun-rotted shingle. It snapped loose, and with gloved hands he pitched it toward the ground. Just below, Jorgan gathered up the shards and tossed them into the bed of the wagon that three months ago had been parked aside the train station—the day Thor and Jorgan had vowed to keep a closer watch on everything in their domain.
Thor tossed down two more broken shingles. He would have aimed better toward his older brother, but it took all his effort to rip and balance. Knees clutched to the peak, he shoved the metal tool down and broke off another old shingle. The splintered fragments slid down the backside of the roof and hit the dirt.
Just beyond the nearest trees, Thor’s wife and sister-in-law kept the children busy at play near the spring. He glimpsed them through the budding branches, ensuring they were safe. Behind him rose the house that was as massive as the cidery.
Finished with this section of roof, Thor crammed the handle of the tool under the back waistband of his pants. He brushed dust from his beard, ignoring all that covered the upper half of his winter underwear. The air was heavy with warming light and drying land, so he’d already shoved back the sleeves and unfastened the buttons at the top of his chest. A mild spring day that made for easier work.
Needing a swig of water, he released a sharp whistle, one he felt in the roof of his mouth instead of hearing.
Jorgan looked up and shaded his eyes from the sun.
Using three fingers to form a W, Thor tapped them to his lips in the hand sign for water.
Jorgan retrieved a jar from the wagon seat and started up the ladder. His shirt was as sweat stained as Thor’s own, and while his hair was a lighter brown, it hung tied back in the same rough knot, the cords cut from the rawhide of the elk Thor had downed that autumn. The meat was all cured or canned and stored in the springhouse thanks to the hard work of their wives as well as Ida, the aged freedwoman and faithful housekeeper who had raised Thor and his brothers since birth. Though her wrinkled, dark skin shone in stark contrast to their own, she’d been as a mother to them. A woman they’d defend with as strong a zeal as the others.
Thor sidestepped to the lower portion of the roof, bent down, and gripped the metal lid on the water. His side had bothered him of late, and although he reached gingerly, a pain lanced through his middle. He winced and pressed a firm grip to the spot, but the pressure did little to help as he fumbled the jar. Jorgan steadied it, and as Thor braced against the throbbing to reach for the jar again, Jorgan eyed him with confusion. If he sensed Thor’s discomfort, he didn’t let on. Thor tried to improve the situation with a lopsided smile before gulping water down.
Having gutted enough wild game to know where a liver was, Thor rubbed the tender spot that had troubled him the last few weeks and that, as of right now, was a dish cloth wrung tight. The same kind of pain Da had suffered before Thor and his brothers dug his grave and marked it with a cross. One Thor might have seen from the cidery roof had he searched westward for the family plot. But he kept his focus diverted from that place, and when fear tramped through him, he shot out a slow breath and capped the lid on the water. This was no time to lose his calm. As it was, anxiety already stole his sleep. As fierce as this growing ache was a bewilderment, because unlike Da, Thor had sobered from an addiction to hard drink. He’d restored his health as best he could, so why was this spot bothering him now?
Jorgan tapped him for his attention, and Thor watched his brother’s mouth move amid a beard streaked in silver. “Let’s switch places. You come on down.”
Thor shook his head, understanding an act of kindness when he saw one. It live
d in a person’s eyes more than any words expressed. Something he wouldn’t have learned had he been born with ears that were for more than decoration.
Thor clambered back to the peak, glad his brother couldn’t see his grimace as he settled again. Jorgan returned to the ground, where he gathered more shingles. The man never probed too deep, but he was always there—sure and steady. An older brother who was as temperate and honest a leader as they came. As for their younger brother . . .
Thor made it a point to think of Haakon as little as possible.
It was for the best that the runt was gone, but every so often the missing of Haakon hung around this farm like a blanket of memories and regret that would never be shed. It tried to drape itself around Thor now as he worked atop the building where he and Haakon had played as children and worked side by side as men. Determined not to let the past rear its head, Thor rammed his tool down and snapped off another worn shingle.
He had better things to do than think about Haakon. If he gave in, he’d only recall what Haakon had done to Aven. How he’d tried to force himself on her in a way no woman deserved. She had been Thor’s bride-to-be four years ago, but Thor would have defended her whether her heart had been his or not.
At a flash of color in the distance, Thor viewed the lane where the women strolled with the children in tow, all damp and happy from the spring—a bit of fun with warmer days on the rise. More important, near enough to the homestead that the women were within hollering distance. Something Thor and Jorgan had insisted upon since that winter’s day when the doctor from the train depot had declared the Sorrels’ return. No one had seen hide nor hair of the Klansmen yet, but it didn’t mean they weren’t around.
When the women wished to venture off, they agreed not to go so far that Thor and Jorgan couldn’t come to their aid. While Thor wouldn’t be able to hear them call, no one kept a better ear out for the family than Jorgan. And for Thor . . . Well, there was a reason he’d stationed himself up on the ridgeline of the roof.
Daughters of Northern Shores Page 2
