by Dorothy Love
The life he had promised her.
Out in the yard, a horse nickered, and the sound took her back to the afternoon last December when she’d encountered George Mackenzie in the woods. It had been unusually warm for the time of year, not the kind of crisp, cool day that put her in mind of Christmas. Nevertheless, she had taken her shears and her basket and set out on the trail that led upward through the woods behind her father’s house to look for evergreens and holly berries for the fireplace mantel. Ruth was home from school, and Olivia wanted to surprise her younger sister.
A mile or so into her walk she spotted a perfectly round ball of mistletoe growing between two branches of an old tree. She clambered up, snipped it, and tossed it into the basket below. She swung lightly to the ground just as a black horse thundered through the woods. Its rider, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark-brown hair curling over his ears, reined in and smiled down at her.
“As I live and breathe,” he said. “A wood nymph. In North Carolina. Who would have guessed?”
His gaze, expressive and frank, unsettled her. She fussed with the greenery in her basket. The last time she’d seen George, she had been a shy young girl in awe of his good looks and courtly ways. But they had both gone away to school, and after that she’d heard from Mrs. Fondren that George had gone abroad. She hadn’t known of his return. Certainly when she left the house this morning, George Mackenzie had been the last person she expected to see.
Not that his company was unwelcome.
He dismounted. Holding loosely to the reins, he covered the short distance between them. “Does this lovely creature speak?”
Lovely creature? She had actually looked around, thinking he must be speaking of someone else. Most people described her as smart, sturdy, reliable. Occasionally, when she was fancied up for one of her father’s dinners, someone might remark upon her appearance. But no one had ever described her as lovely. Now she knew for the first time how the beauties at Miss Pritchard’s school must feel every day. Did they know how lucky they were to be so admired?
“George Mackenzie,” he said. “And you, I believe, are Miss Olivia Brooks.” He gave her a friendly nod. “You grew up while I was away.”
“I remember you. Barely.”
He raised a brow. “Barely? Should I be insulted?”
She laughed. Whatever else he might have mastered during his schooling and his travels, he had certainly learned how to charm a girl. “I saw Luke at the mercantile yesterday. He didn’t mention that you were home.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. My brother and I aren’t the closest of friends.”
Olivia knew that too. According to Mrs. Fondren, Luke’s father favored his older son, and when old Mr. Mackenzie went to his heavenly reward, George would inherit everything.
Luke never spoke of it, but Olivia was offended for his sake. It wasn’t Luke’s fault that his mother had died giving him life. And Mr. Mackenzie wasn’t some English lord bequeathing a grand estate to his firstborn. He was merely a successful merchant and landowner. And a bitter man who took his anger and grief out on his younger son. In Olivia’s considered opinion, the odious old coot ought to be ashamed of himself. And George, too, for refusing to share the old man’s legacy.
“I should have called upon you much sooner.” George reached out and, with a gloved hand, tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. Their eyes met, and Olivia’s uncharitable thoughts dissipated. “But this is actually nicer, don’t you think? A chance meeting on a beautiful winter’s day. With no one to chaperone we may speak freely.”
“I should go.”
“Not yet. Not until you promise to meet me tomorrow at my little camp just over that ridge.” He pointed to a cabin nearly hidden behind a rough outcropping farther along the path. “From there we can hike to the falls. It’s beautiful this time of year. I’d love for you to see it.”
“I couldn’t possibly. This is highly—”
“Please. It isn’t as if we’re complete strangers. We won’t stay long.”
They started down the path toward home, George leading his mount, the basket swinging between them. They were within sight of her father’s house when she spotted a large cluster of bright-red berries beneath a tangle of undergrowth. She pushed through the brambles and removed the berries. Ruth would be delighted with such a large bouquet.
“You’ve scratched your face.” George trailed a finger across her cheek. “I should have battled those brambles for you.”
“I’m all right. And really, we must part here. My father will be furious if he sees us arriving together.”
He leaned over and kissed the scratch on her face. She drew back and looked into his eyes, blue and clear as a mountain creek. And she was utterly lost.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting.”
That night, as she and Ruth prepared for bed, her sister asked about the scratch on her face. But Olivia didn’t want to share anything that had happened on this miraculous day. George Mackenzie thought she was lovely. He had kissed her. Tomorrow he would wait for her in his cabin.
She wouldn’t go, of course. But just for tonight, she could dream about what it would be like to have someone so smart, so kind and handsome, in love with her. She doused the light and lay in the darkness for the longest time, recalling every word, every glance, every inflection of his voice, the memory of it hers and hers alone . . .
“Olivia?”
Luke was beside her now, urging her out the door of the Quaker meeting house and into the dusty yard. He jammed his hat onto his head and clasped her hand as they headed for the wagon. “Did you enjoy the meeting?”
She lifted one shoulder. “I miss the singing.”
He smiled. “Me too. But the quiet is nice. Gives a man time to think.”
He boosted her onto the wagon seat and then climbed up beside her. “Samuel and Delia are going to the Thornburgs, so Samuel asked me to drive his wagon back. We’re invited to eat with them too. Are you up to it?”
“Would you be disappointed if we didn’t go? I seem to be tired all the time.” She thought of the letter inside her reticule. Remembering George, the way he made her feel, fueled her determination to send it. “And besides, I need a couple of things from the store.”
“It’s closed on Sundays. You know that.” He snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward.
“But I heard Mrs. Thornburg telling Mrs. Mills that sometimes Mr. Prater opens for a little while after meeting, to save people another trip into town.”
“What’s so important that it can’t wait till next Friday? Samuel and I will be coming in to sell the first of the strawberry crop. I’ll be glad to get whatever you need then.”
She sighed. “If you must know, I haven’t been feeling well. Mrs. Mills said I ought to try Dr. Smallwood’s tonic. It’s made especially for ladies’ . . . digestive ailments.”
“Oh . . . oh.” Luke’s ears turned bright red. “All right, we’ll go. If Mr. Prater isn’t around, you can come with Samuel and me on Friday.”
Delia waved to her as the Millses’ wagon made a wide turn in the meadow. Olivia returned her wave and tamped down her feelings of guilt. When had she turned into such an accomplished liar?
Chapter Nine
Olivia! Grab your pole. I think you’ve got a bite.”
Olivia let her water-stained sketchbook slide onto the grass and reached for the bamboo pole Luke had baited for her. He picked up his own pole and the battered creel he’d found in the Millses’ barn and jogged along the creek bank toward her.
She lifted the pole. A fat trout glistened in the late afternoon sunlight.
“He’s a beauty.” Luke expertly removed the fish from the hook and put it into the creel. “It’ll make us a fine dinner tonight.”
When she wrinkled her nose, he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it and fry it up for you myself.” He baited her hook again and tossed the line back into the clear, cold waters of Sweetbriar Creek. “You’re one up on m
e. I haven’t caught a thing.”
She smiled. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Mind if I share your fishing spot? Maybe it’ll improve my chances.”
“I don’t mind.”
She made room on the grass. He sat down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. In the weeks since their first meeting with the Friends, tensions between them had gradually eased. Maybe it was because she was feeling better these days, though the late July heat seeped into her bones and left her limbs heavy as iron. Luke still spent most evenings after supper in the barn, but she had adjusted to spending most of her time alone. During the long summer twilights, she took her sketchbook out to the orchard and sat among the peach trees, now heavy with fruit. She drew scenes of the creek, the wren that had nested in a rusted-out bucket beside the fence, the yellow and white wildflowers dotting the meadow.
Her paper and charcoal had always provided a refuge from her loneliness and her troubles. Now it kept her mind off her guilt at having posted her letter to George. A thousand times she had wished it back. But perhaps it didn’t matter. He had not replied.
Luke leaned his back against an old tree, watching the swiftly moving waters of the creek. “Pretty spot here, isn’t it?”
“Um-hmm.” Her hands stilled over her sketch of the Millses’ barn across the creek.
He leaned over. “Can I see what you’re drawing?”
She shrugged. “It’s only a barn.”
“But it’s good. You were right not to let me throw your things away when we started up the mountain.” He swatted at a bee buzzing around their heads. “I’ve seen pictures in magazines that weren’t as good as these.”
“I’m only a dabbler.” Though she had once hoped for much more. In her last semester at Miss Pritchard’s, a cousin of the headmistress, one Jeremy Bradstreet, had arrived at the school from England, bringing a new book of his poems illustrated by a Miss Julia Octavian. Mr. Bradstreet had praised Olivia’s work and said it reminded him of Miss Octavian’s. He had offered to take some of her sketches back to his publisher in England, but Father had forbidden it. Unseemly, he said, for a woman from a respectable family to pursue work like one of the lower classes. Of course he had said much worse after learning of her lost virtue.
A dove rose from a tree with a whir of wings and settled on a branch higher up. Luke shaded his eyes and pointed. “Look. He’s waiting for his true love.”
She smiled and added more shading to her sketch. “How can you be so sure?”
“Doves mate for life.” His dark gaze met and held hers. “They find another steady dove and stick together no matter what.”
The lowering sun cast long shadows across the creek. Luke got to his feet and took his fishing pole from the water. “Reckon we ought to be getting on back to the house. I’ve got a long day tomorrow delivering those barrels to Laurel Grove.”
She accepted his proffered hand and got heavily to her feet. “But you’ll be back before dark?”
“I hope so.”
“Me too.” Delia and Samuel had left with the Thornburgs for a Friends gathering near Hickory Ridge and wouldn’t be back until Friday. Olivia realized how much she counted on Luke’s presence. How desperately she dreaded being alone in the isolated cabin on the banks of Sweetbriar Creek.
“I’ll leave you my rifle. In case any critters come calling.” Luke picked up his creel. “Samuel and I saw bear tracks the other side of the creek last week.”
“I’m sure I’d be too frightened to fire a rifle.”
Luke grinned. “In that case, just throw it at him.”
They started up the path to the cabin. She stumbled over an exposed tree root in the path. He steadied her, one strong arm around her shoulder. He smelled of damp earth and wood shavings. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just clumsy these days.” She clutched her sketchbook to her chest. “My feet are swollen. I should not have worn these shoes all day.”
“When the baby gets here, though, it’ll be worth it.”
“It’s easy for men to make light of a burden they will never be required to bear.”
“I swear, Olivia, sometimes you talk like you don’t even want the child. Or me.”
She glanced away. “I—”
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. We’ve had such a nice afternoon—let’s not spoil it now.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry for sounding so cross. And this afternoon was lovely. The nicest since we came here.”
The expression in his eyes went softer and the tension in him seemed to drain away. “We’re nearly home. You can take your shoes off while I clean the fish. Just don’t go thinking you can put them back on again.”
She laughed. “Are you planning ever to let me live that down?”
They reached the cabin. Luke cleaned the trout and fried it in the skillet. Olivia sliced a tomato, and they sat down to supper.
Luke polished off his meal and wiped his hands on his napkin. “What we need now is a peach pie.”
She ate her last bite of tomato, the flesh soft and juicy and still warm from the sun. “I’ll make one as soon as you finish getting the crop off the trees.”
He gazed out the back door toward the small orchard. “I wanted to finish this week, but with Samuel gone I got behind in my chores. I need to get the peaches to Prater’s store as soon as possible. It’s a real good crop this year, Olivia. Samuel says we ought to get a good price for them.”
His mention of Prater’s reminded her yet again of her letter to George and her growing regret at having posted it. A person could not right a wrong by doing wrong to someone else. With each week that passed she became more determined to make up to Luke for her duplicity, to earn his trust and affection. To show him what a good mother she intended to be. She rose from the table, a dirty dinner plate in each hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What for?” She poured water into the dishpan and reached for the dishrag.
“For not being able to offer you the kind of life you wanted.”
“None of this is your fault, Luke. You’re doing fine.”
He looked pleased. “Honest?”
“Honest. And I ought to tell you so more often.”
He found a match and lit the lamp. “What would you like from Laurel Grove? The mercantile there has a lot more things than Prater’s. I’m saving all I can for when we get our own place, but I want to bring you something.”
She began washing their plates. It would take a king’s ransom to turn the leaky cabin into the kind of home she dreamed of, but she wouldn’t hurt Luke any more than she already had by saying so. “Some fabric for curtains might be nice.”
She plunged the greasy skillet into the dishpan. “Sewing is the one useful skill I learned at Miss Pritchard’s.”
“All right. What color?”
“You choose from whatever is available.”
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I’m not much good at fancying up a room. I expect you ought to specify.”
“Blue and white check, then, if they have it.”
“I had a feeling you were partial to blue.”
She finished the dishes and set them on the drainboard to dry.
Luke moved toward the door. “Reckon I’ll feed the chickens and go on out to the barn for a while.”
“All right.” She picked up her sewing basket and settled herself on the worn settee.
“I won’t be long. I need to get up early in the morning.”
Olivia dipped her water bucket into the clear-running waters of the creek, one eye on the roiling sky. Despite the threatening weather, Luke had left for Laurel Grove before dawn, the new barrels secured to the Millses’ wagon with rope. Now midmorning clouds obscured the mountain, and a restless wind stirred the meadow grasses.
She returned to the cabin and began setting out pots and pans to catch the inevitable drips once the rain began. Samuel had promised to help Luke repair the roo
f, but so far there hadn’t been time. Getting the peach crop ready for harvest was more important than mere creature comforts.
A roll of thunder announced the coming rain. She shooed the squawking chickens into the safety of their coop and fastened the latch. The wind caught an empty tin bucket and sent it rolling across the yard. She retrieved it and gained the shelter of the back porch as the first drops splattered the dusty ground. The gray sky turned to the sickly shade of green that signaled a coming hailstorm.
Her stomach clenched. If the hailstorm came, the peaches would be ruined. Worthless. She darted across the yard and crossed the footbridge to Samuel’s barn. She couldn’t save the remaining crop, but even a few bushels were better than losing everything. She owed Luke. If not for her, he would not be in such dire circumstances. The least she could do was save whatever she could.
She lifted the heavy bar and shoved the door open. In the dim light she looked around for a ladder and the empty baskets Samuel stored there. She found the ladder and dragged it into the open doorway. Her foot caught and she twisted free, clutching at the wall for support. Something lay hidden in the corner beneath a worn horse blanket.
Despite her hurry, she lifted the blanket. A baby’s cradle, made of the finest walnut and polished to a satin sheen, sat next to Luke’s woodworking tools and a tin of beeswax.
She leaned against the wall, filled with shame and regret. All those evenings when she was certain Luke was avoiding her, he had been out here, making a cradle for her child. She had been mistaken about so many things. Maybe she could never redress all the wrongs she had inflicted on him. But she would try.
A clap of thunder rattled the barn. Olivia replaced the blanket and dragged the ladder across the creek and into the orchard. She propped it against a tree and ran back to the barn for the baskets.
Despite the steady downpour, she climbed up and began pulling the fragrant, heavy fruit from beneath the rain-polished leaves. When her apron was full and she was soaked to the skin and trembling with exhaustion, she descended the ladder to place the ripened fruit in the baskets.
