Her mother disappeared into the bedroom, poured a trickle of water, and returned wiping her damp hands with a towel. “All right, let’s see.” The woman sat across from him again. Having been married to a naturalist who was renowned for his knowledge of homegrown remedies and the body’s ability to heal itself, she turned Tate’s arm slightly and studied the stitches. “How have you cared for it?”
He told her of trying to keep it clean and dry. Changing the bandage every day. And how once he realized something wasn’t right, he’d flushed it with soap and water as hot as he could stand it. When that failed, he’d moved on to the whiskey.
“You did very well, considering.” Mrs. Cromwell slid the bottle back to him and must have sensed his regret when she gave him a kind smile. “These things just happen sometimes.” Lifting the lid on her sewing basket, she pulled out a sharp tool, which he really hoped was just for the stitches. Still, his arm was so tender that the slightest touch shot fire into the tips of his fingers, up to his shoulder.
She motioned with her head toward the glass bottle.
Blowing out a slow breath, Tate uncorked it with his free hand and took a swig, feeling Wren’s nearness as he swallowed the bitter liquor. It warmed him from shoulder to shoulder. Not wanting any more, he set the bottle aside.
Mrs. Cromwell fetched a bowl and filled it with hot water and rags. “Wren, please go to the garden and see if there are any fresh plantain leaves. If not, I have some dried in the pantry. Then start a poultice.” She pressed her finger near the swollen gash, and Tate winced.
With her brow furrowed in clear confusion, Wren stepped out.
Mrs. Cromwell looked at him. “I’m going to need to clean this well. And there is no plantain in the garden right now.”
Tate glanced in the direction Wren had left, realizing what Mrs. Cromwell had just orchestrated. “You’ll do this before she gets back?”
Her response came in the way she lifted her thread cutter and wrapped her other hand around his elbow. Without speaking, she set to work. The first thread snapped, and she had to tug it free. Tate couldn’t even fight the grunt that ground from his throat. He clenched his jaw.
Another snap of the thread and she pulled that slip free, giving it a gentle yank when it was as wedged in as the last. Tate hissed in a sharp breath. Mrs. Cromwell peeked up at him.
“Keep going,” he blurted.
And she did, making quick work with her thread cutter. Pulling the string loose, the gash in his arm burning as if he were being singed by hot coals. Then with water so hot it made his head light, she flushed the cut and cleaned it with her rag. Tate crushed the heel of his boot against the floor. He could do this. He could do this. He could—
“Finished.” Mrs. Cromwell leaned back and gave him a wry smile. “And here I thought you would have sworn like a sailor.”
He chuckled weakly, his stomach feeling like it was upside down. “Complete myth.” He drudged up a faint smile, glad he hadn’t spoken the choice Norwegian words that had rushed his mind. Sweat slicked his brow, and he used the clean rag she offered him.
Mrs. Cromwell smiled as she poured another splash of hot water on the wound. Tate winced, relieved that Wren was just returning.
“This is infected. Which is why it’s so tender.” She worked with quick, practiced hands. A testimony to all the years she’d spent assisting her husband. “And why you’re feverish.”
He nodded and realized just how hot his skin was when she pressed her cool hand to his forehead. From a cupboard, Wren pulled out a mortar and pestle. Next, she fetched a jar from the pantry and set to scooping out dried leaves.
“I’ll put the poultice on it tonight, and that should help.” Mrs. Cromwell adjusted the strap of her apron when it slipped down her shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll replace it fresh. We will do that until it’s better.”
“Thank you.” The words felt so inadequate.
She pressed a warm strip of fabric to it. “This will keep for now until the poultice is ready. Just sit back and take it easy. Dinner will be ready soon.” Mrs. Cromwell set about putting her sewing things away and wiped down the table with a steaming cloth. When the wood was dry, Wren draped and smoothed out a fresh tablecloth. Set a loaf of bread on the center, then disappeared outside. She returned with the twins bounding in after her. They barreled into Tate.
As if on cue, the dog hopped up from his lounging position and sniffed Tate’s boot. His wagging tale thumped the leg of the bench.
“Easy!” Mrs. Cromwell called.
Tate brushed the dog’s head, then gripped the boys’ shoulders one at a time. “Look at you two.” He poured as much strength into the words as he could muster. “As tall as church steeples.”
They flashed him identical smiles and, barely drawing breaths, pelted him with questions.
“Wait.” Tate held up a hand before letting it fall back to his lap. “Which one is which?”
“Odin,” the twin on the left said. “Ansel.” He thumbed to his brother.
Behind them, Mrs. Cromwell made a little motion to hint that they’d switched identities.
Tate chuckled, enjoying the sight of their shining faces, realizing how much they looked like their father, who had been one of the finest men he’d ever known. “I’ve got something for the two of you. It’s upstairs. The pack is by the bed, if one of you can grab it.”
“Really?” they cried in unison.
Tate made a motion of crossing his heart. “And I have something for your ma.” Though already he knew it was so inadequate.
Mrs. Cromwell smiled at him over her shoulder.
“What about Wren?” Odin asked when Ansel beat him to the ladder. He watched his twin climb up.
Stirring a pot at the stove, Wren slowly looked at him. A little lock of dark hair draped one side of her forehead. The setting sun that lay golden against it traced along her cheek, the hollow of her throat.
“I have something for her, too,” Tate said, unable to look away. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, and he swiped it with his arm. Ansel scampered back down the ladder with Tate’s pack slung over his shoulder. Tate took it and, using his left arm, dug down to the secured bundle at the bottom. He finally fished it out and, with Ansel’s help, had the twine-bound canvas undone.
From there, he pulled out a paper-wrapped parcel, which he handed to Ansel for Mrs. Cromwell. With awe in her eyes, she opened it to reveal a white apron. Bold, lacy embroidery in an X pattern ran the length of the hem. She gasped and smoothed her fingers along the airy shapes. “Tate, this is stunning. However did you?”
The side of his mouth quirked up. “I’m glad you like it. It was from a village near Kristiansand.”
“It’s beautiful.” She clutched it and gave him a smile so kind, he only wished he had more to offer. “Thank you.”
“Now us!” Odin cried, and Mrs. Cromwell scolded him gently.
Tate pulled out two whistles. “For the able seamen.”
With grins, they took them and began tooting away, which sent all hands over ears. Laughing, Mrs. Cromwell waved them outdoors. “What on earth are those?” she cried when the noise was mostly out in the yard.
“They’re brass whistles. The same we use at sea. If they get a taste for adventure, I’m so sorry.” But he knew his smile probably said otherwise.
Mrs. Cromwell laughed again. Beneath the bench, the dog whimpered, then rubbed his ears against the side of Tate’s pant leg.
Tate ducked his head to speak to the poor pup. “Sorry about that, boy.”
Wren was yet to say a word, but she was watching it all with wide eyes, giving Tate just enough strength as he slipped a small parcel free, followed by another, which was bound up in a thin cloth. He beckoned her closer, then his fingers nearly touched hers as he handed the bundles over. In a whisper of skirts, she sank on the bench beside his pack and stared at what she held.
“For me?” She looked over at him.
“It’s not much….”
The n
ewspaper crinkled in her grip, but she barely moved.
“Well, let’s see, Wren,” her mother said kindly.
A gentle tug on the string and Wren opened the first bundle, pulling out a pair of dark blue mittens that were embroidered in vibrant colors. Her bottom lip fell a little, awe showing in her green eyes before she blinked the emotion back some.
Tate spoke softly. “Those were made by an eighty-year-old Sami Duodji.”
With a fingertip, Wren touched the wrists, which were decorated in colorful knots of red and gold. A glorious, curving pattern detailed the backs of the hands. Tiny stitched flowers sprung off the twists, formed with such detail she couldn’t begin to count the hours the woman must have sat with needle in hand.
“What does that mean?” Ansel asked, rushing through the open doorway with his brother.
“A Sami Duodji? It’s an artisan from way up north in Lapland.” When Ansel looked just as confused, Tate chuckled and promised him a geography lesson soon. It would have to be when he was feeling better, because right now, his head was spinning. And with Wren suddenly looking at him with wet eyes, his heart pounding.
“Oh, Tate,” she murmured. “I can’t take these.”
“They’re a gift.” He drudged up a wink. “You have to.”
“Thank you.”
She said it softly. Just enough to give him hope that she might one day forgive him. Tate swallowed hard, willing his heart back in its place. He had a bad habit of getting ahead of himself.
“Those, as you might guess, are from Norway. And this one”—he touched the package she was yet to open, then fought a wince when he used the wrong arm—“this one is from England.”
“England?” She turned the package—wrapped in a lace handkerchief—over. “You were in England?”
He smiled a little, wondering if he would one day get to tell her the tale. “For just a short while.”
The embroidery on the handkerchief bore her initials, yet it looked aged, as if it had borne them for a life much longer than her own. “What for?” she whispered, clearly overcome.
“Just open the package, Wren.” His gentle tone matched hers.
Wren pinched the knot and unraveled it. The handkerchief fell opened in a whisper. Inside were thin paper packets. Seeds. Wren turned them over to reveal that each one was laced with a faint, delicate script. She squinted at the writing. Forget-me-nots. Then turned to another. Hollyhocks. Another said Pansies. With an unsteady finger, Wren traced the curlicue on the P.
Then she seemed to realize that beneath the seed packets was a small book. Tate’s vision felt unsteady, but he was pretty sure her hands were trembling as she opened it. She glanced over to her mother, who was watching with shining eyes. Wren gazed down to the pages that fell still when her fingers did. The same airy script filled every available spot. Closing it again, her thumb grazed little dips on the leather cover, and Wren turned it to see W.C. in worn gold lettering.
Her grandmother Willow.
“How did you…” She blinked quickly as if to ward off tears.
“I used a map.” He smiled, though the rest of him felt unsteady. “England’s actually quite easy to find once you walk in the right direction.”
“You walked to England?”
“I was somewhat close. It took a bit of asking around to find her, but the folks there were friendly. She was surprised to see me standing on her stoop, but…” Despite himself, he smiled again. “I think she knew who I was—”
“Tate?” Wren’s voice seemed distant.
He realized he was still trembling. Mrs. Cromwell must have noticed, for suddenly she was pulling the boys away with an order to wash up.
The twins did as they were told, though they pushed and shoved the whole way, reminding Tate of his brothers. Jase had always been the biggest, but Tate and Timothy had been scrappy enough to take him if they teamed up. Tate thought of Timothy, who was still at sea. How many days and weeks had they spent by each other’s side? Through gales that tugged at their fur-lined hoods to seas so calm they could see their reflection over the bow of the ship as the sun darkened their backs.
The crunch of ice beneath their two-man saw. The sea’s freezing spray in their faces.
“Would you like a blanket?” Wren whispered.
Standing over him, she lowered herself to a crouch.
“I’m all right.” But he was so cold.
In her hands she held a bowl. He could only guess it was the poultice. She motioned for his arm, then replaced the cooled rag with a smear of warm herbs. He watched her face—some reaction. A wince or even outright disgust at the inflamed cut, but she worked quietly, a thoughtful look in her eyes. A trace of worry. When she finished, she rinsed her hands, then carefully wrapped a thick bandage around his forearm. Sealing in the steaming herbs that already soothed.
She looked up at him. “Just…” Lifting her hand a little, she hesitated. “I’m sorry, I just need to check you.” She touched his jaw, then the side of his neck. Her skin so, so cool.
The fight long since dead in him, he closed his eyes. She said something to her mother, which he didn’t hear. Then a bowl of soup was in front of him. Followed by a slice of crusty bread and butter. He waited for grace and ate slowly, struggling with only his left hand as he’d done for days now. Exhaustion tugged at him. The air in the room hot and heavy.
Though the soup was rich and filling, he couldn’t seem to reach the bottom of his bowl. Or was he no longer eating? Again, a hand to his forehead, fingers grazing gently into his hair. He heard Wren speak to him.
“You should go lie down.”
Yes. But he wasn’t sure how.
Her arm slid behind his back, and she gripped his side. “Come on,” she urged, rising. “Up you go. You can lie down in the guest room.”
“No, I’m fine.” He shook his head to force the room into focus and spotted the ladder. “I can get up there.” He was slow up the rungs but managed. In the loft, he spotted the bed, and casting not a care to pants or boots, laid down and let the world go black.
Chapter Five
Wren slid her bare feet from the sheets. She rose, grabbed her robe, and wrapped it snug around her nightgown. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed half-past midnight. Thinking of Tate above and the fever he’d gone to bed with, she debated as to whether or not she should check on him. From his spot in front of the door, Destry tipped a floppy ear and lifted his brown head. The dog looked at her—quiet and still. Wanting to reassure him that nothing was wrong, Wren scratched the top of his head.
Straightening, she nibbled her bottom lip. Dropped her hands to her sides.
There was a time in her life when she and Tate hadn’t been friends. Though they went to the same schoolhouse with a dozen other children, she hadn’t spoken to him until a few days after her ninth birthday.
Each student in school was to bring something from home. An object that was dear to them, then tell the class about it. Wren had toted in a teapot that her father had brought from England as a young man. With his body growing weaker with an ailment he couldn’t seem to cure, she had prepared a little speech about his childhood, including his mother, Willow Cromwell. An Englishwoman who, by the tales, had a grand heritage.
Wren had shown the teapot and told of how her father had left the small manor where he was raised to study naturalism in these American woods. A pair of school chums had later teased her for the rest of the day. Curtseying and calling her Lady Wren. Wren had tucked the teapot out of sight, wishing she could disappear as well.
She was sitting on the side of the schoolhouse at day’s end, still swiping tears, when a tall boy came around and spotted her. He’d knelt, his eyes as golden-brown as the acorns beside her fingers. She’d known before he even introduced himself that he was Tate Kennedy. A new student at school. He hadn’t attended before, as his parents kept him and his brothers home to work.
For the show-and-tell, he’d brought in a Civil War canteen—describing the differen
t aspects of soldier life. The strap was broken, and the children had snickered. Though Wren knew from her parents’ quiet conversations that the Kennedys were much poorer than her own family, Tate had talked on as if he hadn’t a care in the world, proudly displaying what he’d brought. A few years older than her, they hadn’t spoken yet, but he took her hand that afternoon, pulled her to her feet, and said he would take tea with her any day.
She’d smiled at that.
As they had walked toward her home, he’d asked more about her grandmother, her family, and her father’s knowledge of plants and animals. He told her how nice her name was and that wrens were considered small and inconspicuous but that their songs were complex. How they were even known to sing in duets.
Wondering how he knew all that, she asked as much, and he confessed that he read a lot of books. Something about not having been to school before. Learning at home when he could carve out the time. She’d asked about that as well, and he told her how he worked the fields—potatoes, corn, and wheat, depending on the time of year. Then she’d told him that she’d never seen a war relic quite like his. He’d grinned over at her. Her cheeks had long since dried by the time he’d escorted her to her door.
“Thank you for the walk, Little Bird,” he’d said, smiling.
The following day, he was waiting for her after school and picked up their conversation right where they left off. He walked her the rest of the week.
And the next. For two years, until necessity forced him back to the fields. And though he never set foot in a school again, he was rarely found without a book in hand.
Now Wren glanced up at the ceiling. She was fooling herself if she didn’t confess that she was desperate to check on him. Never liking to be far from her, Destry wined when she climbed the ladder. Wren took care to listen that Tate was asleep before lifting her head above the opening in the loft floor.
The Heirloom Brides Collection Page 14
