The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Footsteps overhead declared that Tate was up—and restless. Quickly, she buttoned the front of her waistband and was just straightening it back to rights when a loud crash made her jump. It was followed by a groan and a scuffle. Lying in the bedroom doorway, Destry tipped his head to the side and quirked an ear. Wren stepped out in bare feet to see what all the commotion was.

  “Tate Kennedy, what on earth are you doing up there?” she called out.

  “Ow,” Tate groaned again. “Just a moment…”

  Hands to hips, she stared up at the loft opening until he appeared and started down.

  “What was that noise?”

  “I might have broken a chair that I shouldn’t have been standing on.” He lowered himself the last rungs.

  “What were you doing on a chair?”

  “I was trying to see out of that upper window.”

  “What for?”

  “To see how far I could see.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “No. Just not used to being bedridden.” He rubbed his shoulder even as he apologized for the chair. “I promise to fix it.”

  She rolled her eyes and motioned him to the table, where the twins were waiting. “Like the time you nearly sank us in that boat you were supposed to have fixed?”

  “I fixed the boat. Afterward.”

  “How about the time you got us lost on your hunt for the James River?”

  The twins’ large eyes moved from Wren to Tate in rapt curiosity.

  “We weren’t lost. We were just taking our time getting home.” Winking at the boys, he sat.

  Wren fought a smile as she followed suit. Mama said grace and, when she finished, served Tate two pieces of fried fish. Wren scooped him a mound of creamy turnips, followed by two hot biscuits. Then she dished up plates for the twins and noticed their empty cups.

  “Oh, the milk.” Wren plunked the serving spoon back into the turnips. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped out and down the lane to the springhouse, where she ducked inside the hut. Built into the hillside over a spring, the structure held air, cool and still. The floor was uneven stone with a trough down the center that filled from the earth. Round cheeses and winter vegetables lined small shelves. Pale butter was packed into stout crocks.

  Wren lifted the lid off a large crock that sat half submerged in the water. Dipping a ladle into the milk stored there, she poured several servings into a quart jar. The glass chilled instantly. Slipping from the small stone hut, she started for the house and was just steps from the door when she heard Mama and Tate talking in easy tones.

  “And when will you head off?” her mother asked.

  “Probably sometime in the next couple months. Hopefully sooner.”

  Wren’s feet slowed.

  “It will be a good time of year to travel.”

  Then Tate’s voice. “It will be.”

  Drawing in a shaky breath, Wren retraced his words, but they only hit her heart harder. Fearing her chin might set to trembling, she slowed altogether. And there it was—the realization that she may very well lose him all over again. She’d tried not to hope for anything other than the emptiness that she had been facing. Had tried to press her heart from him, but when it came to Tate Kennedy, it was as impossible as holding on to the tides.

  With one last shaky breath, Wren stepped into the kitchen and filled her brothers’ cups without a word. Tate gently moved his closer, asking if he might have some.

  “There’s coffee on the stove,” Mama offered.

  Wren’s face must have been troubled, for Tate seemed reluctant to pull his gaze back to her mother.

  Finally, he did. “I haven’t had a cup of milk in over a year. Coffee. Always black and boiled to death. One of the few things safe enough to drink at sea. Nothing”—he turned the cup in his hand and looked back to Wren—“nothing like this.”

  Without a word, Wren set the jar down beside him.

  Mama cast her a curious glance. Smoothing her skirts, Wren sat. She ate without looking up and was glad when the boys and Tate fell into easy conversation about their work for Mr. Paddock. It wasn’t until her mother stood and mentioned spotting a stranger coming this way that Wren realized how quickly the dinner hour had gone.

  Mama went out to meet the prospective guest, and the twins darted into the bright yard, scaring a cluster of crows, making as much noise as possible as they went back to the fields. The breeze swept in through the open door, and Tate gently said her name.

  “Is everything all right?” That same breeze stirred his short brown hair.

  Several responses came to mind, so she made herself speak the one that was most true. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” She stacked two cups, her voice feeling small. “Please be honest with me this time.”

  Broad shoulders pressed to the bench behind him, he lowered his head. “Yes.” He peered down at the table. “But not for a little while, and to be honest…” He glanced over at her. “I was—I was hoping… That you might…” His brow scrunched.

  Puzzled, Wren stood and had just tugged her skirt free of the bench when he spoke again.

  “This is all in the wrong order.” He blew out a slow breath. Then to her surprise, he rose. His boots sounded strong and solid against the floorboards. “Wren, there’s something that I need to tell you. I mean, ask you.” He gulped, forehead creasing under a visible uncertainty. “You see, I spoke with your grandmother—while I was in England—and she had something else for me to give you. It’s up there.” He motioned to the loft, then smeared unsteady hands together. “I wasn’t going to do this now… like this… but maybe it’s best.” After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped closer.

  “Stop.” Her own hands were trembling. She said it softer. “Please, stop.”

  His eyes went wide.

  “I don’t want gifts. I don’t want chivalry. I—I don’t want anything from you.” Because the only thing she longed for was the one thing he wouldn’t part with.

  Her hopes drowning in the realization that the winds would bear him away again, she stepped into her bedroom, snatched up the bundle he’d brought her, and carried it back out. “I’m sorry, I can’t accept this. It would be better that way.” A cleaner break. Not like last time when he’d packed her heart in that satchel of his and toted it across the world.

  Tate nudged his glasses up and stared at what she had. Wren tried to read his expression, but he turned his face and looked out the window to where her mother was closing the coop door. A muscle tripped through his jaw. He wet his lips, then pressed his eyes closed. Perhaps she’d spoken too harshly. Her words digging into her peace, Wren hoped that he realized she meant to make this easier on him. To let him know that he need not try and make up for any lost time. She was letting go. Setting him free.

  Oh, if he would but let her.

  Finally taking what she held for him, Tate worked at the bundle with suntanned hands—separating the seeds and journal from the mittens he’d brought her. “Well, keep these,” he said softly, laying the packets and stout book on the table. “They’re not from me.”

  Golden-brown eyes peered down at her.

  Wren nodded, willing a sudden twinge of tears away. She didn’t want to hurt him. Truly she didn’t. But this had to be done. He took up the mittens and gripped them in one hand. Tate glanced back to the window, then up to the loft.

  He started up the ladder, and the wood creaked with his footsteps. The whole house breathed silence. Wren looked at the packets and book sitting lonely on the table. Saw in her mind his fallen smile. A clatter had her glancing over to where her mother was propping the door open. “The man was looking for the road, but he seemed so weary, I have a hunch he may be back.”

  Wren nodded and, not knowing what to do, wiped the table with a rag much too slowly.

  “What’s the matter?” her mother asked.

  Folding the rag over on itself, Wren whispered that Tate was leaving again.

  Mama spoke so softly, she nearly mouthed the wo
rds. “Did he tell you this?”

  Wren nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled her mother into the open doorway where she might whisper and not be heard. “I can’t stand by and simply watch this time.”

  “He said something to me about it, too,” Mama said in a low voice. “But I thought he was just going to visit his folks. I’m certain that’s what he said.” She gripped Wren’s hands in her own. “Did he tell you differently?”

  Wren’s mouth fell. “His parents?”

  “In Kentucky. He said it was time.”

  The ground surely dipped beneath her feet—shoving everything on its side—including the staggering dose of wonder that she didn’t deserve to feel. “K–Kentucky?” Wren repeated. Hope and regret collided within her, churning her stomach. The breeze tugged at their skirts, pushing and pulling in the cooling air.

  Mama smiled sadly. “He also said something about trying to be responsible. Poor fella. I think he’s a bit overwhelmed.”

  Wren pressed a hand to her forehead.

  Her mother slid a comforting hand to Wren’s lower back. “Is everything all right?”

  Eyes closed, Wren made herself nod. No words would come. Probably because she’d already said enough. Regret souring inside her, she breathed in slowly through her nose.

  Burning inside her was the need for her mother’s wisdom, but before she could find the words, Tate climbed down the ladder. He didn’t look at Wren. Just tipped a nod to her mother, moved around them and out the door. The sight of his knapsack slung over his shoulder slammed all words from Wren’s lips.

  Her mother said something that Wren didn’t hear.

  “I need to follow him.” Not wanting him to get far, Wren started off.

  Destry beat his paws against the path ahead of her.

  With his long strides, Tate was already out of the yard and into the pasture. Clutching up her skirts, Wren started at a run. Away from the house, she called his name. But it had just fallen from her lips when Destry hobbled and let out a sharp whimper. Wren nearly stumbled over the dog. Her heart still tumbling onward, she sank to her knees on the path. Destry kicked his hind leg, whimpering fiercely. He licked at his front paw.

  She spoke softly, lifting it onto her lap, but he only whined harder. He tried to pull his trembling leg from her grasp, and suddenly Tate was there. Kneeling. His hand warm and strong as he took Destry’s paw.

  “Easy, boy.” Brow knit in concentration, Tate turned the foot up to study the pad, and Wren spotted a sliver wedged deep. Wren smoothed Destry’s fur. With quick, steady fingers, Tate worked the shard free. The dog’s cries turned to a pant, and he licked at Tate’s arm. Rising, Tate gave him a solid pat and ruffled his ears.

  Tall and steady, he plucked up his pack.

  “You’re not going to Kentucky, are you?”

  His brow pinched. “Right now?”

  “I—I thought maybe you were.”

  “This late in the afternoon?” He said it dryly, then hefted what she now realized wasn’t but a half-empty pack.

  At a loss for words, she asked where he was going. Tate just eyed her curiously, took her hand to help her up from the dirt, then started off the way he’d been heading.

  Destry circled her, whining. As if torn.

  Wren watched Tate walk out over the low hill. It was there that he slowed as a stranger drew near to him. They shared a few words, and nodding, Tate pointed back to the house. The stranger—who she assumed was the same man from earlier—limped toward Wren. After watching the man for several steps, Tate turned and vanished over the hill. By the look of the strange man’s small, worn satchel, he was a traveler. Wren greeted him and, after leading the silver-haired man toward the house, brought him to her mother, and they swapped familiar introductions. Destry sniffed at the man’s shoes.

  The dog had an uncanny way of greeting guests, and with his coat smooth and settled, tail wagging, he gave every indication that the guest—who she learned had hailed from Virginia Beach—was about to pass the test.

  Which meant they would have company for the night.

  Knowing she couldn’t stand in the yard all evening, Wren led the way to the house. Mama showed their guest—a Mr. Parkinson—to the front bedroom as Wren fetched the packages Tate had left on the table.

  “Have you an idea where Tate is heading?” she whispered to her mother.

  Stirring a pot of stew on the back of the stove, Mama just shook her head. Puzzled, Wren toted the bundle to the back bedroom.

  Promising their guest water as soon as it was hot, Wren reached for the stack of plates. A little thunk had her glance over to see Mr. Parkinson hanging an old coat on the rack behind the door. She offered him soap and a rag, then filled his basin from the steaming kettle.

  His quiet thanks clipped to an end when the twins elbowed their way toward the house. With slicked-back hair and shining faces from the pump, they entered with a scuffle. Odin reached out a hand of greeting to the stranger, and as if not wanting to be outdone, Ansel did the same. Wren smiled at the way they suddenly acted like little men. She bid Mr. Parkinson to take a seat. He thanked her heartily for the stew she placed beside him, then slipped her his charge. Wren tucked the coins in the tin can beneath the wardrobe in the bedroom.

  As was always the way with company, supper passed in a flurry of conversation.

  Yet still, Tate didn’t show.

  When the road-weary guest was fed and settled in his room, which he requested for several nights, Wren sat on her narrow bed. A frog croaked beneath the open window as she splayed Tate’s small brown envelopes out. Seven packets in all. She gave each a rattle, smiling at the bright jangle of the tiniest seeds, the clickity-clack of the larger ones. She thought of her grandmother, who had shared a love of gardening with her. Though they’d never met, letters had journeyed back and forth since Wren was old enough to hold a pen. Recipes, stories, even a few drawings… and Wren had felt a little less lonely in the world.

  She turned her attention to the book and studied each page slowly. Her grandmother’s writing was so small and fine, it would take some time to read through the many entries with care. She spotted self-seeding in reference to hollyhocks and Mrs. Thompson’s favourite beside a drawing of English lavender. And on another page, Do not place Queen Anne’s lace on the table when Beatrice is coming to call. It put her into a sneezing frenzy.

  Wren let out an airy laugh, struck afresh by how much her father and grandmother had shared the same pluck. The twins were no different, and she loved them all for it because she herself had always been too sensible. Too orderly and practical. Which had the daring Tate Kennedy winning a lot more than smiles the day they’d met.

  A fresh ache in her chest, Wren closed the book and tucked it in her lap. She blinked out the small window.

  Running fingertips over her forehead, she closed her eyes. Why, oh why had she told Tate she couldn’t take them? This was a gift indeed. Desperate for sight of him, Wren rose and strode to the front door. Opening it she saw the last bits of daylight fading on the horizon. She glanced out the dimming window. There was no sign of him.

  It wasn’t until any trace of the day was but a memory, everyone quietly in bed, save her and her mother, that Wren heard the door open again.

  Tate ducked out of the night and looked at her.

  Mama glanced up from her sewing. “We missed you at supper.” She went to stand, but Wren motioned her down.

  “I’ll put something together,” Wren said.

  “You don’t have to do that.” Tate looked at her.

  “I don’t mind.” She gave him a smile, knowing he deserved much more.

  His brow furrowed, but he sat. She poured him cider, then sliced bread, cheese, and pickles. She added a hefty dollop of apple butter to the bread and carried the full plate to Tate. He thanked her and ate quietly. Mama went out to the porch rocker. The silence wore on, and after breaking off another piece of bread, Tate glanced around the small room, and Wren was struck by how
alone he looked.

  “Thank you for the gifts,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head.

  She stepped closer and, still trying to make sense of this afternoon, placed her hand on his shoulder. Knowing only what lived in her heart, she kissed his cheek softly. A thrill shot through her at the warmth of his skin. She nearly regretted the action when she saw how taken aback he was by it. In little ways, she could see the boy she remembered, but it was a man that was wearing those stunned eyes that peered up at her and in the deep-timbred voice that whispered, “You’re welcome.”

  His gaze fell to his shoulder where her hand had just been.

  “I’m so sorry for earlier. Might you accept my apology?”

  Slowly, Tate nodded.

  “I’ll plant the new seeds tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll keep those lovely mittens as well, if you’d let me.”

  “Might you wait a little while?”

  “For the mittens?”

  A light hit his eyes. “To plant the seeds.” Setting his fork down, he unfolded his napkin, thumb fiddling with a frayed thread. “Could you wait a month, perhaps?”

  A month? With spring here, it was the perfect time.

  He must have sensed her hesitation. “Two weeks, then?” Which was followed by a wince of regret. But he pressed on. “There’s something… there’s something I want to do first. If you could just maybe…” He searched her face. “Trust me.”

  The very thing he’d lost. The very thing she wanted to give him the time to rebuild.

  “Will you trust me?”

  She wished she could give him the answer he wanted, so she gave the best she had. “I’ll wait.”

  Chapter Nine

  While Wren had mentioned the incident about getting lost in the boat with a sparkle in her eye, once she had been genuinely in danger. More than once he’d led Wren on an adventure that had gone asunder. More than once he’d put her safety at risk by his own fool-headedness.

  God help him, he wouldn’t do it again.

  Surveying the land he’d spent four years working toward, Tate prayed that he wouldn’t do it again. He’d spent countless hours thinking about the land. Deciding where the house should go, a barn, and a well. All the things needed to support a family. Tate crouched, picked a blade of spring grass, and tore it in two. He looked out across the meadow, a thousand thoughts whirling in his mind. Wren didn’t need a ring from him. She didn’t need promises. She needed so much more.