The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Well, this would never do. Pressing her palms to her thighs, Wren squinted her eyes closed, determined to get her bearings. But in the darkness, all she saw was Tate’s face, so she groped in her pocket for her grandmother’s notebook.

  Discarding her gloves, she slipped the book out, turned to nowhere in particular, and decided to become very studious.

  More thunking came from the barn.

  Wren pushed the book up higher in front of her face, forced every bit of her focus onto the sketches that filled the open pages. Her grandmother had had a knack for drawing, and one of Wren’s favorite parts of the book was the tiny pictures that filled the margins. Pencil-drawn herbs and flowers, birds, even a quaint, bubbling spring just below handy uses for yarrow.

  She turned the next page and admired the sketch of a toddling baby. More than admired, for this was the very page she’d found her mother studying the day before. Unshed tears in Mama’s eyes. With delicate pencil strokes, her grandmother had captured chubby legs and a little jumper, large eyes and ears that were the tiniest bit lopsided. Papa.

  Wren tried to imagine her father sitting in the garden back in England—just a baby. The scene was easy to conjure with the open book in her lap. How she wished her father were here. Her grandmother, too.

  For she was so very lonely. She knew she shouldn’t feel that way, not with the twins and Mama around and guests from all over the country. But she was lonely all the same. Wren flipped forward a few more pages, wondering if there was a remedy for that. She knew there was, but it couldn’t be grown in any garden. Sighing, she traced her finger along another page, absorbing the words of a woman she’d only had the chance to know through these snippets.

  Forget-me-nots meant both true love and hope. That was a nice thought. Wren shook the seed packet, deciding to plant them nearest her reading bench. Bindweed symbolized persistence. Wren gave a little laugh. Tate probably ate that for breakfast.

  The clattering in the barn stopped and was replaced by her brothers’ whooping and hollering. Ansel and Odin bounded out of the barn, trailed by Tate. An upside-down sled burdened one of Tate’s shoulders. He gripped the metal runners with one hand and carried it out into the yard, where he directed the twins to take the other side. Then they marched onward—going who knew where—with an old sled and grins as big as half moons on the first of June.

  The sight of Tate striding tall and steady, her spindly brothers and Destry running beside him, did something tight to her chest. And she realized she’d never seen such a thing. Her brothers following in the shadow of a man with trust. Admiration. The boys were hollering out some kind of cheer. Tate glanced her way and gave a salute. Wren gave a small wave. Then simply stood there, trowel in hand, quite certain she was failing in fighting the smile—and the hope—that bubbled up inside her.

  Chapter Twelve

  With a few more days of work behind him and no luck at a walk with Wren, Tate sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his glasses. He set them on the nightstand to rub a hand over his eyes. His hair was still damp for when he’d come to the Cromwells’ that evening; between sweat and wood shavings, all he’d wanted to do was take a bath. Now in clean pants and shirt, he was so tired, he didn’t know how he was going to make it down for supper.

  He’d already told Mrs. Cromwell that he would be leaving. For one, they were treating him much too nicely and he feared being a burden. He also wanted to free this room up. He had a sense by a shawl hanging behind a cupboard door and a folded nightgown on a high shelf that Wren slept up here when it was empty. It was just a hunch, but either way, he had his own place to sleep. Sort of.

  He’d still need meals and wanted to be able to pay them for something. Though it surely wasn’t much, he hoped it helped each time he saw Mrs. Cromwell tuck the coins out of sight.

  The last of his things crammed into his pack, Tate latched it snug, and the room was as if he’d never been there. He went to stand when he heard Wren call out.

  “I have hot water… may I bring it up?”

  “Uh… sure.”

  She appeared at the top of the ladder and gingerly slid a kettle aside. Tate rose to help her, wincing even as he walked across the planks. He took the kettle and gave her a hand up.

  “I’ll just fill the pitcher,” she said weakly. “I’ll bring up some fresh towels, too.”

  “This one’s fine.” Tate refolded the small towel she’d left for him the day before.

  “If you’re sure.”

  Uncertain, Tate scrubbed a hand across his forehead, then spoke before he could change his mind. “Will you sit with me a minute?” He winced at the words, since they weren’t remotely how he’d planned on beginning this conversation.

  But she adjusted the hem of her apron, gave him a kind smile, and glanced around. She moved to the bed, tucked her skirts beneath her, and sat quietly on the edge.

  Now he was really nervous.

  Tate followed and sat beside her. Hands clasped between his knees, he fought the urge to bounce his foot. Not wanting the silence to linger, he searched for the words he’d rehearsed, but then Wren was speaking.

  “I have something for you.” In a rustle of skirts, she moved to the window seat and lifted the lid. It was but a moment of digging before she returned, and he realized what she had. “They’re not mine to keep, and I’m sorry I didn’t give them to you sooner.” She handed him a wooden sword and an old book.

  He knew right away what the book was, and mercy… he hadn’t seen these things in ages. He turned the sword in his hand. Felt the rough blade that he’d hewn from an old fence picket. A twist of his wrist and he twirled the sword forward once as he had always imagined a knight would. Then he settled the weight in his hand and, without a word, set it on the bed between them. Next, he eyed the book. “I was wondering what had happened to this.”

  “You left it here one day. I think you were too old for it by then. Or you thought you were.”

  Her words jarred him. She didn’t say it unkindly, only honestly. And she was right. He had thought he’d been too old for these things. It was the winter he’d turned sixteen. As much as he’d wanted to hold on to his adolescence, his pa had made it clear that it was time for him to grow up. Tate had already spent his childhood in the fields, and his father was asking him to let go of the one thing that had kept him afloat.

  Tate creaked the binding of the book open and looked over at Wren. “Your pa gave me this.”

  That pretty mouth of hers parted. “He did?”

  Tate nodded. “He gave me books now and again. He was a good man.” Knowing how much she missed the doctor, he gave her a muted smile. “Your pa knew how much I liked to read, and my folks, they couldn’t… we couldn’t…” Tate fought the words back. “There weren’t a lot of books to be had. I read the same three over and over. One on history and another on animals and then the Bible. The one about animals was my favorite.” He dipped his head. “Which was why I gave you that dumb line about wrens the day we met.”

  “I thought it was charming.”

  He elbowed her gently. “You did not.”

  She brushed her hand against his, so subtly, he’d have missed it had he not been watching. “Then maybe you didn’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

  Which had him looking at her. Taking in the soft plait of her dark hair. Her green eyes peering up at him. Even the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. She smelled of earth and sun and all things good. The hem of her dark blue skirt was soiled and perfect, and the shirt she had rolled past her elbows was a few sizes too big—no doubt having been cut and sewn for her father. Only making her sweeter to him. She was sitting so close. A hard pulsing in his chest, Tate stared at his hands. Gripped the book tighter, the tendons in his forearms shifting.

  “I should give this to the boys. There’s no sense in me keeping it. I’m not a little kid anymore. It’s like you said….” He smoothed his thumb across the binding. “I need to grow up and look around me. And this�
� this doesn’t matter anymore.” He set the book aside.

  He felt her gaze on him as the breeze blew at the curtains in the open window. Then Wren pressed her hand into the mattress between them and leaned the tiniest bit closer. With her other hand, she reached around him for the book. She straightened and bowed her head, studying the faded title of Robin Hood.

  “If you don’t keep it,” she whispered, “can I?” Her fingers flipped through the pages as she smiled at dog-eared pages and blackberry fingerprints. “These were some of the best days of my life.”

  His chest rose and fell. More so, when she reached for his hand. He let her take it, wishing his own was steadier.

  “Not because of any book… or anything else, really. But because of you.” She laced her fingers through his. “This”—she gave a little squeeze—“is all I ever wanted.” When her eyes brimmed with tears, she wiped at them and looked at his face. “All I’ll ever want.”

  Tate had to force himself to swallow.

  Lowering her head, she brushed the side of her face against his shoulder. “But if you’re leaving,” she whispered, more tears on her voice. Gripping the book tight to her chest with her other hand, she shrugged and seemed unable to speak. When she finally did, her voice was so very faint. “I have to confess, this is so insufficient.” She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, then lifted her face just enough to kiss his jaw.

  Heat shot across his back. Down to his toes.

  “I’m sorry for not telling you that sooner. I was afraid. But…”

  At a loss for words, he slowly shook his head.

  “I love you, Tate Kennedy. I hope you know that.”

  Tate lowered his head. Pinched his eyes closed. Everything he’d ever wanted in his life sitting right beside him, he hadn’t a single word to give her. Except the truth. “You beat me to it, Little Bird.”

  She’d pressed her cheek to his arm, and he felt her smile. They sat that way for a little while. Her leaning so sweetly against him, her hand still tucked inside his. Finally, he cleared his throat and said what he’d been needing to confess.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t write to you. I was thinking a cleaner break was best, but I see now—and really, I feared it then—that I was wrong. I regret it.” He ran his thumb over hers, liking the feel of it. Everything about this moment. “I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong. Maybe I was just protecting myself. My pride. I loved you so much, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I should have stayed and figured it out.” At the very least, told her what his hopes were for the future. “I’m so sorry I didn’t.”

  She gave his palm a squeeze, setting the book in her lap so she could grip his forearm—her touch as tender as her words. “I forgive you.”

  He wanted to look over at her but couldn’t shake the thought of kissing her, so he forced his eyes to stay on the floorboards.

  “I’m glad you got to have your adventure,” she whispered.

  His words came just as sure. “I hope you know you’re all I thought about.”

  Mrs. Cromwell’s voice sounded from below—calling her daughter. Wren’s grip on his hand tightened a bit, and his did the same.

  “Coming,” Wren called back. She rose and glanced around. Seemed to spot his fastened knapsack for the first time. “You’re leaving.” Her eyes rounded, worry slipping forward.

  And he loved her all the more for it. “I am leaving. But not far.” He cleared his throat when the words came out weak. He needed to pull himself together. “I’ve got a place to stay around here now, and should you need this room, I want you to have it.” Bending, he pushed the pack aside so it wouldn’t be in her way. “But I’ll still be looking for meals. I promise I’ll pay.”

  He could see that she was saddened.

  “Will you do me one thing?” he asked.

  Wren nodded.

  “There’s something…” He glanced around the loft, his nerves rising. “There’s something I’d like to ask… er… show you.” Though really, it was both.

  She clasped her hands in front of her skirt, the breeze from the window stirring the loose bits of hair that were slipping out of her braid.

  “Will you come to the meadow? Tomorrow? Maybe about four.”

  Her mother called for her again, and he watched as Wren stepped toward the ladder. But she looked over at him, smiled, and promised she would come.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With her brothers groaning about sore arms and backs before they even climbed out of bed, Wren offered to do the morning milking. She toted a pail out to the barn for the chore, but with her mind on anything but the task, it took her longer than usual to get settled and fill the pail.

  Destry trailed her to and fro, and when she was finally back in the kitchen, Wren set the milk aside for the cream to settle. With Mama at the stove, spooning out pancakes, Wren went to the cupboard and pulled down a stack of plates. She clanked them into place, then went back to the cupboard for a handful of forks. Thinking the table might look cheery with some flowers, Wren slipped into her garden, snipped a few early roses, and prepared a jar of the deep red blooms.

  “Oh, one too many,” her mother said, toting the platter of golden-brown griddle cakes to the table. Wren went back for the butter and slipped it into place as her mother dipped her head toward the place settings. “Just you, me, and the boys.”

  “No Tate?”

  Her mother shook her head, half distracted by the eggs she’d set to sizzling in her skillet. A lift of the towel showed that half-a-dozen pancakes were gone.

  “He’s paid for a week of meals, so it was no surprise to see him.”

  “He was here?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. I asked him to join us, but he said he had to get back to work, so I sent him off with breakfast.” Mama’s smile was easy as she glanced over at Wren. “Never known that boy to turn down a meal.”

  “No, he never has.” Her gaze drifting to the path, Wren plucked up the plate and silverware she’d set out for him and returned it the cupboard.

  Mama called the twins to table, and Wren took her seat, then reached for her mother’s hand and Odin’s. She looked to the empty edge of the bench where her father had once sat. Where Tate had sat. He wasn’t the first guest to sit there, for her mother always offered it. Wren had always wondered why, and now she knew. Because it made this room—their lives—feel a little less empty.

  Closing her eyes, Wren listened to her mother’s prayer and fought the urge to peek at the bench again. Which was why when the prayer ended, Wren told her mother that she would need to slip away for a spell tomorrow.

  “Where could you possibly have to be?” Odin asked.

  Cutting into her breakfast, Wren wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Oh, I know!” Ansel blurted, and Odin kicked him under the table. “Ow, that hurt!” Ansel gave his twin a pinched look.

  “But it’s not done,” Odin whispered.

  Mama tried to hide her smile behind her cup.

  Wren glanced at them all. “Does everyone know what’s going on except me?”

  When her mother simply fiddled with a loose petal on one of the roses, Wren sensed an answer wasn’t coming. “Lovely that these flowers are in bloom. Thank you for cutting them and bringing them in.”

  Wren sat silent.

  Her mother turned the jar. Much too slowly. “Such a pretty bouquet.”

  “Thank you,” Wren said hesitantly, still eyeing her mother. “Grandmother Willow had a list of blooms for her favorite June bouquet. I just looked for the few we had around here and—why are you looking at me like that?”

  Mama pressed her lips together and demurely evaded Wren’s gaze.

  Wren stood and took her plate. “That’s it, then. I’m eating on the porch.” She strode out, unable to ignore her brothers’ snickers as she did. “You are a meddlesome family. I hope you know that.” Fighting a smile, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the three of them exchanging grins over Grandmother’s bouque
t.

  She sat on the porch, looked out across the farm, and set her plate aside. The tiny garden book still in her apron pocket, Wren pulled it out. She slipped the ribbon that had been marking the page for a June bouquet, and just before she closed the book again, she turned back several thin sheets to where her father’s very own sketch toddled across it. Wren let her fingertip graze the pencil drawing. Her mother joined her then. Sitting quietly.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  Surprised, Wren looked over at her mother. “I don’t know that I’m going anywhere.” Which was met by a look that said differently. Wren dropped her gaze. “Did he… say anything to you?”

  Mama deflected the question by leaning closer, admiring the open pages in the little book Wren held. “How I love this picture.”

  Wren looked down at it. “Me, too.” She handed it to her mother and folded her hands tight in her lap. “I used to wish that I could be just like him. Papa. I realized, though, years later, that I think I’m more like you.”

  Mama smiled. “In ways…” She nodded gently. “But there’s a spirit in you that I saw in him. The way he used to wander these hills, his heart for those herbs he hunted. That ginseng that brought him halfway across the world. He was a dreamer. An adventurer.”

  “I wouldn’t say that I’m an adventurer.” Wren rolled her eyes so theatrically that her mother laughed.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Her mother slid a finger between the pages of the book to hold it open as she leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. She stared off toward the rising sun. “From the moment you met him—that boy—I do believe you up and slipped your heart inside his pocket.”

  Feeling her cheeks warm and that very heart swell, Wren looked down at her shoes.

  “And since that moment, you’ve been just like your father. Off on some adventure.” She tapped Wren’s chest. “There’s a dream in there that just won’t die, isn’t there?”