by Vivi Holt
He shook his head so quickly he almost choked. “Gosh no, Christy – I meant no offense to your mother.”
“I know,” Christy replied. “It’s okay. It’s just that I miss her a lot.”
“I understand. And I only meant … this is tastier than anything I’ve had in a long while.” He smiled at her across the table. “Please take it as a compliment.”
“I will. Thank you.” She ducked her head shyly.
Brent continued eating the stew, marveling as the succulent flavors traveled over his tongue and warmed his stomach. He gazed across the table at Christy, watching as she took a bite. I misjudged her terribly yesterday. She’s a kind woman with a sweet heart, not vain or silly at all.
He looked at the soft glossy curls piled high on her head. No longer streaked with dirt or dust, she’d tucked them up in a stylish manner that flattered her face and made her green eyes seem almost to glow in the firelight. She’d be the belle of any Louisville ball. A woman as beautiful she is doesn’t belong out here. It’s for the best she wants to go back to the city.
Christy finished her bowl and stood to her feet. “I’ll clean up now.”
“You don’t need to leave just yet. Sit with me a while. Besides,” he added, his gaze sweeping around the house. “You’ve done more than enough cleaning and tidying for the day – I can see that.”
She blushed. “I wasn’t even sure you’d noticed.”
“Of course I noticed. Why, the place is hardly recognizable as the same house I left this morning. You’ve done a wonderful job. It feels like … a real home.”
She twisted her hands together. “I think it just needed a woman’s touch.”
Brent nodded and scooped the last bit of stew out of his bowl. “You’re right about that. It reminds me now of my family home in Kentucky.” He stopped eating and stared down into his bowl. It had been hard for him to lose his parents as well and he missed them the way Christy missed hers.
“I’m sure they were wonderful people.”
“They were.” His voice thickened as the memories washed over him.
Christy nodded, then took the plates to the kitchen in silence.
He cleared his throat and stood as well. “I … suppose we both ought to get some sleep. We’ve got another big journey ahead of us tomorrow.”
She nodded and turned away. “Yes, we do.”
15
As she washed the dishes and wiped the table clean, Christy could hear Brent arranging his bedding on the living room floor again. She paused, holding the dishcloth in midair, as she listened to him bustle around. The possibility of a first kiss was getting more remote with each passing moment. Tomorrow they make the journey back to the train station where they would separate forever. Her throat constricted with emotion and she focused her attention on scrubbing a stubborn piece of food from one of the plates.
When she finished cleaning up she crept quietly into the living room, dark now apart from the light of the candle in her hand. Brent was already lying on the floor. She stood and watched him for a moment, wondering if he was sleeping.
“Good night, Christy.”
She was startled by the sound of his voice in the darkness. “Goodnight, Brent,” she whispered and hurried to her room.
In bed, she read over Mam’s letter, still able to hear her voice. Mam had written it months earlier, when Christy went away over the summer with a friend. She’d read it then with tears in her eyes, and kept it close ever since.
The letter talked of the hopes and dreams her mother had for her, things she’d never been able to say in person poured out over several pages of sloped handwriting. She expressed her desire for Christy to grow into a strong, resilient woman, to find a good man to marry and to stick by him when times were tough. Most of all, she wanted Christy to learn to be happy and grateful for the things she had, rather than always wishing for more. She finished by telling her how much she loved her and was proud of everything she’d accomplished in her short life so far.
Christy hugged the letter to her chest. I wish I’d listened more to her while I had the chance. I wish I’d told her how I felt about her, her and Daddy. I took for granted that they’d always be here with me. And now they’re gone.
She thought about all the times she’d grumbled when her mother pushed her forward and coaxed the best from her. Now all she wanted was to hear Mam’s voice once more. She read the letter again, and again, wishing she didn’t have to wake up the following day and face an unknown and lonely future. A future without her parents, without Brent and with no place to call home.
She lay down on the feather tick with the letter still in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. How could she sleep, knowing what was taking place the next day? How could she wake up and walk out of this house that had already become home to her in such a short time? How could she face it?
A tear trickled down her cheek. It seems like all I’ve done these last few months is say goodbye to people I love: Mam and Daddy, then the Pokes, now …
Christy stopped crying. She sniffled and stared into the candle flame. Do I love Brent? She picked up the old stuffed bear which she had laid on her pillow and held it to her chest. Surely, it can’t be love. I’ve only known him for two days. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him, that much was true. But she wasn’t sure whether that was because she was heaping grief on top of more grief, or she was just scared of being alone, or whether she felt genuine love for the man.
I can’t stay just because I’m scared or don’t want to be alone. Loneliness had never been a problem for her – she made friends easily enough. But friends didn’t replace a lost family. And family was what she longed for.
I will be all right by myself. I can survive. I can find a way to make it on my own …
But, she realized, she didn’t want to survive alone. She didn’t want to live without Brent, without a family. And it didn’t have anything to do with her being scared. She just didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to leave the man she was falling in love with, who made her feel as though he could be her family.
But this just made matters all the worse. Now she could no longer comfort herself with the idea that it was only fear keeping her awake. Now she knew it was sadness, a pure, awful sorrow that had overtaken her whole body. She didn’t want to leave. She began to weep, and cried and cried until there were no more tears and nothing for her exhausted body left to do but sleep.
She’d set the candle on the bedside table, and it burned brightly beside her bed. A breeze from the window fanned it higher, pushing the tip of the flame toward the edge of the letter in her motionless hand. And she’d fallen into so deep a sleep that nothing could wake her. The flame touched the edge of the paper, and her mother’s words began to blacken. Within moments, the flame caught the bedding.
And still Christy slept, oblivious to the impending danger.
Brent was having trouble sleeping on the living room floor. He tossed and turned as he tried to get comfortable. Finally, he pushed the blanket back and gave up. “I’ll be glad when she’s gone and I get my bed back,” he grumbled.
But even as he said it, he knew he didn’t mean it. And he knew that his restlessness had nothing to do with the hard floor and everything to do with not wanting to send Christy away in the morning. He sighed, stood to his feet and stretched his arms high over his head, then headed outside for some fresh air.
He crept out the front door and pulled it shut silently behind him, careful not to wake Christy. Standing on the veranda, he leaned against the railing to gaze at the moon. This was supposed to be my second chance. I prayed for it, and God sent me a good, sweet woman – but all I’ve done is push her away. He felt ashamed of himself as he stood there. Please, God, I know I’ve already had more than my share of blessings, but please give me one last opportunity to make things right with Christy …
He paused mid-thought. Did he smell something burning?
He walked down the steps of the farmhouse and not
iced a light in the bedroom window … too much light. For a moment he stood still, dumbstruck. Then he sprinted back into the house, scolding himself for leaving Christy alone.
He raced into the bedroom, where smoke almost overwhelmed him. Covering his mouth with his neckerchief, he ran to Christy, who still lay sleeping in the now-smoldering bed. He picked her up, carried her over his shoulder from the house and laid her down in the grass. “Wait here, my darling,” he said before racing back inside. Grabbing his blanket from the living room floor, he ran back to the bedroom and began beating at the flames.
Thankfully, the blaze itself wasn’t large, and he soon smothered it with the fabric. He coughed as he opened the window to let the smoke escape, then double-checked to see if any embers were still burning. Only after a few minutes could he survey the damage, but mercifully it was limited to the bed linens, a few papers and one slightly charred end table. No real harm done. He prayed a quick prayer of thanks to God for allowing him to be awake and to get to the fire before it was too late.
Remembering Christy, he hurried back to where she was still stretched out, lifeless in the grass. “Oh no … please, God, no.” He dropped to his knees beside her unmoving body and cried her name, rocking her body gently. When there was still no response he shook her, yelling for her to wake up. “Christy! Oh Christy, I should never have left you alone …” He pulled her close and held her tightly in his arms.
Only then did he feel it – her heartbeat. It was fine and strong, and she was breathing without difficulty. He cupped a hand to stroke her cheek. “Please, my darling, wake up.”
Christy’s eyes sprang open and she gazed at Brent, wondering at his troubled face. She smiled at him. “Brent, whatever is the matter?” Then, confused, she rubbed her eyes and looked around. “And what on Earth are we doing out here?”
“Don’t worry, Christy, you’re all right now.”
She looked down and saw the ash on her hand and the sleeve of her nightgown. She turned her head in alarm to look at the house. “Oh no!”
“The house is fine, Christy. There was a fire in the bedroom. You were unconscious.” His voice almost broke as he told her what had happened. “Christy … I was so scared I was going to lose you.”
She reached up her hand to touch his cheek, tracing the strong outline of his jawbone. He could feel her breath, warm against his face, and his heart pounded in his chest.
“Christy, do you think you could ever love me?” he whispered urgently, gazing down at her plump lips.
Christy’s eyes filled with tears. Then, to his delighted surprise, she pulled his head toward her, her lips seeking his.
16
Christy couldn’t believe she’d done that – initiated her first kiss. But you couldn’t beat the setting – outside on the grass under a starry sky, Brent was cradling her in his strong arms. His lips were warm and soft, pulling gently at hers, returning her kiss with growing urgency. The tingling started at her mouth and spread all the way to her toes. She heard him moan softly as he held her tight in his embrace.
After a few moments, they each pulled away, breathless. “Oh my,” she said.
“Indeed,” he replied. He helped her stand, placing one hand lovingly against her cheek and stroking her hair with the other. “Christy, do you feel all right? Are you dizzy?”
“A … little light-headed.”
“Let’s get you back into the house, then. Here, you can lean on my arm.”
“Thank you.” She pressed into his side, and they ambled back to the house. She looked up at the stars one last time and marveled at the depth and magnitude of them. That was something she never saw in the city.
He led her to the armchair in the living room, then went to the kitchen to make some tea for her to drink. She pulled a throw rug from the settee and wrapped it around her shoulders while she waited, nestling into the soft wool. As he carried a steaming mug to her, her heart warmed at his thoughtful tenderness. He was tall, strong, with labor-calloused hands, yet lovingly tending to her every need once again. She felt her eyes prick with tears and struggled to hold them back. “Thank you, Brent. This is very thoughtful.”
“Christy?”
“Yes?”
“I know you said you wanted to go back tomorrow on the train, but …”
“I don’t,” she interrupted. “But I thought you wanted me to.”
Brent blinked several times in shock. “I … I don’t want you to. So do you think … perhaps you might consider staying a while? Just to see how things go?”
“Like … a trial marriage?” Christy held the mug to her lips and blew softly on it.
“Yes, I suppose. Maybe we could … give it a go for a certain period of time, and then decide what we’d like to do? I mean …” He sighed and shook his head. “I get all tongue-tied and stammer around you, woman. I guess what I’m saying is I want you to stay.” His eyes sought hers, and she could see his vulnerability.
She smiled. “I’d like to stay. Would three months suffice, do you think?”
“Three months would be good– one way or the other, we should be able to make a decision by then.”
“It’s settled, then,” said Christy with relief. She sighed, closed her eyes and leaned back in the armchair. Three months would give her time to figure out what it was she wanted from life. Perhaps it would even give her attorneys time to reclaim her inheritance. Three months with a guaranteed roof over her head and food in her belly – that was a fine idea. And the thought of spending it with Brent sent a flutter of nervous excitement through her stomach.
Within two weeks, Christy had found a kind of rhythm to her new life in the country. She rose early and tended to the chickens, collecting eggs for their breakfast and any baking she might do during the day. Then she’d rummage through the wild kitchen garden (growing increasingly less wild as she trimmed and weeded a little each day) for ripened vegetables.
With each passing day, she worked harder and harder to repay the kindnesses Brent had shown her. She made him a hot breakfast every morning, for which he thanked her repeatedly. One day a week she baked bread, soon followed by cakes, pies, cookies and the odd casserole. Another day each week, she did laundry. Another was set aside for ironing, still another for cleaning the house. Soon the place gleamed as best it could, given the rough nature of the building, as she scoured, scrubbed and dusted every square inch.
The rest of the week was set aside for experimenting – attempts at making soap, butter, even cheese, things she’d never done before. (If you wanted cheese in Philadelphia, there were any number of groceries and dairies to buy from.) Brent helped her by giving her the ingredients she needed and passing on an old notebook of his mother’s which had some basic recipes. She was very pleased with the early results and decided to work on improving them as best she could.
On this particular morning, Christy was ironing and gazing out the window at the blowing grasses, wishing she could be outside enjoying the breeze.
Brent strode into the house. “How would you like to learn to milk a cow?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.
Christy stared in dismay at the muddy trail he’d left across the floor. “Oh dear, Brent – could you please wipe your feet on the mat before you come in?”
He stared at the rug, grimaced and quickly walked backward out the door to do just that. “Sorry, Christy. I’ll have to get used to having a clean house again – or for that matter, having a doormat again.” It was really just a burlap sack she had nailed to the back porch in front of the door, but it did the job. “So about the cow?”
She wiped her hands against her apron and smoothed her hair. “I guess I could try. I’ve never had much to do with cows, you know. Where did you get one?”
“The Harrises loaned her to me in exchange for shoeing one of their horses.”
“Oh. Well, so long as you don’t make me hold her still too,” she said with a laugh.
Brent laughed along with her. “I won’t make that mistake twice.”
She followed him out the front door and to the barn, where a brown-and-white cow stood sedately, staring at them from beneath long black eyelashes and swishing her tail. “She doesn’t look happy,” Christy opined. “You don’t think she’ll kick me, do you?” She wrung her hands and hung back anxiously
“No, I’ve tied her foot to the post on this side. See?”
She looked and saw a rope around the cow’s back foot, securing it loosely to the post where the beast was hitched.
Brent reached for her hand and pulled her gently toward the animal. “Come on, I’ll be right here with you. If you can take this on as one of your regular chores, I’ll probably buy her outright, so you two will get to know each other soon enough.”
Christy forced a smile and stepped forward with determination. Brent slid two squat stools close to the cow’s side. He sat on the outside one and pointed to the inside one for Christy. She lowered herself onto it and he wrapped his arms around her, reaching for the cow’s udder. She felt her cheeks flush with warmth at his touch.
“See, you reach for a teat, like so …” He grabbed one and gently pulled it toward them. “Then you hold it tight at the top, close your fingers down on it like this and pull.” As he spoke, a stream of creamy white milk spurted into the wooden bucket he’d placed beneath the creature. He repeated the movement with his other hand and soon had two long streams of milk flowing in bursts into the bucket.
“Now here, you try.” He let go of the udder and lifted Christy’s hands to it with his own. She felt her skin tingle as their fingers connected.
“All right.” She copied what Brent had been doing, but nothing happened. She squeezed, cajoled and pulled, but still no milk appeared. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Here, let me show you again.” He closed his hands around hers and she felt his fingers pulse, bringing milk down into the bucket again.
