Lyn Cote Read online

  “Gunther,” Kurt said, his decision made. “I have things to do this evening. I will not go with you.” Kurt looked down at Johann, denying the cold loss this brought him. “Will you go to help with little William? Can I trust you to know what to do?”

  Johann stood very straight. “I can take care of William. I know how to rock him and hold the bottle.” He pulled his wooden horse from his pocket. “And he likes my horse, too.”

  Kurt let the corners of his mouth rise, let his tension ease. He had two good lads. He looked to Gunther. “You don’t need me there, do you?”

  “No, but I thought you liked to go with me.” Gunther looked puzzled.

  Kurt studied his brother’s face. Had Gunther noticed his preference for Miss Thurston?

  He shrugged as if the matter was of no importance. “I have worked hard today. I need to sharpen my tools.” He forced himself to sound convincing. “You are young. It is long walk. You have more energy.”

  Gunther still looked puzzled but merely lowered his head as if bowing to his brother’s decision.

  Johann quickly dried the final pan and hurried to Gunther, who had secured his books on a strap hung over his shoulder and was waiting to leave. Kurt watched them go down the path. Part of him strained like a horse at the starting line, strained to follow them. He clamped his lips tight so he didn’t call out he’d changed his mind.

  Instead, he dragged out a chair and began doing what he’d told Gunther he would do. He began sharpening his tools. The shrill noise of the small grindstone filled his ears and grated his nerves. He suddenly saw himself sitting at home in his village using this same grindstone.

  Home…

  A sorrow he could never voice seized him tightly and twisted him, as if wringing him. An image he would never be able to banish flashed in his mind, his father’s lifeless body, hanging in their barn. He rubbed his eyes, willing the pain away. Would a time come when thinking of home didn’t bring piercing, wrenching pain?

  The answer rushed to him. When he was with Miss Thurston, the pain was forgotten. Her sweet voice soothed him like no other. The temptation to be with her was a dangerous one. He must be wary or spoil the delicate balance of their friendship. And they were friends. If anything he did or said hinted at courtship, she would withdraw from him. He must watch himself, his words, his manner when with her. But to deny himself the pleasure of being with her was impossible.

  *

  “The colonists had no representation, no member in Parliament,” Gunther explained earnestly, sitting at the table in Ellen’s quarters. “They believed they shouldn’t have to pay the taxes England demanded.”

  Across from him, Ellen tried to keep her mind on Gunther as he explained taxation without representation. Behind her, Johann knelt by the cradle, entertaining William with a stream of chatter about the wooden horse. But neither Gunther nor Johann seemed able to command her complete attention. Why had Mr. Lang stayed away this evening? She’d been so looking forward to thanking him properly for what he’d done.

  Had she offended him? Did he regret defending her?

  Why did his absence bother her?

  Mr. Lang’s excuse of being tired and needing to stay home was perfectly natural and understandable. But now she was forced to confront the fact that she had begun to look forward to their evenings together.

  I cannot allow myself to slip again. I miss seeing Mr. Lang because we’ve been thrown together so much, that’s all.

  A jumble of emotions rioted within as she calmly asked Gunther, “And how did England respond to the colonists’ argument?”

  “Parliament, the English congress,” Gunther replied with an eagerness she loved, “said that the colonists had virtual representation, that Parliament represented all of England and its territories.”

  Gunther’s English had improved so much in such a short time. Though she knew he was not pleased that his accent lingered, his progress lifted her mood. “Exactly right, Gunther. Do you think that made sense?”

  Gunther paused to prepare an answer as her mind went back to the question of Mr. Lang. Was her disappointment actually about his absence? Or was it merely that after dealing with children all day, she looked forward to adult conversation? Of course, she spoke with the Ashfords at supper each evening, but she didn’t exactly count them as friends.

  Mr. Lang is my friend. A startling idea.

  “No, it didn’t make sense,” Gunther answered finally. “I think it was just a way to make a good-sounding excuse. I don’t think the men in Parliament thought much about the colonies. They were so far away.”

  As she nodded in agreement, she wondered, could she consider a man a friend? Single women rarely had men who were friends, not suitors.

  But why couldn’t she consider Mr. Lang a friend? Just because they were both unmarried didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends, did it?

  Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, a warning bell faintly rang. She ignored it.

  *

  On Saturday morning, Martin had come with his pony cart and fetched Ellen and William so Ellen could help Ophelia with the fall canning. Ellen had worn her oldest dress and an older apron. Now Ophelia and she were outside in the quickly warming morning. With a large, long-handled, slotted spoon in hand, Ophelia was dipping tomatoes into a pot of boiling water and setting them to cool on the table outside. Ellen was coring the stems and then slipping the skins off the warm scalded tomatoes and then dropping them into a large pot in preparation for making catsup.

  Several feet away on the wild grass, Johann entertained William, who lay on a blanket, kicking his feet vigorously. Johann also kept Ophelia’s cheerful toddler, Nathan, from crawling too far away with the help of the Steward’s dog. Johann had walked over by himself as planned.

  Ellen found herself about to ask her cousin if Mr. Lang would be coming over, too, but she nipped off the thought. Mr. Lang had his own work to do.

  “I’m so glad you offered to help,” Ophelia repeated, perspiring as she leaned over the boiling water.

  “I can see why you needed me.” Ellen glanced at the bushels of ripe tomatoes sitting around them. The sight inspired Ellen with a desire to lie down and nap.

  “I know it’s a lot of tomatoes.” Ophelia smiled tartly as she had when they were girls together and up to some mischief. “But I have a bumper crop this year and that might have to stretch over two years. One never knows,” she said airily, “what the next harvest will bring. We might have a drought and no tomatoes.”

  Though grinning, Ellen smothered a sigh. For some reason she couldn’t identify, her normal zest for life had diminished over the past week. Everything she did seemed heavy like a chore.

  “Ellen, are you all right? You seem down in the dumps.” Ophelia slid another two tomatoes into the boiling water and watched them closely.

  Ellen tilted her head. She could fool everyone but Ophelia. “You know me too well.”

  “I would think you would be happy now that it’s been decided you can keep William.” Ophelia turned the tomatoes and then scooped one up, letting water drain through the spoon.

  “I would think so, too.” Ellen didn’t look up from the basin in her lap where the red skins fell. “Sometimes I can’t believe I won. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the letdown after all the turmoil over my effort to keep him.”

  Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen Mr. Lang since the meeting, a voice whispered in her mind.

  Ellen ignored it and forged ahead. “Does that make sense? Perhaps a reaction to all that stress?”

  “Perhaps.” Ophelia flexed her shoulders but didn’t look up. “You never told me why Randolph came north.”

  Yellow-and-black finches twittered and flew from branch to branch, as if gossiping about the two women. “You guessed, didn’t you, that Alice sent him?”

  Ophelia glanced at Ellen, her face twisted with apprehension. “What did Alice want?”

  “Me. She’s expecting and has managed to get such a bad reputation th
at no Irish girl will work for her.”

  Ophelia made a hissing sound of irritation. “That woman. So you told him no?”

  “Of course I did.” Ellen went on to reveal how Alice had tried to blackmail her into returning to Galena.

  Ophelia was suitably shocked and aggravated. “That woman! Makes me remember why we would never play with her when we were kids. Spoiled crybaby.”

  Ellen agreed with a nod and then shooed away a fly. “Well, I haven’t heard anything since from my brother so we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  At that moment, Johann made a neighing sound as he held his wooden horse above William’s face, and the baby gurgled in excitement. As Ellen watched the two, her question about Mr. Lang simply slipped right out of her mouth, as if she had no say in the matter. “Johann, what’s your uncle doing today?”

  “Harvesting corn with Gunther, miss,” Johann called politely while running after Nathan, who was crawling fast toward the surrounding forest.

  Of course Mr. Lang was harvesting corn—every man and many women were. She vented her irritation at herself on the tomato in her hand, squeezing it until it spit seeds up onto her cheek.

  Ophelia chuckled and handed her a clean rag. “What’s that? The tomato’s revenge?” she said.

  Grinning ruefully, Ellen wiped her cheek and shook her head, frustrated at her foolishness. She remembered such foolishness all too well from when she’d allowed feelings for Holton. She wanted no part of it now.

  But the trouble was, it seemed that she no longer had any say in the matter. Mr. Lang refused to leave her mind.

  As the morning wore on, the women continued their work. A few times the Stewards’ dog rose to its feet and barked. Once it started to head toward the fields, but halted when Ophelia told him to stay. He whimpered on and off, staring toward the distant field where Martin was picking corn. Maybe he just missed his master.

  When the first batch of tomatoes was finally simmering outdoors in a large pot, Ophelia glanced at the sun directly overhead.

  “I wonder why Martin hasn’t come for lunch. He knew I’d be serving a cold meal.” She turned to Johann. “Will you run and tell Mr. Steward that I’m going to put out our lunch?”

  Johann nodded and jogged away, the dog racing after him.

  “He’s such a nice boy,” Ophelia said, leaning backward, stretching her spine.

  Ellen tried not to let her mind drift to his uncle, who was nice, too. She had barely washed her hands and taken off her tomato-smeared apron when Johann came running back.

  “Mrs. Steward! Your husband needs you. He can’t get up!”

  Ellen flew to William, and snatched him from the blanket as Ophelia scooped up Nathan. The two women pelted after Johann toward the farthest edge of the cornfield.

  Martin was lying at the end of a row, flat on his back. A large muslin bag filled with corn lay beside him, its contents scattered.

  Despite the noon-high sun blazing on her shoulders, the sight of Martin on the ground chilled Ellen.

  Ophelia dropped to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Martin panted. “I don’t know. I was picking corn. I heard a noise and turned too fast, I guess. Something snapped in my back. The pain… I couldn’t stay on my feet. I fell. I must have lost consciousness. When I came to, I tried to get up, but I can’t get up by myself, Ophelia.” Fear shuddered in each of the last few words. “I tried to call out but couldn’t.”

  “I will get my uncle!” Johann called over his shoulder, already running back toward the cabin and the trail beyond.

  Ellen took charge of both children while Ophelia ran to get thirsty Martin some water to drink. The dog lay next to Martin, his large brown eyes worried. Fear rattled Ellen as she pressed William to her and talked nonsense to Nathan who crawled to his father and sat, patting him.

  Then Ophelia appeared with a dipper and a bucket of cold spring water. She knelt beside her husband and gently lifted his head and helped him drink. Then they waited.

  Both women were relieved to hear the sounds of men running through the field sometime later. Johann appeared with Mr. Lang and Gunther, and Ellen felt her fear and tensions relax, giving way all at once at the sight of Mr. Lang.

  She knew he would be able to help. He was that kind of man.

  *

  “Martin is hurt? How?” Kurt asked, panting from running. He focused on Martin, not Miss Thurston, schooling his eyes to obey him with effort.

  “I did something stupid,” Martin replied, sounding as if merely forcing out each word caused him pain. “I had a full sack of corn. I heard something and twisted. I must have passed out—I came to on my back. Kurt, I tried to get up but the pain…”

  Kurt dropped to his knees beside Martin, ignoring the nearness of Miss Thurston, who stood within a few feet of him. “Can you move your hands and feet?”

  Martin complied, gasping as if the movements caused him pain.

  Kurt rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is good, Martin. You have not caused injury to your spine. You have only pulled a muscle, I think. It will heal with time.”

  “Listen to Mr. Lang, Martin,” Miss Thurston murmured, just behind Kurt. Her voice so close shivered through him. He quelled his quick reaction, forbidding himself even a glance at her.

  Martin moaned, sounding both upset and in pain. “But it’s harvest. I can’t be laid up, flat on my back.”

  “You do not worry,” Kurt said. “Right now we need to get you to your cabin. You cannot spend the rest of the day lying here in the sun.”

  Martin tried to get up but failed, stifling a groan.

  “No,” Kurt commanded sharply. “You must stay still or hurt yourself more. We will move you.” Kurt looked to Mrs. Steward. “I need a strong blanket.”

  Ophelia leaped to her feet and ran toward the house.

  “I’m so glad you came, Mr. Lang,” Miss Thurston said. “There was nothing we could do for him.”

  “I am glad to help.” Kurt rose but did not look at her. He had stayed away from her this week as if doing a penance. He’d hoped his pleasure at being near her would ebb with distance and time, but as he lifted his eyes to hers, he knew that it hadn’t. Seeing her now awakened him as if he’d only been half-alive while away from her.

  He just hoped it didn’t show.

  Mrs. Steward ran toward them with a folded navy blue wool blanket in her arms.

  Gratefully, he turned away from Miss Thurston to the task at hand. With quick directions, he and Gunther lifted Martin onto the blanket. Using it as a stretcher, they carried him through the cornfield to the cabin.

  Inside, Kurt eyed the rope bed. “I think he will be better on the hard floor on a few thick blankets.” Ophelia quickly arranged a pallet of blankets and then he and Gunther lowered Martin to the floor.

  Martin’s face had gone from white to gray, probably from the pain of being moved. “Thank you,” he said, panting. His wife dropped to her knees beside him and wrung her hands. Kurt hated to see her so distressed. “You are not to worry, Martin. We will harvest your corn.”

  Miss Thurston moved closer to him. He wanted to distance himself from her, but couldn’t. Everyone had gathered into a circle around the stricken man. The dog lay down again beside his master, whining with what sounded like sympathy.

  “How long do you think Martin will be laid up?” Mrs. Steward asked Kurt.

  Kurt remembered himself and drew off his hat. “Maybe a week, two weeks.”

  Martin groaned. “Who will take care of the animals?”

  “I will come and stay here,” Gunther announced.

  “Gunther!” Miss Thurston exclaimed with obvious surprise. Kurt and everyone else turned to look at him, startled.

  Gunther reddened at the attention. “Mrs. Steward will need help with her husband. I can lift him and I can do his chores,” Gunther said in a tone that announced he would not be deterred.

  “Oh, Gunther,” Mrs. Steward said, springing to her feet
to clasp Gunther’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Kurt couldn’t press down the pride rising in him. Gunther had been changing over the past weeks and now the difference was unmistakable. His brother had lost the chip on his shoulder, and Kurt and Gunther both had Miss Thurston to thank for that.

  “That’s very good of you, Gunther,” Miss Thurston said with a look of obvious approval. Kurt couldn’t help but smile at her then, and she smiled back. Gunther was turning into a fine young man. The fact that Miss Thurston saw it, too, was nearly overwhelming for Kurt.

  Miss Thurston moved toward the door, asking Johann to come with her to watch the children. “I must keep working on the catsup. Everything will spoil and be wasted if I don’t.”

  “Ellen, as soon as I see to Martin, I’ll bring out the lunch. Mr. Lang, I have enough for all of us.”

  Kurt watched as Miss Thurston laid William in the cradle outside and Johann set Nathan down on the grass. For a brief moment he watched her stirring the simmering tomatoes and let himself imagine what it would be like if she were…his wife. And a mother to Johann, and even Gunther.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had much work to do and he wasn’t needed here. “Can I help?” Kurt asked, saying exactly what he hadn’t intended to.

  Miss Thurston looked surprised. “What?”

  “I am the cook in our house,” he said. “Perhaps I can help?”

  I should leave now. He didn’t move.

  She dipped the thermometer into the simmering tomatoes. “It’s the right temperature. We need to ladle the sauce into the Mason jars.” She gestured toward the line of clean jars covered with clean dishcloths on a bench near the cabin.

  He nodded. “I will hold the pot, you will ladle the sauce and seal the jars.”

  Soon the two of them were working side by side. As they wiped the jar rims with clean rags and then capped them with lids, he was careful not to accidentally brush against her or touch her hands. This trying to keep apart tortured him. Mrs. Steward soon came outside, carrying a tray of sandwiches. Miss Thurston hurried to her side. “How is he?”