A Bride at Last (33 page)

His breath swirled like locomotive steam in the morning cold. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected you to be working outside so early.” And in such a disheveled state.

“The pig got out.” He set his hands on his hips, letting his shoulders roll forward with a sigh. His chest worked hard, his lungs attempting to return to a normal breathing rhythm.

Hadn’t he said he’d lost all but one pig to Peter Hicks’s negligence? “I hope my arrival didn’t thwart you from capturing him.”

“Her. And no, I ran her back into the pen before you unloaded your first basket.” He eyed the assortment at her feet. “Whereas I know what she was doing—trying to get into my compost—I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Oh, if he only knew, he’d send her back. “Did you forget it’s Thanksgiving?”

His cheek muscle twitched. “Anthony reminded me last night.”

“So no plans, then?” What if he did have plans? Rachel said she couldn’t ever recall him eating with anyone in the area and that he’d declined the few invitations she’d extended throughout the years.

“Only to figure out how to make a sweet-potato pie, but nothing beyond that.”

“How does one ‘figure out’ how to bake a pie?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got sweet potatoes and the knowledge that such a thing exists.”

“Well, I happen to actually know how to make one.” She smiled and stooped down beside her smallest basket. “I also have a chicken.” Pulling back the cover, she showed off the pale-skinned bird Rachel had her husband bring into town yesterday.

“I thought Thanksgiving was supposed to be turkey?”

Yes, because if he was going to be forced to celebrate Thanksgiving, the menu should be perfectly traditional. “It’s got wings and it used to have feathers. I say it’s close enough.”

He swallowed hard and stared. “I suppose Anthony will be ecstatic to have you here.”

Why did he say that so sadly? “You two are the closest thing I have to family. I felt I should be here. Even if uninvited.”

“There’s nothing to be invited to. I’ve never done Thanksgiving before.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

He had to be getting cold. And though she’d invited herself onto his porch, she wasn’t bold enough to order him into his house and follow him in without being asked. Of course, some of the things the ladies at the quilting circle had planned for her to do today would take more brazenness than that.

She pulled her muffler up to hide her cheeks, likely reddened by the wind just as much as by her flush. “Well then, let’s start some traditions . . . for Anthony anyway.” She huffed at herself. She shouldn’t have softened her statement. She wasn’t doing this just for Anthony.

The misty swirl of Silas’s breath increased.

She pulled out a letter Fannie convinced her estranged husband to hand over and took a step toward Silas. “I brought your mail.”

His body blocked the wind and the heat of him drew her closer.

Despite wearing mittens, her fingers were numb. She held out the letter until he took it. If only she had enough nerve to slip a hand into his empty one. She settled on cupping his upper arm with both of her hands, though his warmth didn’t seem to penetrate his sleeve enough to help her fingers, but she was closer to him, and that was good.

Nancy had suggested she stay as close to him as possible, not letting him forget she was nearby—and could be nearer if he’d let her—so she tucked herself against his arm even tighter. He stiffened but didn’t jerk away.

She stared at the envelope he’d yet to open. “Ezekiel Jones—isn’t that the man from the orphanage you took your name from?”

He held the letter in front of him with both hands, but she could feel his gaze on the top of her head. Too timid to tiptoe up for a kiss he might turn away from, she settled on pretending she didn’t notice how he’d yet to breathe after she’d sidled in so close.

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. “Yes, Jonesey.” He stepped away from her, and she released him reluctantly.

He tucked his letter into one of her baskets, picked up that one and then another, and rammed his body through the door, hollering, “Anthony, you’ve got a visitor!”

Invitation enough. She grabbed the remaining basket and forged into the warm, serviceable cabin. She moved straight to the table—only steps from the door, given the close quarters—and set the baskets beside the linens he’d carried in.

Descending from the loft, Anthony turned a smile on her that was worth staying for all on its own.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” The ten-year-old bounded over and hugged her. He was still in his pajamas and sockless. His cowlicks were mussed in opposite directions, just like his father’s.

She gave him a hard squeeze. “You don’t mind having Thanksgiving with me, do you?”

“Really?” He released her and headed straight for the baskets on the table. “What did you bring?”

She pulled the nearest basket away from his eager hands. “Go wash up. I’ll need your help getting dinner ready on time.”

“Right.” He flew through the doorway on the left into Silas’s room.

She couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm and glanced toward Silas, who evidently did not find the boy’s eagerness as charming as she did. His face was serene, almost pained, as he watched his son.

“Are you all right?”

He shrugged before crossing the room to pull a trunk out from under a small table. “I have to feed the animals.” He took out a muffler, gloves, and a stocking cap. Stalking past her, he muttered, “Send Anthony out when he’s dressed. I need him to help clean stalls before he cooks with you.”

Anthony would likely look as enthused as Silas sounded when she told him about his chores. “All right.”

After the door swung shut, Anthony came out grumbling. “I heard him.” He plopped down on the tiny sofa with his boots. “I’m going.”

“Don’t be sour.” She winked at him. “We’ll be making pie in no time.”

When he passed by, she ruffled his barely brushed hair and stood still until he exited. She looked around the cabin. She’d only been inside once, on the first day she’d come here with Silas. Though small, the house was neat and large enough to hold a cookstove, hutch, table, chairs, and small sofa in the living area—plus it had a separate bedroom for Silas and a loft above for Anthony. She glanced away from the cookstove and tried not to think about how it would feel to stand there every day cooking while Silas and Anthony were out choring, tried not to contemplate the way her heart stuttered a little at thinking about living in a house belonging to her and a husband.

She took out a box of lavender and baby’s breath from the first basket. While Anthony was outside where he couldn’t ask questions, she’d make Silas’s cabin look more homey, as if she were already living there.

The women in town had donated things for just that purpose—though it’d felt a lot less sneaky coming up with a plan than actually following through with it. With jittery fingers, she arranged the dried flowers in the two vases Fannie had
found in storage. Taking one of the vases, she darted into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. She plumped Silas’s pillows, enjoying the musky scent of his hair and the smell of soap in his pillowcases before going to retrieve the rosewater Mrs. Crismon convinced her to bring.

Could she do it? It wasn’t near as bold as Ruth sleeping at Boaz’s feet, but the audacity of sprinkling her perfume on Silas’s pillows made her feel as wanton as Mr. Kingfisher had accused her of being back in Breton.

Unscrewing the cap, she settled on rubbing some in her hands and then making the bed, smoothing her hands along his sheets and plumping the pillows again. If he cared anything for her, Mrs. Crismon believed the smell of Kate’s perfume would keep her predicament in the forefront of Silas’s mind.

She smoothed out the last wrinkle. Was the smell too much or was it just because it was on her hands? She closed her eyes, nothing she could do about it now. He could wash his sheets if the smell bothered him.

After slipping the doily Nancy had given her under the vase, Kate returned to the front room and kitchen area. Working as quickly as possible, she set out the tablecloth, table runner, throw pillows, curtains, and other items the ladies had helped her collect. Why did she feel as if she were a thief? She was leaving things behind not taking things away.

Once everything was out, she rushed to wash potatoes, trying to compose herself so if Silas walked in, he’d not notice the heat in her cheeks. Would leaving this stuff all over his house do any good, or would he think her a crazy woman?

She glanced at the things around the living room. She hadn’t set out too much.

Maybe she was crazy.

Anthony hollering at the dog outside the window made her snatch up her knife and start peeling her first potato. She had
cooking to worry about now. A man’s heart was supposed to be won through his stomach.

She was about to put that saying to the test.

“Oh no!” Anthony covered his eyes and flopped back against his chair. Silas looked up from where he sat in the corner reading.

Kate brandished Anthony’s captured black queen. “Try to stop me now, bub.”

“I’m going to win again anyway. Just watch!” Anthony got up and swiped her rook with his bishop.

Kate groaned, but the sound turned into a cute little growl that clearly indicated she wasn’t about to throw the game for the boy. She wasn’t the best loser, as evidenced by the last two games.

Silas shook his head, a smile fighting to rearrange the placid expression he’d been trying to maintain throughout dinner, dessert, and now their lively game. Though he’d stopped working at two that afternoon, he’d not been able to completely relax with her in his house. However Anthony couldn’t have been any more at ease than he was right now. He’d become an entirely different kid in her presence.

Silas turned to stare out the window, where a powder so light it almost couldn’t be considered snow swirled in the pale sunlight that would disappear in about an hour.

How could he have forgotten Thanksgiving? Of course, he’d rarely ever celebrated it, but with a son, this year was more meaningful than any other. He’d been too focused on making up for what Peter Hicks had cost him to stop and be thankful for what he’d gained. The man hadn’t stolen anything that truly mattered.

“Ha!” Anthony swiped a piece off Kate’s side of the board, and she frowned comically.

Of course, if he could figure out how to keep this lighthearted boy around every day, he’d have even more to be thankful for.

Having Kate around more often would be the way to ensure such a thing, but how could he have her work on his homestead and not kiss her again? And if she came here every day, what would happen to her reputation? To his resolve?

He swallowed hard and pulled out Jonesey’s, or rather Ezekiel’s, letter to take his mind off Kate.

Though the only thing that was likely the man’s actual writing was the misshapen signature at the bottom of the letter, his eyes devoured the words.

Silas Jonesey,

Forgive me for not remembering much when you came last. My memory’s not what it used to be, and some days are far worse than others. I’ve been thinking about you. I remembered something a few days ago. Pretty sure you were the boy who had a hard time sitting still long enough to eat anything—not that the gruel Mrs. Oldstein ever made was any good. Always had a good bit of energy, you did, and a shy smile you rarely used. I was surprised that first family brought you back since you were always so eager to please me whenever I asked you anything. I hope things worked out better for you later.

I also remembered you’re the boy whose sister came looking for you after you left for good. Her name was Jewel, a right pretty name, that. So I found out where the Oldsteins live now—well, only the Mrs. since the man’s passed on—and I asked about you. She said she gave your sister the name of the folks you went with but you’d run by then. All Mrs. Oldstein could remember was the girl—well, she was a woman, really—said to send word of you to Raytown on the other side of Independence should they hear of you. Mrs. Oldstein said you came to the orphanage without a name, and she don’t remember what the girl called you—said it was something she’d never heard before. Wish I remembered more, but I likely never had more information than that.

Ezekiel Jones

Folding his letter, Silas let his head tip back against the chair’s high back. If only he hadn’t run. . . .

He sighed and sunk in against the chair’s cushion. Someone had come looking for him. What would his sister have done or said if she’d found him? Would his life have turned out any better?

He looked over at Kate. If she hadn’t run from her previous fiancés, this rift between them wouldn’t ever have happened. They’d be a family already.

No, if she hadn’t run, he’d never have known her.

“Can you come back tomorrow?” Anthony’s head lay against his palm, smashing his cheek up into his eye, waiting for Kate to move.

“Unfortunately, no.” Kate tapped her last remaining bishop as she contemplated the board. “I’m still looking for a job.”