“
The henhouse is on fire!”
he said. He ran back to his room and pulled on his rubber boots,
then charged downstairs and out the back door, dressed only in his
drawers.
From one of the two windows in the old
building he could see fluttering wings and high, leaping flames
that were fed by dry straw in the nest boxes. The fallen half of
the tree had crushed the roof, essentially destroying the little
shed. Smoke poured from the gaping hole torn in the roof and the
sickening stench of burning feathers, manure, and cooking chicken
blew over him in waves. The henhouse was a loss but it was attached
to the barn and he had to try to stop the fire’s progress. He ran
to the well and pumped water into a bucket. It was more than one
man could accomplish alone and yet he didn’t dare take the time to
call for help. God, it seemed hopeless but he had to try. If the
barn caught—
As he ran toward the fire, another
fork of lightning lit up the sky and the yard, followed closely by
a clap of thunder. High wind fanned the flames, making them rise
and dance.
“
Luke!”
He whirled and saw Emily and Rose
illuminated by the orange-white glow. Emily had flung her shawl
over her shoulders and Rose had tucked her nightgown into her
overalls.
“
Rose, can you work the
pump? And Emily, grab the pail next to it and the one from the back
porch,” he called over the roar of the fire and the wind and the
thunder. They scampered to follow his orders, and soon they had a
bucket brigade formed, such as it was, with only three of them to
man it. The tree was green enough that Luke believed it would burn
itself out, but the henhouse was just as old and dry as the barn
wall it had been built against.
Bucket after bucket Luke poured on the
flames with a growing sense of despair. He felt as if they were
fighting the fire with teaspoons of water. Only sprinkles of rain
fell, barely enough to even dampen the soil. Sweat poured off of
him in rivers, from the heat and the exertion. Even Emily, when he
had caught a glimpse of her face, bore a gleam of sweat and a look
of grim determination overlaid with a mask of soot. Minutes seemed
like hours—hours of struggling in this inferno of heat, noise, and
smoke. If this was what the end of the world would look like, with
fire, lightning, and wind, Luke figured he’d seen everything
now.
One of the henhouse walls, in a sheet
of flame and heat, groaned and began falling toward him.
Emily screamed. “Luke!”
He jumped back just in time to avoid
being caught beneath its burning weight.
Finally, flames began to creep up the
barn wall. Luke decided he’d better rescue the stock from the barn
while he still could. He backed away, putting his arm out to the
side to keep Emily behind him.
“
We have to let it go,” he
shouted over the din. “I’ve got to save the animals before the
whole barn burns.”
“
Can I help you?” she
shouted back, but he shook his head.
“
Stay here and look out for
Rose. Just in case.” He looped an arm around Emily’s shoulders and
kissed her. Just in case.
As soon as their lips met, it was as
if fate had taken pity upon them. The sky, which had sent only
pitchforks of fire and destruction, now opened over
them.
It began to rain in earnest. Luke
pulled away from Emily’s lips and looked up at the
darkness.
The rain came in heavy, wind-lashed
torrents, quickly soaking everything and turning the barnyard into
a sea of mud. The henhouse began to hiss and steam, as if a trap
door to hell had been slammed shut.
“
Oh, Luke—we shouldn’t give
up now, should we?” Emily asked.
“
No! Rose!” he yelled to his
daughter. “Keep pumping, honey! We might make it yet.” Rose, who’d
left her post, ran back to it and began working the pump handle
again.
The rain, cool and far-reaching, gave
them a huge boost of help and courage. At last, the flames began to
recede until he felt confident that the worst of the fire was
out.
The downpour, a real gully washer,
continued to fall, kicking up more steam and smoke from the ruined
shelter. Eventually, the storm passed, heading in a northeasterly
direction and the moon came out to cast its gray-white light on the
scene. All that remained was a charred, smoking ruin that had been
the henhouse, and half of the century-old oak tree that had once
shaded the house with its graceful limbs. Thank God the tree had
fallen toward the barn and not the house. He didn’t know what he
would have done if the home he’d built with his own two hands had
been destroyed.
Luke dropped his bucket, and Rose and
Emily came to him. He picked up Rose and took them both into his
embrace wordlessly. Briefly, they clung together, saying nothing,
all shaking with fatigue, emotional weariness, and the chill of wet
clothes.
At last Emily lifted her head from
Luke’s bare shoulder. “Just when I’d gotten the hang of gathering
those damned eggs—”
He looked at her, amazed at the
language his prim wife had used. Then he threw back his head and
laughed until tears came to his eyes. She and Rose laughed too,
half-drunk with shock and exhaustion. “Emily, you’re one hell of a
woman!” She beamed at him as if he’d told her she were the queen of
the world. He shook his head and laughed again. “Thank God we’re
all safe and didn’t lose anything else.” He hugged them again, then
set Rose down.
“
Let’s go back to the house
and get cleaned up and into some dry clothes,” Emily suggested,
dragging her hand across her nose and smearing the soot.
“
I just want to check that
inside wall,” Luke replied, pointing at the partially burned side
of the barn. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
As he walked to the barn, Luke glanced
over his shoulder to see that Emily and Rose made it to the house
safely. There were none so brave as his young daughter, who’d
handled the pump like a half-grown man. And his city-bred wife,
covered in soot and grime from his barn and his henhouse. He
doubted that Cora, or even Belinda, would have fought as hard to
save everything as his strait-laced, schoolteacher wife.
~~*~*~*~~
Emily helped Rose wash off the soot
and shampooed her hair in the kitchen sink to get rid of the smoke
smell. She planned to tuck her in and then bathe too. She had just
come downstairs from Rose’s room when Luke walked in through the
back door. His hair was wet, perhaps from the rain. But she thought
he must have washed it in the icy well water under the pump
outside. His face was still smudged, though. He’d found a shirt to
put on and he’d left his boots on the porch, so now he was
barefoot.
Emily was certain that she’d never
seen a man so heroic, despite the fact that he was dressed only in
knee-length drawers and an old shirt. Dear God, when that burning
wall had collapsed, she’d been terrified for him. If he’d been
crushed under it, she didn’t know how she would go on. To finally
love a man and only lose him—
That thought brought her up short.
Emily loved Luke? God, she realized it was true. Every day that
she’d been here, every look, every deed, had opened her heart to
him and now she was in love with a man whose heart belonged to a
woman buried in the cemetery. Fear and uncertainty twined
themselves around her feelings.
“
Rose is in bed?” he asked,
flopping into a chair at the table.
She swallowed and then pumped water
into the kettle to heat on the stove. “Yes. I hope tonight doesn’t
give her nightmares. I remember how long I had them after the fire
in Chicago. Our house didn’t burn but the flames stopped within two
blocks of our yard. We didn’t even need to light the lamps in the
house, it was so bright. And it was hot and smoky. All those
buildings burning at once—“ She shivered. “I still remember it so
vividly. You can’t ever get that smoke smell out of clothes. And of
course, after that everything changed.”
He stood up wearily and took her by
the arm to sit her down. “Here, you have a seat. I’m going to fix
us a drink.”
“
A drink—do you mean
spirits?”
“
Yes, ma’am. But I’ll put
yours in hot water and add some sugar and cinnamon, and you can
call it a toddy if you like.”
“
Oh, I don’t
know . . . spirits . . . I
don’t usually, ladies don’t—”
He smiled and went to the sideboard
for his whiskey bottle. “Don’t worry, Emily. I won’t tell
anyone.”
She knew that some women took a drink
now and then for their nerves, or for female complaints, or for
various medicinal purposes. But to just have a drink for no good
reason—well, it didn’t seem right. Still, there was Luke, dressed
in only his underwear and a shirt, pouring whiskey and hot water
into a teacup, and fiddling with a couple of different spices from
the rack over the stove. Maybe there was a good reason after
all—she could drink a silent toast to the loss of her heart. And it
would be rude to refuse after he’d gone to so much trouble. He
handed her the cup, with a saucer, she noted, and said, “Here, see
how you like this.”
She took a cautious sip, the aromatic
vapors reaching the tops of her sinuses before the hot liquid
touched her tongue. The taste took her breath away. She sucked in a
lungful of air through pursed lips, then pressed the end of her
smoky shawl to them.
Luke sat down across from her. “Good
stuff, huh?”
“
Hoooo!” was all she could
say, and she fanned her face with her hand.
He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, good
stuff.” He saluted her with his own glass and took a drink. “A
little more sugar, maybe? More cinnamon?”
Emily shook her head. “No.” Her voice
was a bit rough.
“
Take another sip. This one
won’t be as—surprising.”
She cast a doubtful glance at him but
did as he suggested, and found that he was right. The taste wasn’t
quite as sharp this time. And the hot water, spices, and whiskey
seemed to flow through her veins, bringing warmth to her icy hands
and feet. She took another taste, savoring the heat, and her tight,
aching muscles began to relax.
He propped his bare feet on the empty
chair next to her and sank low in his own chair to sit on his
spine. “I want to thank you for helping me tonight. I couldn’t have
fought that fire by myself. If we had lost the barn—well, I don’t
know what I’d do.”
Emily drank her toddy and considered
Luke. He was soot-faced and tired-looking, but his eyes seemed to
see through her dirty nightgown to her heart. In the distance,
thunder rumbled across a faraway valley. “I don’t know much about
being married,” she confessed quietly, amazed by her own loosened
tongue. “I’ve read about it in books, and I’ve taught young women
what those books said their duties and responsibilities will be
when they become wives. I know how many forks should be set for all
kinds of meals, the proper format for calling cards, and how to
serve tea. I know a lot of intricate details about correct form.”
She set her empty cup on the table. “But in the end, I think
marriage is about a man and woman working together to build a life,
promising to take care of each other, and being true to their
union. It seems to me that helping my husband fight a fire that
threatened our home fits into all that.”
He gave her a thoughtful, lopsided
smile that touched her soul. “I think you’re right, teacher. But
I’m still grateful.”
He drank his whiskey down in one gulp.
Pushing himself upright in his chair, he got up. “How about another
toddy?”
“
Oh, dear, I don’t think I
should—” She was already giddy and lightheaded from the first one.
It was a very pleasant feeling, but who knew what it might lead to?
An awkward slip of the tongue, an embarrassing confession of her
heart’s deepest secret? Her advice manuals forbade ladies from
taking more than a sip of champagne at a wedding or a spoon of
medicinal alcohol for those nervous problems and female complaints.
She’d already broken that rule with the first toddy. Of course,
fighting that fire had been nerve-wracking.
“
That’s all right. I’ll do
the thinking for now.” He picked up her cup and carried it to the
stove. “Now, you drink this while I get a bath ready for
you.”
She stared at him. “W-while you
what?”
“
You worked hard all day,
preparing food for the social, then with the fire and all, well,
you deserve to soak for a while in the tub.”
“
But that’s so much bother
for you to—”
“
Oh, and helping me save the
barn was just a picnic in the park, huh?” He put the refilled
teacup on the table in front of her and dropped his hands to her
shoulders to keep her in the chair. “I’ll bring in the tub and fill
it for you. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“
Yes,
but . . . ” But it was so personal, it hardly
seemed proper. She wished he wouldn’t look at her that way. It made
it hard for her to keep her thoughts straight. He was her husband,
but even in traditional marriages—which they did
not
have, at least not
yet—there were lines of propriety and intimacy that should not be
crossed. Or so Emily had read in her advice manuals.