Within the Candle's Glow (3 page)

“You wanted to speak with me?” Ella licked her dry lips as anxiety gripped her. The widow with whom she lived needed her meager earnings. She worked only a couple of hours after school and sometimes on Saturdays. It had served as credit for the necessities of life.

“Yes. I want to discuss something.” He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the counter. His bushy white eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know how to put this. Since you live with Widow Clanders and know her fairly well …
hmm
. Do you suppose she’d allow me to call on her?”

“Velma?” Her jaw dropped. “
Call
on her?”

“Yes.” Above his white beard, a pink hue stained his upper cheeks.
“I’m contemplating inviting her to the picnic.” He ran a hand over his full head of silver-white hair and avoided eye contact. “My sister thinks Mrs. Clanders might be
willing.
”

“It’s somethin’ you should ask Velma, not me. I’ve lived with her nigh on four years, but I
dare not
answer for her.” She noted the man’s discomfort and grinned. Her work wasn’t in question. “I do agree with your sister.”

“Well, good … good.” His brown eyes sparkled. “I’ll stop by later. You may tell her I’ll be coming.”

“I’ll do that.” She untied her stained apron and draped it on a hook. “I filled Velma’s order and wrote it in your ledger.” She picked up a paper-wrapped bundle.

“I’m sorry you’re late going home.”

“I was in no hurry.” She slipped out the front door and ran down the steps. The late afternoon sun greeted her. It tipped toward the mountaintops and brought to mind her bonnet hanging behind the counter.

She didn’t turn back.

“God, thank you for lettin’ me keep my wages,” she whispered. Velma could still purchase small items the generosity of others in the cove didn’t provide. A widow with six mouths to feed needed all the help she could attain.

Always capable, Velma did delicate handiwork and tedious repairs for other women. In return, they kindly paid her by offering clothing their children had outgrown. The widow’s well-tended garden fed her family during the summer and fall. The additional produce provided a way to trade for staples. When necessary, bartering with chickens and eggs gave Velma a means to pay a man to plow the side field or chop the firewood her oldest son couldn’t manage alone.

A short way down the curving trail, Ella laid Velma’s package on a large rock. She rolled the sleeves of her plain dress and tipped her face to the sun. She enjoyed it after spending time in the shadowy interior of the store. Many afternoons, on her walk home, the sun’s warmth helped boost her sagging spirits.

“No need to hurry. Enjoy the silence,” she said and lifted the bundle. She tried to forget Jim and Sophie.

Her unhurried steps made no sound on the carpet of old pine needles strewn over the rutted trail. She knew the tasks of helping prepare a meal and tending to the younger children awaited her. Noise
levels in the log home would cause her to contemplate bolting for the forest.

The rumble of wheels and trotting hooves made her turn. Dust billowed from under the McKnapp wagon. She stepped into the tall grass and clutched the package to her chest.

Jim stopped the team.

“Are you lost?” She waved a cloud of dust out of her face and squinted up at him. Her heartbeat skipped at the sight of his dark eyes and crooked smile.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Walter said you left. May I give you a ride?”

She perceived the genuineness in his offer but replied, “It’d be out of your way.”

“No, I’ll take the west rim trail beyond Velma’s cabin.” He paused. “Well? A ride or a dusty walk?”

The scent of sweaty horses filled the warm air. Before her silence made Jim withdraw his thrilling offer, she smiled.

“I’d love to ride. Did Sophie get home safely with her purchases?”

“Yes, she did.” He flipped the reins over the box seat and jumped to the ground.

“That’s … good.” She headed for the opposite side of the wagon.

At social gatherings, Sophie always monopolized Jim’s time with her matchless charm and coy glances.

“Let me have your package.” Before she could protest, he took it and held out his free hand. “May I be of assistance?”

She tried to act nonchalant, but the warmth of his hand made her legs feel limp. She plopped down on the wagon seat.

He smiled and handed her Velma’s wrapped goods.

Stay calm. It’s jest a ride.
It helped to clutch the wrinkled package to her breast and concentrate on slow breathing.

He climbed in the wagon, jostling her elbow as he reached for the sweat-darkened leather reins.

She had given up hope Jim might notice her and not treat her like a little sister.
Perchance, things can change? After all, I’m goin’ on seventeen
. He and Sophie had never made a public announcement of intentions.

“Warm today.” She forced strength into her words and prayed for confidence.

He grinned in apparent amusement and clicked his tongue at the horses. “Yes. I think we discussed that earlier.” He held the reins in both
hands and rested his elbows on his knees. With a sideways look, he winked. “The way you’re holding the parcel, I hope it’s not squashable.”

With a self-conscious laugh, she lowered it to her lap. She smoothed its creases. “No. It’s rolled flour sacks for Velma, and a yard of cotton I purchased from Mr. Beckler for Carrie.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “He intends to ask Velma to the picnic.”

“He?
Walter Beckler?
” Jim whistled.

“Yes.” She chewed at her bottom lip and wondered if Jim might ask her.
Or has he asked Sophie?

“So, what will Velma say?”

“Not sure.” She plucked at a thread dangling from her sleeve. “Velma once told me she’d never have anythin’ to do with another man. Before his death, her late husband wasn’t …
nice
to her.”

“
Hmm
, Gust Clanders was the mean sort, loved the gold fields more. What if she fell in love?”

“It’d depend on who the man was.” She inhaled, waiting for more comments on love.

“True. Marriage can’t be taken lightly.” He flicked the reins over the backs of the horses. “So, you’ll be free to go to the picnic, if she agrees to go with Walter. The store will be closed.”

“Well, yes—I’d go ‘cause of the children.”
Oh, Ella, why’d you say that?
“Of course, what I mean is … someone needs to watch the six children, so Velma can enjoy herself.” She experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach.

You shouldn’t have said that, either.

“Maybe Walter figures they’d all go with him.”

She cleared her throat. “Why—he might at that. I always help herd the children.”

“
Herd them
?” He chuckled. “I know what you mean. We have eight in our family. It’s like herding sheep.”

“Yes, I’m the shepherd.”
That sounds a bit silly.

“Not fun for you.”

“No, I guess not.” Her hopes ebbed and waned with each sentence they spoke.
Ask me.
She waited, but he stared straight ahead.

The wind carried the scent of pine needles and dry grasses, and for a short while, they rode with only the clomp of hooves on hard-packed dirt. The wide expanse of blue sky appeared clear overhead, except for a lone hawk winging its way to a massive dead pine. A gray squirrel dashed in front of the horses and scurried up an oak. The branches
shuddered as it scampered and jumped through the top foliage.

From under the brim of his hat, Jim regarded the energetic squirrel. He cleared his throat. “My brother-in-law is proud of the way you and Samuel excel in class work. He loves being your teacher. Konrad says you are each capable in your own way. He calls you and Samuel—‘peas in a pod.’ You work together well and match in skills. I think you enjoy being with each other.” He glanced sideways. “Am I correct?”

“Yes—it’s true.” Ella wasn’t sure if she wanted to answer him. “We had a contest goin’. Samuel’s hard to beat in classwork.” She cupped her right hand above her eyes and squinted in the sunlight reflecting through the limbs. “I love school. I hear classes will not start ‘til after the fall harvest?”

“All hands will be needed.” He flicked the reins, but the horses ignored him. “There’s never time for slackin’.”

“Yes, but free time is nice. I like to read my mama’s Bible.” Her thoughts turned to the duties awaiting her for the evening.

He chuckled. “Samuel takes one of our mother’s books and climbs into a tree fort Duncan and I built years ago, beyond the corn patch. It’s near the stream behind our barn. It also makes a good hideout for shooting turkey.”

“He’s never told me. I’d love to surprise him while he’s readin’, but it’d be dangerous. He might think I’m a turkey.” She giggled and then felt childish. “I mean—I might spook him.”

Jim’s hearty laugh sounded wonderful.

“Naw. Samuel never looks up from a good book. Hey, don’t let him know I told about his secret place.” He nudged her arm and gave her another playful wink.

The wink left her breathless, and she had to look away. “I won’t tell. I know ‘bout secret places. I once hid in our springhouse an’ made mud pies.”

“Yum!” He leaned sideways and bumped her shoulder. “I used to sneak into our springhouse when we lived near Terminus. I was six at the time. I’d snitch a hunk of cheese off a block my mother wrapped and stored in a wide-mouthed stone jar. She never caught me.”

Ella smiled. “Why’d you move here?” With a sideways glance, she studied his strong hands.

“Papa yearned for mountains and bartered land from a Cherokee. Mother said she’d follow him anywhere.” He sighed. “Poor Mother had to adapt to this rugged life, but she loves it.”

“It’s all I know.” Ella inclined her head and stared at the tree-shrouded crest to their right. New foliage smothered the trees in varying shades of green. The grays, tans, and rusty browns of rocky crags and boulders had faded into the deep-green recesses of the forest, obscured and masked from view. The shifting breeze sighed through the trees, caressing her face, and ruffling the loose strands of hair hanging about her neck.

“I miss my mama.” She closed her eyes and imagined herself standing on the mountainside beside her grave—a shadowed spot where pines whispered soft unnamed songs of peace.

“She was a sweet woman.”

“Yes.”

Ella had been to her mama’s grave eight times since moving down to the narrow, curved cove. Her family’s log home had fallen into disrepair, and she felt guilty about the wilderness creeping in on the isolated grave.

A lump formed in the pit of her stomach.

No longer did the burial place stand out as a deliberate pile of rocks. The undergrowth had intertwined itself into the background and foreground, running over and into the region of the grave, making it a blended picture of wild harmony. If she didn’t clear the path and hack at the small trees, ferns, and moss—the evidence of Mama’s final resting place would fade and be lost.

She even begged one of the men, Lyle Foster, to make a new marker. She wanted a large one, from smooth stone, so time couldn’t erase the burying spot. Someday, she hoped to chisel her mama’s name across the surface.

Jim interrupted her thoughts.

“Papa says his boys will be hard-pressed to find a wife like he did, a woman honored with God’s virtues and fine qualities, along with natural beauty. True loveliness of face and spirit don’t come along often. Your mother was like mine.”

His soft-spoken words were true. Ella didn’t know how to reply and stared straight ahead. She wished someone considered her beautiful. The fingers of her right hand
mentally
traced the scars on her neck. Scars weren’t attractive and especially not rough ones caused by a young mountain lion. They were disfiguring and disgusting.

She begged herself not to mull over possibilities.
No man will ever wed you.
No man should have to gaze upon her disfigurement for the
rest of his life, especially the scars showing when she was unclothed.

I want to talk to Mama. I wonder if Samuel’d be willin’ to go up to the grave with me.

“Whoa! Listen.” He pulled on the reins. “The creek
is
running faster. I bet those clouds last night dumped rain on the east rim. Mother said she heard thunder. I laughed at her.”

“I didn’t hear thunder.” She tipped her head and listened as the wagon moved on.

The melodious splash of water came from Pelter’s Creek. A tight group of young sweetgum trees grew along the creek bank. They sported shiny leaves, which shook in the insignificant breeze.

Velma’s cabin appeared in the bend. The rounded log walls were mottled with moss, algae, and dark stains. The substantial forest fought to eliminate the shaded cranny against the creek. In time, the cabin’s walls would give way to the persistent wooing of the dark timber encroaching on them. The old logs would lean in on themselves and collapse—to let the woodland floor and plant life devour them.

“What’s got you so quiet?” He clicked his tongue at the horses. “Something I said?”

“Oh. No.” She smiled. “You spoke of the creek. I can always tell when I’m nearin’ home. The water sings.”