The Refuge

by Ann H. Gabhart

  Not that he ever got the chance. Life moved on. His pa had moved on. But Flynn wasn’t about to move on when it came to Leatrice. No way would he ride off and leave her behind. He aimed to make sure she didn’t have to come up hard the way he had.

  That didn’t mean she shouldn’t learn some women ways when she got older. Cooking would be good. Neither he nor Silas could do much more than stir up a pot of beans. He did miss Ma Beatrice’s cooking.

  Those sisters over at that Shaker village could cook. He’d taken a meal there now and again when he traded horses with them. He’d heard they had a good school too. Maybe they would let Leatrice come. Just by the day. The girl was anxious to learn her letters, and while he had told Silas he could teach her, a man didn’t have time for everything.

  It was some warmer in the barn. Leastways the snow wasn’t stinging his cheeks and the horses in the stalls put off some heat. The horse the Shakers wanted stuck his head out of his stall and nickered. Flynn got him cheap because he had a sore foot. People lacked patience in working with horses. They were ever ready to push aside the old and find something new. As if a new horse couldn’t step on a sharp rock and get a sore foot too.

  “Ease down, Jack. I’m coming.” Jack didn’t have a name until Flynn got him. Not everybody bothered giving their animals names, but Flynn believed horses liked being called something other than “horse.”

  The Shakers named their animals too. Even their herd bulls. Called one of them “Shaker,” so Flynn had heard. Seemed a strange name for an animal they brought over from England to improve their herd bloodlines. Those Shaker brethren must have a sense of humor, even if Flynn never noted it when dealing with them. They seemed ever serious minded. Made Flynn wonder how they turned free enough to shake and twirl in church.

  He shook his head at the idea of dancing in church as he filled Jack’s feed cradle with hay. He’d make a fine horse for the Shakers. A willing worker. That was what those Shakers wanted from man or beast. Workers. Not a bad thing. Working. Come tomorrow when the Shaker men came for Jack, maybe he’d ask them about school for Leatrice and whether they would teach her without trying to turn her Shaker. He had no desire for Leatrice to become one of those Shaker sisters, spending her last years in a Shaker rocking chair with no children to bring her joy.

  By the time he finished with the horses and milked the cow, the snow had stopped and the sun was out. He squinted as he stepped out of the barn into the sunlight glancing off the snow. Lena would have been running around in it, loving the ice glittering on the branches. She could find the beauty in everything. Maybe if she’d still been there with him, he could see the beauty too. Instead he simply felt the wicked cold.

  He started to the house with the pail of milk when he remembered the other cows. He took the milk on to the house and set it inside the back door. He had half a mind to holler at Silas to go see to the cows, but Silas had been coughing some at night. Better for the old man to stay in by the fire.

  After hitching up his old mare, Blossom, Flynn threw hay down on the sled and found the axe. He pulled his hat low to shade his eyes from the sun glaring off the snow. Blossom knew the way. He didn’t have to guide her.

  He was almost to the gap into the cows’ pasture field when he heard a loud cracking sound. The ice on the pond breaking. One of the cows must have stepped out on it. That was all he needed—to have to pull a cow out of the pond. He muttered about the stupidity of cows as he unhooked the wire gate.

  Another cracking sound and then a shriek jerked his head up. Cows didn’t shriek.

  Flynn’s heart did a funny jump.

  Leatrice was out on the ice, right in the middle of the pond. The deepest part. The weakest ice. Cracks ran away from her feet. Silas was at the edge of the pond, ready to go after her.

  “Wait, Silas.”

  The man looked around at Flynn with wild eyes. He didn’t have on a coat or hat. Must have run outside looking for Leatrice. At least Leatrice had on her coat and boots. Not that they would do anything but drag her down faster if the ice broke.

  He did his best to keep panic out of his voice. “Leatrice, stand still.”

  “The ice is cracking, Papa.” She stared toward him.

  Silas moved to step on the ice again. “She’s going to break through.”

  “Stop. You’ll just fall through with her.” Flynn kept his voice firm. He slipped off his coat and wool scarf. But even tied together they weren’t long enough to reach Leatrice. He had his axe, but no trees were near the pond. He couldn’t chance leaving her to find a pole. If the ice broke and she went under it, all might be lost.

  “Scoot your feet toward us, baby.” She wasn’t that heavy. Maybe she could make it.

  But the ice gave way. With another shriek, she fell in. Flynn could hardly breathe until her head popped up out of the water as she frantically clawed at the ice around the hole.

  Flynn went down on his stomach to scoot out on the ice. He threw the scarf tied to his coat toward her. It missed by inches. He could feel the ice shifting under him, but he kept inching toward her. He’d get to her or die trying. “Hold on, baby. I’m almost there.”

  Silas grabbed Flynn’s ankles. He was on his belly too, making a rescue chain. Flynn slung the scarf toward Leatrice again. This time she grabbed it.

  “All right. Climb back up on the ice.” She tried, but the ice broke again.

  “Don’t let go.” The ice cracked under him. He jerked the scarf to bring her close enough to grab her arm as the ice broke and dumped him into the freezing water. But Flynn didn’t go under. His feet touched bottom. He picked up Leatrice and tried to move forward, but the ice was thicker closer to the edge of the pond. It gouged his chest and held him in place.

  Flynn gently put Leatrice down on the ice and slid her toward Silas, who grabbed the girl and pulled her up on the bank. They were both safe, if looking frozen. His own legs were losing feeling, but he’d been cold before. Many times. He banged his fist down on the ice that groaned but didn’t crack.

  “Get my axe off the cart.” Everything was slowing down for Flynn until he seemed to be somewhere else watching a man like him in the water.

  When Silas scooted the axe toward him, the screech on the ice brought Flynn back to what needed doing. He grabbed it before it slid into the water. No problem then slamming the axe-head down and cracking a path through the ice. With water streaming off him and his shirtsleeves freezing in the wind, the thought crossed his mind that at least the cows had their open place to drink. If his face hadn’t been frozen stiff, he might have smiled.

  Not that there was anything to smile about. Silas had his arms wrapped around Leatrice, but he was shaking more than she was. Tremors shook Flynn too as his teeth rattled together. He looked behind him and stepped back into the water.

  Silas cried out. “What are you doing, Flynn?”

  Flynn almost laughed. Silas must think the ice had done something to his head. Maybe it had and that was why he kept thinking about smiling when absolutely nothing was funny.

  “Got to get my coat.” He snagged the sodden mess and pulled it out. A man needed a coat.

  He threw it on the cart, then grabbed Leatrice and sat her in the hay. Icicles clattered together in her hair. He thought he might have to pick up Silas too, but on his second try, the man managed to crawl up beside Leatrice.

  Leatrice started to say something, but Flynn stopped her with a look. She knew better than to go out on that ice. They could have all drowned. Might yet die of pneumonia or lose toes and fingers to frostbite. He walked alongside Blossom, urging the mare to move faster through the snow toward the house. When Silas started coughing in the cart, he could hear Leatrice talking to him, but Flynn didn’t look back. He needed to focus on getting them next to a fire.

  Inside, Silas huddled by the fireplace, an odd blank look on his face while Flynn poked up the coals. Sparks flew up around the log he dropped down into the fire.

  Leatrice hadn’t moved since Flynn ca
rried her in and set her down. “I’m sorry, Papa.” Her teeth were chattering so much she barely got out the words.

  “Sorry don’t do much.” Flynn narrowed his eyes on her. “Get those wet clothes off, every stitch.”

  He fetched two quilts out of the bedroom. Quilts his mother-in-law had spent many winter hours crafting. Dry, warm quilts. He draped one around Silas’s shoulders. “Best get those wet shoes off.”

  Silas nodded and worked on the knotted string. Flynn started to do it for him, but Silas waved him off. The man was right. He needed to tend to Leatrice, dripping next to the fire and looking as if she had forgotten how to undress. Flynn kicked off his own boots. Water spilled out on the floor. He’d worry about that later. He yanked off his socks, then gently pushed Leatrice down in a straight chair to get off her boots. He grabbed a towel out of the cupboard and briskly rubbed her skin dry after he pulled off her woolen stockings, her coat, and the rest of her clothes, down to bare skin. He wrapped her up in the warm quilt.

  “Sit there and don’t move,” he ordered.

  “My toes hurt.” Tears rolled down her red cheeks.

  Flynn didn’t let her tears move him. “So do mine. So do your grandpa’s. Be glad they’re hurting. That means they might not fall off.”

  More tears floated in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything else. The icicles had melted in her hair, and Flynn wrapped a dry towel around her head. Silas was coughing again.

  “You’d best find some dry clothes, Silas.”

  “I’m not the only one. You better do the same.”

  “True enough.” Flynn stared at Leatrice. He wanted to rub her feet, but instead he glared at her. “Can I depend on you to sit there like you are told?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She sounded so small and contrite then that Flynn almost relented. But he didn’t. At least not completely. He did let his voice gentle a little. “Rubbing your toes might help them not hurt so bad.”

  In his bedroom, he stripped down to the skin and pulled on dry clothes. He stared at his wet shirt and pants on the floor. He had hoped to put off doing laundry until the weather moderated. But he couldn’t wear pond-water clothes and neither could Leatrice. He’d go hug her now. He couldn’t be too mad to hug her. Not when he almost lost all chance to hug her at all. Shivers ran through him again at the thought of her in a cold box in the ground the way Lena was.

  Silas was coming out of his room at the same time as Flynn. Another coughing fit had hold of him.

  “Are you all right, Silas?” Flynn asked.

  “I’m about froze, but I’m breathing.”

  Next to the fire, Leatrice sneezed.

  Silas looked over at her. “We’re all still breathing. The good Lord must have been watching over us.”

  “We need somebody watching over us,” Flynn muttered.

  “That’s the truth.” Silas turned back to Flynn. “Something needs doing before we end up burying her like we did Lena.”

  “I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “You won’t aim to let it happen any more than you aimed to let Lena fall off that horse.” Silas jerked the quilt closer around him and shuffled toward the fireplace. He was coughing again before he got to his chair.

  Leatrice looked at Flynn. She was still shivering. Not like before, but little shivers that had her huddling deeper in the quilt. She looked like she wanted to say something but was afraid Flynn wouldn’t want to hear it. She sniffled and a new tear rolled down her cheek.

  Flynn could only keep his heart hardened toward her for so long. He picked her up and held her, glad to feel her heart beating against his chest. The cows could wait for their hay.

  Silas leaned closer to the fire to drop another log in. In silence, they watched the flames.

  7

  Flynn was up early the next day since the Shakers were coming for Jack and those people never waited for the sun to get started. The few inches of snow would be no hindrance to them. Silas was in the kitchen ahead of him with the coffeepot already hanging on the hook over the fire. Flynn cut a chunk off the loaf of bread on the table and poured a glass of milk.

  “You did a lot of coughing last night, Silas. Maybe you should go see the doc.”

  “No need in that.” Silas shrugged off Flynn’s words. “I’ll be right as rain soon’s I get some coffee down me.”

  Flynn doubted that, but it was useless arguing with the man. “Best put a little of Ma Beatrice’s tonic in it for good measure.”

  “I don’t reckon we got none of that left.” A frown deepened the man’s wrinkles as he turned away from Flynn. “Not much of nothing left around here. The girl still sleeping?”

  Flynn nodded. When he peeked in at her, she had looked so warm with the blanket pulled up to her chin, he didn’t have the heart to roust her out of bed. Her eyelashes lay softly on her cheeks as her breath whispered in and out. When he thought about how he could have lost her the day before, a giant fist squeezed his heart. But could be that taught her a lesson. The night before, she had said she was sorry so many times, he was ready to forbid her to say the words again. She’d put actions to her words by carrying a drink to her grandfather and wrapping a blanket over his knees.

  Silas was the one unable to shake the chill. The man’s hands trembled as he filled his coffee cup. Flynn pretended not to notice.

  “The Shakers always pay in cash. We can lay in some supplies.” Flynn opened the cupboard and stared at the shelves. No crocks of pickles or cloth bags of dried apples. They had saved some of the late apples and pears, but they were gone now. On Christmas, they’d eaten the last of the blackberry jam Ma Beatrice had made before the cholera got her. At least they still had her sourdough starter and Silas had figured out how to make a passable loaf of bread.

  Onions and potatoes were in the root cellar. And turnips. Flynn hoped never to eat another turnip, but with winter hard down on them, they had to eat what they had. Thank goodness, a few of the hens were still laying. Enough for them to have eggs most mornings. He could set some snares for rabbits. They’d be winter poor, but rabbit hash might be a good change from beans and those turnips.

  “Best get one of them Shaker sisters to cook it for us,” Silas said.

  Flynn didn’t know if he was serious or not. “I don’t think they hire out, but maybe I can barter for some of their fixings.”

  Silas gave him a hard look, as though their troubles were past words. Somehow Leatrice falling through the ice had gotten to be Flynn’s fault. Maybe it was. Same as Lena falling off that horse. Leastways, the cholera couldn’t be laid to his blame. But he did miss Ma Beatrice. She had been the one to hold them together after Lena died.

  He pushed all that out of his head as he pulled on his boots that had almost dried out and headed for the barn. He needed to be clearheaded to deal with the Shakers. They were fair and honest traders, but shrewd, nevertheless.

  Brother Andrew and Brother Hiram showed up an hour later. The two men sat straight on the wagon seat with their like hats and coats. If a man didn’t know better, he might think they were actual brothers instead of merely Shaker brothers. A youngster who didn’t look to be much older than Leatrice rode in the back of the wagon. While the older Shakers kept their eyes straight ahead as they pulled up to the barn, the boy was trying to look everywhere at once.

  When Flynn caught his eyes, the boy lowered his head, but not before Flynn caught his grin. For some reason that made Flynn feel better about the Shakers. He’d begun to wonder if these men ever smiled, but they might wonder the same about him. Smiles hadn’t been too common lately around this farm.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Keller,” the older Shaker said.

  Brother Hiram did most of the talking while Brother Andrew checked out the horse. Flynn wasn’t sure why the boy was along. Perhaps simply as a pleasure jaunt. He’d heard the Shakers now and again had shucking bees and picnics.

  Flynn and Lena had taken sandwiches in their saddlebags and ridden to the river once.
One of those golden times when the sun shone brighter and the breezes blew cooler. Maybe he should take Leatrice on a picnic. Silly to think of that now, with snow cold against his boots. But the boy in the wagon made him think of fun. He considered reaching down for a snowball to toss toward him.

  Instead, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets still damp with pond water. He was liable to catch pneumonia yet. “The horse is ready to go. A fine workhorse.”

  Brother Andrew climbed down from the wagon. The boy started to climb down too, but a glance from Brother Hiram stopped him.

  “It won’t hurt anything for him to come in the barn.” All three of the Shakers looked at Flynn as if he’d spoken out of turn. Maybe he had. He lamely added, “If he wants to.”

  Brother Andrew nodded at the boy, who was out of the wagon quick as a water spider moving across a pond. Flynn needed to quit thinking about ponds.

  Flynn led the man and the boy into the barn. Brother Hiram stayed on the wagon. He’d be the one to make the final deal once Brother Andrew determined the horse was sound. Flynn brought Jack out of the stall. The Shaker ran his hands over the horse, picked up each foot, stared into Jack’s eyes for a long moment and then pulled back the horse’s lips to examine his teeth.

  Finally, after taking another walk all the way around the animal, he said, “If Brother Hiram is in agreement, we can make a deal.”

  “What about little brother here?” Flynn motioned toward the boy. “He have a say?”

  Brother Andrew’s lips didn’t turn up, but he had a smile in his eyes. “Yea, all are equal in our village. So what say you, young Brother Brody?”

  The boy put his hand on the horse’s nose. “He looks to be of fair stock.”

  “Got a fine velvety nose, does he?”

  The boy didn’t try to hide his smile. “He does, Brother Andrew. A good breathing nose is important in a working horse.”