The truth hit me like a thunderbolt. Daniel Long isn’t just reserved. He’s shy.
Then: What are we going to do about that?
* * *
On Wednesday morning, when I stumbled, half-asleep and sore, out of the wagon, I discovered the taciturn suitor sipping a cup of coffee by the fire.
“Morning.” He rose quickly. “Ready to build a house?”
I rubbed my eyes and took in the camp. In the fog hanging between the trees, Gid was by the stream, tending to the cattle. I brought my sleepy gaze back to Daniel. “House building. Is that your idea of courtship?”
He frowned.
“Forget it.” I yawned and stretched, too tired to address our relationship difficulties. “Let’s build the damn house.”
Which is precisely what we didn’t do.
After the previous day’s frenzied branch burning, log rolling, rock heaving, and stump digging, Daniel and Gid commenced house building at the pouring pace of old honey crusted on the bottom of the honeypot. They trod around the clearing, measuring off paces, squinting at the sky, pointing in one direction, murmuring about another.
I finally yanked off my gloves and got to work skinning and cutting up the rabbit Gid had snared. The boys would probably want their nooning early to give them sufficient strength to point and putter.
Gid smiled at my exasperation. “You can’t just stick a house anywhere.”
Daniel was actually on his stomach now, apparently considering the ground’s grade. From this undignified position, he said, “We’ll have to think about the disposition of the land, the prevailing winds, the arc of the sun—plan the steepest pitch of the roof toward the winter wind, and face the living area to the south.”
“Then there’s the water supply,” Gid said. “Be nice to eventually connect a gravity spring to trickle water into the house.”
Daniel got to his feet and dusted his hands. “And the outbuildings, particularly the privy and barn, ought to go where the summer winds can carry the stink away.” At my grimace, he shrugged. “No one wants to smell the privy in August. Better to situate the honeysuckle and herb garden close to the house, straight in the wind’s path. Makes for a sweeter living space.”
“Well.” I tossed the rabbit legs in the pot. “Just tell me when you’re ready.” I headed to the stream to wash the wild leek I’d dug up. This place was riddled with onions. Mama would be in cold-cure heaven.
Once Daniel and Gid finished plotting, the three of us worked together efficiently and quickly. The cabin’s logs had already been set aside, chosen for their uniform length and width. It would be a small, primitive structure, though Daniel assured my brother it’d be easy to expand should life reward him with a wife and children.
Gid responded with a sigh.
The logs retained their bark as they went up horizontally, one upon another, expertly notched (this was Daniel, after all) to ensure tight corners and a close adjacency. Daniel, longer than Gid by half a foot, thought it’d be best to make the structure tall enough to allow a big man to walk around the interior without having to stoop.
Over and over again, I hefted up a log’s end, held it in place, and put up with Gid’s repeated “for heaven’s sake, Freddy, don’t move, or I’ll drop this thing on my foot.” The activity, though taxing to my muscles, left my mind free to wander. I thought about how strong I’d grown in the last two months. Trekking across states, clearing poor roads, chopping, yanking, and hauling had trimmed my body down to something wiry. No wonder folks didn’t suspect me of being a girl. I was looking more and more like a whip of a boy.
After a while of contemplatively flexing my muscles, I became conscious of a strange gurgling—coming from me. I frowned at my stomach.
“Be still,” Gid groaned, as he stood on tiptoe and pushed his log end into place. To Daniel standing inside the structure, he called, “Good on this side.”
My belly rumbled again, followed this time by an uneasy flutter.
Darkness collected in the woods, and by the time we called it a night, the moon had long since risen. The rest of the house would have to wait for the morrow. Besides the final thud of two great lengths of wood meeting each other and the last thwack of the ax, the only sounds came from crickets, wood frogs—and my stomach. Its rumbles joined the hums and croaks.
Gid and Daniel said they were too tired to bother with supper, and I was too queasy to touch the rest of the rabbit stew, so I hauled the lidded pot to the wagon to save it for the next day, then joined the leftovers under the canvas cover, liking how the pot’s round cast iron sides warmed me and happy to let my arms and legs relax on the feather mat we kept in the wagon.
Through the sliver of an opening between the canvas and the wagon side, I gazed at the stars. They sparkled and winked, caught like fireflies in a great web of branches. I thought about calling out a good-night and sweet dreams to Daniel but supposed Gid would laugh at me.
And Daniel would blush.
So I went to sleep.
* * *
When I awoke, for just a second I was beset by the strange notion that I had kicked over the soup kettle. Not that I was drenched. Merely that I felt slow, a body floating in liquid.
The stirrings outside the wagon sounded painfully loud. Wind played the canvas covering like a drum, birds belted songs to one another, and Gid blared, “Why isn’t she up yet? We’ve got a cabin to build, and I’m starving.” Then even louder, “Lazybones! Wake up.”
“Leave her be,” Daniel said. “She worked hard yesterday.”
“So did I.”
“We’ve got johnnycakes in the basket. I’ll grab the kettle. We can heat up the stew ourselves.”
The wagon lurched with a sudden weight. I whimpered, excruciatingly sensitive to the jostling, and winced when the kettle disappeared from the crook of my legs. In its place, coldness sprang and clawed its way to my bones. I shivered violently.
Sick, I thought, and opened my mouth to say it. The utterance couldn’t form. Instead I slipped into unconsciousness.
I came to in time to hear Gid announce, “Delicious. Think we’ll finish by tonight, then? Even the roof?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“By Jove, I could eat the rest of this.”
“Ought to save some for Harriet.”
“Hmm.”
Sunshine streamed where the canvas suddenly parted. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed the light and winced again.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Want some bread and stew?”
The mere thought of food made my stomach roil. “No,” I moaned, and sighed in relief when the flap dropped and shut out the morning.
“Should have let her sleep,” Daniel said.
“Oh, she doesn’t mind.”
Gid and Daniel started going on about the cabin. In a murky place between waking and swooning, I heard snatches—“mortice the brace … hipping joints … no difference in the framework, all made to last”—without really absorbing their meanings. It hurt to move my head, let alone think with it. I drew the fuzzy conclusion that I must have caught Adam’s infection and experienced a pang that such a small person had suffered so. I was twice his size and could barely stand the torment.
Time passed. Who knew how much? Then light poured into my makeshift chamber, along with Daniel’s cautious “Harriet?”
He entered, an action that jarred the wagon and therefore my stomach. Nausea rolled through me. I groaned.
“What in the—?”
His hand touched my forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”
How odd. I felt so cold.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, abruptly: “Hold tight, my dear.”
He disappeared. Couldn’t say I was sorry. I wanted to be alone.
Outside the wagon, Gid greeted the news of my condition with a frustrated growl and suggested they transfer me to Mrs. Gale’s care.
“But she might spread the illness to everyone there.”
“You’re right. Damn
.”
The canvas swished. My brother’s voice, impatience lacquered with a thin coat of concern, entered. “Too bad you’re sick, Freddy. Hell of a day to pick for it, though.” He sighed. “Where do you hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“Head?”
“And stomach.”
“Oh, no.” The canvas fluttered shut. “Bad news. She’s never been one to handle stomach ailments well. Can’t toss up her contents. Simply can’t. She might improve faster if she could. Once, the whole family dined at the pastor’s. Mrs. Cartwright fed us breaded fish. I was suspicious of the meal right away. Smelled like the trout had washed up on a bank and soured under a hot sun. Fishy fish, if you know what I mean. Sure enough, within half a day, we were sticking our heads over the chamber pots and vomiting like mad—everyone but my sister. That nasty concoction just stewed in her poor belly, all that god-awful trout that no amount of cornmeal and parsley could doctor, the stinkiest fish you ever did—”
Lord help me. “Stop!”
“You’re not helping, Gid,” Daniel snapped.
“Oh. Sorry.”
A few minutes passed. Daniel slipped in. I felt a sudden weight of blankets, probably the ones he and Gid had been using in the lean-to. I huddled under their warmth. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything?”
My mother. I whimpered. “Water.”
This was shortly provided. I returned to a fitful sleep.
When I awoke again, the light sifting through the wagon cracks had faded to a honey hue. I cautiously stretched. My stomach felt tender and off but no longer wildly disturbed. Mostly, I felt weak.
The canvas parted. Daniel, his hair ruffled and face grave, appeared. “Better?”
“Better.”
He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he looked me over and prodded my forehead again. “Still warmish.” He clucked. “What can I get you, dearest?”
I smiled weakly at the endearment and dragged a hand out from under the covers to offer him a feeble pat. “A little broth.” I wistfully recalled Mama’s sick-food tradition of a healthful broth and biscuit. “Maybe a johnnycake, too, if we have it.” A bit of something to settle my stomach. I closed my eyes.
He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was a forced “Certainly, sweetheart.”
Gid must have been waiting right outside the wagon, for Daniel immediately asked, “We have any griddle breads left?”
“Uh … no. Ate the last one for a nooning.” Defensively: “I was hungry.”
“Harriet wants bread and broth.” When my brother didn’t say anything, Daniel muttered, “Wish we hadn’t gobbled up the stew. I might have spooned some of the liquid in a cup for her.”
“Well, heavens, we can surely make a soup.”
“You know how?”
“Can’t be that hard. But forget the johnnycakes. Wouldn’t know where to start with those.”
“Your mother should have taught you some kitchen basics before you left home.”
Gid’s tone was equally testy: “Why would she bother? I had my sister for that. And what about you? You’re the bachelor.”
“With Granny Barnes for a housekeeper and cook.”
“Then how’d you survive the journey?”
“Dried meats, fruits, nuts. And the same thing we ate the whole time Harriet was at Phineas’s—meat roasted on a stick.”
“Think she could handle a little charred rabbit?” Daniel must have shaken his head, for Gid continued with forced cheer, “No matter. We can decipher this broth business.”
I heard the exchange with utter indifference and felt no compulsion to offer suggestions. Frankly, in my weakened state, talking was too great a challenge. I burrowed under the mountain of blankets and drifted in and out of sleep. Usually, it was the men’s talk that pulled me back to consciousness, questions and comments that blended together like a peculiar mental soup:
What can we put in it? Onions. I always see her digging up onions. How many? Don’t know. Five, six. Did you skin it? Reluctantly. Glad Freddy usually handles that. Damn. They slipped out of my hands. Never mind. I’ll go rinse them. Again. Add a log to that fire, why don’t you. You’re supposed to be helping. Huh. Seems like there ought to be something else in this. I know! Let me grab Freddy’s herbs. Good. Now let’s see. Smell this. What do you think it is? Dill? Why not? Sprinkle some in. Not sure if that’s enough. Dump in a little more. Is it finished? No idea. How long has it been cooking? Maybe an hour? Poke the rabbit. Feel done? How is done supposed to feel?
I didn’t cherish high hopes for the broth, nor did I get any for some hours. Night had fallen by the time Daniel parted the canvas and climbed into the wagon. Over his shoulder, the gibbous moon shone in a sea of clouds and stars.
Gid’s face took the place of the moon. “Suppertime!”
The two approached in a deep-crouched shuffle, my betrothed carrying a steaming bowl, Gid bearing a big spoon and lantern.
I braced my body on an elbow.
They looked so eager to please, bringing forth their offerings, sporting solemn faces, acting very ceremonial. They reminded me of the wise men in the Christmas story, presenting frankincense and myrrh to the baby Jesus.
“Thank you.” I accepted the spoon with a shaky hand and smiled wanly, determined to like the meal or at least pretend to.
But the spoonful of broth, perhaps more suitably called pickled gamy onion juice from hell, sat like a poisonous pool in my mouth. My stomach rebelled, my nose fought the wafting odiferous onslaught, and like a country closing its only port, my throat utterly refused. With some desperate sounds, it signaled that an enemy disguised as broth was attempting to infiltrate my poor body.
Mouth full, eyes watering, I glanced from one man to the other.
Daniel grimaced. “That bad?”
I couldn’t help it. I nodded and wrenched at the nearest tie holding the canvas to the wagon. Lunging up, I spat the horridness into the night; then, with a moan, I fell back to the bed.
Gid blinked.
Daniel cringed. “Want me to get you some water?”
“Please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next day, as soon as he left the unfinished cabin, Daniel glanced toward the wagon and, at the sight of me, visibly brightened. He tossed aside the saw and walked over, swiping his damp brow with a sleeve. “Good morning?”
I lowered the bucket to the wagon floor. “Compared to yesterday? More than good.” At his feet, the canvas cover made white ripples on the ground. There was a second pile behind him: blankets. Crates and satchels littered the space between the two mounds. I was airing and scrubbing everything. First thing upon waking, I’d done precisely that to myself. Now the wagon’s interior was almost finished, too.
I dropped the wet rag in the bucket, pushed back my hair, and sat heavily. My strength hadn’t quite returned.
Daniel joined me on the wagon bench.
I smiled a little, thinking about last night’s dinner disaster. “You here to finish me off?”
His expression turned sheepish. “We couldn’t eat it, either. Tried. Ended up dumping the whole kettle’s worth far enough away that we wouldn’t have to smell it. We ate walnuts for dinner.”
“I’ll make some biscuits in a bit.”
“You shouldn’t be pushing yourself”—he frowned, taking in my cleaning project—“or worrying about this.”
I shrugged and peered toward the stream. “Where in heaven’s name is Gid?”
“Left early for the brothers’ place, ostensibly to invite them to his housewarming tomorrow, but really to steal their breakfast.”
“Think the Welds boys are better cooks than you two?”
“Can’t be worse.”
“Never mind. It’s the thought that counts.” I smiled at his dismal expression and gave him a cheering nudge. “The party’s tomorrow? Will the cabin be done?”
“Would have been up today if we hadn’t wasted yesterday on
a witch’s brew.” He scanned me critically. “You still look wan.”
“Think so?”
He put a palm on my forehead.
I held my breath. Definitely better.
“Cooler, thankfully.”
“I’m not so sure.” I tapped my neck. “Check here.”
Frowning, he slid his hand along my nape.
I shivered. Lovely.
“Huh. Doesn’t feel too warm to me.”
I rubbed my waist. “What about here?”
In a flash, his eyes met mine. “Harriet.”
“Daniel. Please.”
His color was so hectic, he looked feverish, but he sent his hand along my belly to my side. “You must be fully recovered.” He tentatively pulled me closer. “In fact, I think you feel fine. Hmm. Very.”
“We’d better make sure,” I said close to his mouth.
We did, thoroughly, moving from the seat to the wagon floor and banishing bashfulness along the way. Maybe putting feelings into words didn’t come easily to Daniel, but once he got started, he communicated exceedingly well with his hands. Thanks to the whittling, no doubt, I concluded hazily before reason gave way to sensations and I lost my train of thought.
Eventually, however, I dragged myself into a sitting position. “Daniel,” I gasped. “We have to talk.”
He looked up, dazed. “Now?”
I nodded. Gid would be back soon. “I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage. About”—I cleared my throat—“babies.”
With a groan, he sat up. His hands swept down my back. “I am interested in all matters related to the making of babies.”
“No.” I leaned out of his arms, found his hands, and drew them to my heart. “I mean the not making of them.”
“Oh.” Then his brow cleared. “You don’t want any?”
“That’s just it. I might. In the future. But not right away and”—I met his eyes—“most assuredly, not many.”
His mouth came up in a corner. “That day at the sugaring. You knew I was teasing about the dozen children.”
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