Setting the hen she’d called Angry Bird down, Havyn worked her way through the gate, making sure none of her little pets followed her. “That’s very nice of you, John. But I can’t think of anything at the moment.” She wiped some feathers off her apron and then reached up to her hair. “Oh, what a mess.” Running her fingers through her hair, she tsked. “Fred got himself up on the fence and decided to pull the pin out of my hair.” She deftly twisted her hair up and tucked it in and around itself. Somehow it stayed.
John blinked, trying to push his fascination aside. On the top of her right hand, a faded scar made a zigzag trail across her skin. John pointed to it. “What happened to your hand?”
She lifted up her hands and turned them over and back. “Oh that.” She let out a slight giggle. “Do you really want to know?”
“I do.” They stood by the fence and watched the chickens.
“When I was a little girl, we had a few chickens in Colorado. Mama made sure that we all knew how to handle them with care, but Dad was the one who knew how much I loved those chickens.”
Leaning on the fence, he turned toward her. “Doesn’t seem like much has changed.”
She shook her head. “Goodness, I hope I’ve changed. I was such a young thing. But as you’ve probably heard, people with red hair are prone to losing their temper.”
“I have heard that, yes.” He kept his tone light and teasing. “But I can’t say that I’ve ever witnessed it.”
She gave him a mischievous grin. “Be thankful you haven’t. Poor Granddad. He’s had to live with four redheads. Gracious, the man has the patience of a saint.” She gripped the top rail of the fence.
“So how’d you get the scar from loving chickens?”
“Oh, I was determined to hug one of the chickens one day. And not just a little hug, mind you, we’re talking a big, squeezing hug.”
“Oh boy, I can guess what happened next.”
“I’d named her Sue.” Havyn started giggling. “And if you’re guessing that the chicken didn’t want to be hugged, you’d be correct. But what you probably didn’t know was that Sue decided to let me know exactly how she felt about being squished by a six-year-old and pecked my hand over and over again, while I stubbornly held on. Thus the scar.”
Eyebrows raised, he waited a moment to ask his next question. “Why didn’t you let go?”
“Because some things are worth holding on to.” She grinned, and John felt his heart skip a beat.
“What happened to Sue?”
A faint blush filled her cheeks as she looked back to him. “It’s embarrassing and horrifying to say the least. But my little temper flared when I saw all the blood, and I decided she wasn’t worth holding on to after all. I was so mad that I threw her to the ground, and she started running around me like a regular cyclone. I tried to kick her with everything my little leg could fling at her. But I missed, and the momentum from that kick made me fall backward.” She bit her lip and grimaced. “I landed on top of Sue and killed her.”
The picture she’d given him was vivid. For a little girl of six, it must have been quite traumatic. “What happened after that?”
“Oh, I was in big trouble for killing one of the chickens, but even more trouble for losing my temper like that. To prove a point, Granddad made us put Sue in a box and we carried her out to the garden, where we had a funeral for her.”
“For a chicken?”
“Oh my, yes. We marked the grave and everything. Because they wanted to make sure that I would never forget the day I killed a living creature because of my temper.”
“Did the lesson work?”
“It certainly did. Not only was I reminded on a daily basis about the death of that chicken, but whenever anyone came to visit, the story of the chicken—complete with a visit to the grave—was shared.” She smiled. “You know, I can honestly say that I’ve never lost my temper quite like that ever since. But Whitney and Madysen . . . let’s just say they didn’t get the early lesson that I did. It’s not that I don’t lose my temper, mind you. I can get as angry as the rest of them. I just don’t act on it like I did back then. Hopefully.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side.” He enjoyed standing by the fence with her, getting to know her. Watching her profile.
“You’re a smart man, John Roselli.”
“I’m glad you think so. What did Madysen and Whitney do after that whole episode? Were they scared of you?”
“Scared of me? No. That’s silly. We’re all too close for that. But I will admit that as I got older, they did tease me several times by calling me CK.”
“CK?” He studied her, but she didn’t answer. Just grinned at him and waited. When understanding dawned, he nodded. “Ah. Chicken Killer.”
He laughed along with her.
“And one time, we had a bully in Sunday School. He was bigger than everyone else and stronger than everyone else. But he wasn’t the brightest.”
Her stories enchanted him. “What happened?”
“Whitney got tired of it. One day—in the churchyard—she marched right up to him, hands on her hips, and told him an overly dramatized version of that story. Yes, I killed a chicken, but apparently my thirst for killing was awakened by that first incident and I went on to kill other things. She implied that there was even a rumor that I had killed another bully in another churchyard years before, although no one ever found the body.”
Havyn was now laughing so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh my goodness, I’d completely forgotten about that until now. For the longest time, I didn’t know why all the boys were scared of me. Until Granddad came home one day and said he’d heard a story. Whitney confessed that she had told the lie, but refused to apologize for it because she was sticking up for everyone else.”
“I bet it was never a dull moment around your house growing up.”
“Not one. Ever. And not just growing up. Gracious, there’s never one now. Between the three of us, we keep Mama hopping.”
“And what about your father?” He turned toward her and studied her.
Her face fell slightly. “He wasn’t around a whole lot. But I do remember he told great stories. Probably where Whitney got her talent.” She turned to watch the chickens, wisps of hair blowing around her face, begging John’s touch. “I remember he taught us how to fish and to hunt. Those were really good memories.” Her voice had softened.
“You must miss him.” No matter what the man had done, he was still her father. John needed to respect that.
“I do.”
“Do you and your sisters talk about him often?”
She shook her head. “No. If Madysen or I bring him up, Whitney is quick to remind us how bad things were. I don’t think Madysen even has many memories of him. And mine are often clouded by choosing to remember just the good times. With Whitney being the oldest, she saw a lot more and understood a lot more than we did.”
“What about your mother?”
“She never speaks of him. But her birthday is the same day as their anniversary. That’s why birthdays have been so hard on her all these years. I think she’s over grieving him, but I get the sense it still haunts her at times. She loved him so, and even when people spoke ill of him, she would stand up for him.”
From the sadness in her eyes, this conversation was painful for her. John looked across the yard. There were still patches of snow, some larger than others. While it was nearly summer in Colorado, they were still finishing winter in Alaska. John glanced back at Havyn and saw her wipe at her eye. He needed to get her thinking about something happier. “I hear that you have all these chickens named?”
“Sure do.”
“All of them?”
She nodded and gave him a smile. “Yep.”
“And you remember them all?”
“Of course I do!”
He pointed to the one in front of them. “All right, who is this one?”
“That’s Lucy.”
“And that one over
there that looks dirty?”
“Speckles.”
That one made him laugh. “Well then, how about that group over there, can you recognize all of them?”
“You are ridiculous. Of course I can. That’s Sally, JoJo, Ginger, Mae, Ethel, Petals, Lulu, and Becky.”
She was remarkable. “I’m amazed.”
Those wide eyes fixed on him. “Why? The people or things I love are very important to me. Certainly important enough to remember their names. That’s why I won’t tolerate Granddad killing them for the people in town . . . or for our table.”
That was the perfect opportunity for John to bring up raising some chickens for food. “I wonder if you might reconsider that. Obviously, none of these chickens. But what if we added another flock? It would make a lot of money for the family farm, and with your grandfather ill, it might encourage his recovery if you spoke to him about raising some other chickens for meat.”
Havyn frowned. “I don’t know if I could. Especially when it came time to kill them.”
“Well, I’d never expect you to kill them or clean them. We have hired hands for that, or I could do it myself. Of course, it won’t be easy for me if they all have names.” He gave her a smile. “Maybe the eating chickens could have numbers instead.”
“Maybe.” Her voice was hesitant.
“Just think about it. You don’t have to make a decision now, but it might cheer your grandfather if you told him you were working on it.”
She nodded. “I am fond of fried chicken. I don’t mind the idea of eating them. I mind the idea of eating ones I know—ones I’ve befriended and told my troubles to.”
“Well, you could always tell your troubles to me.”
Good gravy! Did he say that out loud? Well, now that he had, he’d better face Havyn’s surprise. “I mean . . . well . . . I do care about you . . . and your family. You’ve all become important to me, and I promised your grandfather I’d take good care of you.”
Her look softened and her brown eyes seemed to study him in a way that he’d never been studied before. What was it about her that made him feel like he was standing on a cliff’s edge, about to jump?
She tugged on his arm, breaking the spell. “Why don’t you come meet the rest of the chickens. Perhaps I’ll discuss your ideas about raising a separate group for meat. I’m sure Angry Bird would approve.”
Good. A change of subject.
He followed her through the chicken yard for the next half hour, trudging through the snow and talking to chickens. Yes, he actually talked to them too. He wasn’t sure what had come over him. Either he’d lost his mind . . .
Or his heart.
Ten
Whitney pounded the piano keys. First Granddad brought on a foreman without talking to her about it. Then he had to go and get himself laid up. Which meant she had to deal with the foreman even more.
It didn’t matter that he was a nice guy. Nor that he seemed capable enough. What mattered was that she didn’t want an outsider here. It made her feel . . . out of control. And she hated that feeling.
Even though the man had taken an interest in her dogs, who seemed to like him already—which should have made her like him as well, since her dogs were the best judge of character—she still wanted to punch something every time Mama mentioned the foreman.
It shouldn’t be that way, but there it was.
When John had talked to her earlier, she’d fought with herself. One side told her to give him a chance. The other side said to ignore him. And if she did, maybe just maybe he’d eventually go away.
The more she thought about it, the louder she played.
What was wrong with her? Was it wrong to be so fiercely loyal? To not want to get hurt by anyone? Ever again?
Shoving the intruding thoughts aside, she focused on the piano piece. She knew it so well, she could almost hear the symphony orchestra in her mind playing the accompanying parts. It spurred her on as the music built.
If only it were time to go out to the Roadhouse. Those nights had been her saving grace. Playing until her fingers felt like they were going to fall off. Singing with her sisters until Mr. Norris said they needed to close. The problem was, they only played on Fridays and Saturdays. Today was Monday.
Music had always taken her away from things. And provided a way to vent her emotions. But with everything that had happened lately, there were too many emotions to deal with and not enough time.
Pounding out the ending of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2, she sucked in a deep breath and let the music pour out of her. When the piece was finished, Whitney let her hands fall to her lap.
Her perfectly ordered world had fallen to pieces. And she wasn’t sure what to do about that.
But that wasn’t what pushed her over the edge. It was overhearing John asking Havyn about their father.
Whenever anyone brought up their father, her defenses went into place like archers on a castle wall. The man had been her father, yes. She couldn’t deny it. But she didn’t want to remember him, much less talk about him or hear others talk about him.
The memories of her father haunted her sometimes at night. His drunkenness, which had been constant—at least that’s all she remembered. Especially the last few years of his life. The way he talked about other women to his friends when he didn’t know Whitney was listening. Then, of course, he gambled away everything they had. Over and over and over again.
Her sisters might not remember what it was like to scrounge for enough money to buy milk and eggs from their neighbor after their father gambled away their cow and chickens, but she did.
Mama hid her feelings well. All Whitney ever saw growing up was a loving and caring wife and mother. But deep down, did Mama despise the man she’d married? Was that why she refused men now?
Whitney stared down at her hands. How could Havyn and Madysen not remember any of the ugly things about their father? Did they just choose to focus on how fun he had been? How he’d acted out funny stories from his boyhood. Or that he taught them how to fish.
It was all a bunch of hogwash to Whitney. She knew better.
Her father had been no good, just as Granddad said. Christopher Powell had been incapable of keeping his promises and incapable of being true to their mother. Mother forgave his drunken behavior, but not Whitney.
Not ever.
Forgiveness wasn’t for her—especially for people who didn’t deserve it. Mama said it wasn’t her responsibility to decide who deserved forgiveness and who didn’t, but that was silly. Why, when she knew the person wasn’t sincere in their request for forgiveness, couldn’t she withhold it? After all, forgiving released them from responsibility, freeing them to repeat their sin all over again. All it did was set her up to be hurt . . . again and again . . . and again.
No man would hurt her. Ever again.
That’s why she loved her dogs. They were loyal, no matter what. They never turned on her. Never did anything other than love her unconditionally.
She took care of them. They took care of her.
But now, with Granddad laid up . . . what would happen to them? To her dogs? To her family? Was there enough money to keep the farm going?
She closed her eyes. Her heart could only take so much. She might not express her emotions like her younger sisters, but that didn’t mean she didn’t hurt or didn’t feel.
Tears came unbidden.
She loved her family, and protecting them was the most important thing she could think of. Granddad had asked John to see to the farm, but that should have been her job. She was next in line. She was fully capable of doing any job on the place. Besides, there were the hired hands who knew her and followed her instructions. With their help she could have been foreman.
She gritted her teeth. Why had Granddad given John a job that should have been hers? And why did he get sick? That just threatened her peaceful world. Her fists clenched. If he died . . .
No! She couldn’t think that way. Granddad had to live and he had to get
rid of John Roselli so that she could prove she could run things. Take care of her family. After all, Powells should take care of Powells. They didn’t need a stranger.
They didn’t need anybody.
If anything happened to Granddad, she would take care of them all. No matter what it took.
“Sometimes secrets need to stay hidden. Forever. For the good of everyone.”
Havyn sat up in bed with a jolt. Dr. Gordon’s words kept repeating in her mind. She’d argued with him at first, but when he explained how much it would hurt her sisters and her mother to know that Granddad had kept that secret from all of them—then that she had kept that secret too . . .
He’d been correct. It didn’t seem right.
Oh, she’d kept a lot of secrets over the years. Too many to count. But there was only one other than Granddad’s secret that burdened her.
One she kept buried deep.
One that would hurt everyone she loved.
And the good doctor’s words had brought it all crashing in to her mind.
Well, she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep anytime soon. Maybe some tea would help. It was three in the morning. Perhaps she could sit by the embers in the fireplace for a while and watch the sun come up.
In the kitchen, she picked up the teakettle right before its telltale whistle and set her tea leaves to steep. As she peered at the window, the darkness beyond made her reflection appear. Then, in her mind . . .
Another face replaced hers.
With a quick turn, she headed for the parlor. Her favorite room in the house. It housed all their instruments, so many memories stored in the wood-ensconced walls, and some of the prettiest views of Nome. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to dispel the image she’d seen.
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