by Camille Eide
Reverend Brown stooped and picked up a piece that must have been heavier than he expected, by the look of the veins bulging in his neck.
“Ah, don’t soil your clothes, Reverend. I can manage, really.”
The minister had already broken into a sweat. He hoisted the piece of wood into the cart with a grunt and smiled. “‘Two are better than one. They have a good return for their work.’”
Ian eyed the frail man with a sideways glance. Sometimes a “good return” wasn’t the point. He reached down for another piece. “Sounds like a sermon.”
“Aye, ’tis. But it was written by a much wiser man than I. It goes on. ‘If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help.’”
Ian tossed the chunk into the cart. “If a man falls, he’ll get up on his own—eventually.”
“Perhaps. If nothing is broken.” The reverend smiled. “Then it says, ‘If two lie down together, they’ll keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?’” He reached for another piece and lugged it up to top the load with a grunt. Resting his hands on the last piece, he looked Ian in the eye. “‘And a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.’”
Ian hoisted the handles and wheeled the cart into the woodshed.
“I hope to see you next Sunday,” the reverend said as he followed, still huffing. “Gathering together, hearing God’s word, praying for each other—that keeps our faith strong. We make two good strands when we’re all together, holding one another up. And two out of three, it’s not bad. It’s far better than one.”
Inside the shed, Ian unloaded the wood and stacked the pieces against the wall.
The reverend strained with the lifting of each chunk, but he kept a steady pace, sweating as he passed the pieces to Ian. The man didn’t say much. He couldn’t.
They worked a while longer in silence, but the sermon would certainly resume once the cart was empty. At this rate, it could take the man days to recover and finish making his point.
Ian heaved a sigh. “And the third strand?”
The reverend chuckled. “I’ll wager one of your grannie’s pies you already know what that is. And perhaps you also know that when you have all three ...” The man swiped his brow with a rolled-up sleeve, hollow temples pulsing. “There’s not a thing a man can’t do.”
Ian stopped and studied him.
The minister was about the frailest man he had ever met. But in that moment, his face beamed with more confidence than the strongest of men.
The reverend handed the last chunk of wood to Ian. “It’s been good seeing you so regular at kirk these last few weeks.”
With a grunt, Ian chucked the piece to the top of the pile.
Reverend Brown wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “Will you be there next Sunday then? With your family?”
Family. Ian lifted the cart handles, then wheeled it out of the shed and back to the trailer. “I don’t know.”
“Are they here now?” Reverend Brown called out from behind. “Maggie and the others?”
Ian set the cart down near the cutting blocks. “Aye.”
“I’d like to meet them. I need to return your grannie’s pie plate.” He smiled. “No doubt I’ll see it filled again soon. Good to see you, Ian. The Lord bless you.” He shook Ian’s hand again and walked down to the house.
Ian stared at the empty cart.
Winter would come. There was no stopping it, no avoiding it.
If two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?
He braced the log and reached for the saw, but stopped and stared at the blade, already coated in shavings and beginning to dull. His shock and anger over Emily’s news had given way to pain. He supposed the next step—according to the laws of nature or some such rubbish—was to accept what Emily said about dying and let her go.
But even if he could find a way to accept it, it wouldn’t change the way he felt about her. Her shadowy future did nothing to lessen his feelings. In fact, the longer he wrestled with the reality of her fate, the deeper his love for her grew.
Was he supposed to simply forget her? Leave her to die on her own?
He knew exactly what she feared on his behalf. But Emily Chapman should not have to face the winter of her life alone.
And she wouldn’t—not if Ian MacLean had a scrap of strength in him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
By Tuesday, it had become clear that Emily needed to get used to the breakfast-time chaos if she was going to survive the remaining weeks in Scotland. Maggie argued with Grace about every little thing as she made some kind of bread, flour flying everywhere. Grace answered back with a bright, steady smile as she stirred a boiling pot over an old, black cookstove. Emily tried to help, but as an “alien,” she was only allowed to watch and learn.
The buzz of a chainsaw drifted in through the window from time to time.
Ian.
Emily let out a quiet sigh. At least he was near and she could assume he was okay. But it also meant he would be coming inside eventually.
Would seeing her be hard for him? Maybe he intended to stay away from the house for the rest of their stay. Which wasn’t fair to him. He shouldn’t have to avoid his own home.
The sooner she left this place, returned to America, and immersed herself in Freyer’s research, the better for them both.
“No, Grace. I did all the cooking.” Maggie flung a handful of flour onto the counter, kneaded a blob of dough into a circle, and smacked it with a rolling pin. “Ye never lifted a wee finger to cook.”
“Och!” Grace chuckled. “I tried but ye never let me near the kitchen.”
“Humph. Yer memory fails ye.” Maggie slapped the dough rounds onto a baking pan.
“Thomas fancies my cooking.”
All that got out of Maggie was a snort. She groped the oven door, leaving streaks of flour along the dark handle, opened it, and slid a pan of rolls inside.
“This porridge is very strange.” Grace stopped stirring and peered into the pot.
Emily was not at all sure she wanted to look. “What’s wrong?”
“It looks like water.” Grace frowned.
With a grunt, Maggie heaved a metal canister from the counter, then shuffled over to the stove. “Because it is water, ye daftie.”
Emily winced, but Grace only chuckled.
While Aunt Grace continued to stir, Maggie tossed handfuls of oats into the boiling pot. One handful missed and scattered all over the floor.
“I’ll clean that up,” Emily said. “Where’s the broom?”
“Wheesht, lassie.” Maggie shoved the oat can across the counter. “If ye want to be of use, go to the mudroom and get a jar of heather honey for the baps.”
Emily headed down the hall toward the mudroom. Would she know heather honey when she saw it?
When she reached the end of the hall, the back door opened.
Her heart raced, sending adrenaline like needles along her nerves.
But it was an extremely thin, gray-haired man who entered.
Emily stepped aside to let him in.
Just as he closed the door behind him, a small, brown blur scurried past his feet and darted around in the hall, then ran straight toward Emily.
She plastered herself against the hall coat rack.
The feathery blur squawked and ricocheted down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Och! Here now! What’s this?” Maggie’s voice rose above the squawking.
Emily peeked around the doorway and then entered the kitchen.
The man followed, stepping around the chicken, which had, by that time, discovered the oats on the floor.
Maggie held out a broom to Emily. “Reverend Brown. ’Tis about time ye showed yerself. This is my sister, Grace. That’s Emily. And that hen,” she said, pointing a knobby finger at a small, brown footstool, “can go back outside till it’s plucked and ready for the soup pot.”
The reverend reached out to shake Emily’s hand. “I’m ple
ased to meet—”
The chicken darted between their feet and made a sudden attempt at flight.
The man jumped back.
“Broom, lassie!”
Emily took the broom from Maggie. “You want me to sweep now?”
“For the bird, ye daftie!”
“Can I do something to help?” The reverend kept a wary eye on the chicken.
“Aye. Ye can start preaching. When the bird falls asleep, we’ll toss it back out where it came from.”
The man only laughed.
Emily tried to shoo the bird through the doorway with the broom, but the chicken darted around it and continued to peck at the oats.
Grace tapped her wooden spoon against the pot and turned with a smile for the reverend. “It was so kind of ye to bring us a chicken. Will ye be staying for dinner?”
“Chicken? Ah, no, thank you. I’ve come to say we missed you on Sunday, Maggie. I hoped you weren’t ill. But then I learned your visitors had arrived. I hope to see you all in kirk before you return home.”
“Och, ’tis no visit.” Maggie wiped her floury hands on her apron. “Grace is here to stay.”
“What?” Emily stared at Maggie.
“Did ye bring back my pie pot, Reverend?” The old woman went on without missing a beat. “Ye’ll not have another pie till ye return it.”
“Are ye the new minister then?” Grace asked.
“Aye. And I have brought back your pot, Maggie, just as you asked.”
“Reverend, have ye met my nephew, Ian?” Grace smiled. “He’s such a kind lad. But I’ve not seen him since our picnic at the beach.”
“Grace!” Maggie huffed. “Are ye daft? Ian brought ye home from the airport three days ago. Do ye not remember now?”
Grace frowned.
Emily watched her aunt for signs she might be getting flustered. If she had a memory lapse, it would only make her confusion—and her embarrassment—worse. “We were so tired when we arrived,” Emily offered in a rush. “We barely noticed anything, did we?”
Grace didn’t answer.
Emily swept the oats into a pile but continued to watch her aunt in case she started to drift.
The chicken flapped its wings, scattering the oats.
“I have met Ian,” the reverend said, eyes still trained on the fowl. “Actually, I was speaking to him just before I came in.”
“You saw him? Just now?” Had anyone noticed how anxious she sounded?
“Aye. He’s cutting wood behind the shed.” The reverend dove suddenly, snatched the chicken, and stood up, holding it out at arm’s length with a triumphant smile. “Got it.”
“Thank you,” Emily said. “I’ll get the door for you.” She turned to escort him and the bird outside, nearly bumping into the figure of a man in the doorway. “Ian!” She caught her breath, heart racing.
“So he’s back then?” Maggie asked. “Well, laddie, ye’ve decided to honor us with yer presence. And wanting breakfast too, no doubt. Humph. I dinna ken what ye’ve been eating out there, footerin’ about on the braes.” Maggie grunted and went to work getting him a plate.
“Ian, ye’re back from the beach!” Grace said. “How was it?”
His eyes never left Emily’s. “Breathtaking.”
She didn’t remember his voice ever sounding so deep.
Behind her, the captive fowl made a long, cawing sound.
The reverend hopped toward the doorway with the bird held out as far as his stiff arms would allow. “Pardon me, but I believe this chicken needs to ...”
Ian stepped aside for the man and bird, his expression growing more intense. “Emily, I need to talk to you.”
Emily held her breath.
Stunned silence filled the room. No doubt the others were watching her and Ian.
“Will you take a walk with me?”
Whatever he had to say, it obviously couldn’t wait.
Ian motioned for her to lead the way down the hall.
Once they were out back, she turned to him, but he kept walking.
“This way,” he said, voice low. He guided her along the path away from the house, toward the berry field.
Emily stole a glance at his profile. His expression was hard to read, his attention fixed straight ahead.
He continued in silence. When they reached the fence, Ian stopped and turned to her. His chest rose and fell in a deep, rapid rhythm. He seemed to be struggling for words.
A pang tugged at her heart. Oh, Lord, please. Don’t let him suffer any more, please.
“I’m sorry, Emily. For what you’re facing, for staying away so long. For everything. Please forgive me.”
“No, Ian,” she whispered, fighting to get the words past the sudden tightness in her throat. “Please don’t, you don’t need to—”
Ian pulled her into his arms and held her.
Emily closed her eyes, overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of relief. As he held her, she let herself sink into him, suddenly aware of how much she’d ached for this.
He pulled her closer and stroked her hair. “I’m here, Emily. Don’t shut me out.” His lips brushed her forehead. “I want to spend my life with you, no matter what happens, no matter how long. I’ll be there for you.”
His words, deep with emotion, sent a tremor through her. There was a reason she shouldn’t agree, but at that moment, she had no idea what it was.
His face nuzzled her hair and he inhaled as if taking in every nuance.
The strength of his arms around her and his solemn words worked like a sedative, releasing a sense of calm through her, and she felt herself relax for the first time in days. “Ian—”
“I know what you’re afraid of, but I’ll be strong. For us both.”
Maybe ...
“I love you,” he whispered. “Do you love me?”
She nodded.
With a shuddering sigh, he held her tighter. “And you trust me?”
She wanted to see what was in his eyes. When she lifted her face, his lips came down firmly against hers.
In a blinding flash, everything else disappeared.
Her eyes closed as every nerve thrilled with joy at the kiss, the scent and nearness of him, the feel of him, the warmth of his breath. Her lips yielded and pressed into his. Something burst from deep within her, something powerful and new, surging through her like the sudden rush of water from a broken dam.
When their lips parted, she opened her eyes.
He kissed her again, firm and insistent, so full of love and passion and promise. So right. It was as if her soul were melting into his.
Something in the back of her mind tugged at her, tugged hard.
“Wait.” She pulled back. It took huge effort, but she tore herself from his embrace and stumbled back a few steps.
“No.” Shaking his head, he took a step, closing the gap. “No waiting. I don’t want to make the same mistake again. Time is too precious to waste.” His voice grew deeper with each word. “Marry me, Emily. Tomorrow. No—today! The minister is here now—”
“Ian, please.”
He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her again, his lips seeking hers with such intensity, almost desperation.
Instinctively, Emily reached up and caressed his face.
A moan rumbled from his throat. He slipped a hand behind her head, crushing her lips to his.
Her quickened breathing raced with her pounding heart. Lord, I love him more than anything, but ...
Her dad’s anguished face came to mind, how he had changed after her mom’s death, going from a passionate, caring man to a bitter, tormented one. If you love Ian, how could you even think of doing that to him?
She tore herself away. Her breath came in short bursts. “I’m sorry.” With every backward step she took, pain ripped through her at the thought of hurting him again. “I can’t do that to you. I’m so sorry.”
His chest rose and fell with every breath as his dark eyes bored into hers. “Why?”
“You know why. Yo
u have no future with me. You get nothing. No family. Nothing but more grief.” Tears blurred her vision, clogged her throat. “You have a chance to make a fresh start now. I won’t let you throw that away.”
He clasped her shoulders with both hands. “I am making a start—with you. We’ll go through it together. All of it.”
She tingled at the strength in his grasp, but shook her head. “You saw what it did to my dad. There’s no way I could ever—”
“I’m not your dad.” He squeezed her shoulders harder. “Emily, you’ve got to trust me.”
She pulled out of his reach and wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand. “My dad turned away from God and everyone else. I couldn’t stand for that happen to you, especially after—”
“After what?” Ian planted his hands on his hips. “Aye, my faith has been weak. Is that what you’re afraid of?”
Is it?
“Do you doubt me, Emily? Or do you doubt God?”
“I don’t know.” Unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, she looked away. “But I know I can’t let you give up the life you wanted, the family—”
“That’s not important.”
“Yes, it is.” She looked into his eyes. “It’s as important to you as it is to me.”
He shook his head slowly, but his expression grew less certain.
“You’ve suffered so much loss already. Maybe you don’t think so now, but—”
“No.” His face was a battlefield of emotions. “I know it won’t be easy, but that’s just it. I know what to expect. I’m not letting you go through this alone.” He reached for her shoulders again. “I love you, Emily. Whatever I face later will be worth it to see you happy.”
“Happy?” Her voice broke. “I’ve seen exactly what loss and grief does to a man, Ian. How could I be happy knowing I’m doing that to you?” She grimaced at the mental picture of her dad and shook her head. “Please don’t ask me to do that.”
Ian’s gaze fell to her lips. “Emily, couldn’t we just—”
“I’m sorry, Ian.” She took several steps back. “I shouldn’t have ... I’m so sorry.” She turned and ran.
“Emily!”
She aimed for the house. But when she reached the back door, she passed it and kept running.