Lorna closed her eyes. She heard what Sissy said, but the words seemed to jumble in her head. “Water?” she croaked. Afton scrambled off the bed, jostling Lorna, igniting fresh sparks of pain. A second later Afton returned with a full cup. Lorna slurped at the cool water and cleared her throat several times. The weight of her tongue and the tightness of her throat began to lessen. She drank more. Handing Afton the empty cup, she again touched her side.
“He sewed it up,” Afton said, her look serious. She reached her hand toward Lorna’s wound but didn’t touch it. “He used your red thread. I wanted to give him…another color.” Lorna patted Afton’s hand and smiled.
“He made some foul-smelling paste we’ve slathered on the last few days.” Sissy puffed out a curl of smoke. “Seems ta work.”
“Where is Mr. Grayson now?”
“Left yesterday”—Sissy jabbed her pipe up toward the cabin’s main room—“after he fixed the roof.”
Sissy stayed two more days. Lorna watched first from her bed then from a chair by the fire as Sissy and Afton made meals, churned butter, fed the animals, kneaded dough, and filled chinks in the walls with a putty made from mud and straw. Snow fell and coated the world in white, and Lorna thanked God the roof was finished. As the moon rose, after kissing Afton good night and listening again to her daughter pray for her papa to come home, Lorna slowly got up from her bed and limped back to the fireplace to sit with Sissy, who darned one of Afton’s stockings. They sat in silence. The snap of the fire kept its own conversation.
“I nearly orphaned my daughter,” Lorna said, voicing the guilt she had carried since waking. Sissy pushed her needle through the stocking, lifted, pulled, began again. Lorna watched the rhythmical movement then looked back into the fire. “She wanted to fetch you. I wouldn’t let her.” Still Sissy pushed the needle, lifted, pulled. Lorna sighed. “I suppose I’m lucky.”
Sissy grunted. The needle stopped. The fire spit out a flaming cinder onto the hearth. Lorna watched it glow bright ochre then slowly die to a lifeless gray. “No luck about it,” Sissy said then resumed her darning.
“Do you know Mr. Grayson well?” Lorna reached into her sewing basket for a piece of darning to work on, to occupy her hands. She pulled out what she thought was one of her socks. It was Iain’s. She dropped it back into the basket and stared back into the fire, her hand on her chest.
“The hurt fades,” Sissy said, her fingers continually active. Lorna’s hand dropped to her lap. “No, I don’t know Grayson well,” Sissy answered, as though sensing Lorna’s need for conversation, something to talk of other than her own loss. “I knew his wife.”
Lorna lifted her eyebrows. “His wife?”
Sissy nodded. “They homesteaded out here ’bout ten year ago. He, Amelia, and their son. Son was four or five, I s’ppose. Luke. Spitting image of Grayson. Few years back, Grayson made a run into Detroit, came home to his house burned to the ground. Wife and son inside.”
Lorna blinked. Grayson, stride strong, shoulders squared, alone in the wilderness. Like Job, left with nothing. Lorna stared out the window into the dark. The pale forms of snow-laden trees gazed calmly back at her.
“Since his wife died, Mr. Grayson’s been living as a trapper?” Lorna asked. “Keeping to himself ?”
Sissy nodded.
“Then why would Mr. Edgar dislike him?” Lorna asked, remembering that first encounter.
“Amelia was Edgar’s sister,” Sissy said. “Most folks blamed some Chippewa that were passing through. But Edgar blamed Grayson for not attending his family.” Sissy knotted her thread and snipped the needle free with a pair of Lorna’s small shears. “Just Edgar’s hurt talking. No one coulda done a thing.” She dropped the shears into the basket. “Should be getting on tomorrow. Fixing to go into town afore more snows come. Need anything?”
Lorna thought for a moment. “Sugar.”
Chapter 7
December 16, 1830
That’s the beautifulest thing I’ve ever seen,” Afton breathed. Lorna lifted the delaine dress from the cedar chest. From the first time she had seen the fabric on Princes Street in Edinburgh, its sapphire sheen had charmed her. Still it charmed. She laid the dress on the bed, where Afton with timid fingers touched the smooth pearl buttons trailing down the bodice like stepping stones. Lorna smiled. She returned the other belongings she had removed back into the chest, her hand brushing the emerald tartan of Iain’s kilt.
“Your wedding dress,” Afton whispered. Lorna lifted the dress, raised it high, and gave it a shake to clear away some creases. She winced at the twinge in her side. Her wound seemed slow to heal, though only a week had passed since her fall. Lorna walked from the bedroom, Afton at her heels, into the kitchen, where a fire roared. She spread the dress across the oak table. Her hands practiced, she smoothed down the folds of the fabric. Each seam, each stitch, familiar. Tears threatened, but Lorna ignored them, cleared her throat, and turned to Afton.
“Can you bring my sewing basket?” she asked. Afton returned, the basket hoisted in both hands. Last night Lorna had dismantled one of Afton’s dresses, seam by seam, for a pattern, though she would cut the new pieces a bit larger to give Afton room to grow. She might be inept at mending roofs, but sewing was as natural to her as breathing. As Iain’s hands took to wood, so Lorna’s to fabric. Lorna placed the pieces of Afton’s old, faded-yellow dress atop the sea of blue. She felt Afton’s eyes on her hands without looking at her daughter. This dress would have life again on Afton’s growing frame, far more than if it stayed entombed in a chest. Lorna lifted the cutting shears from her basket. The weight of them seemed to drag her hand back down as though they resisted the task ahead. Lorna’s side began to throb. She swallowed, brought the shears to the fabric, and spread the blades to cut.
Your eyes are aglow, Iain had said as they danced after the ceremony that had joined them as man and wife. Lorna had smiled, rested her cheek against his shoulder. The rough fabric of the bridal sash brushed across her throat, the sash made of the deep greens and blues of the Findlay tartan. The same tartan of Iain’s kilt. She belonged to a new family now, the sash representing the transference of the family name, the traditions to uphold, the honor to bear. She pressed her forehead against the warm skin of Iain’s neck, felt the rise and fall of his chest.
A knock tore Lorna away from her memories. The shears clattered to the floor. Harry barked. Lorna exhaled, put her hand to her throbbing side. Afton ran to the door and opened it before Lorna could tell her to wait.
“Mr. Grayson,” Lorna said, surprised. She walked forward, gestured to him to come in. He looked at her a moment, then, still on the doorstep, raised two dead rabbits up by their hind legs.
“Brought these,” he said.
Lorna reached out, took the rabbits. “Um, thank you.” She felt she should say more, but with two dead animals in her hands and a towering man in her doorway, words abandoned her.
Grayson removed his fur cap, his blond hair wild and wiry. He knelt in front of Afton, who had half hidden herself behind Lorna’s skirt. He gave Afton a smile, the first smile Lorna had seen on him. A gentle smile, warm. From beneath his coat, he produced another hat—a miniature version of his own. Made of gray and white fur and a leather tie for beneath the chin. Afton stepped forward, and he placed the hat on her head. She giggled. Mr. Grayson replaced his own hat. His smile faded as he stood.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Lorna offered.
Grayson shook his head. “Headed to town. Few days I’ll be back.”
Lorna smiled. “Thank you,” she said, lifting the limp rabbits. “For everything.”
Grayson nodded then pointed at the rabbits, “Save the pelts. Make fine mittens.” Lorna and Afton, her furry hat swallowing her head, waved from the doorway as Mr. Grayson walked with his burro down the lane. Lorna shut the door then looked at the two rabbits in her hand. She would make some stew with these—some highland rabbit stew with wild onions and mushrooms Sissy and Afton had found. Iain had lo
ved rabbit stew. Lorna laid the rabbits on the hearth, where Harry began sniffing at them. Dinner would not need tending for a few more hours. Lorna wiped her hands on her apron and retrieved the shears from the floor where they had fallen. With her left hand she kept the fabric flat and still and, with her right, Lorna cut into the sapphire sea.
Several days later, Mr. Grayson appeared with a dead turkey, feathers still on. Lorna again invited him in, but he shook his head and hung the turkey on the peg by the door. He took the rabbit pelts Lorna had saved, and in two days returned with mittens for Afton. He seemed pleased that Afton wore the hat he had made, though his face was so bearded and shadowed that Lorna struggled to read his expression. Each time Grayson arrived, Lorna felt a thawing of the icy fear within her. She was indebted to him. He had saved her life and now saved her the indignity of having to hunt—another task at which she knew she would miserably fail. Yet she felt a shadow of shame pass over her that she could do nothing for him in return. Just as she so often felt helpless to repay Sissy. Lorna had become familiar with such shadows.
Grayson knelt before Afton, her rabbit mittens on her hands. From a pouch that hung on his back, he pulled an animal skin and unrolled it to reveal a luminous mahogany fur.
“Beaver,” Grayson said.
Lorna shook her head. “Mr. Grayson, it is too much. You should not be giving away these things you work so hard for.”
Grayson’s blue eyes blinked at her, and again she struggled to read his expression.
“Who says I work hard for these?” he asked.
Lorna detected a small smile beneath the scraggle of beard. She looked at Afton, who rubbed her mittened hand across the silky pelt.
“Well,” Lorna said, “if it’s not such hard work, perhaps you can provide a bear skin next. I hear they are wonderfully warm.”
A sound, more like a cough than a laugh, came from Grayson and caught Lorna by surprise. The blue of his eyes hinted of a cloudless highland sky.
“Bear skins,” he said. “They are…more difficult.”
“Well, regardless, you must stay for dinner,” Lorna replied.
Grayson shook his head, as was his habit.
“You can’t keep standing on my doorstep handing me dead animals.” Lorna put her hands on her hips. “What will people think?” She caught another hint of a smile, though Grayson held firm, shaking his head again.
“Be back in two days,” he said, looking at the steely sky. “Before the snow comes.”
Lorna glanced at the decaying snow that littered the ground, looked at Afton still petting the beaver fur with Harry sniffing its edges. “Two days will be Christmas Eve,” Lorna said, her voice near a whisper. She looked at Grayson, whose eyes now held the same gray of the sky holding back its snow.
“You will stay for dinner on Christmas Eve,” she said with a lift of her chin. He started to shake his head. She held up her hand, insistent. “There will be a place at our table for you.”
Chapter 8
December 24, 1830
The rumble of a wagon drew Lorna’s eyes from her sweeping and the broom’s hypnotic tssh, tssh, tssh across the floorboards. Harry barked and sniffed at the cabin door. Afton, who had been staring at the sock in her hand, looked up from her seat at the table. Lorna had spent the morning teaching Afton to darn and had offered Iain’s sock that she had found in her sewing basket as a sacrifice to her daughter’s untrained fingers. Through the pocked glass of the window, Lorna saw Sissy pull back the reins, her team jostling to a stop. The horses’ breath puffed from their nostrils like smoke. Lorna set her broom with its fraying broomcorn bristles in the corner behind the door. The wind stung her cheeks and neck as she opened the door.
“Tea?” Lorna offered as Sissy clomped inside and began to shrug from her coat.
“Surely,” Sissy replied. She hung her coat on one of the pegs by the door, next to Afton’s red coat. The same peg Grayson had used to hang the dead turkey. Then she walked to the table and sat next to Afton, who greeted her with a yowl of pain. The sock and needle dropped to the table as Afton stuck her pricked finger into her mouth. Lorna bent over the hearth and set the kettle close to the glowing coals.
“Returning from town?” Lorna asked, pleased to have company.
Sissy nodded and pulled a small sack from her coat pocket. “Price a sugar’s gone up.”
Lorna took the sugar from Sissy. “Thank you.” She smiled, enjoying the small weight of this luxury.
What are we going to do with such extravagance, dear Iain? Iain and Edinburgh and memories of a time when hope came easily circled round Lorna. She could almost hear Iain singing softly in her ear. And for just a moment, she allowed it all in—allowed herself to see Iain’s face, the lilac china, Mrs. Ross’s bougainvillea. Then, with a gust of breath exhaled, she expelled it all. She placed the sugar in a small, empty flour canister and set it on the shelf next to the dishes.
“Saw Edgar in town,” Sissy offered, nodding at the stitch Afton placed into the sock without injury. “He asked after you. I told ’im you took a fall but Grayson patched you up.” Sissy grinned without looking up from Afton’s darning. “Tol’ him Grayson mended the roof, too.”
Lorna poured the tea and handed Sissy a steaming cup. “Can’t imagine Mr. Edgar took that well.”
Sissy sipped the scalding liquid without a flinch. “Nope.”
Lorna waved good-bye to Sissy as she drove her team down the lane. She had hoped Sissy might join them for Christmas Eve tonight, too. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, Lorna thought as she closed the door. Sissy had insisted she couldn’t be caught out in the snow. Though, when Lorna mentioned mincemeat pies, Sissy’s resolve wavered. Lorna touched the top of the table, where she had begun to roll out the dough for the pies. She was almost sure Grayson wouldn’t come either, but she would make him a pie all the same. She studied Afton’s furrowed brows as she concentrated on the sock. Lorna smiled, savoring the unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. Afton’s dress was complete. Many nights while Afton slept, Lorna had sat sewing by the fire. Last night she had added the finishing touch—the pearl buttons.
Lorna pressed her fists deep into the dough. She would roll the dough flat and cut it into small circles, which she would fill with gravy and minced turkey from the wild tom she and Afton had watched Harry miraculously capture up on the hill and drag home victorious. The first piece of usefulness she had seen from that dog, Lorna had thought but not spoken aloud. She would bake the pies near the coals of the fire until the crusts turned golden brown. With the leftover dough, she would form small, coin-sized pockets filled with wild raspberry jam she had made in early summer and stored for a special occasion. Lorna kneaded harder, the dough forming around the heel of her hand.
“How’s this?” Afton asked, holding up Iain’s sock. Lorna inspected the haphazard stitching along the toe that she knew would rip free the first time it was worn. But this sock would never again be worn.
“Not bad,” she lied. She patted Afton on the head. “Do you want to try again?”
Afton groaned.
“Or you can go fetch more firewood,” Lorna offered. Afton dropped the darning on the table, flew to the door, and flung it open. “Your coat!” Lorna called. Afton jerked her coat from its peg and, as she ran, shoved her arms into the sleeves.
Lorna turned to the fire to stir the mixture of turkey, onions, and gravy that bubbled in the pot. She wrapped her hand in her apron, pulled the pot away from the fire. A knock came at the door. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The latch on the door snapped up, and the hinges whined as it opened. Had Lorna not recognized his fur coat, she never would have known Charles Grayson stood at her door. His beard was trimmed close to his cheek and jaw. His wild hair was combed, smoothed down, as she remembered Iain doing each Sunday when preparing for church. Grayson clutched his hat in both hands. Afton, a skinny log under each arm, sauntered up behind Grayson.
“Hello, Mr. Gray—” Afton stared, just as Lorna s
tared, at the familiar yet foreign face. Only his blue eyes were the same. He looked at Afton. A thin smile appeared, and he took the logs from her.
“Do please come in,” Lorna said, finding her voice. “So glad you’ve come.”
Grayson looked down. Lorna did the same, seeing even his worn boots had been polished. He stared at the threshold as if deciding whether to cross it.
“Com’on in, Mr. Grayson.” Afton broke the silence. She tugged at his coat sleeve and led him inside. He had to duck slightly to get through the door. His presence, the sheer size of him, seemed to fill the room. The bulk of his coat made him seem bearlike. Outside in the wide expanse of the world, he hadn’t seemed so large. Inside, he seemed enormous. Even Afton stood for a moment looking up at him. Then, quick to recover, she began to pull on the sleeve of Grayson’s coat. Lorna took his coat and hung it up. Wearing a tan flannel shirt, brown breeches, and black suspenders, Charles Grayson looked…ordinary. Well, not quite ordinary with his intense blue eyes that seemed to catch and weigh everything. Yet he looked like a man who belonged in a cabin eating dinner and speaking of the weather.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Lorna said. “Would you care to sit?”
“Actually,” Afton jumped in, “Mr. Grayson and I have something…to take care of.”
“But he’s just arrived,” Lorna replied, surprised. “He doesn’t want to go back ou—” Before her objection could fully form, the two disappeared outside. Lorna watched from the window, the gloaming light throwing strange shadows and making it difficult to see properly. Grayson’s donkey brayed as it was released from the hitching post, the inelegant sound making Lorna chuckle. She lit the lantern on the table then the one in the window. Three thin mouths pulled open on the surface of each pie as Lorna made three small slits to release steam as they baked. She set the pies atop hot stones at the side of the fireplace and set several stones around them to keep off the ash.
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 17