Kettle in hand, Lorna walked outside. The wind nipped at her nose and ears. Dense clouds hid the stars that should be appearing now, making the gathering night feel darker than usual. The air smelled of pine and snow. She dumped the dregs of tea from the kettle. Afton’s giggle signaled the approach of her daughter and Grayson before the crunch of their footsteps. Lorna’s breath fogged before her, and she hurried inside to get warm.
At dinner little was said. The sound of clinking utensils and the crackle of the fire seemed all that was needed. Harry’s tail whumped against the floor as Afton donated to him pieces of her dinner. After the pies were finished and plates cleared, Lorna set out the jelly pasties. She placed the plate before Afton then caught Afton’s hand as she lurched for the dessert.
“Wait for tea,” Lorna instructed. In a flurry of tossing braids and flapping arms, Afton jumped from her chair, darted to her coat by the door, and pulled something from the pocket. She returned to Lorna with a small, burlap-wrapped parcel. The parcel she placed on the table as gently as though tending a newly hatched sparrow. Her eyes danced with firelight.
“Happy Christmas!” Afton said, looking proudly at Lorna.
Steam rose from the spout of the kettle Lorna held as she looked from Afton to the parcel and back to Afton. Swallowing down a lump that grew in her throat, Lorna set the kettle on an iron trivet atop the table. She peeled away the burlap. A china tea cup and saucer the color of pearls nestled inside the rough cloth. Lorna bit her lower lip to still its quiver.
Afton watched, wide-eyed. “Do you like it, Mama?”
Lorna traced her finger along perfect pink roses and leafy green vines that trailed along a surface as smooth as Afton’s cheek. “ ‘O my Luve’s like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June,’ ” Lorna recited. She pulled Afton toward her. “ ‘O my Luve’s like the melodie that’s sweetly play’d in tune.’ ”
“That’s Papa’s favorite!”
Lorna kissed Afton’s dimpled cheek. “Thank you, dear one.” The logs in the fire shifted, sending sparks onto the hearth. “Wait here.” Lorna walked to the bedroom. The trunk lid creaked as Lorna lifted it and retrieved Afton’s dress. She dropped the chest lid without allowing herself a glance at Iain’s kilt. She held the dress against her and walked from the bedroom.
“I had planned to give you this tomorrow,” she said, “but right now seems…fitting.”
Afton squealed and clapped her hands, her smile brighter, fuller, than Lorna had seen since Iain—
She handed the folded dress to Afton, who shook it open, pressed it against herself, and bent over, trying to see how it might look.
“Would you like to try it on?” Lorna asked. In answer, Afton rushed to the bedroom. A feeling of buoyant delight near to giddiness swelled in Lorna. She sat down, blinked at Grayson, just remembering his presence.
“I had planned to give her the dress tomorrow,” Lorna repeated almost in apology. “I have only tea to offer you, I’m afraid. Though I also have sugar.” A familiar ache frayed the edges of the moment’s pleasure.
“ ’Tis enough,” he said and cleared his throat.
She retrieved the forgotten kettle and poured the tea. She placed the bowl of sugar before Grayson, though he did not take any. As she resumed her seat, she tried to remember him with the wild, shaggy beard and couldn’t. It seemed as though he’d always looked this way. Lorna studied the smooth, white handle of her tea cup, the gracefulness of it. Where would Grayson have gone had he not come tonight? she wondered. Does he feel the same deep ache I feel?
“What do you—” She cleared her throat. “Where do you stay once the snow comes?”
The blue of Grayson’s eyes faded slightly. Silence spooled between them. Lorna worried that she had misspoken.
“I rent a room in Detroit,” he said. He lifted his cup to his lips then returned it to the table. “Though Sissy’s offered a room if I help tend her animals. Maybe tend her fields next spring.”
Lorna tilted her head. “You would work for Sissy?” The idea seemed so foreign. Sissy admitted to needing someone to plow and to plant, but it surprised Lorna that Sissy would ask Grayson for help. Though the more she thought about it, the more fitting it seemed.
“ ’Tis a difficult life we lead.” Grayson’s words were measured, as though training serious thought on each one before allowing it to be spoken. “Alone is more alone here than elsewhere. Sissy knows to ask for help when it’s needed.” Lorna could hear Afton shuffling and talking to Harry behind the bedroom door. Lorna envisioned Afton touching each button, just as Lorna had touched her teacup.
“Do you ever think of leaving?” Lorna asked. From the window she could see the first snow begin to fall lightly on the dirty, pitted patches of old snow. The blanket of white created a smooth, seamless surface.
Grayson shook his head. “I’m where I’m s’posed to be.”
“But you could start fresh. Have a family again.” Lorna wanted to seize back her words, feeling she had stepped across an unseen, unmarked boundary. But Grayson didn’t appear troubled. He set down his cup, circled his ruddy hands around it as though collecting warmth.
“If I was s’posed to have a family, I’d still have one.”
Afton swept out from the shadows of the bedroom. Firelight seemed to set her aglow. She twirled. Her skirt flumed outward then settled against her legs. Giggles shook her as she ran to Lorna and wrapped her arms around her neck.
“It’s perfect!” Afton said.
Lorna remembered that familiar blue beneath the tartan sash she had worn and smiled knowing her dress had new life. Harry barked, scampered to the door, and started to sniff. Lorna stood. Who would be out in this dark and snow? On Christmas Eve? Afton climbed into Lorna’s chair and studied the teacup. Grayson rose, seeming to sense Lorna’s uncertainty. Then a knock sounded. Lorna walked to the door, lifted the latch, and peered into the dark.
“Mrs. Findlay.”
Lorna’s hand tightened on the door as the beauty of the evening slipped away into the night.
Chapter 9
Do come in, Mr. Edgar.” Lorna nudged Harry back with her foot so she could open the door wider. She looked at Grayson, who stood by the window, lips pursed, eyes half closed, as if trying to blend into the logged wall. Edgar, from where he stood outside the door, could not see Grayson. He held his hat in his hand, offering apologies. Though she hoped he would refuse, Lorna again asked him inside. A few brave snowflakes wisped in onto the floor and instantly melted. Edgar stepped forward.
“I thought being Christmas Eve you might like company,” he said, as Lorna closed the door. He turned to hang his hat and froze, the peg he sought occupied by Grayson’s coat. Edgar turned his stare from the fur coat to Grayson, who stood with his head tilted, watching.
“I see you don’t lack for visitors,” said Edgar. He clenched the brim of his hat in both fists. Lorna, feeling tense and awkward, offered Mr. Edgar tea. He declined with a shake of his head, but Lorna poured some anyway for something to do. Edgar fidgeted, shifting from side to side. He opened his mouth twice as if to speak then closed it again. Afton, a crease across her forehead, looked from Grayson to Edgar, Lorna’s teacup in her hands.
“So you’ve come to stake your claim,” Edgar said. His tone sounded playful, yet a sharp edge belied his civility.
Grayson, silent, moved to Afton and sat in the chair next to her—the table a barrier between himself and Edgar. Afton studied Grayson. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile and winked. Afton returned his smile and tried to wink by squeezing both eyes closed. Lorna handed Edgar the cup of tea, which he took from her without taking his eyes from Grayson. Lorna searched for something—anything—to say.
“Mr. Grayson has been quite helpful to us, hasn’t he, Afton?”
Afton nodded and made another attempt at winking. Grayson again gave her a small grin.
“I’m sure he has,” Edgar said. He set his cup of tea on the table, untouched. His eyes rose to the
far corner of the ceiling. “Roof ’s finished, I see. You always were good with your hands.”
Lorna stood by the fireplace, speechless, desperate for Edgar to leave yet reminded that he was still a friend. His argument—though it appeared one-sided—was with Grayson. Grayson tilted his head and caught Lorna’s glance. His eyes seemed to convey something she couldn’t quite read—something close to sadness.
“Are you friends?” Afton asked Grayson. She pointed to Edgar.
Edgar stepped toward Afton, his laugh loud and raspy. “Long ago, child,” he answered. “But this man is no friend of mine. Not after he murdered my sister and her child.”
Grayson leaped up, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. He lunged around the table at Edgar. Lorna sprang forward and, arms extended, set herself between the two men. Her heart hammered in her ears. The men glared at each other above the top of Lorna’s head. Lorna touched the fist Grayson had formed. Slowly Grayson took a step back, though his breath came in quick gasps, his body rigid. Afton, wide eyed, started to cry. She stood by the table, fat tears falling down her cheeks. She ran to Lorna, who lifted her as she had when her daughter was small and would run to her with arms upheld. Lorna gasped at the ripping pain in her side. She nearly dropped Afton, but Afton clung to her, buried her face in Lorna’s neck. Lorna could feel the teacup and saucer Afton still held pressing against her collarbone. She tried to breathe deeply, tried to ignore the pain radiating up into her chest and down her arm. She was afraid the red thread that closed her skin had broken. Yet she held tightly to Afton.
“Mr. Edgar, you really should leave.” Lorna spoke through little gasps of painful breath. A new burning anger heated her words. Silence held sway for several seconds. Afton’s cries faded. She grew heavy in Lorna’s arms. Lorna’s side throbbed, but she still held on.
“Aye,” Edgar finally said, a cold stare aimed at Grayson, “Seems so.”
Grayson’s shoulders shifted as though shrugging off a weight. Lorna set Afton down, exhaling in quiet relief, and retrieved the lantern from the window.
“I’ll see you out,” she said. Edgar moved toward the door. With a moan, the door opened. Edgar took the lantern from Lorna and leaned toward her, his breath hot and rank with the sour scent of whiskey.
“Best beware, Mrs. Findlay”—Edgar’s voice was a gruff whisper, yet clearly intended for everyone to hear—“or your bed is the next hole he’ll be filling.”
Lorna jerked away from the foulness as Grayson stormed from behind. One hand then another seized Edgar’s coat. Harry began to bark. Edgar fought the grip, his fists flailing, but Grayson did not flinch. He shook Edgar like a child’s rattle. Afton again started to cry. Wind and tufts of snow swirled in through the open doorway.
“She said leave,” Grayson growled, his face inches from Edgar, whose face purpled, eyes bulged. The captive man grunted, cursed, and struggled to free himself. He swung a fist, hitting Grayson’s shoulder. With his other hand he swung the lantern—his only weapon—at Grayson’s head. Grayson ducked. The lantern, a bird in flight, soared over the table. Lorna gasped as it shattered against the wall, exploding into flames.
Lorna ran straight to Afton, who stood frozen. The sudden roar of the flames mottled and muffled all sound. Grayson threw the stammering Edgar out into the snow. Then Grayson seized his own coat and began beating at the spreading fire. Lorna grabbed hold of Afton’s wrist and dashed to the door, where she snatched Afton’s coat and hat. Harry ran alongside them, nearly tripping Lorna in the doorway. Once outside Harry bolted into the night. Lorna led Afton well back from the cabin, near the stream, and handed her daughter her coat and hat.
“Put them on!” she ordered then ran back inside. The flames ate at the roof, spreading across like an ink spill toward the newly mended corner. Grayson, face and arms streaked black, thrashed at the devouring flame. Dense smoke rolled over Lorna. Her eyes burned. Each breath seared her lungs. She snatched her coat and began to beat the fingers of fire along the wall. The roof creaked and groaned till a section splintered and gave way.
“Grayson!”
Grayson leaped aside as chunks of flame and wood collapsed, the debris catching his shoulder. He staggered, kicked through the rubble, ran to Lorna.
“Get out!” he yelled, grabbed her arm. More wreckage crashed onto the chair Lorna had occupied at dinner. Lorna coughed, gagged, feared another breath would never come. Grayson pulled her outside, her coat dragging behind. Its hem smoldered. Afton stood by the stream, her red coat aglow. Lorna stumbled to her, picked the hat up from the snow, and pulled it down over Afton’s ears. Afton still pressed the teacup to her chest as though to shield it from the blaze. Lorna pulled Afton against her and looked again at their cabin through stinging tears. More splintering of wood. Through the doorway, Lorna saw it land on the table. She leaped to her feet, a wail tearing through her lungs, her throat. She sprinted toward the door. Grayson caught her arm.
“Iain’s table!” Lorna shrieked. “I can’t let it burn!”
As though far off, Lorna heard Afton screaming for her. Weeping, Lorna pleaded with Grayson to free her. Grayson clenched both her arms, his face a hair’s breadth from hers.
“Wait.”
The sound of the fire dimmed, and Lorna grew still, watching fragile flakes of snow collect in Grayson’s hair. Grayson released her and sprinted with his coat to the stream. Then, his dripping coat over his head, he raced back into the inferno. Lorna dropped to her knees. She thought to pray, but words had lost meaning. Smoke and flame spurted through the front door, the front window, the roof. She was scantly aware of Afton coming beside her, clutching her arm. Snow—creamy like the china of her teacup—mingled with ash in the air. Lorna trembled. A roar grew in the bowels of the cabin. Then Grayson appeared in the doorway, his coat afire. He dove into the snow, threw off his coat, then ran back to the door. Inch by inch, he pulled Iain’s table free.
The table was black and mangled, one of the legs gone, two still afire. Clear of the cabin, Grayson tipped the table on its side. The flames hissed and died in the snow. Lorna wrapped her arms around Afton, both of them shaking, Afton’s tears warm on Lorna’s neck. Lorna stared, almost mesmerized, at the relentless blaze. Grayson dropped to his knees beside her, his shirt torn at both shoulders. His face, neck, and hands were black. A final thundering—the death rattle—and the entire roof caved in. Lorna noticed blood staining the front of her dress, the red thread broken, her wound reopened. But she felt nothing. No pain—or perhaps pain of such intensity her mind refused it recognition.
Lorna turned away from the cabin, from the flames, to the barn to see Edgar mount his horse and skulk away. Night swallowed him; snow expunged his trail. The world seemed to hush. And Lorna waited. For the fire to end. For Afton’s cries to subside. For God, who sees the sparrow, to appear. She waited as snow continued to fall, and the night was silent.
Chapter 10
Christmas Day 1830
Sensing morning, Lorna buried deeper into sleep. The surrounding warmth soothed her and brought forgetfulness till a soft whinny reminded her of where she was. She lay in the barn, hay beneath her. Several furs Grayson had pulled from his donkey blanketed her. Afton in her arms, Lorna had drifted to sleep. Now her arms were empty. Lorna sat up.
“She’s gone looking for Harry.”
The voice brought Lorna to her feet. Her coat smelled of ash. She shivered, wrapped a fur round her shoulders, and peered above Goldie’s stall. Grayson stood saddling the mare. He looked across the animal at Lorna. “I dozed off near sunrise,” he said. “She must’ve slipped out.”
All breath left her. Lorna covered her face with her hands.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “No more.”
A single tear dripped free but none followed. Her eyes dried quickly with the cold. She looked up. Grayson stood before her, the wall of the stall between them. He was so near she could feel a tingle of his breath on her face. He closed his eyes. A calm settled on him, suffused the sp
ace between them. After several moments of watching in wonder, Lorna realized he was praying. His mouth didn’t move. But strangely, he seemed to rise. A lifting of his being, though his feet stood firmly aground.
Lorna let go of the fur around her, grasped the top of the stall, and lowered her forehead to the wood between her hands. She closed her eyes, breathed in the calm. Words too had gone dry; prayer was beyond her. Yet it felt as though, by his nearness, Grayson’s words would speak for them both.
“The storm is over.” Grayson’s voice was so close, Lorna drew sudden breath. “She’s left clear tracks. I’ll find her.” Lorna didn’t lift her head, only heard Grayson move off. Heard Goldie’s hooves upon hay as she was led from the stall. Heard, though muffled by snow, horse and rider gallop away.
“Oh God.” Lorna breathed again. She lifted her head. The teacup on Iain’s workbench caught her eye. She turned away and shuffled to the barn door. Her numb fingers made buttoning her coat difficult. A button was missing, the hem of her coat singed and black. She hefted open the barn door to blinding white. The storm had ended, the world made new. Tree branches bent low with the weight of snow. Blue jays chattered back and forth. Sunbeams ignited the white banks of the stream. Lorna stepped out of the musty shadows of the barn into a patch of sun. The snow rose above her boots, nearly to her knees. Her breath clouded before her.
The smoldering remains of the cabin stood wraithlike against the bright world. Tall and whole, the stone chimney pointed skyward, its stones black but unmoved. The wood round the chimney looked like a charred ribcage. Tendrils of smoke rose in places. Several paces from where the front door had been, Iain’s table lay on its side, snow mounded atop it. Lorna trudged toward it, forging a path through the snow. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Then she remembered Iain’s gloves in her pockets. She felt somehow braver once she had them on.
At the table, its leg jutting out like a stiff carcass, Lorna brushed away the thick coat of snow. She walked around, hunkered down, and found the table’s edge. She tried to hoist the table upright, then gasped, dropping it back into the snow. Gingerly she touched her side. Though she had resisted examining the injury, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The stain on her dress, now hidden beneath her coat, felt stiff with blood long dried. She blew out a gust of air. Slowly, favoring her tender side, she stood the table on its three legs. The fire had gorged itself on the top, though it had not eaten completely through. Lorna raked her fingers across the crumbling wood, remembering Iain’s voice soft in her ear, feeling a horrible relief that Iain would never know what had happened here. Her relief was replaced by anger—anger she could not explain. And then fear.
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