Nora watched in horror as one lamb was broadsided by a rushing ewe. It wobbled and fell to his knees. Another set of ewes trampled him as they scuttled past.
“C.W.! That baby!” Nora cried aloud. He didn’t hear her and kept working while the dazed lamb lay in the muddy hay getting butted and trampled.
Acting on instinct, Nora climbed the rail into the corral and ran toward the lamb. Immediately, the startled ewes stampeded across the pen, bleating more wildly than ever. Nora froze amidst the mayhem, her heart pounding as hard as the ewes’, coughing in the stirred-up sawdust.
“Stop running, for God’s sake,” C.W. shouted, his face dark. “You’ll cause premature labor.”
She could hardly hear him over the frightened bleating of ewes crowded now in the far corner. A few more skirted past her toward the rest of the flock, eyes bulging and ears pricked. Like her own, she had no doubt. She wasn’t frightened exactly, but she didn’t know what to do next.
“What are you doing in there?” C.W. called as he approached. His steps were slow and deliberate, his eyes were blazing again and his nostrils flared almost as much as the ewes’. Nora silently pointed toward the lamb lying alone now in the center of the pen. It didn’t even try to get up anymore but lay there, its white coat muddied and looking piteously up at them. Her heart lurched and she looked with a pleading expression at C.W.
His expression softened and he gestured for her to go ahead.
“Take it real slow.”
Nora slowly paced to the lamb’s side. As she approached, it looked up at her with eyes filled more with curiosity than terror. But when she bent down, it struggled to rise on feeble legs.
“Hush now, baby,” she crooned as she gingerly reached out to pet its fur. To her surprise, the wool wasn’t soft and downy like she had imagined Mary’s little lamb to be. The matted curls were wiry, and she could feel his bones beneath.
“Poor thing,” Nora murmured. “Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of you.”
“He’s a runt,” C.W. said from the fence. He scrunched his face. “Don’t know if that little guy’s going to make it.”
Nora loved the lamb all the more and cradled him in her arms. “He’s a baby,” she murmured affectionately. When she lifted him, he bleated weakly, and from the corner, a ewe bleated back.
“That must be his mother,” said C.W. climbing the fence. He carefully took the lamb from Nora. She was reluctant to unhand it. The lamb bleated again, and again the mother responded.
“I’d like to reunite them,” he said, checking the lamb, “but she’s not doing such a great job at mothering. I’ll have to find out which one she is. We don’t need any bad mothers for breeding stock.”
Nora cringed, remembering Mike’s past taunts about her.
C.W. laid the lamb on a pile of fresh hay and murmured something soothing as he checked its eyes, noted its tag number, and finally stroked the lamb’s back. He was confident and efficient, as if he had done this hundreds of times before. Yet there was a gentleness to his movements and she leaned against the fence to watch in admiration.
“He’ll be fine here till we get back, Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said as he filed past her.
She touched his sleeve to stop him. He tilted his head and waited, curiosity etched in his long dimples like question marks. She wanted to thank him for helping the lamb, for sharing a simple kindness. But all she could muster was, “Please, call me Nora.”
He hesitated. He liked her, perhaps too much. And she was MacKenzie’s widow. For those reasons he preferred the distance of formality. Then he remembered her confidences in the kitchen and the way she had run to the runt’s defense.
“I better get to these sheep. Nora.”
Her expression lightened and she smiled as he passed her. He almost winced as the smile hit its mark.
What the bloody hell, he thought as he bent low and grabbed the wooden trough. Flipping troughs down the alley he counted, one by one, the reasons to stay clear of her wide, expressive eyes and the pain he read behind them.
The offer of food brought the ewes hustling back to the grain bins. Once again, they whined, bleated, and butted each other for a better place.
“Can I help?” she called.
Straightening, he pointed to his ears. Nora walked—very slowly—to the grain bin, and using primitive hand signals, asked if she should scoop grain into the troughs. He gave a grateful nod and she set to work.
The two of them worked side by side at a feverish pace spreading grain to the scrambling ewes. Her unfit muscles began to tremble, but she refused to quit. Eventually, the bleating diminished as they settled down to chow, forming two long rows of efficient eating machines.
C.W. walked over to Nora and rubbed his palms against his jeans. “Whew. Gets pretty noisy in here at feeding time.”
“So I hear,” she replied, wiping her brow. “My ears are still ringing.”
His gaze rested a moment on her bump. “How are you feeling? Any headaches?”
Nora shook her head. “Just tender.”
He raised his callused fingertips to tilt her chin a degree upward as he studied her pupils. Nora’s throat constricted and her chest tightened. She jerked her head away.
“I said I’m fine, thanks.”
C.W. abruptly stepped back. “Enough work for your first day. You’d better rest, or May will have my hide.”
Nora chuckled softly. “Okay. Just for a second. I’m only a little tired.”
She wandered to a small stool and slumped upon its wobbly seat. What a liar she was. She really was pooped. Nora’s bottom just reached the stool when Esther entered the barn with long, confident strides. Nora bolted back up as if the bench were electrified.
Grabbing a pitchfork on her way down the alley Esther called out, “Sorry I’m late, C.W.” When she spied Nora, her eyes widened in surprise. They shared a look, a shorthand reminder of their earlier conversation.
“Didn’t expect to see you down here,” Esther said.
Nora stepped away from the stool. “Why not? This is where I work now.”
Esther seemed to accept that at face value. Without another word, she threw the pitchfork into the hay. Standing on the sidelines, Nora watched the two seasoned farmers shovel impressive forkfuls of hay. She felt out of place, like a fan on the bleacher. Her gaze swept the barn, really taking in for the first time the assorted metal and wood tools, the bottles of medicine, the charts, the mysterious plastic tubes and bins. Tools of the trade. Nora didn’t have the faintest idea what they were or how to use them. Esther, no doubt, could use them all.
Wiping her hands, Nora noticed that her palms were smooth and uncallused, her nails were clean and unchipped, and her jeans were old but unstained. So much to learn, she realized, and so little time. Nora grimaced under the weight of her own ignorance.
She turned to go.
“Leaving already?” Esther called out.
As though on a dance cue, Nora spun on her heel, grabbed the nearest shovel and pail, and began the dirtiest job in the barn: spotting birth plugs.
“Someone’s started labor over here,” she called out.
Esther stilled her fork, her face the picture of surprise. C.W. swung his head around, obviously pleased. “Great. I’ll check the ewe.”
“C.W.,” she said when he approached near enough that she didn’t have to shout. “Would you call me, sometime, to see a birth? If it isn’t too much trouble, that is?”
C.W. finished his quick examination of the ewe, then paused to catch his breath and study her. Nora shuffled her feet as she waited, looked at the new scuff marks on her boots, then bobbed her head back up to meet his gaze. Well? her eyes asked across the distance.
“It’s no trouble,” he replied, deciding. “Nature doesn’t give any warning.”
“Anytime. Please.”
Nodding his head, C.W. turned his back to her, grabbed his fork, and set back to throwing hay.
Nora grinned from ear to ear. As she walked
down the aisle checking out the pen floors, her pail bumping her shins, she felt inordinately pleased with herself. This wasn’t such a bad job after all, she decided. Maybe not her favorite job, but for now, it was the only one she knew how to do.
“Tomorrow, I’ll learn another,” she vowed, peeking over at C.W. and Esther talking together over a pregnant ewe.
“And then another.”
10
AT PRECISELY FOUR O’CLOCK, Nora sat across the bare mahogany dining table from C.W., her ankles together, her back straight, and her hands tightly folded atop a neat pile of papers. If she was going to work successfully with Mr. Walker, he had to first understand that she was capable and up to the job. She had a college degree in business, had spent childhood summers on a dairy farm, was eager to learn, and had bound less energy. There was no reason on earth why she couldn’t make a go of it here in Vermont.
No reason other than money, of course.
She looked across the table at C.W. and wondered how she was ever going to manage working with such a quixotic personality. One minute he seemed almost kind, the next he was critical—and it seemed to her that he was especially critical of her. What had she done to make him feel that way about her? If she was going to fit in here, she had to be one of the guys, like Esther.
C.W.’s long fingers began to tap impatiently upon the table. Okay, Mr. Walker, she thought, clearing her throat. I’m just as eager to end this meeting as you are.
“I intend to be frank with you, Mr. Walker,” she began, hoping she sounded professional. She didn’t realize that to him she sounded more like an arrogant housewife giving orders to the gardener.
He bristled and shifted in his seat.
She fiddled with the corner of a paper.
“I have a net worth statement from Mike’s lawyers,” she continued steadily, “but I would like to verify it with your figures. I’m not sure I trust theirs.”
He found that very interesting. “I can get that for you.”
“Thank you. Next, I need a budget.”
“Uh-huh.”
They were both on their best behavior. Nora felt relieved. So far so good. She decided to dive right in. Taking a deep breath, she reviewed her numerous lists.
“In order to do that, I need a complete farm inventory, the variable and fixed costs, receipts, and,” she added, stressing the syllable, “your projections for next year’s budget. A profit and loss statement is necessary too.” She looked up. “Can you get that for me?”
He hunched forward and she sensed he was hiding a grin of amusement. “Yes,” he replied in a mildly condescending voice. “Usually this is gathered at the year’s end.”
The subtle tease in his voice reminded her of his arrogance the first night she met him. Nora twisted her pencil in her fingers.
“Not this year,” she snapped back.
C.W.’s face hardened as he sat back in his chair.
Nora sat forward in hers. She coupled her hands and leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Walker. I’m aware that we got off on the wrong foot. Somehow, I don’t know why, you got the wrong idea about me and my intentions here.”
She searched his face for some change but found none. Yet she knew she had his complete attention. “I was sincere when I said this isn’t just a vacation home anymore. This place means everything to me.” She flattened her hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I apologize for the inconvenience you’ve suffered and my earlier harsh words.”
C.W. considered her words for what seemed an eternity. She’d never known a man to be silent for so long. Nora pinkened but stared him down, matching his silence with stubbornness.
“Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said, his face grave and his voice low, “I assure you, there is nothing you need apologize to me for. Ever. It is I who should apologize to you.”
Nora slowly leaned back in her chair and dropped her hands in her lap. Her lips parted slightly. C.W. had turned the tables. She’d never expected him to apologize to her.
“Let’s call it even.” Nora was sincere.
“All right,” he said, easing into a wry smile. “As for your other requests, I can get that information for you. But all that will take some time. Seth’s records are filed, shall we say, creatively.”
“I understand.”
“Since we’re being frank here, Mrs. MacKenzie, let me say that I don’t understand. It isn’t gossip to know that you’re loaded. Why are you so worried about money? Things have muddled along on this place for years. A check here to cover expenses, a write-off there.” His tone spoke volumes.
Nora tightened her lips. She hadn’t anticipated this question, at least not so soon. The hardwood of her chair was suddenly very uncomfortable.
“Well, you see, Mike, that is, my husband had some outstanding debts that still need to be settled. Until then, the banks have put me on a restricted allowance.”
His face skewered. “A restricted allowance? Just how restricted?”
Now it was Nora’s turn to bristle. “Let’s just say things will be tight for a while.” She wasn’t about to confide all her financial details.
“Well,” he said, slightly lifting his shoulders. “Banks can be like that.”
“Banks nothing,” she said with unexpected vehemence. “One bank—one man—by the name of Charles Blair. He’s responsible for this.”
C.W. almost reeled back from the shock. “Charles Blair? Did what?”
“I don’t know exactly but I intend to find out, and when I do—” Nora immediately clammed up. She waved her hand, as if to brush away any further thoughts or comments about the disagreeable subject. That was her past. Now she had her future to think about.
For the next half hour, she discussed in her best business tone the groundwork for her eight-week plan: what she needed to learn and what he could help her with. She ended her presentation with a brief plea for his cooperation, knowing she needed all the help she could get.
While he seemed willing enough, his replies were mono syllabic or mere nods of the head, as though he was preoccupied with some other problem. And when she concluded, he grabbed his coat and darted for the door like a schoolboy after the three o’clock bell.
Well, she thought with disappointment as she watched him hike down the mountain road at a clipped pace. What more could she expect? He was, after all, just drifting by.
There was nothing drifting about the way C.W. headed for a telephone. Thoughts were churning full speed in his head, propelling his long legs faster and faster down the mountain to the Johnston house.
Charles Blair connected to MacKenzie’s downfall? What the hell? He did no such thing! Why would she say that? It was too easy to write it off as mindless chatter. She was too sure—too angry—for that, and there was nothing mindless about Nora MacKenzie. He had been impressed with her long tables of figures and her ease with banking terms.
What the bloody hell, he repeated.
When he arrived at the Johnston’s pale green house, he knocked, called, then sighed in relief that no one was home. They’d opened the house to him from the day he arrived: the Johnstons were like family now. He met with Seth and the boys here daily, and Esther had simply assumed he’d be at the family table for meals, a hospitality he was careful not to abuse. He was aware the extended family couldn’t easily absorb the burden of another mouth to feed.
Entering the house uninvited was never considered an intrusion. Today, however, he felt out of place. The task at hand made him a stranger. He walked straight to the phone that would connect him to a world he’d fled ten months ago. He stared at it, but could not touch it.
Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels while he reviewed his conversation with Nora. MacKenzie’s widow was clear that Charles Blair was connected to her financial troubles. C.W. stared out the window. Charles Blair. Charles Blair was another man. He no longer felt akin to the name or the lifestyle of the prominent banker.
The distant perspective helped. A man named MacKenzie had ch
osen to kill himself before a man named Blair. For months he’d asked himself why? To be honest, he never seriously pursued it. It had always been too painful. He’d procrastinated. Now, however, Nora’s presence set the clock ticking.
C.W. reached out again for the phone. His hand shook, like he needed a drink. That sordid image set his mouth in a grim line. Hard memories spawned determination that spurred him to action. Grabbing the phone, he quickly dialed a New York number. As the phone rang he took deep, cleansing breaths, mentally shifting gears. Within seconds, he heard Sidney Teller’s crisp, Boston accent excitedly tell the operator he’d accept the charges.
“Charles! My God, Charles…I’d begun to think you were dead. Where the hell have you been for ten months? Not a word. Not a word!”
C.W. paused, cupping the telephone receiver, and looked around the living room. It was five o’clock and Seth and the kids would be returning from the fields within the hour. Satisfied he was out of earshot, C.W. lowered his mouth to the telephone.
“Why were you worried? I told you I’d be gone for an extended leave. I left the bank in your hands—good hands, I hope.”
“Oh yes, certainly,” sputtered Sidney as he tried to recollect his poise. “But damn it all, Charles. At the very least I expected a postcard from some Tahitian island.”
C.W. smiled and sensed his brother-in-law’s relief over the miles. “I’m all right, really. I needed the time to sort things out.”
He was grateful Sidney had the grace not to press.
“How’s my sister?” C.W. asked.
“You know Cornelia,” Sidney replied. “She takes care of herself.”
Sidney’s reply disturbed C.W., but at the moment, he had business to address.
“Tell me, Sid. In a nutshell, what’s going on with the MacKenzie estate?”
The Long Road Home Page 10