“Is he all right?” she asked again because Rorie was clearly disinclined to answer.
“I swear the two of you is going to wear me out asking how one another is.”
“He asked about me?”
“He did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the same thing you said, only he said ‘she’ ’stead of ‘he.’ ‘Is she all right?’”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I said ‘Not exactly.’”
“Rorie! Why did you tell him that!”
“I told him that because I didn’t want to have to come right out and say being around him every day has got you thinking on him near about all the time. Pining over him, if you was to ask me.”
“I am not pining over him,” Sayer said, knowing her sudden blush was belying that fact with great eloquence.
“Well, what would you call it, then?”
“I’m a widow. I just lost my husband. I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Can’t never let Jeremiah come to mind? Can’t worry about him when you can see things ain’t right with him? Can’t feel all that gratitude for the things he’s done for you and Beatrice and Amity sliding over into something else?”
“I just lost my husband!” Sayer cried.
“Husband in name only,” Rorie said in that maddening, matter-of-fact way she had. “I know you loved Thomas Henry. I reckon everybody around here knows that. You’ll always love him, honey—he’s a big part of what makes you who you are. But he’s gone. As a woman full-growed, you done already spent more time with Jeremiah than you ever did with Thomas Henry, and you know it.”
Yes, Sayer thought. She did know it.
“I’m trying,” she said after a moment.
“Trying what?” Rorie asked.
“Trying not to disrespect Thomas Henry’s memory. Trying to be the kind of wife he deserved.”
“You were the kind of wife he deserved. For four long years. You looked after his mama and you’re still looking after his little sisters and his land. Besides which, I thought Thomas Henry said you and the girls weren’t to grieve.”
“Yes, but he didn’t mean—” She sighed heavily and began gathering up the letters she’d been reading.
“Don’t nobody know what Thomas Henry meant by that but him, and if he was hurt bad and dying, maybe even he didn’t know.”
“It’s too soon,” Sayer said.
“Some people might say so—people what’s got plenty of money and plenty of time on their hands and no young-uns to look after. They can make rules and wait around forever when they don’t have to worry how to make something out of nothing and where the next meal’s coming from. One thing I know for certain sure. Hearts can’t tell time. Hearts don’t even know what time is. They feel what they feel when they feel it—and you can’t talk them out of it even when it’s wrong—which, to my way of thinking, this ain’t.”
Sayer could hear the girls coming back with the water bucket, and she didn’t say anything more. There was nothing she could say. She hadn’t been “letting” Jeremiah come to mind. The truth was that he was never out of it. Of course she could see how troubled he was. She knew the things he’d seen and done haunted him, even before he’d said anything. She prayed for him every single day—and not just sighs and vague, one-word petitions. She was worried about him and she told God so. And just like Rorie said, she could feel the gratitude she felt toward Jeremiah Murphy sliding over into something else.
“He ain’t going to let Halbert hurt you again if he can help it,” Rorie said quietly as the girls began to fill the pots on the stove with water so Sayer could begin cooking their supper.
Sayer looked at her sharply. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”
“I ain’t said nothing before because you had enough on your mind, what with being hurt and Halbert’s big visitation and the news about Thomas Henry.”
“Well, say it now,” Sayer said.
“All right. Here it is, then. I don’t reckon a army deserter or some bushwhacker sneaked in here and took that box of china when you and the girls wasn’t looking. There ain’t but one time I can see how that thievery could have happened and that was when the girls was so sick with the fever and not half knowing where they was. I don’t reckon you just fell and hit your head down at the spring that day. I think Halbert had a hand in it.”
“No. I— No, it must have been like you said. I was worn-out from taking care of them. I must have—”
“I was standing in the trees when Halbert and his men come up here looking for them pretend bushwhackers of his. I seen how surprised they was when you come out of the cabin. Maybe they only meant to scare you and you fell trying to get away from them, or maybe not. But I know this, you up and around and talking sense and not remembering what happened was the last thing they was expecting. What they was expecting was you being bed-rid and so scared you’d be ready to clear out and hand everything over to Halbert in a heartbeat, with or without something legal saying you could. He’d just bide his time till the taxes come due and he’d have the Garth land, free and clear just like he wanted.”
Sayer shook her head. The thing she had been so afraid Halbert might be capable of—that he would actually harm her or the girls—had apparently happened.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he take the china?” Sayer asked, still hoping Rorie was mistaken.
“Because he knows what everybody else here knows—that there china belonged to your mama and it’s precious to you. When a evil man finds out what’s precious, he’ll use it as a weapon. He’ll show you what power he has by taking it away from you. Sometimes it’s china plates. Sometimes it’s...something else.”
Sayer reached up to touch the place on her forehead.
“It’s better if you know what’s what,” Rorie said.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know ‘what’s what,’ Rorie. I don’t know at all.”
“You’re just too believing for your own good, that’s all. You are going to have to mind yourself. You might not fool Halbert with a big spoon next time.”
“If Thomas Henry hadn’t—”
“Thomas Henry is dead. And he owes Jeremiah a whole slew of debts he can’t ever repay. So just maybe you can repay one or two of them for him,” Rorie interrupted. “A kindness for a kindness.”
“He doesn’t come to supper and he doesn’t stop long enough for me to even speak to him.”
“Then corner him,” Rorie said, matter-of-fact as always.
* * *
“Can we eat our candy?” Amity asked, apparently on Beatrice’s behalf, as well, since Beatrice was still determined to seem disinterested in childish things.
“Not now,” Sayer said.
“But when?” Amity asked. “We never have candy.”
“I wonder who ate my peppermint stick, then?” Sayer asked.
“We had to,” Amity assured her. “We wanted to save ours for later—and now it’s later. Can we eat it?”
“No. I thought we’d all take Jeremiah his dinner today, and we’d have a picnic. You and Beatrice can eat some of your candy then—for dessert. That is, if Beatrice wants to eat hers.”
“She does,” Amity said confidently. “I know she does.”
“Well, good. This plan should work out very well, then.”
“It will if Jeremiah can stop and eat with us. Do you think he’ll stop working and eat with us?”
“We can ask,” Sayer said, hoping she wouldn’t have to take Rorie’s advice and corner him.
“I think he will. He likes us,” she decided. “He likes orphans.”
“Yes,” Sayer said. “I believe he does.”
Sayer spent the early morning picking the last of the green beans in the vegetable garden,
and then making biscuits to go with the bacon Jeremiah had bought. She sliced onions and put them in apple cider vinegar, then she steeped some peeled apples to make apple water and had Amity and Beatrice take the jug down to the spring to chill until they were ready to go. As an afterthought, she made fried cherry pies. She had a good supply of dried cherries in boxes filled with straw stored under the beds. And, since Jeremiah’s trip to the general store, she even had real sugar to sweeten them.
When the sun was high, she and the girls left the cabin. Rorie was sitting under the shade tree hard at work putting a threaded needle through green bean pods so they could be hung to dry. “No need to hurry back on my account,” she said as they walked by her. “I ain’t expecting to see you anytime soon—especially since all three of you is going in the wrong direction.”
“It only looks like we’re simple-headed,” Amity assured her, and Rorie laughed.
“If you say so.”
The walk to the field where Jeremiah was plowing was winding and long, but pleasant. What Sayer didn’t expect was that they would startle him so when he saw them. Because they had had to fetch the jug of apple water from the spring, they had emerged from the woods behind where he was plowing, and he clearly hadn’t realized that there might be a circuitous path through the trees that led from the cabin to the high field. She also hadn’t expected that his horse would be hobbled nearby and equally disturbed, or that Jeremiah would be plowing with a sidearm stuck into his belt, one he promptly hid by pulling out the tail of his blue plaid shirt.
“Is it my birthday?” he asked upon seeing the large basket instead of the usual pail.
“No!” Amity cried. “It’s a picnic! And we get to eat the peppermint candy today!”
“It seems to me it’s taken you a long time to get to it,” he said.
“We ate Sayer’s first,” Amity said. “She shares.”
“I shared myself right out of the whole thing,” Sayer said, and he smiled.
“Thank you for getting it for us. I didn’t think I’d ever see peppermint candy again,” Beatrice said in her grown-up way.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his formal tone matching hers.
“When is your birthday, Jeremiah?” Amity asked as he removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his face with his kerchief.
“Well, I’m not sure. Nobody seemed to know at the orphanage. When that happened, it was celebrated on the day we came to live there. If it didn’t suit us, when we were old enough, we got to pick whatever day we wanted. I picked Christmas Eve.”
“Why is that?” Sayer asked because she liked knowing these small things about him, about his life in the orphanage.
“I...thought it was a day when people try to be happy.”
Sayer didn’t know what to say to that, but she did know what he meant. She had always appreciated the peace and joy of Christmas Eve.
“I hope you don’t mind if we stay and share the meal,” she said, watching him closely for some sign that he did.
He gave her one of his “almost” smiles. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better—as long as Miss Amity and Miss Beatrice save a biscuit or two for me.”
Both girls giggled, and they moved out of the heat of the noonday sun and into the shade of the lone tree in the middle of the field where he had left the mule. Sayer and the girls sat on two of the nearby stumps, and Jeremiah sat on the ground.
“Amity, will you say grace?” Sayer said. “I believe it’s your turn. And don’t rush. The candy isn’t going anywhere.”
Amity sighed and did as she was told, clearly making this one of her best efforts for Jeremiah’s benefit. As soon as she’d concluded the prayer that Preacher Tomlin had taught all the children, Sayer began emptying the basket. She could sense that Jeremiah was watching, but she concentrated on the task itself, only daring once to look at him. It was as if he had been waiting for her to do just that. She didn’t—couldn’t—look away.
A kindness for a kindness, she thought, knowing it was more than that.
“Are you hungry, Jeremiah?” Amity asked, breaking into both their thoughts. “We have bacon biscuits. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am, Miss Amity.”
“And we brought apple water. We put it in the spring so it would be cold.”
“My favorite thing to drink. What have you been doing this morning?” he asked, turning his attention back to Sayer, but Amity answered for her.
“All this,” she said, waving her hand over the food. “Sayer made fried cherry pies, too.”
“Those are my favorite,” Beatrice said. “My mama taught Sayer how to make them, didn’t she, Sayer?”
“Yes, she did, and she was very patient with me. It took me quite a while to learn how to do it. The biscuits, too.”
“Mama said Sayer could slay Goliath with her biscuits,” Beatrice said, and he laughed.
“Not that bad, surely.”
“Oh, yes,” Sayer said. “That bad.”
“We fed them to the pigs,” Amity said with her mouth full. “They liked them.”
“Well, these are really good,” Jeremiah said, starting on his third one. “A pig would have a very hard time getting it away from me. I appreciate your bringing the picnic all the way up here.”
“You’re welcome,” Beatrice and Amity said in unison, and he smiled.
“Father Bartholomew would approve of their manners,” he said to Sayer.
“Father Bartholomew?”
“The priest who ran the orphanage. He expected civility at all times, no matter what. Got it, too, usually, in the classroom and out.”
“There was a school? At the orphanage?”
“Yes. I didn’t realize until I was in the army that I’d gotten a better education than most, thanks to Father Bartholomew. He was determined to make sure that we were well prepared to leave and go out on our own.”
“You went to church, as well? Sunday school and preaching services?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem...”
“What?”
“You...seem like a person who...went to church.”
“Not entirely heathen, then.”
“No, I didn’t mean— It’s— I shouldn’t—” She could feel her face growing warm with embarrassment and she looked down at her lap.
“Our souls weren’t neglected, if that is what you mean. Regular church services were a big part of my upbringing,” he said, apparently choosing to answer the question she hadn’t quite managed to voice. “Father Bartholomew never missed an opportunity to teach us the Scriptures and how they applied to us—to real life. It was...helpful. Even when I didn’t want it to be.”
She looked at him. “Are you a heathen now?” she asked bluntly because she wanted—needed—to know, and she couldn’t for the life of her have said why. She just wanted him to be...safe, physically and spiritually.
“Lost souls are important to you,” he said.
She sensed no annoyance in the remark, but she didn’t know if it was a way of avoiding her question or whether it was a statement of his opinion—and so she said nothing.
“Preacher Tomlin seems to think I’m in search of godliness,” he said after a moment.
“Are you?”
“I don’t know.” He gave a quiet sigh and looked away toward the line of trees at the edge of the field. “Maybe I am a heathen. I have every reason to be. Maybe I’m just...mad at God. Or maybe I never had true faith in the first place. Father Bartholomew always said faith would come and then go if you’re not careful. You have to tend it if you want to keep it. I...haven’t done much tending of late.”
“It doesn’t show,” she said quietly. How could any man be as kind as he had been to her—to all of them—and not have faith?
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He was looking at her steadily, and he seemed about to say something more.
But he didn’t, and the silence between them became awkward.
“What do you want to do now that the war is over?” she asked to keep the conversation going.
“Do?” he asked, as if he’d never once considered such a question.
“Have you got a sweetheart, Jeremiah?” Amity suddenly asked. “Beatrice wants to know,” she added, the remark causing her sister to turn beet-red.
“I do not, Miss Amity,” Jeremiah said. He took a long drink from the jug of apple water, Sayer thought to give Beatrice time to recover.
“Why not?” Amity asked the second he lowered the jug.
“Well, she married somebody else,” he said, glancing at Sayer.
“Why in the world did she do that?” Amity persisted, clearly exasperated on his behalf.
“I went off to war. I wasn’t around, and I think she must have gotten tired of waiting.”
“Is your poor heart broken?” Amity asked earnestly.
“No, my poor heart is fine, Miss Amity,” he assured her.
“Waiting is hard,” Beatrice said quietly. “We waited and waited for Thomas Henry.”
No one said anything, and the silence lengthened.
Sayer raised her eyes to find Jeremiah looking at her over Amity’s and Beatrice’s heads.
What is it? she thought. What’s wrong? Whatever it was, she thought it had more to do with the still-hidden revolver than with an engagement gone awry.
“You’re doing it again,” he said, and she looked away. He was right. She was doing it again. She was asking without asking—because she had him cornered.
A flock of crows suddenly flew from one side of the field to the other.
“I didn’t know you brought your horse up here,” Sayer said, making the inane comment because she was hoping to resurrect the conversation and turn it in a different direction. The animal suddenly lifted its head and began to paw the ground.
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