by Caryl McAdoo
He knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her. “I can't, sweetheart. If Isabel says he raped her, then he did. She's not a liar, and she'd never make up something like that, knowing how much it'd hurt you.”
“Oh, Pap! What am I going to do?”
“Trust in the Lord. He'll make a way.”
“But when Junior comes . . .” Her breath caught, and she didn't finish, but Corbin knew what she was talking about.
“Baby, he's not coming. He doesn't love you, and by now, him and my no ’count brother are no telling where. But they won't be coming here.”
“Don't say that, Pap! How can you be so sure?”
“I just am, baby. I know them both. And because once . . . I was just like them.”
By breakfast the next morning, it appeared to Liberty that Gabrielle acted even more morose than at supper the evening before. At least Corbin's two daughters had spent the night in the same wagon. She had offered to share hers with either, but . . . turned out a separation wasn't necessary. Gabrielle apparently had decided to put the blame where it belonged. No never mind her broken heart.
Corbin held out his steaming cup at her. “What day is it?”
“Thursday, the twelfth day of November.”
He grinned. “Didn't want to say anything last night in case the wind got up or it rained, but sometime after dinner today, the barn's main hall will be dry. Might want to write that in your journal.”
“Oh, that's awesome, Corbin! So how long before the wings are up?”
“I'm hoping two weeks total, a day or two more for the north side cause of the slabs. South side is only getting a roof, so it'll take less time. We'll do the north first.”
She returned his smile. “Suppose we'll be able to celebrate our Thanksgiving around then? Two weeks from today? Flynn's seen signs of a roosting tree of a flock of turkeys, but hasn't taken the time to hunt them, claims they're wily.”
“It's a rafter.”
“A rafter? What are you talking about, rafters for the wings?”
“No, ma'am.” He grinned. “A bunch of turkeys isn't called a flock like chickens; a group of turkeys is called a rafter.”
“I had no idea! That's very interesting, Corbin. So, you feel like two weeks works then?”
“How much rain are we going to have?”
“How about just a couple of light showers to keep the garden watered?”
“I'll take that.” He laughed. “Or whatever the Lord sends, but we'll be high and dry for sure and should have both wings roofed at the least.”
“So . . . you said slabs. What exactly are those? And what are you going to do with 'em?”
“They are the unused part of the first cut of a log, then you get another from the last board taken, both slabs have one sawed side and one with the bark on. I'd planned to wall in the north end with them. Adding some chinking will make a nice windbreak.”
“Oh. I'd wondered about that big pile you had going—slabs, huh? I figured they were for the cook-fire. So that's why you wouldn't let anyone have them to burn.”
“Yes, ma'am. I hate to waste anything.” He touched the brim of his hat, with a little gleam in his eye if she saw right. Was he referring to her wasting her life by not marrying him?
He definitely hadn't wasted one hour of a dry day in building that barn of his as fast as he could. A body might think he was racing toward some unseen finish line.
But no matter how she tried to come to a decision, she couldn't get a hold on what her answer would be once the thing was done.
Oh Lord, help me. Guide me to the right path to take.
Like he figured, the last shingle was nailed on the barn's main hall an hour or so after dinner. Then he and Seve went to work on felling more trees, while Laud and Flynn took to fencing the garden.
The mules of late had taken to munching the new growth, especially the rutabaga. One old boy even knew to dig the root. Wonder the others hadn't caught on.
She and the ladies kept at making shingles, though Gabrielle only managed one to everyone else's three. The girls watched the little ladies, and the boys and Stormy were off in the woods scouting. Of late, the hunters—with the help of their dog—had kept the stewpot full.
That and Flynn's snares.
If only she could come to some kind of conclusion about marrying Corbin, life would be great.
She loved it that Texas was giving them so much land just for living on it.
Even with taking Sunday off and the one hard rain that pounded the camp that night, Corbin got the north wing dry in five days.
Seemed to him honoring the Lord one day a week made things go so much better the other six. Liberty had giggled and said she'd been knowing that for years, then she praised him for recognizing the truth of it.
On Friday, the twentieth, he got the slabs up, and everyone unloaded all the cottonseed and grain sacks into the barn. It amazed him and all the rest how much extra room the wagons had.
That'd sure make the living nicer until the cabins went up. That night after supper, he kindled a fire at the east end of the barn, set up a lantern, then fetched the widow and her rocker.
He held her hand as she eased down though she hardly needed the help anymore.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“You're welcome.” He took his own seat across the fire from her.
“I'm so glad that Gabrielle appears to be some better.” The lovely lady rocked herself slowly. “Don't you think?”
“Yes, ma'am, I do.” His girl had been laughing with Alicia earlier in the day. It'd been so long since he'd seen her even smile before that. “But she's still not her old self. Not yet.”
“The poet says time heals all wounds.”
“I don't know.” He shook his head. “I don't think I could ever get over you.”
She waved him off, but he could see the pleasure his words brought.
“Last night I was reading in Corinthians about how it's better to marry than burn. You know that scripture?”
“Yes, but right before that, Paul says it’s better to not marry.”
He thumped the brim of his hat. “You're right. Can't get anything past you, can I? Figured I could skip that part, but you know it all too well.”
“I've been studying it a long time.”
Still . . . for me . . . Maybe I should . . .” How could she do that to him?
“What's funny is.” She laughed, as if full of joy. “I know what you're trying to say. And I'm sorry.”
He took his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair, then flipped it back on. “Don't you see? We're a matched pair, Liberty. The barn's almost done. Could you . . . maybe just give me a hint of your mind?”
“Corbin, the last thing I want to do is keep you on the edge of your seat. The Word says not to be anxious for anything.” She shook her head. “Right this minute, I'm hanging smack dab in the middle between two opinions, and I do not know exactly which way I'm going to swing.”
He nodded, but that wasn't the answer he wanted. “I love you, Liberty Hope O'Neal, and I always will, no matter if you marry me or not. If you were to say yes, it would make me the happiest man alive.”
Indeed, a part of Liberty wanted to shout yes, and get it over with. Just agree. He was a good man, a hard worker, and she wouldn't be alone all her life or a burden to her children. So many pluses! The biggest one was that he loved her. She believed the man truly did. But then that other part clamped her mouth shut.
Why was she being that way? She was free, and he'd make a good husband. Was it God causing her to be so cautious? Or because she couldn't know for sure she loved the man?
How many times had he proclaimed his love for her?
And she'd even considered maybe that was a part of her problem. Was she like his first true love? Like Reagan had been to her?
Was that it?
Could that be what was holding her back?
If she did say yes, she'd have to tell him. The Lord wouldn't let her rest un
til she'd told Reagan. Could she stand Corbin knowing the ugly truth about her?
Would he still love her then? If he really ever did? Perhaps it would make a good test.
That night she wrestled with the dilemma, but no forthright answer proclaimed itself. The next morning, she kept it at bay while she worked on making more shingles. How nice to have the wall at her back! She loved it.
The last few days, the wind had carried a right nice bite to it. Hadn't had that first killing freeze, but the mosquitoes and flies hadn't been as bad of late. Winter was coming though, blowing down from the north just as sure as the new year would bring the glorious spring to follow it one more time.
“Hey, Lib.” Mallory tossed a shingle on the pile. “I know you've been in a quandary, girl. You've been stewing for weeks now. You haven't made up your mind yet though. Anything I can help with?”
“No.”
Her friend threw a nod toward where the men worked. “He'll be finished before long. Didn't you say you'd give him an answer then?”
“Yes.” Liberty nodded toward the barn's far end. “Take a walk with me.”
Her best friend put her hatchet down, smiled at Alicia and Gabrielle, then joined Liberty as she strolled out of earshot.
“So, what's the holdup? You two are thicker than thieves of an evening—and any other time you can get together. It's obvious he loves you. And don't you care about him?”
Liberty nodded but kept on walking. Once fifty or so paces from the barn, with a good look around, she lowered her gaze and studied the ground. She finally looked into Mal's eyes. “Don't you know that if I say yes, I'll have to tell him why we left home?”
Mallory recoiled. “No! You absolutely do not! That's ancient history.”
“The Lord wouldn't leave me alone until I told Reagan, and Corbin has a right to know what he's getting.”
“Did Reagan know about me, too?”
“No. And I'd never say anything to Corbin about you either.”
“Good. I'd be horrified.” Mallory hugged herself and looked over Liberty's shoulder. “Just because we made the mistake of going to that stupid roadhouse when we were so young does not have to ruin the rest of your life.”
“If only that's all it was. Lying to those two men, letting them keep buying us drinks . . . then leaving with them! But in the end, you didn't let it go any further . . . unlike me.”
“Only because your father showed up when he did.”
“If only he'd been an hour sooner, they never would've stolen that buggy to get us out of there.”
“Amen.” Mallory slipped her hand into Liberty's. “I think you should say yes, but not tell Corbin a thing about our youthful indiscretions.”
“If only I could, but it's only been what?” She ran the permutations in her head. Today was the twentieth. “Mercy, Mal. Has it really been two months since Reagan died?”
“That seems right.”
“At times, it seems like it was a lifetime ago, then at others, like it was only yesterday. You really think I should marry Corbin?”
“I do. But keep your mouth shut about . . .” Mallory hiked her eyebrows. “Especially my part.”
Liberty squeezed her friend's hand. “Come on. Let's go see if Esther needs any help with dinner. I'm tired of splitting shingles.”
Her sister-in-law did, but before the cornbread got put in the coals, the dog took to barking his fool head off.
“Pa, get the gun, it’s a bear.” Aaron raced toward the creek.
Turned out to be Thomas and his sisters.
Chapter Thirty-five
Corbin really didn’t want to stop working on the barn, but all his help had gone to meet the new neighbors, so he moseyed on over.
Besides, if that Thomas fella truly had eyes for his daughter like all the ladies said, he needed to put the man on the balance beam. Check him out and see if he was worthy of his baby girl.
That thought brought a nick to his heart, reminding him he'd previously failed miserably in that regard. Why couldn't he see?
Because he stayed drunk, that's why, and his dearest treasure in the world suffered on account of it—maybe her whole life. What would she tell Mister Baldwin about her expecting a little one?
The truth would be the right answer, of course.
But the truth . . . it was so hard.
The young man . . . how had he possibly done all he claimed at what? Twenty-five? He kept stealing glances at Gabrielle while his older sisters introduced everyone. Sure hoped the widow was getting all the names straight.
He could hardly remember one or two, much less . . . He counted. Ten! After a while, he'd learn them all. Once he got someone's handle, he had it; but he was terrible at the first.
Thomas nodded right at him then held his hand out and looked at the others in his family. “This here is Mister Harrell. He's the carpenter I've been telling you about. Just look at it, ain't it something?”
He turned in a circle gawking at the barn's roof. “Shingles! I should have figured. You have a gift indeed.”
All agreed, but then Thomas surprised him. “We were thinking if we helped finish yours, maybe you could get us going on one of our own.” He turned to Seve.
“And sir, we'd find it right neighborly if you could show us you and yours westward corners, wouldn't want any disputes over a little daub of land. Figured we'd mark ours off yours.”
“Of course, glad to. Corbin thinks a couple of more days, and we can have our barn done.” Seve turned to face him. “Right?”
“Should. And with the extra help, we might even get the doors hung by then. That is, if Laud can find the time to forge the hinges.”
“You're a smithy? That's great.” Thomas rubbed his hands together. “Good then. It's settled. What's first?”
Esther flapped her apron then smiled. “You folks hungry? I can whip up another pan of cornbread. The beans should stretch.”
Thomas's oldest sister—if he had it right—stepped forward. “We've got jerky and a fresh baked loaf of light bread to throw into the meal.”
The younger one—Dilly he remembered because he liked that name—pulled a child next to her. “And a jar of honey.”
“Well then, let's eat.”
Seve invited the preacher man . . . Hunter? . . . to pray over the meal.
Corbin ate slowly, keeping an eye on Thomas who spent more time trying to spark his daughter than fill his belly. Good thing she hadn't started showing much yet.
Appeared she noticed the fella, but didn't act too interested, if any at all. Maybe the Lord had sent the young man to help Gabrielle get over Junior.
Or could it be to give him another chance at being a father?
The next day, Liberty loved having a real live Reverend holding services in the barn—except in her mind's eye, it was already a church building.
No wonder the folks in Fannin County kept him longer than anticipated at his camp meeting. George Hunter proved to be a gifted speaker who certainly loved the Lord with great gusto.
Poor man couldn't sing a lick, but that obviously didn't bother him as he sang as loud as anyone! His wife had a pleasant voice and a good ear to harmonize.
Nothing like her Flynn's, but the melody in a person's heart, that's what really mattered.
That night she made a point of recording all the names in her journal. The clan's first neighbors, and right next door so to speak.
What a blessing to have such God-fearing folks.
Lifting her quill and her eyes, she thanked the Lord for the newcomers. She'd paid extra close attention to the children's names that afternoon since that's what kept her from recording the folks the night before.
The thought of Corbin leaving on Tuesday and being gone two days left a foul monkey in her mood, but he promised to be no later than Friday.
Everyone would be coming back for a grand Thanksgiving dinner together. Since no one could decide exactly what day should be celebrated, she guessed any was as good as another, and the con
sensus thought Saturday would work.
Plus, then the Reverend Hunter could hold Sunday services again.
Any day late in November was fine with her. A couple of times growing up, her family had even celebrated it in December. The clan certainly had plenty to be thankful for. She thought of standing over Reagan's grave. How could she be thankful for that? She would never have imagined herself such a young widow.
But then what about Corbin. If her husband hadn't passed, would she ever have led him to Christ's salvation? Just like the Good Book said, the Lord definitely caused good to come from such a tragedy . . . but . . . Hmm. Would she want Reagan back if it meant Corbin lost eternal life in Heaven? How could she?
TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A TIME
She looked around. No one was there. Only her sleeping, precious Charity Grace.
“A time to live.” She whispered. “And a time to die.”
In her mind's eye, all the events from the last couple of months played out . . . since leaving the Tennessee homestead, and the Lord showed her His hand and His guidance through it all.
She could be thankful on that special day. Truly thankful without any reservations. On Thanksgiving, she'd thank God for Reagan's death and for Corbin's salvation.
Not that giving thanks shouldn't be an everyday offering to the Lord—more than just at meals, too—but to her and to Him, she figured—acknowledging that every good blessing came from above and was His gift to His children . . .
Well, it mattered.
Giving thanks to the Lord.
Friday next, midmorning, Corbin would have liked to stay a while longer, but he'd promised to get on back, and his eyes needed to behold Miss Liberty Hope. Mercy, what was it going to take to convince that woman to be his mis'ess?
With great trepidation, he left his tools with Thomas and headed east with Seve. Better than halfway there, the man broached a subject Corbin figured he never would.
“I've been thinking.” The Norwegian threw his head sideways as though having trouble getting his words out, and they needed some help.