The memory of Luthias Knox interrupted his otherwise peaceful thoughts. He frowned and gripped the mattress until his hands ached. Knox was the last person in the world he had wanted to see. Especially on his first day back. Well, the second to the last. An image of Emmalyne Knox came to mind, but Tavin quickly pushed it aside in anger.
“I never should have come home,” he all but growled. Letting go of the mattress, Tavin got to his feet. “I should have stayed as far away from here as possible. I must be a glutton for punishment.”
He pulled his anger around him like a protective shield. The Knox family had made his life most unpleasant, and he had no desire to subject himself to more of the same.
“But you made a promise,” he muttered to himself, taking up his work shirt. His father had reminded him of that promise just before they’d retired last evening. Tavin could still hear the man’s words. In the MacLachlan family, giving one’s word meant everything. Even when the matter was something small. Tavin remembered his father speaking to him about such issues when he was very young.
“A man is no better than his word, lad. A man must always be true to his pledges, even when they seem trivial. So, my boy, dinnae give yer word unless ye intend to keep it.” The memory made him uncomfortable. Surely his father could understand the difficulty Tavin faced in keeping his word this time.
I’ll just tell him that it won’t work. I’ll explain how much I hate that man and how much he obviously hates me.
But even as he buttoned his shirt, Tavin could hear his father’s statements from the night before. “I’m trusting ye to make guid on yer word. I know the presence of Luthias and Angus Knox might make ye feel uncomfortable, but I’m not askin’ ye to work side by side. Luthias will be keepin’ the books, and Angus is workin’ with the horses. Ye need nae see each other.”
Of course, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t see each other at all. Mr. Knox now knew that Tavin had returned. He no doubt was just as uncomfortable in that knowledge as Tavin had been in learning about him. Had they unwittingly let loose a box of snakes?
“They know I’m here, and I know they’re here. Maybe that is enough to keep us away from each other,” he said into the silence of his room.
But knowing they were here—knowing that Emmalyne was just a few short miles away—tortured Tavin’s heart like he’d never known. There would come a time, he knew, that he would have to see her again. A time when he would have to face up to the fact that as much as he had tried to hate her and the very memory of their time together . . . Tavin MacLachlan still loved Emmalyne Knox.
Chapter 9
In the weeks that followed, Emmalyne watched her mother slip deeper and deeper into her sorrow. What little progress had previously been made was easily eliminated by Father’s harsh spirit and refusal to consider the trip to Scotland. Emmalyne had tried twice to broach the subject with him, but he had quickly and abruptly put an end to the discussion. He had no money for such frivolities, and she would do well to put such thoughts away. The expression on his face confirmed his unmovable intention.
But the mere suggestion of such a trip had given her mother real joy, and Emmalyne wished there might be some way she could earn the money herself. Even then, however, her father would no doubt declare the trip impossible. He expected his womenfolk to remain at home, working and tending to his needs. Luthias Knox was a tyrant ruling his family with an iron fist. He had no compassion for them. No love.
The idea that her father didn’t love her was a rather new realization. As a child she had convinced herself that all fathers conducted themselves in similar fashion: Fathers were too busy for hugs and tenderness. They showed their love through hard work and provision. Even his frugal nature could be evidence of his love, she had told herself. But now Emmalyne knew otherwise. She had spent a lifetime convincing herself of a lie in hopes of easing her pain.
Having finished separating the milk and cream, Emmalyne knew she needed to get to the task of making butter. It would be difficult as the day grew warmer, so she needed to begin to work in the early morning hours. Mother wouldn’t awaken until much later, and Father and Angus had already headed off to the quarry.
Kirning butter, as her mother called it, had never been a favorite job. Emmalyne found it tedious work to paddle the cream, drain the kirn milk—or buttermilk, as it was usually called in America—and wash the butter until it was ready to mold into shape. Her mother had inherited a Scottish superstition about the task and insisted Emmalyne throw salt in the fire prior to churning so the butter would form. Other times, when the churning seemed to take overlong, her mother would press a hot poker into the contents to drive away the faeries. Whether Mother really believed in fairies or not, the trick always seemed to work.
With the house quiet around her, Emmalyne gathered the cream she’d put aside and began her task. Father would be glad for the new buttermilk. They’d been without his favorite treat for some time, and he had mentioned only last night having his heart set on a bowl of foorach. Emmalyne didn’t particularly care for the taste of buttermilk and oatmeal, but she made the dish with some regularity for her parents.
To pass the time, Emmalyne tried her best to pray and recite Scripture passages from memory. Often she would churn the butter with an open Bible at her side. It was a good way to get in some extra reading, and usually it lifted her spirits.
It was a great disappointment that they were now too far from town for a quick walk to church. She knew such outings would do Mother good, but there would be no broaching the subject with Father.
I don’t know why these things have come to rest on our shoulders, Lord, but I do pray for strength to overcome, the wisdom to learn, and the faith to hear your voice. Show me how to love and forgive Father.
In time, the butter began to form, and Emmalyne quickly drained and washed the yellow mixture. She had just set aside the kirn milk when she heard the unmistakable sound of a horse’s whinny. She went to investigate and found Dr. Williams descending from the back of his tall black horse.
“Good morning,” he called. He quickly tied off the gelding and grabbed his bag. “I’ve come to see your mother.”
“She’s still sleeping,” Emmalyne replied. “But if you’d like to come inside and wait, I’m sure she will awaken before long. I’m churning butter just now and must return to it, but you are welcome to keep me company.”
A smile revealed straight white teeth. “I’d like that very much.”
She nodded and opened the screen door in welcome. Dr. Williams bounded up the steps and made his way into the house. Emmalyne took his hat after he’d removed it. “If you’d like to take a seat, I can get you a cup of coffee or tea.”
“Thank you. Either would be fine.” He sat down on one of the chairs by the table.
She went to the counter, where she knew there was some coffee left from the morning meal. She felt the pot. “It’s tepid. Let me warm it for you.”
“It’s not important. I’m not really in need of refreshment as much as conversation.”
She looked at him oddly and placed the pot on the stove. “Conversation. With me?”
He chuckled and ignored her question. “I must say you’ve done amazing things with this place.” He gazed around the room in awe. “I can hardly believe it’s the same house.”
“Angus has been good to work on the outside,” she said, returning to the churn. “And I’ve done what I could inside. Together we make a good team.” She rinsed the butter once again, satisfied that it was finally ready to put into the wooden molds.
“I would imagine you’d be an asset to any man. You’ll make a wonderful wife.”
His words startled her, and she looked up in some shock. It seemed to be a rather personal comment to make, considering they hardly knew each other. Emmalyne thought to answer, then decided against it. She returned her attention to the butter without another word.
If her silence offended the good doctor, he made no sign of it. “How is your
mother faring?” he asked.
“Poorly,” she admitted. “She was a bit better, but then had a . . . well, a disappointment.”
“What kind of disappointment?”
Emmalyne looked over to find him watching her quite intently. “There came a post from Scotland. Her sister wrote to invite us to visit. Mother thought it would be a wonderful trip to make, but my father was against it.”
“But why? Such a trip might very well make a great change in her physical and emotional health.”
“I know. But for Father, the money is of more import. He worries constantly about the cost of everything. In fact, if he knew you were here today, he would no doubt send you packing. Money for doctors and such is only to be spared in emergencies. He’s done nothing but grumble about Mother’s condition; that she’s not getting better causes constant strife.”
“Then I won’t charge for the visit,” Dr. Williams said with a shrug. “Your father surely can’t protest that.”
“One would like to think not,” Emmalyne said in a barely audible voice, “but you do not know my father.”
The doctor nodded and rubbed his chin. “Nevertheless, I feel it’s my responsibility to check on the ailing and injured. Your mother is suffering, and I won’t leave her unattended.”
“That’s most kind of you. I must say, I appreciate your concern, even if Father does not.”
“That’s quite all right.” He grinned. “It gives me a chance to know you better.”
Emmalyne didn’t know how to reply to that. She had no desire to explain the details of her family’s traditions and why getting to know her better would be a waste of Dr. Williams’s time . . . unless he was simply looking for a friend.
Without another word, she went to the stove and checked the coffee. Finding it warm enough to serve, she poured the doctor a cup and handed it to him. “Would you like cream or sugar?”
“No, black is fine.”
She went to where she had left a covered tray and lifted the towel. “Would you care for a scone? I made them just this morning.”
He gave her a look of pure delight. Emmalyne turned her attention back to the tray. “They’re cinnamon and nutmeg. I can put one on a plate for you and bring you some butter.”
“That would be wonderful. You are an extremely talented woman, Miss Knox.”
She tried to ignore this further compliment and placed a scone in front of him. Next she dished up a portion of the new butter and put that on the table beside the scone. Smiling, she turned back to her task. “I have to get the rest of this butter into the molds, so I hope you won’t mind if I keep working while we talk.”
“Not at all. I rather like watching you work. You’re quite graceful in all you do—why, you made falling from the chair look almost elegant.”
Emmalyne had to laugh. “Hardly. It was by far and away one of my less graceful moments, and I would hope you might forget about it.”
“I can’t—not that I want to.” His voice had turned husky, and Emmalyne couldn’t help but look his way. She could see something akin to yearning in Dr. Williams’s expression. She’d seen that same look in Tavin’s eyes long ago.
Emmalyne quickly changed the subject. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good hostess. I didn’t even provide you with a knife.” She hurried over to the counter. “As I was saying earlier,” she continued, handing him a knife, “Mother did seem to benefit from your suggestion of getting outdoors more. I set up a place for her down by the stream and another on the porch. She had enjoyed both locations prior to getting her sister’s letter. Now I’m afraid she’s taken to her room again.”
“No doubt even small disappointments appear as major hurdles to overcome,” the doctor said quietly. “Her spirit seems almost broken.”
“I agree.” Emmalyne pressed the butter into molds. So long as she could keep her hands busy and her attention on something other than the handsome doctor, she felt less uncomfortable.
“Does she have any hobbies or interests in life? Anything that she used to do just for the pleasure of doing it?”
Emmalyne thought for a moment. “She taught all of us girls to make creel baskets for fishing. They were popular in Scotland, and Mother said she and her sisters used to make them all the time. They would sell them for extra money to buy fabric for dresses and such.” Emmalyne smiled at the memory of learning to make the baskets. “She taught me when I was quite little. I have two older sisters, and they were already very good at the task. So when I started, Mother gave me her undivided attention. I cherish the memory. We would have so much fun talking and dreaming while we worked.”
“Might she make baskets again if you were to ask her?”
The pleasant image faded from her thoughts. “I don’t think so. You see, she taught my younger sisters to weave the baskets, as well. We would make them and sell them. Fishing is quite popular here in Minnesota, as you must know. The stores were happy to take as many as we could make. My younger sisters were even faster and better at making them than I was. When they died, my mother never set her hand to another piece again.”
“Maybe it’s time to suggest she rekindle that interest. Maybe you could encourage it as a memorial.”
“What do you mean?” Emmalyne stopped and fixed him with a gaze.
His smile sent tingles up her spine, and she almost dropped the mold of butter on the floor. Recovering, she hurried to put the containers in the icebox and chided herself for such silliness.
“I think you could explain to your mother that it would be a positive way to remember your sisters. Since you all had such a pleasant time making the baskets, maybe you and your mother could set out to make a few and talk about your sisters and how much they loved the craft.”
“I suppose I could try, but I have a feeling it would only cause Mother more pain. I’ve offered to read to her as she did for us so long ago, but even that moves her to tears.” She returned from the icebox and began cleaning the paddle and churn.
“And making the baskets might do the same—at first. It also might allow her to feel close to your sisters again. Do you talk much about them?”
“They are rarely mentioned, and never around my father. He will not hear of us speaking their names. In fact, he forbids us to speak the names of any of the dead.” Emmalyne placed the churn on the counter and took up a cloth to clean the table where she’d been working. “As I’ve mentioned before, Father blames Mother for their deaths. His heart is quite hard toward their memory . . . and toward God, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Williams devoured the treat before him, his expression revealing his utmost approval. “By the way, this scone was absolutely delicious.” He licked the crumbs from his fingers. “You also need to realize that your father is using anger to cope with his own grief.”
“It’s always been his way,” Emmalyne replied, “but I don’t think it’s just grief that makes him act that way. I think it’s just his nature.”
“Men often shield their pain in fortitude and indifference—at least seeming indifference.” He picked up his coffee cup and looked at it for a moment. “Men are taught from the cradle that to show emotions or pain makes them less than the strong, upright men they were meant to be. I remember my own father telling me that I should never let anyone see me cry.” He shrugged and drank from the cup. Putting it back on the table, his expression changed to one of regret. “He died shortly after that.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven.” He gave her a sad smile. “And I didn’t cry, though I wanted to.”
Tavin turned the chisel and raised the sledgehammer again to strike and drive the steel deeper into the granite. A splitting line of holes had been placed by the quarry master, the first steps in the long process to break the block of stone away from the larger mass. About six inches apart, the holes were drilled approximately three inches deep. Next, iron wedges would be used along with pieces called feathers—long narrow shims—to widen the hole and further encourage a break along the so-c
alled cleavage plane. Granite was easy to process in this manner, and the breaks were usually quite clean.
“Make sure you get these chisels to Smithy,” he told Jimmy, one of the younger men. The blond-haired youth looked up and nodded. Each of the quarries had a blacksmith on-site. The man was probably the most valuable of all the employees, since it was his job to keep the tools sharpened and in good repair.
Tavin finished and pulled the chisel out. He reached for a dust spoon and cleaned the rock bits from the hole. It was just deep enough. Jimmy was already positioning the shims, and Tavin would soon begin the process of driving the wedges.
“Here’s the last of ’em,” Tavin said, tossing the boy his chisel. “Bring up another set when you come back.”
“Sure thing.” The young man hurried to collect the chisels and darted off the rock and up a wooden ladder.
Tavin rubbed his hands and winced at the blisters that had formed. His hands were naturally calloused from hard work, but drilling the rock always brought about sore spots that he never experienced with other activities. He wiped them against his bare chest, dampening them from the sweat that had formed. The moisture seemed to ease the pain a bit.
The sun overhead bore down and heated the rock around him. Tavin remembered days long past when he would quarry along with his father for other owners. The work was always exhausting. Tavin had little satisfaction in quarry work—unlike stone carving. Carving designs and artistic script into stone gave Tavin a sense of accomplishment. It was akin to leaving a part of himself in the rock. Cutting stone from the ground, as he was doing just now, was not as creative. Who knew where this rock would end up? Who knew how it would be used?
“Gawking off like that won’t get the stone cut.”
Looking up, he found his younger brother, Gillam, standing on the ledge some ten feet above. Tavin crossed his arms and shrugged. “I’m playing foreman.” He grinned at his brother. “Isn’t that how it’s done?”
Tracie Peterson - [Land of Shining Water 02] Page 8