Tracie Peterson - [Land of Shining Water 02]

by The Quarryman's Bride

Emmalyne stepped forward and handed him the mug. Despite his less than gracious response, her father took a good long drink before setting the cup aside.

  “Do you love me, Father?”

  Her question took him by surprise, and for just a moment she saw his blue eyes widen. Then the careful mask was back in place. He turned back to the grindstone. “Git on with ye. Such nonsense.”

  Emmalyne moved to stand beside him. “I don’t think it’s nonsense, Father. I need to know. Do you love me?”

  He muttered an oath and put the grindstone back in motion. “I hinnae the time for this.”

  Dropping to her knees on the dirt floor of the barn, Emmalyne waited a moment to speak. Her action startled her father, and he stopped pumping the grindstone. He scowled at her. “I’m busy, girl. Git on with ye.”

  “Please, Father, give me just a moment.” Emmalyne looked up at him, and she felt herself tremble. She had known him to slap her hard when he didn’t like her attitude. He had even raised welts on her back after taking a thick switch to her, although the last time that had happened had been a decade or more ago.

  When he said nothing more, Emmalyne took a breath to calm herself and continued. “I know you’ve had a lot of bad things happen to you in life. As a family, we have known a great deal of sorrow. But I can’t help but ask if you have any love for me. You see, Father, I find myself asking the same question about my feelings toward you.”

  Now he looked puzzled, and Emmalyne hurried to explain, lest he lose interest. “Father, I realize that mostly I fear you. I respect you, and I know that it is my place to honor you. But—” she paused for another breath—“I cannot say for sure . . . that I love you.” She frowned. “It pains me to admit this, because I had always thought I held love for you. After all, you are my father. But to say differently would be a lie.”

  It might have been her imagination, but Emmalyne was almost sure her father’s expression softened just a bit. She wondered if she had reached him, at least in part.

  “I owe you an apology, Father. I’m sorry I’ve not shown you the love you deserve.”

  To her surprise he countered with, “I donnae deserve love. Especially from ye.” His eyes seemed to fill with regret, and for a moment Emmalyne thought he might say more. But just as quickly, the façade of harsh indifference went back in place. He turned back to the grindstone and studied the axe across his hands in silence.

  “Father, I want very much to learn to love you,” Emmalyne said, bravely soldiering on. “I hate that there is so much anger and bitterness in our family. God does not intend for it to be that way. I know you are angry at God for taking Doreen and Lorna. Mother told me as much.”

  Her father looked at her with a dark scowl. “We wiltnae speak their names.”

  “But why, Father? They brought us great joy, and their loss hurt all of us deeply. We can’t change that fact just by not speaking their names.” She knew she was risking much with her forthrightness, but Emmalyne couldn’t stop now. “Wouldn’t it be more to our benefit to remember them and the love we shared?”

  “’Tis wimen’s feelin’s ye speak of. I have nocht to say.” He began forcefully grinding the head of the axe once again.

  Emmalyne got to her feet but stayed at her father’s side in silence. She prayed for the strength to continue. She wanted to feel a measure of love for this man—this unlovable, angry man. She wanted to forgive him for what he’d stolen from her, even though he didn’t believe himself in need of forgiveness.

  “Father, forgive me for not loving you.”

  He growled in frustration. “I’ve got ma work to do. There is nocht to forgive—now be gone.”

  Emmalyne put her hand on his well-muscled arm. For a man who spent most of his days working in an office, he had maintained a sturdy, firm body that could meet most any task.

  “Please, Father. I won’t be able to rest if you don’t at least try to forgive me.”

  Finally he looked her in the eye. She could see his irritation, but also something else. She couldn’t really tell what it was, but it seemed to make him less imposing.

  “There’s nocht to forgive. I ne’re gave ye reason to love me. I dinnae ask for love, and dinnae deserve such.”

  Emmalyne felt her chest tighten at this declaration. It was clear her father not only felt undeserving of love, but wanted nothing of it when offered. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was afraid.

  “I’m praying that you will change your mind. Our heavenly Father is offering love, and I believe He wants very much for us to love one another. I think He has called me to repent of not loving you as I should, and I will endeavor to show you that love.” She paused and wondered for a moment if her next words would undo any progress she might have made with the man.

  “I have but one more thing to ask of you, Father.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Forgive Mother. She needs your love. She’s very nearly died from the lack of it. Angus’s sickness caused her to feel needed again, but I know her greatest desire is to know she is loved by you.”

  Her father was clearly disturbed by this comment, and Emmalyne realized the time had come to leave him with his thoughts. She turned and walked from the barn without another word.

  She wasn’t at all surprised by her father’s return to silence. “Lord,” she whispered in the damp night air, “please let him see the truth of it and be willing to do something about it.”

  Tavin finished his coffee and watched as his mother straightened her hat. She had a quickness in her step that he’d not seen in some time—all because he’d offered to stay home and care for Fenella while the rest of the family attended church.

  “I’ve not been in a month of Sundays,” his mother had admitted. She clearly had missed it most dearly.

  Tavin knew that prior to the boys’ bout with measles, his mother and father had taken turns taking the boys to church. Fenella was usually medicated and quiet during this time, but they still didn’t dare leave her alone.

  “Are you sure you donnae mind staying?” his mother asked.

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I did. I can see how difficult this situation has become.”

  “Aye. We may well have no other choice but to do as the doctor suggests,” Mother said quietly, resignation in her tone.

  “We can’t just throw people away like so much garbage,” Tavin muttered, not yet convinced. “They have feelings and needs, even if they are sick or injured.”

  His mother paused and gave him a sad smile. “I seem to remember you cast Emmalyne away in that manner.”

  Tavin sat back in the chair, astonished at such a comparison. “No, she cast me away. She’s the one who refused to marry me. She’s the one who decided her mother and father’s needs were more important.”

  “You must admit, the situation was exceedingly difficult for her. I believe she still cares for you, Tavin.”

  He got to his feet so quickly he knocked over the remainder of his coffee. The dark liquid soaked into his mother’s linen tablecloth. “Now see what you’ve made me do,” he grumbled, though he knew it wasn’t his mother’s fault. He went to retrieve a dish towel and tried to sop up the spreading stain.

  “’Tis no matter, Tavin. It doesn’t change the truth.” She touched his shoulder. “I will be praying for you today. I ken there’s a great bit of pain inside of you. I ken, too, that it’s the kind of pain that only God can take away.”

  Tavin looked up and met her gaze. He didn’t want to hear her words. Why couldn’t she understand that even God couldn’t take away this much hurt?

  Chapter 17

  “Remind yer mither that I’ll be helpin’ Gillam tonight,” Robert MacLachlan told his oldest son as they stood in the office of the quarry.

  Tavin nodded. “I’ll remind her.”

  “And ye’ll be goin’ right home?”

  “Aye. The men invited me to come share in libations and games, but I’m not in the mood for such things. I’l
l just head home and see what I can do to help Mother.”

  His father’s expression changed to one of concern. “Yer sister isnae gettin’ any better.”

  “I know.”

  “Do ye ken the doctors want to put her away?”

  “I do,” Tavin admitted.

  “What think ye?” his father asked.

  The frank question surprised Tavin. “I’ve been thinking on that very thing. Mother is so tired, and she’s often injured while caring for Fenella. She said that twice recently Fenella has escaped her and harmed the boys, as well.”

  “Aye. I fear our lass is no more the Fenella we once knew.” The anguish in his father’s voice was so clear that Tavin had to turn his head away for a moment.

  “Maybe the doctor is right,” Tavin finally said. “Perhaps they could even help her. Maybe she needs to be in a hospital or someplace where doctors can work with her all the time. Maybe something can be done that we’re unable to do here at home.”

  “Aye. Mebbe.” Father gave Tavin’s shoulder a sorrowful pat. “It’s guid to have ye back, son.”

  Tavin waited until his brother and father were on their way. He wanted to make certain the other men had secured the equipment and were off the premises before leaving the quarry. Despite an undercurrent of grumbling and rumors, there hadn’t been any additional vandalism or conflicts with the union—and Tavin wanted to be sure that it stayed that way.

  Seeing nothing out of place, Tavin headed home. It wasn’t a long walk, but tonight it felt like it took forever. He couldn’t help but feel weighed down by the problems of his sister’s condition, as well as by memories of Emmalyne Knox. He thought of his mother’s comments last Sunday. She believed Emmalyne still cared for him, and if he was honest with himself, he thought as much, too. She had looked at him with the same expression that he’d once known so many years ago. The love and joy in her eyes might have been more subtle and guarded, but it was there nonetheless.

  He was nearly to the back porch door when he heard a terrible scream. Running for the house, Tavin was through the porch and kitchen and up the stairs before the second ear-piercing sound. At the end of the hall, Tavin spied Gunnar squatting in the corner with his hands over his ears. He was crying and didn’t seem to notice his uncle.

  Tavin had no idea of where Lethan might be, but he could see from the open doorway to his sister’s room that their mother was in the midst of an awful battle with Fenella.

  “You need to take your medicine, Fenella,” his mother was saying in a calm tone, even as she wrestled with her daughter. “It will make you feel better.”

  Tavin stepped into the room and called out, “Mother, let me help you.”

  The sound of his voice caught Fenella’s attention, and she stopped struggling. She looked up at Tavin, appearing much like a little child caught doing wrong. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, lowering his tone.

  Mother relaxed her hold and straightened. “She needs her medicine and doesn’t want to take it.”

  Tavin stepped nearer to his sister. “Maybe now she’ll be willing.”

  Their mother nodded and retrieved a small tin cup. “I have it in here with a little cocoa. She seems to like it best that way. At least sometimes.”

  Taking the cup in hand, Tavin lifted it to his sister’s lips. “Now, drink this like a good lass,” he instructed.

  Fenella didn’t offer a single protest, quietly accepting the medicine. When she’d finished, Tavin smoothed back the hair from her face and kissed her cheek. “There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  She didn’t say a word, but something in her expression seemed to suggest understanding. Mother gently but firmly took Fenella’s hand and led her to a small table and chair. “If you would see to the boys, Tavin, I’ll finish feeding your sister.”

  He nodded and stepped back into the hall, where Gunnar was still crying. Lifting the boy into his arms, Tavin carried him downstairs, talking the entire time, assuring Gunnar that he was safe.

  “My mama hurts me,” Gunnar told him, his lip trembling. “She twisted my arm and hit me.”

  “Your mama is very sick. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing when she hurts you.”

  The boy nodded. “She is sick. Grandma said she’s bad sick.”

  Tavin wiped tears from the child’s eyes. “I’m sorry to say you are right, Gunnar.” He looked around the foyer, then into the front room. “Where’s your brother?”

  “Sleepin’. In his bed upstairs.”

  “Good. Then we can have some fun.”

  Gunnar perked up at this. “What kind of fun?”

  “You’ll see.” Tavin put the boy down and went in search of the newspaper he’d seen. His father often brought a paper home to read, and Tavin didn’t figure he’d mind if Gunnar made use of it just this once.

  Once he found it, he motioned Gunnar to sit down at the table. “When I was away, I spent my days working hard at a great many jobs. One of my jobs was on a freighter that sailed the Great Lakes.”

  “What’s a freighter?” the boy asked.

  “It’s a big ship that carries supplies.” Tavin unfolded the newspaper.

  “What kind of supplies?”

  “Just about anything—food, lumber, coal, and lots of other things,” Tavin explained. “There were a lot of men who worked on the ship, and I was one of them. Sometimes storms would come up, and we had to keep the freight from getting damaged or falling into the water.”

  Gunnar seemed to have completely forgotten the earlier scene with his overwrought mother. “Did you ever go in the water?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  “No, but I saw other men who did. Some we never could get back, and others we were able to rescue.” Tavin began folding the paper first one way and then another. “The water is a dangerous place to work. Many a man has lost his life to the sea.”

  “My papa died, but not in the sea,” Gunnar declared.

  Tavin was sorry the conversation had gone in such a direction. He didn’t want to pretend the death hadn’t occurred, but neither did he want the boy to dwell on sad things just now.

  “I know he did. There are a lot of dangerous jobs that need to be done,” Tavin admitted. He hurried on with his story. “I liked being on the big ship even though it was dangerous. Our captain was a big man, and he always wore a very big hat.” Tavin finished his folds and held it up. “It wasn’t exactly like this hat, but I thought you might like to pretend you’re a sea captain.”

  He opened the bottom of the triangular hat and placed it on the boy’s head. Gunnar reached up and carefully touched the paper, his face full of delight. “I never saw a big ship, Uncle Tavin. How do they go in the water?”

  “Steam powers the engine, like it does for the trains. Maybe one day I’ll take you to see the steamboats on the river.”

  “Maybe I can go on one?” the boy asked hopefully. “And wear my hat?”

  “Maybe,” Tavin said with a smile and a pat on Gunnar’s head. “It’s hard to say. Maybe one day you will be the captain of a ship.”

  “I want to blow up rocks like my papa did,” Gunnar countered. “But I can still wear this hat, can’t I?”

  Tavin laughed. “Of course.”

  Later, when Tavin’s mother appeared with Lethan, Gunnar was full of stories that Tavin had told him. He danced around the room in an animated fashion while Tavin’s mother put supper on the table.

  “And then Uncle Tavin had to hang on to the rope, or he was gonna fall into the water,” Gunnar exclaimed, eyes wide as he finished his version of one tale.

  “Goodness, that sounds a wee bit frightenin’.” Morna had already placed Lethan in the high chair and turned to Gunnar for inspection. “Are your hands clean, lad?”

  Gunnar nodded and held them up. Unfortunately he’d handled his newsprint hat so much there was ink on his fingers. Tavin rubbed his head. “Come on, we’ll both wash up.”

  They quickly tended to the task, Gunnar mirroring Tavin’s every m
ove as he washed and dried his hands. “I like you, Uncle Tavin.”

  Tavin smiled. “I like you, too, Gunnar.”

  They joined Mother and Lethan at the supper table. “Father told me to remind you he’d be helpin’ Gillam tonight,” Tavin said to his mother. “I all but forgot to mention it.”

  “I remembered,” his mother replied. “Let us offer thanks for the food. Tavin, would you care to say grace?”

  He looked down at his hands, then up at her. “Ah, well, I can’t say that God and I have exactly been speaking much.” He looked away again, feeling rather embarrassed. He hadn’t really meant to say that aloud.

  His mother offered the prayer herself without further comment, then saw to the boys’ plates before taking a portion of the potatoes and cabbage dish for herself.

  Tavin felt uncomfortable in the silence and tried to think of something to say. Apparently Gunnar did, as well. He touched Tavin’s hand. “I know how to pray,” the little boy said. “If you want, I can show you.”

  Tavin felt like his heart was being squeezed with the emotion of the moment. He met his mother’s gaze. She was smiling. “‘From the mouths of babes,’” she said. “Sometimes I think the wee ones have more sense than we have ourselves.”

  “No doubt.” Tavin looked at the boy and tousled his hair. “And Gunnar is extra smart.”

  The boy beamed proudly. “Did you know that Uncle Tavin worked on a big ship, Grandma?”

  “I believe you did mention something about that,” she said as she buttered a piece of bread and looked at her son. “Still, I have a feeling there’s a great bit I don’t know about him. But I’d like to hear it all.”

  “I wanna hear it all, too. He tells good stories” was Gunnar’s enthusiastic comment.

  Tavin laughed in spite of himself. “There’s a good bit of it I’d just as soon forget.”

  “You seem to work very hard to do that with a great many things,” his mother noted with a knowing glance.

  “Sometimes,” he countered, “it’s the only way to get by.”

  “And sometimes it’s good to face what has been and look forward to what can be.”