“Would you like to sit?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it.
“Don’t start stuttering again. It’s just to sit.” His grin disarmed her. “See.” He reached for a crate. “I’ll sit here.” He straddled it. “Like this. And you”—he gestured toward the soft plaid folds—“can sit there.” With a broad hand, he motioned to the space between. “Perfectly innocent.”
It was impossible to fight her smile, so she didn’t. It felt good. This being here. With him. Smoothing her dress beneath her, she sat and pulled her feet in. Her palm slid up the buttons of her boots to the top of her ankles. She pressed her other hand into the humble cot. Smoothing the wool, she was glad he was somewhat comfortable here in the barn.
The side of his mouth quirked up. “Are you asking me to sit by you, Lonnie?” He made a tsk sound, then winked.
Picking up his book, she fought the urge to throw it at him. “You hush.” Her smile deepened. “Or I’m gonna leave.” But she didn’t want to. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Straightening, his expression sobered. But his eyes were bright. “I’ll be good.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.
The book in hand, she read the title page. “James Fenimore Cooper.” Her eyes flicked to his face. “I confess, I’m surprised.”
He chuckled. “I can read, Lonnie. I just choose not to—almost all the time.” He nodded toward the book in her hand. “Mrs. Jemson gave it to me. It helps pass the time. I have no idea what he’s talking about, though. Probably because I skip the big words.” He grinned, and she could tell he was teasing.
Lonnie drew in a deep breath, holding it. Savoring the warmth she felt sitting here with Gideon. Her shawl slipped from her shoulder, and she pulled it back into place. “Maybe I will borrow it when you’re done.” Do you really want to talk books, Lonnie? No. She didn’t. But it felt so safe. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She studied the page he’d been reading, but the words didn’t register. Not with him watching her. Or his pillow nestled against her hip. It struck her hard that she shouldn’t be here. Not alone with him. Not when she felt afresh just how much she cared for him, leaving nothing but memories in its wake. Memories she’d locked away.
And for good reason.
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Her nerves suddenly akilter, she ran her fingers through her hair, thinking that if she focused on unraveling the tangles, her heart wouldn’t pound so.
From the corner of her eye, she watched his heel bounce, slowly at first. Then quicker. Lonnie glanced up. His face had grown so serious, she felt her jaw drop a little. He ran his palms down his thighs. Something had shifted. Was he nervous? Senses heightened, she adjusted her ankles, still crossed. She really shouldn’t be here. The guilt that had pricked her conscience pounded now. He was too close, and his company felt too right.
“I should go,” she blurted. She rose and his gaze followed.
When she stepped from the stall, he made no move to stop her. He sat on his crate. Keeping his distance. Finally, he looked at her. A yearning had flooded his eyes, all humor gone. “Good night, Lonnie.” His tone was reined in. Fighting something. His pain hit her, and Lonnie realized her mistake. She shouldn’t have come here.
Guilt pierced her, and Lonnie stepped closer to the door. She grabbed her lantern, realizing it was out. Hesitating, she nearly stepped into the dark, but Gideon voiced her name. She halted, her chin to her chest.
“I have a match,” he said, his tone a brick wall in front of his heart.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He rose, shuffled among his things, and stepped toward her. “Here.” He took the lantern and set it on the ground between them. Kneeling, he struck a match and, with a turn of the knob, lit the wick. He stood and passed her the lantern. She gripped the handle, but he didn’t release it. They stood there, fingers touching, neither of them moving. Her heart raced.
Braving a glance up, she watched his eyes rove her face.
“I should go,” she said again. But before she could move, his hand found the base of her neck. His grip was gentle, and he leaned forward. His lips nearly brushed hers, and Lonnie tensed. He froze. Their foreheads touched. His eyes squinted closed so tight she sensed the battle within him. He turned his head to the side and let out a breath. Releasing her, he moved back.
“Sorry.” His throat worked. Turning, he stepped away from her. “I’m so sorry.” His voice was so distant, she sensed he wasn’t speaking to her.
But to Cassie. As was right. Tears stung her eyes.
Fingers interlocked, he pressed them to the back of his neck. He glanced around the room quickly, finally looking back at her, expression torn. “You need to leave now.”
His face was so urgent, she nearly tripped over her feet reaching for the door.
He groaned. “Lonnie. Wait.” Frustration ran thick in his voice, and she took a few breaths before turning. “There’s something you need to know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just haven’t had the chance.”
She stood, waiting.
“I heard from the judge, Lonnie. The letter. That Gus had.”
Drawing in a slow breath, she held it.
“It’s not good. It’s not good.” He pressed a thumb to his bottom lip. “They can’t find her, and without her signature on that form”—he swallowed—“there’s nothing to be done.”
Ever so slowly, Lonnie lifted her head. Nothing to be done. So this was it. She looked at him. His eyes searched hers. “There’s no hope,” she breathed.
His expression softened. “A little … maybe? Cassie wanted this. It sounds as if she’s moved on. But if she can’t be found …”
Lonnie wanted to ram her fists against his chest for coming back to her like this. Coming back to her when he wasn’t hers. But she simply stood there, searching for the piece of hope he mentioned. Was it there? hidden among all the ashes? She took a step back and then another, the draft that sifted beneath the barn door cooling her ankles.
“Good night, Lonnie.”
She slipped past the door and, without glancing back, hurried across the yard.
Twenty-Eight
Swish … crack! Wood splintered, and even as the first flakes of snow began to fall, Gideon loosened his ax from the dead fir tree. He pulled it back and brought it around with all the force in his arms and back. The blade spliced deeper into the cut; chips flew. The breeze of a rising storm stirred his coat. The air that had once been alight with the breath of spring was now faded to a bitter gray. Winter had one last fight in it. Gideon fell in rhythm with the blows, his breath a series of gasps and grunts, moving around the stout tree, until the sound of popping wood announced the tree’s doom. He’d worked in the field nearly every hour for the last few days, and as the weather steadily grew colder, so did his hope of breaking any more ground.
He moved around the thick trunk and made fresh cuts, dictating where he wanted it to land. The dead, rotting tree swayed. Stepping back, he watched as it gave one final attempt to remain upright, then the lifeless wood crashed to the ground in a spray of brittle needles and rotted bark.
The wind shifted, sending snow pelting against his neck and down his collar. Gideon lifted the flap of fabric, blocking the cold from his ears as best he could. He tapped his ax against the ground. It was frozen now, and there was no use in trying to plow. Toby was not due to come by today. Even if the man’s absence meant more work for him, he welcomed it.
Gideon shook his head and his hand at the same time. He hadn’t stepped foot in the house in three days. It was his own fault. Because of his own stupidity, he’d scarcely seen Lonnie, and he certainly had not seen his son. He glanced toward the house, wishing it did not have to be this way. Banished to the barn each cold night, he lay awake in the dark, knowing that although he had returned and his family was mere steps away, his life remained half-lived. Gideon fixed his grip on the handle of his ax and starte
d on the next tree. Wood splintered. He pulled the blade back with a satisfied grunt.
Work was his only relief. The only thing to free his frustrations. When the tree fell he stumbled back, panting. Gideon yanked his hat off, then ran his sleeve over his face and down his neck. He gripped the ax, exhausted with trying to shake off the pain. As the afternoon passed, two more trees plunged to their frozen graves. He pulled his gloves off, and his sweaty palms were grateful for the frigid air. Although sweat still dampened the shoulders of his shirt, he grabbed his jacket from a nearby branch. He shook off snowy powder before putting it on.
Countless white flakes danced in the breeze as Gideon worked. He stood still and quiet as the forest dimmed, and when he could make out the first glow of candlelight from the kitchen window, he trekked toward the house with no idea what he was doing. No idea what he would say.
He simply needed to hold his son.
Climbing the steps slowly, Gideon listened for voices. He moved to the window. Dishes gleamed in the soft glimmer of candlelight. He pressed his face closer to the glass. He knew everyone was inside, but the kitchen appeared empty. Then Lonnie bustled in, apron neatly covering her plaid skirt. Gideon stepped back. He tried to quiet his breathing as if she could hear it. He watched her sink to one knee, open the black iron door, and pull a golden loaf of cornbread from the oven.
She pressed the top of the bread with her finger and, seemingly satisfied, stuck her finger against her lips. He suddenly forgot how to breathe. The pan rattled against the stovetop. She reached for a knife, apron strings swaying.
He heard Addie call out. Lonnie set down the knife and vanished into the parlor. Gideon’s hand hesitated. Then, with a quick breath, he knocked. No one came. Gideon cleared his throat and knocked a second time, louder, his sore knuckles complaining. Lonnie returned, her gaze on the window—searching. He squared his shoulders.
She opened the door slowly.
“Evenin’.” He nodded.
“Evenin’.”
Jebediah’s voice came through the parlor. “Is that Gideon?”
Lonnie’s gaze roved his face before answering. “Yes.”
“Don’t let him in.”
A sad, sweet smile softened her mouth, and she pressed her cheek to the door. “I won’t.” When she looked up at Gideon, he cleared his throat.
“I … uh … was wondering if I could see Jacob for a minute.”
Surprise passed over her face, and she quickly nodded. “Of course. I’ll fetch him.” She glanced briefly out into the falling snow before turning.
Brushing his hands against the sides of his pants, Gideon was suddenly aware of his ragged appearance. He checked the buttons of his coat and straightened his collar. A glance in the window confirmed that his hair stuck out at odd angles. He thought of his hat where he’d left it. Passing a hand over his jaw reminded him that he hadn’t shaved since Friday. With the door still open, the warmth from the stove urged him forward. But he remained where he stood.
When Lonnie returned, Jacob sat contentedly in her grasp with more sweaters on than Gideon thought possible. The boy grinned and Gideon’s heart soared. Lonnie closed the door behind her. She sank onto the top step and set Jacob in her lap. Gideon sat close beside her, not liking the idea of them being cold.
Lonnie lifted Jacob onto his lap, and the boy rested his head against Gideon’s shoulder. Gideon’s chest lifted in a slow, contented breath. His heart overflowing, he watched their fingers entwine. Jacob’s small, pudgy hands played a soundless game with his large, callused fingers. Distracting him from the words he knew needed to be said.
“Will you do me a favor, Lonnie?”
She peered up at him.
He wasn’t sure how to say this. “I just need to ask you to promise me something.” He crossed his feet, then motioned with his head toward the barn. “Please don’t visit me again.”
Expression sober, she nodded. “I promise I won’t.”
He sensed her regret.
“I’m so sorry that I did. I didn’t think clearly, and I should have. It was inconsiderate of me. It wasn’t fair to you. And it wasn’t fair to Cassie.”
Cassie. He blew out a slow sigh, chasing it with another. “I haven’t done a lot right in my life, Lonnie. It seems odd to start now, this way, but I need to do this right. I can’t live with any more regret.” He ran his palm over Jacob’s head.
“What will you do?” she finally asked. “If nothing changes. Will you return to her?”
He hadn’t really thought about it. He told Lonnie as much.
“There’s time enough for that, I suppose. You’ll know more. Hopefully soon?”
Yes, he would. May that day be a long time coming. But it was coming. Whether he wanted it to or not.
Lonnie sat quietly, her shoulder warm and soft against his. He kept silent. Words would just muddle the moment. At least his would. With no moon to be seen, her form hid beneath the blue quilt of shadows, and in perfect silence, Gideon held his son and listened to the whisper of falling snow.
Twenty-Nine
Wood clanged against metal when Toby stuffed another log into the fire. The stove, though too small to bake in, kept the tiny shanty warm in the winter. The door creaked closed. Shaking his scorched fingers, he checked his pot of water that was near a boil. Then he went to the porch where the rabbit he’d shot draped limp on the clothesline where he’d left it. Grabbing it from the scratchy twine, he strode down to the creek. Perched on a frosty rock, he cleaned his knife in the swift, icy current. He worked slowly. Quietly. And in the end, did his best to remove the skin in one piece. It would never pass for a sellable pelt. More capable men would have done a better job.
Men like Gideon.
Toby rinsed his hands. His knees were stiff when he stood, and his near-frozen fingers complained for warmth. Finally back inside, he pieced apart the rabbit and set it to boil in the pot along with a carrot and an onion from the vegetable basket. A kind neighbor had brought by a loaf of bread and a quart of milk. With the food passing hands, they’d thanked him for helping repair their fence. He knew Reverend Gardner saw it as unconventional, but he couldn’t see a need not met … and just pass it by. Through his sweat, firewood piles grew, fences were repaired, and anything else needing to get done was done. Yet it didn’t satisfy. Nothing satisfied anymore.
Using a charred spoon that was more appropriate for kindling than his supper, Toby stirred the broth. Exhausted, he ran his hand over his neck. As much as he enjoyed the work, he wished it were his home, his family he labored for.
With his supper stewing, Toby pulled off his boots and sat on his neatly made bed. He made it daily. Though there was no one there to complain if he didn’t. Resting his palms on the edge of the faded quilt, he glanced around the uneven walls of the shanty. It wasn’t much larger than a wood crib. He had to duck to get through the doorway. The walls shook in the winter winds, leaked in the rain, and provided little more than shade in the hot summer months. He slid his forearms to his knees and stared at the floor. This was no place for a bride. Toby clenched his hands together, the veins in his wrists bulging. What was he thinking when he asked Lonnie to marry him? He had nothing to offer her. He was just a foolish Scotsman with no home and no family. Nothing to offer a woman. Besides that, he could see who she loved.
And it wasn’t him.
The realization pierced him deeper each time he saw her with Gideon. It’s as it should be, he told himself. For the hundredth time, it seemed. Toby reached for the small Bible under his pillow. It fell open, and using his thumb, he turned the thin pages to his favorite passage. “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
To run and not be weary. Toby lowered the Bible, cradling it in one hand. He wanted that kind of strength. And looking back, he knew there was a time in his life when he felt it.
Gideon had changed everything.
If only the man had moved on. Stayed out of Lonnie’s life. Toby closed his eyes, ashamed at the desire, when deep within him he knew that Gideon was the right man for Lonnie. As it should be. Forgive me, Lord. His heart whispered each word slowly, deliberately. The need sank all the way into his core. Forgive me.
The outcome shouldn’t change him. It shouldn’t allow this bitterness to take root. Toby hung his head.
He wondered if it was enough. Enough to simply find peace again. To simply stop loving her when all he wanted to do was spend the rest of his life doing just that. He blinked up at the walls of his home and tried to keep his thoughts from roaming to what could have been.
Lonnie loved Gideon. Of that much he was certain. Though she tried to hide it, she did not hide it well. He saw it in the way she watched him. The way she spoke his name. They had once been one. Toby ran his hands down his face. His anger rose afresh. Bouncing his heel, he blew out a controlled breath. Forcing the anger away. There was nothing he could do to change that. Gideon was Jacob’s father. No matter how hard he tried, Toby would never be more than a substitute. Though he would have given it his all.
That made it impossible to give up. Until the day Gideon was free to ask for her hand, he would be there as her friend. If nothing more, so be it. But he was in too deep to walk away. He would not give up hope and, ultimately, would pray that she would find the happiness she deserved. Wherever it might be. Turning the Bible in his hand, Toby closed it and set it aside.
Whatever it might be. Because God called him—reverend or not—to love others. Even his enemies. Toby pinched the bridge of his nose, uncertain if he could do this. For he’d never had an enemy in his life. Until now.
Thirty
The two-handled saw pumped back and forth, neither man slowing. Gideon glared at Toby across the fallen trunk. Veins bulging, their arms moved in a blur. Gideon’s shoulders burned, but he did not slow. Sawdust sputtered from the cut like sweat from a man, and when the crosscut saw stuck on Toby’s pullback, Gideon shoved it forward with all his might. Toby fumbled the handle. Setting his jaw, Toby found his grip, and the saw sliced downward through the wood, quicker than before.
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