by Sky Winters
As expected, the home was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside. The framework was decorative, and the floorboards were dark and sturdy. But, while there was some furniture about—like the large kitchen table—the place seemed rather bare. Maybe it was because it was so spacious, but there didn’t seem to be enough…things inside of it. There weren’t even any curtains on the windows, nor any pictures on the walls.
“I have one too many bedrooms in this old place,” Wyatt said, huffing by the table. “You can look around and pick one room for yourself while I put this meat in the cellar. They should all have at least one mattress in them, and if it doesn’t, then it ain’t a bedroom.” He pointed toward the staircase, right beside the edge of the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. When I’m done, I’ll show you how to maintain the land.”
“What about your wife?” Christina asked. “Is she here? I don’t want to start…”
Wyatt blanched, his eyes wide and his lips pressed tightly together. His facial muscles twitched, as if he was trying not to cry—or to shout.
Christina tensed, her torso feeling as if it was shriveling up on herself. She knew that she had crossed a line of some sort, but what exactly, she couldn’t even guess.
“I’m alone,” Wyatt said. Angrily, he grabbed a couple of the boxes and heaved them up. “Just find your bedroom and wait for me.” He turned and walked into a different room—a smaller one that looked like a large closet.
Shocked, Christina walked up the staircase. With each step she took, she gained more of an understanding of what just occurred.
Only widowers wore wedding rings for women no longer around.
The realization made Christina ache. She swore to herself to never make a mistake like that again. Wyatt, her savior, deserved better from her.
On the second story, she picked the smallest room with a bed in it to claim as her own. There, she sat on top of the covers and twiddled her thumbs. She had placed her bag on the floor, and it now rested beside her feet.
When Wyatt found her, he seemed considerably calmer than when she had seen him last. He even smiled at her.
“Good choice,” he said, glancing around the room. Then he backed away and tilted his head to the side. “You ready to garden?”
“Yes,” she said, standing up.
The garden was larger than she had thought it would be. It was located on the east side of the house, and it was surrounded by part of the house itself, as well as a tall, wobbly fence. About half of the plants looked like they were dead or dying, and there were various rusty gardening tools lying about in the dirt.
“I haven’t spent a lot of time on it,” Wyatt said, scratching the back of his neck and wincing with embarrassment. “It’s…a big place to take care of.”
“It is,” she said sincerely. Without her bag to hold on to, she clutched her hands together and willed herself to be relaxed. “What are you growing out here?”
“Potatoes, cabbages, and radishes. It’s not an easy thing to do in the mountains, especially during the winter.”
She only hummed in agreement.
He opened his mouth, but when he turned to her, he stumbled over his words for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. “Excuse me. I just…are you comfortable here? If you’re not, I will take you back to town. That’s never a problem.”
Christina’s heart fluttered. “Thank you. I am comfortable, just timid. You have been wonderfully kind when others have not. I will always be appreciative of that, Mr. Swanson.”
“You can call me ‘Wyatt,’” he said, smiling wider. Then he motioned toward the garden. “And there’s no need for appreciation. I can use all the help I can get.” He leaned down and picked up one of the rusted tools. “Let’s get started before anything else rots.”
A startled chuckle burst out of her mouth, and she quickly covered it as she crouched beside him. She tried to ignore the way he smirked at her in response, but it still managed to make her blush.
Chapter Four
The next couple of weeks, she and Wyatt developed a routine. She would attend to the garden in the mornings and afternoons, cook their meals throughout the day, and clean the house in the evening. Wyatt would tend to the stables and other outdoor work—like cleaning the gutters and getting the firewood. They shared their meals, sometimes in comfortable silence. It was nice; it was the home she always imagined having when she was a little girl.
That evening, after she and Wyatt had washed and dried the dishes, she went upstairs to catch up on the dusting. In one of the guest bedrooms, she wiped a moist cloth over the framework around the windows and on the bottom of the walls. It made the air smell like wet dust, but the framework gleamed against her lantern’s light.
Satisfied, Christina took her lantern and her washcloth and headed for the room’s closet. When she got there, she set her items down and opened the door.
Her heart skipped a beat. She had expected the tiny room to be empty, like all the other closets upstairs were, but this one had portraits and boxes in it. They were all covered in many layers of dust.
Had she discovered these things when she had first arrived to Wyatt’s homestead, she would have shut the door and hurried out of the guest room. As it was, she felt like she belonged there, and she had no qualms picking up a portrait and gently brushing the fuzzy dust away.
The painting in her hands was of Wyatt and a beautiful blonde woman. Sitting next to one another in well-dressed clothing, they were frowning and staring off in the distance.
Christina smiled sadly at it. Wyatt looked handsome in it, and his late wife was truly a beautiful woman. He must miss her terribly.
Curiosity guiding her, she gently set aside the portrait in her hands to take out another one in the closet. The next one she wiped dust off was of a different family entirely. It had a man, a woman, and five children in it.
The other portraits were of the different children, and Christina surmised that one of these boys was Wyatt.
The dust tickled her nose, and she snapped her head to the side before a wet sneeze erupted from her. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her face warming up at her own improper behavior.
She carefully returned the portraits in their original places in the closet, then went about looking through the boxes. They were full of women’s clothing and jewelry.
Christina ran her hand over the cotton and the seams, the fabric cold to the touch. Her sad smile returned, but it held more weight this time around. She knew it wasn’t practical to keep a dead woman’s clothing—her father sold all of her dead mother’s things. Wyatt was a good man, she knew, but she hadn’t realized how loyal he truly was. Losing the love of his life must have killed him.
With a great amount of gentleness, Christina put everything back in the closet.
She hadn’t come across Wyatt until the following morning. At night, they often spent their time away from one another, and Christina had never obtained the courage to seek him out while it was dark.
That morning, after she had cooked some of the beef and made the coffee, she fixed up two plates and two cups and placed them accordingly on the kitchen table. Then, right on cue, Wyatt entered and took his seat.
“Thank you,” he said, yawning. He wiped at his eyes and smiled at her. “It smells great.”
“You don’t have to say thank you for every meal,” she said gently, sitting down before her own plate. She grabbed her cup with both hands and let the coffee’s heat soothe her.
“I want to,” he said. Clearly groggy yet determined, he blinked at her. “You…you make such a difference here. I always want you to know I am grateful.”
Fondness bloomed in her chest. “Well, you are welcome, always.”
They went on to eat their breakfast and drink their coffee, nothing but the nice sounds of forks clanking against the plates filling the air between them.
Then, for some reason, Christina’s mind wandered to the portraits she had discovered last night. Swallowing down a
bite of food, she eyed Wyatt…a man who had lost too much, it seemed. Her fondness for him grew; she wanted to save him like he had saved her.
Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at her, and she jumped and blushed in response.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, lowering his fork.
For a second, she considered lying to him. But then the mere thought of that made her stomach twist, so she sighed. “I was just thinking about the paintings and boxes I found upstairs.”
He frowned, obviously understanding to what she was referring to. He didn’t look upset but disquieted, nevertheless.
She stared at him patiently. She didn’t want to push, but she wanted to learn more about him. He was her only family.
Eventually, his gaze wandered over to his coffee. “They were all of my family. My uncle was a painter, and…” He shrugged. “I haven’t looked at them in a long while.”
“I dusted them. I hope that was alright.”
“Thank you.” He took some deep breaths, his fingers tapping the table. “That was sweet of you.”
She bit back a smile. “They seemed important.”
“They were, very much.” His voice became gruff yet small, and she knew that they weren’t talking about the paintings anymore. He clenched his teeth for a moment, a grimace marring his expression. “Many of my siblings died when I was young. They got real sick from the flu, and there was no doctor around these parts at the time. I was raised alone, and after my parents died, I…I couldn’t leave this place. They had built it themselves, and to abandon it to strangers felt like a betrayal. I will never do that to them.”
Christina’s eyes stung, her throat and lungs constricting. Fighting back her tears, she focused on Wyatt—his tense features, the pain he was trying so hard to hide. Only someone who loved as deeply as this man would feel that much pain. She wasn’t sure if she envied him or pitied him.
“I met Sara in town years after I lost my parents,” he continued, his lips quirking upward. Some of the tension loosened in his shoulders, and he slouched a little. “She was…very spirited. Very sociable and kind. She got me to go into town more often than I wanted to—got me to talk with people. She had a lot of family and friends there. Still does, actually.” He swallowed thickly. “She died in that town though…a horse got loose—got out of control, and she…she was just trying to help, but she got in the way and…”
“Every time I’m in that town, I think about that day. Every time I notice her brothers or her friends, I think about that day.” He shook his head, bowing it forward as he did so. “It’s too much sometimes, even now. I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”
Christina tentatively reached out for him—wanting to hold him, help him—but the moment he glanced at her hand, she stiffened before immediately retracting her hand. But despite this panic action, she still felt compelled to help. “I lost my family, too. Though, it is nothing like what you lost. My mother killed herself when I was an infant, and my father abandoned me a few months ago. Knowing him and his struggles with alcohol, he may very well be dead.”
After she spoke, she instantly wanted to bite her tongue off. She had felt so numb speaking of her parents’ departures, and she was well aware that that indifference was soaked in her tone. She was a monster, compared to such a loving man like Wyatt.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “That’s awful.”
Christina winced. “If they had loved me, maybe I’d feel the right amount of grief for their loss. I hope I would.”
“You wouldn’t want to. Trust me.”
The rough certainty in his voice wrecked her heart. Unafraid, she reached out for him again and grabbed his arm. Even when he gave her hand a questioning look, she didn’t hesitate to squeeze him.
“Trust me,” she said, gentle but firm. “I would. Love is a terrible and wonderful thing like that. Or, at least, I think it is supposed to be.”
The moment felt so tense then that she expected him to rip himself from her grasp. Instead, he hesitantly raised his other hand and pressed it against hers, still squeezing his arm. He squeezed back.
Christina relaxed considerably. His callous fingers pressed against her own toughened skin sent hot jolts up her limb, and her heart pounded a little harder. She dared to smile at him, though he seemed determined to stare at his plate. However, despite his attempt to hide his face, she could have sworn she saw his cheeks turning a pinkish hue. But perhaps that was wishful thinking and nothing more.
Chapter Five
Months later, the garden was finally ready for harvesting. The weeds plucked, the gardening tools cleaned and organized, the fence fixed, and the various plants kempt, the garden seemed to glow magnificently beneath the sun’s rays. As she stared at the garden one warm afternoon, Christina felt an instinctive certainty that it was time to benefit from Wyatt’s and her own labor. She just wasn’t sure how to do so—not properly, anyway.
She walked around the house and headed for the stables. As she approached that small building, she could see Wyatt through one of the windows. He was brushing Ginger’s mane while singing and mumbling some soothing tune.
Bobbing her head along to the tune, and letting her midnight black hair fall around her, she stopped in front of the window and knocked the wall beside it. She smirked when Wyatt jumped and blushed. Even now, after all their time together, he still got embarrassed when she caught him singing or humming.
Ginger remained remarkably calm. She just swung her head toward Wyatt to see what had spooked him.
“I need help harvesting,” she called to him. “I’m not sure how to do it without ruining the produce.”
“I’ll be right out,” he said.
She nodded, knowing by now that when he said something like that, he took a lot longer than he implied. She understood he didn’t mean to do this though; he was just a perfectionist when it came to the animals—to his work, in general.
Christina returned to the garden. The morning air was so refreshing in her lungs that she decided to sit in the dirt and breathe deeply. She leaned back against the house, her eyes glancing over the moisture that coated the plants. Everything was so pure outside—so natural. It created a sense of peace within her soul.
Several minutes later, she startled awake to the sound of the garden gate being open.
Wyatt chuckled at her. “I didn’t realize you were so tired.”
She rubbed at her eyes, a small yawn rising in her throat. “I didn’t realize it, either.” With great ease, she stood up and swiped the dirt off the back off her dress. “I guess the warmer temperatures are making me sleepier.”
“Odd. I always getting more tired during the winter.”
Christina went over to the little shelf Wyatt had built for her and took out a few gardening tools. When she turned to hand him one, she was surprised to discover that he was quietly laughing at her.
“I don’t think we’ll need tools,” he said, grinning at her good-naturedly.
“Oh,” she said, shrugging. “Well, then how do we do this?”
“Watch me.” He walked over to the potatoes and got to his knees. When he glanced over at her, he snorted and quickly motioned for her to approach him. “Watch me closely.”
Christina giggled and hurried over to kneel beside him. The dirt’s coolness seeped into her dress and sent chills up her thighs and spine. Bashfully, she clutched her hands together and smiled at Wyatt.
Locking eyes with her for a moment, he lowered his hands to the stem of the plant and tugged on it until it was out of the dirt. He flipped the plant over and showed Christina all the tiny white roots on the bottom of it.
They looked nothing like a potato. She frowned in confusion and disappointment, and Wyatt laughed at her again. She laughed with him and pointed at the roots. “I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“They grow underground,” he said, tossing the plant aside. Then he gently dug through the dirt. It didn’t take him long to pull out two plumped potatoes.
&nbs
p; Delight jolted through Christina, and she pressed her hands against her wide smile. She felt childish, but she couldn’t help herself; she had managed to successfully grow something the two of them could eat. The factory-work had never felt as satisfying as this. Her mother used to work with the land, and this work brought her closer to her.
Wyatt placed the potatoes on the ground beside him.
Christina’s eyes widened. “Oh, I should get a bucket for these.” She twisted toward the house and was about to get to her feet, but then Wyatt grabbed her hand. She twisted back to him.
His eyes gleamed, his smile small and soft. “Not just yet. Let me see if you can do it right.”
“If I can dig with my hands?”
“Of course. It’s a very important skill.” He winked.
She blushed. Giggling and rolling her eyes, she copied what he had just done: she pulled the plant out of the dirt, and then she dug for the potatoes. Not three seconds into this process, Wyatt grabbed her hands and stopped her. Heat shot through her as she turned to him.
“Carefully,” he said, his gaze on the dirt. “They won’t be in there too deep. It won’t take so much effort to get them out.”
Christina forced herself to keep inhaling and exhaling at an even rhythm. All the while, her heart hammered and she could feel sweat tickling the back of her neck. Try as she might, she could not look away from Wyatt’s face—his strong jaw, and those eyes…so full of emotion and beauty.
When he looked back at her, only then did her breath shudder as it past her lips. He seemed confused by her behavior at first, but then understanding clearly dawned on him. And he didn’t pull away—didn’t look away.
Christina wasn’t sure what any of that meant; she just knew that she didn’t want the moment to end yet. Without fully thinking about it, she tightened her grip on his rough, cool hands. The dirt in between their fingers prickled her flesh a bit, but she didn’t care.