Quite the opposite. It was a bully, this illness, and if it meant to break him, it was doing an awful good job of it. But like that day in the hallway, it was going to have to beat him. No surrender here. There had to be another way . . . Something he hadn’t thought of yet.
Thor checked that Haakon’s rifle was empty. Built in 1866, the Winchester Yellowboy was one that Haakon had saved up for. While Thor wasn’t interested in using Haakon’s things, the levergun was a sure shot and handsome enough to be stolen should the cidery be broken into again. Thor fetched a box of .44 rimfires. While he and Jorgan kept plenty of firearms in the house, he’d use this one should the need arise.
Forehead clammy, Thor ran his sleeve over it. He couldn’t shake the urge to sit down but didn’t want to give in to this growing weakness.
In a brush of her patchwork skirt, Aven entered the vast workshop, joining him as she often did. Upon reaching his side, she touched his arm. A gesture that most folks did to secure his attention. As for Aven, she had his focus the moment she was near . . . and for most of the time that she wasn’t. Thor gave her a gentle smile and while she smiled back, her eyes were awash with worry.
“How are you feeling?”
He tapped a thumb to his chest for fine, then, knowing that he ought to be more forthright with his wife, he touched his fingertips to his lips, then pressed that hand downward for bad.
In her face lived the depth of her concern. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Stay, he beseeched her.
Aven squeezed his hand, and when he reached back into the cabinet, she edged around him, remaining near all the while. A common sight it was to find her or Fay dusting shelves, counting jars, or planning a fresh batch of goods to restock the product shelves. For today, Aven set to the task of tidying, and he more than appreciated her company. Today it brought a bolstering he desperately needed.
In a way that bespoke her years at his side, she fetched a broom and swept dried apple leaves from behind a stack of crates, releasing the faintest aroma of autumn into the air. When she finished, she moved a pile of greased rags from beside the cider press that, while the most dominating contraption in this barn, wouldn’t be used until the apples were picked that autumn.
Aven beckoned for his attention, and he watched her mouth. “We ought to choose a name for a girl.”
Was that what she had come here for? One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. Idea you? he signed.
“A few, but I don’t know that you would fancy them. How about you?”
Same. He requested she share hers.
“Well, I was rather thinking of flowers. Perhaps Rose or Daisy. Or maybe Iris.”
He was making a sour face, he could feel it. Norgaards stemmed from a lineage of solid Norse names. Even their old dog’s name had hailed from the motherland. He didn’t want to name anybody Iris.
She flashed a winsome look. “I can tell just what you’re thinking.”
You not know. Thor softened his expression as he removed two boxes of buckshot from the cabinet.
“Oh yes I do.” Aven gripped her hip and stood as tall as possible, face stern. He really hoped that’s not what she thought he looked like. “All Norgaards must have good strong names. Viking names.” She formed a fist, holding it in the air with gusto. “Names like Ulf and Torstein.”
He chuckled, not about to admit that she was right. But . . . something was coming to mind ever since her mention of flowers. Thor fingerspelled it. T-U-S-E-N-F-R-Y-D.
Surprise registered in her face. “What was that?”
He shaped each letter more slowly.
“Tusenfryd?”
He nodded, formed a fist, and using two pinched fingers from his other hand, mimicked the plucking of petals in hopes she would understand the sign. Daisy. N-O-R-W-E-G-I-A-N.
“Oh.” Aven spoke the name again, seeming hesitant. Perhaps it sounded strange to the ear? He didn’t know. He only knew that he liked the way the letters moved on his hand. The way it felt to shape them. It felt whole and right and pretty.
Her skirts swayed as she hung up another picking bag. “Tusenfryd. Little Tusie,” she said to herself. “Tusie-Daisy.”
He grinned, pretty sure she was going to try it every which way before answering.
She continued her pondering, her belly round and high, their child folded in there like a bud. No wonder she had flowers on her mind. With it being spring, Aven’s skin was still winter pale, making the freckles across her nose and cheeks more pronounced. As vibrant an amber as her hair that tumbled to her waist, where the ends brushed against a figure that was shapely in a softer way these days. It struck him—as it often did—a wanting for her to know his affection. How he longed to please her somehow. For her to know that there wasn’t a dullness in his heart for her. Not even close.
How long had it been since he’d enjoyed her company as marriage vows encouraged? It had been weeks now. His worsening ailment and her own need for rest had more and more nights serving only the purpose of sleep.
When he cleared his throat, Aven smiled over her shoulder.
Maybe just for a moment . . .
Thor strode to his wife, set down the boxes of bullets on the workbench in front of her, and had just eased her hair from her neck to lower a kiss there when the door slid open.
Of course.
He sidestepped Aven as more light spilled into the workspace. Someone entered, and so bright was the day that Thor couldn’t tell who it was until the person neared. Peter.
The young man slowed and glanced from Thor to Aven, whose cheeks were flushed.
“This a bad time?” Peter asked.
Thor tried to conjure up a response, but all he landed on was a scowl.
Peter’s shirt was stained from his work in the orchards, and he fetched up the hem to run it over his forehead. The hint of a smile he’d shown faded as he spoke. “I’ve come to speak to you about Pawpaw . . . and my pa.”
Jed and Harlan. Important enough that Aven gave Thor’s hand a squeeze and excused herself. Thor watched her go, then turned to his farmhand. It had been four years now since the Sorrel family had split down the center: those loyal to Jed’s beliefs and those who weren’t. The ones who’d stuck around had been peaceful neighbors in the time since. Now, with matters astir, there couldn’t have been a more accurate messenger than Jed’s own grandson. Thor would be lying if he didn’t admit that there were moments he wondered if Peter could betray them, but season after season, Peter had proven his loyalty.
Any doubts were unjustified.
“None of my folks have seen or heard a thing, but that don’t mean they’re not here.” The cadence of Peter’s mouth was somber but his eyes were unwavering and unafraid. “Ma doesn’t think Pa’ll come back around—Pawpaw neither—but we all know those two are awful good at doin’ what you least expect.”
After the decree painted across the side of this shop, Thor didn’t doubt that Jed’s remaining men were just a stone’s throw away, camped out in the woods somewhere.
In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if they knew that Aven had walked here alone.
The thought sickened him, but all that was within his and Jorgan’s power was to protect the farm and keep their families close. If there were men of crueler make prowling this mountain, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long. While Peter had already been informed of his father’s falsified meeting with the doctor, there had been nothing more to do but send the letter to the bureau and prepare for the next incident. This time they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
Muscles aching, Thor pulled a stool near and sat. Peter’s mouth set to moving again. Vision unsteady, Thor blinked quickly and signaled for the young man to repeat himself.
“You feelin’ alright?”
Since being vulnerable was easier with his wife, Thor tipped his hand from side to side to indicate somewhat.
Peter didn’t look convinced. “Pa’s wanted in two counties, and Pawpaw’s wanted in a heap more. There’s a
list of charges against them a mile long. A sheriff came in from Roanoke and with his men searched our property high and low. They’re searchin’ roundabout a ways too. Don’t know that they’re gonna find much, but if Pa and Pawpaw Jed are watchin’, they’ll think twice about raisin’ trouble.”
Thor hoped so. But he doubted it. Peter gnawed the side of his lip as if doubting it too.
Wanted or not, Jed Sorrel didn’t seem the type to shy away from revenge.
It was the very reason Thor had unlocked the gun cabinet today. The sheriff and his men would soon be gone, and the men who lay hidden would have less cause to stay that way. Needing to know what Peter’s kin was wanted for, Thor freed the small notebook and stubby pencil from his shirt pocket. He wrote the question, and Peter scrawled a response. The man’s silence only underlined the dire situation. As he waited, Thor removed his shotgun from the storage space and the extra barrel that was rifled. After closing the cabinet, he locked it well.
When Peter finished writing, Thor accepted the notebook back. He struggled with Peter’s rough spelling, but understood enough to dread what these men were capable of. Heartsick for those who had been injured and worse, Thor tore out the sheet and folded it up tight. He’d show Jorgan, and together they would express to all those in their care just what kind of evil lurked in these woods.
Thor handed Peter the boxes of ammunition, then the rifle. He longed to rid the cidery boards of the Sorrels’ tarnishing, but needing to rest, he went back to his workbench and grabbed the business ledger as well as the latest rounds of invoices and receipts. Just the way to settle at the table until dark. Thor was just stacking all the documents together when Peter came near and shook his shoulder. Looking to his farmhand and friend, Thor saw that Peter was pointing to the doorway.
Ida stood there, eyes wide and her words so quick, Thor struggled to understand. “Someone’s come for you, Thor.” She pressed a hand to her heaving chest.
He formed the sign for who?
“A doctor. From Fincastle.” Ida swallowed hard. “He’s come over in a rush. Came soon as he got your note, he said.” She glanced behind her and hustled aside as a young doctor hurried into the cider barn. The tailored man looked around the dim space, finally spotting Thor, and it was there in the physician’s face . . . a panic. One that sealed Thor’s every fear.
NINE
’TWAS DEATH THAT LOOMED IN TOO MANY MEMORIES. First, her mother’s frail body waning within the stone walls of the workhouse. Then it was Benn, who had taken his own life—surrendering both his breath and his marriage vows in one wretched choice. So when Ida came to fetch her in the garden, saying a doctor had just arrived from Fincastle, Aven couldn’t get the willow gate unlatched quick enough. More so at sight of the sweat-drenched stallion that Peter was brushing down. Sparse droplets of rain fell, but she scarcely felt them as she hurried down to the house.
That Ida didn’t chide her for nearly running in her condition made this reality all the more grave.
“Where are they?” Aven panted as she rounded the side of the house, Ida limping along behind. Aven slowed to aid her but was waved off with a sharp hand.
“Leave me, I’m comin’. The doctor took Thor upstairs,” Ida called. “You get there.”
Clouds churned gray overhead—a spring storm just beginning. Aven rushed into the dim house, up the first set of stairs, down the long hallway, then climbed the curving stairwell that led to the attic. There, Jorgan and a second man stood in the doorway.
Aven meant to squeeze by, desperate for Thor, but the young doctor gripped her arm before another step fell.
“Please, my husband.” She pulled at his hold.
“Ma’am, I need you to remain here.”
Aven looked to where Thor stood in the center of the bedroom. He held up a hand, urging her to stay put. What was happening?
“He may be infectious.” The doctor slowly released her. Perhaps no older than herself, he flashed a sympathetic petition from wide-set eyes. “I am Dr. Abramson, and I’ve come to aid him. Please, remain here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Allow me to examine your husband and I’ll have more answers.” Breathless and speckled in road dust, the physician removed his black hat. He crossed the room in determined strides, where he greeted Thor, set his bag on the end of the bed, and opened it with a snap. “Can someone please ask him to be seated?”
Jorgan stomped a foot, shuddering the floorboards to garner Thor’s glazed focus, and made the sign for sit. Thor moved to the bed and heeded his request.
The doctor tipped Thor’s head back to study his eyes, then with the same ease of movement took Thor’s pulse. Not a sound was made in the room until the man lowered Thor’s wrist and rifled through his bag. “Your pulse is slow, but steady.”
Thor looked to Aven for help.
“Slow but steady,” she repeated, then to the doctor, “If you can face him when you speak, he’ll understand better.”
“My apologies.” His straight brows slanted to Thor even as he slid a hand into place to apply a mild pressure to Thor’s abdomen. This time he aimed his question directly. “Does this hurt?”
Thor shook his head.
“Any vomiting?”
Thor fingerspelled N-A-U-S-E-A-T-E-D, and Jorgan explained.
Sliding a hand to Thor’s other side, the doctor pressed again. With a gasp, Thor shoved the man’s hand away.
The doctor took two steps back. “Tender. My apologies.”
With a note of trepidation in his eyes, Thor nodded. His sharp panting rattled the room.
A kind hand touched his shoulder. “Take a moment to catch your breath.”
As Thor struggled to do so, the physician requested water be brought up.
“’Tis just here.” Aven nearly moved to the pitcher on its stand, but the doctor intervened. He filled a tin cup and offered Thor the water. It wasn’t until the cup was returned to the nightstand that he spoke.
“As stated, my name is Dr. Abramson.” He surveyed all in the room. “I’ve recently taken over the physician post in Fincastle where I received Mr. Norgaard’s note and list of symptoms. The missive brought me here straightaway.”
He spoke toward Thor again. “I regret to make your acquaintance under such circumstances but offer my services.” He lifted the back of Thor’s shirt and examined his skin there. After lowering the hem, he angled for Thor to see him speaking. “I can’t yet offer a diagnosis, but must insist you stay abed. Rest may restore your strength—but I don’t believe it will cure you.”
“Have you no inclinations?” Aven asked, desperate for answers. Grief pooled in her chest.
“We’ll begin with this . . .” He spoke directly to Thor. “I suspect this is an ailment involving the liver. There are only a few causes for that. To be honest, Mr. Norgaard, your reputation has preceded you, but I’m not here to diagnose you on hearsay. If you’ve consumed hard drink in your life, may I inquire as to what degree?”
Thor nodded regretfully, then looked to Jorgan for help.
“Yes, sir,” Jorgan began. “He’s had more than a man ought to in the past and would say the same.”
“And are you drinking still?”
Thor shook his head, and Jorgan spoke for him. “Four years sober now.”
The child in Aven’s belly kicked, and she pressed a hand there.
Dr. Abramson’s eyes moved in Jorgan’s direction. “You’re certain?”
“Quite.”
The earnestness in Thor’s expression declared all that Jorgan had. Except it was then that Aven realized Thor’s silent appeal was to her.
Did he fear her belief in him and his word? Having been wedded to Thor’s cousin until his death, Aven knew what it was to have lain beside Benn in their tiny flat on the Norwegian coast and, instead of smelling the crisp sea air or the fish markets up the dock, to have noticed the spiced liquor he was so fond of. It had lived on his skin and in his every breath.
But with Thor?
She had witnessed him surrender the bottle during her first weeks here, and it was with a cautious unfolding that their friendship had formed and then deepened. When Thor had outlasted the worst of his drying-out, he proved it to be a vow he stood by. She had witnessed Benn surrender his will, but ’twas Thor who demonstrated that a man could turn his back on the bottle should his determination run deep enough. He had spent the seasons that followed proving it to be so. She knew it in the gentle touch he had with her, the sweetness of his kisses, and the desertion of a trade that had been sacred to him.
Aven stepped forward, so overcome with a need to comfort Thor that she forgot the doctor’s insistence until it was Jorgan who halted her this time.
Compassion flooded the doctor’s face. “In this instance, then, the liver should no longer be declining, but it appears it may be.” He accepted the chair Jorgan carried over and sat facing Thor. “This leads me to a second theory, which may answer your question, Mrs. Norgaard. During the War, an outbreak of jaundice and abdominal pain afflicted soldiers. It produced joint discomfort and, in some cases, vomiting. The illness affected tens of thousands of soldiers on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line. Causes of the jaundice remain disputed. Most agree that unsanitary conditions were a culprit. That doesn’t seem to be the case here, which indicates a different cause. I cannot say for certain what that might be.”
He rose and with care studied the whites of Thor’s eyes, which in this light seemed to bear a yellowed tint. Aven took a small step closer—certain her own sight was deceiving her.
“If you have consumed no alcohol in the last several years, you may be suffering from this illness that infected your liver as opposed to wearing it out. How you’ve come by this infection will be worth investigating. How to restore your health and prevent spread of the disease is of even greater importance.”
“Are you saying it’s contagious?” Jorgan asked.
“If this is the same plague rampant during the Civil War, it is imperative that Mr. Norgaard be quarantined. With no certainty of how it’s spread, caution is vital. I do not know the full nature of Epidemic Jaundice, but I’ll begin inquiries at once. As for now, all of you may be at risk, and with children in the house—not to mention your delicate state, Mrs. Norgaard—your husband needs to be quarantined immediately. Be on the lookout for any developing symptoms amongst yourselves.” He rose from his chair and placed his medic bag on the seat. “While this may be discouraging news, take heart that soldiers with proper care made regular recovery.”
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