“Fit for the high seas.” He saluted, and she giggled again.
The others cried out for hats of their own, and Tate promised to scrounge up some more newspapers soon. The children spent a few minutes peppering him with questions, and Tate answered as best he could. He was just assuring one of the littlest boys that he’d never been bitten by a sea turtle when Jase declared it was the chore hour. The man didn’t take his time with shooing them outside before reaching for his own hat.
The throbbing still heavy in his arm, Tate used the palm of his hand to swipe the sweat beading along his hairline. He needed air. Could tell that Jase needed space. Standing, Tate reached for his pack. “Well, I’d better be off, myself. I thank you both for the meal.”
“Where you goin’?” Jase’s voice nearly passed as concerned. Nearly.
“Got a place to stay up the way,” Tate said—not quite thinking that one through. “Just thought I’d stop and say hello.” He glanced around the small space. “See the children.” He apologized again to Abigail for the mess he’d made.
She assured him it was fine and made him promise to have a doctor look at his arm. He told her he would, then lifted his pack. Abigail glanced to her husband, and a flash of disappointment lit her eyes. Jase peeled his gaze away from her and began to dig around in the rolltop desk beneath the window. Knowing exactly what he hunted, Tate let himself out.
Striding down the steps, he heard his brother right behind. Tate turned to face the man. “It’s done, right?”
Jase tapped the edge of an envelope on his palm. “It’s done.”
“Do I owe you anything?”
“Nope. You sent the perfect amount.”
“Thanks for taking care of it.”
Jase held out the envelope. “Weren’t nothin’.”
Tate took it, and his brother stepped back. Shifting his pack to his front, Tate tucked the envelope inside—the contents precious. He thought about saying something more. Some better way of thanking his brother for aiding the biggest purchase Tate had ever made. But Jase was looking at him in such a way that Tate simply said, “Be seeing you.”
“Sure.”
Starting away, Tate drew in a deep breath. The sun was about an hour past noon, which meant he still had some time to form a plan of where he’d be staying tonight. His arm throbbed, and sweat from the pain—and perhaps something more serious—made his shirt cling to his shoulder blades. A dizziness in his head had him craving a seat, a bed. Perhaps another splash of whiskey on that gash was in order. Even a lie down on the grass would suit him, as he’d done for the last week since leaving the coast. He might camp in his meadow that was now the closest thing to a home that he had, but if he was honest with himself, he longed for a mattress and some hot, soapy water.
It would be cold within a few hours. And dark. He cared not a lick for either, for he’d kept watch in gales darker than what this night could possibly hold. But he was tired. Oh so tired. And he really wanted a bath.
A bed. A bath.
Mrs. Cromwell’s voice rushed his mind, for he’d heard Wren’s mother say it to guests a hundred times. “A half dollar for lodging, another for three meals. Baths are extra.”
And he had coins.
The idea sparked days ago, but after his conversation with Wren, the notion had been hard to kindle. Now, with his brother’s home bursting at the seams and Tate’s throbbing head aching for a pillow, he looked in the direction of the Cromwells. Decided. Then headed back the way he’d come.
Chapter Three
Tall grasses blew against her skirt as Wren sat in the middle of the meadow. Knees to chest, she plucked a wilted wildflower, turning the faded stem in her fingertips. She looked across the land, taking in the gentle dips and rises of this meadow that she and Tate had vanished to more afternoons than she could count. Now it was nothing more than a place where she could come and simply be. Breathe. Pray.
It had sold six months ago. Just like that. Out from under her. From him.
Their little dream.
Looking into the distance, Wren could nearly see him again. His shirt one size too big, as were all the clothes passed down from Jase. His bare feet running wild as he hunted the flowers she wove.
“Just you wait, L’il Bird,” he’d said. “One day this’ll be mine, and I’m gonna build you the finest house you ever saw. And there’ll be a clutch of chickens here. And a garden there.” He’d arced his hands overhead to mock out the shape of an arbor.
Then he lowered the flowers in front of her where she sat in the grass, same time of year as it was now. She’d poured herself an imaginary cup of tea as he hunted the hillocks for a stick, waving the one he found through the air like a sword.
“And what might that weapon be for, may I ask?”
“This,” he’d said, holding it up to study it, “is to protect the fair maiden.” His merry eyes danced to hers.
With a smile, she shook her head, knowing he’d forgotten his real sword back in his father’s hay loft—that careless way of his. “You’ve been reading too much Robin Hood.”
He’d sat beside her, bumping her straw hat askew with his closeness. His skin smelling of sun and creek water. She’d straightened her hat and made a show of pouring him his own tea. Which he forgot to drink. She had also laid out invisible scones, which he’d have crushed had they been real when he stretched out on the warm grass beside her, opening the book to where they left off. Sitting beside him, legs folded under her skirt, she wove a necklace of the violets. Forming it with care even as she listened to the adventures he spoke of.
Her heart full of his promise.
That wherever he went, he would take her with him.
Now Wren’s eyes slid closed, and she moistened her lips. A silly promise to make to a ten-year-old, but she’d believed him. As she always had. Foolish, Wren.
Blinking, she forced the memories away. Standing in the glow of a late-afternoon sun, she brushed at her blue skirt. She’d tarried here long enough. Really, she shouldn’t have come at all. The land belonged to someone else now.
It was gone. As was the dream.
Though she longed to take her time walking home, she hurried down the faint path, for supper dearly needed to be started. At the log bridge over the creek, Wren swiped her skirt out of the way and her bare feet hurried easily across. A hop down on the other side and she tossed a wave to her brothers, who were in the far field, plucking weeds from Mr. Paddock’s rows of ankle-high corn. The neighbor paid the boys weekly for their work and unloaded several sacks of corn on Mama’s doorstep every harvest.
The twins had been in the fields since dawn, and Wren intended to fix them brown-sugared butter for their bread tonight. Their favorite. Though they rarely splurged, she was sure Mama wouldn’t mind today.
At the house, her mother met her in the entry. “We’ve company. He’s even paid for several nights.”
“What can I do?”
“Supper’s already on, if you’ll just take him up some water.”
“Up? In the loft?” Wren glanced into the front bedroom with its pretty quilt smoothed and folded, three windows boasting glorious light. “With the guest room empty?”
The room they sorely could have used, but they needed the coin even greater. Crammed in the back room, the four of them, no one complained, ever. As was the rule in the Cromwell house since Papa had passed and they’d taken on this new venture. Wren didn’t mind so much since she had a narrow bed all her own, which was more than she could say for her brothers.
“Our guest wanted the loft.” Her mother lifted her chin in that direction, amusement in her shining eyes.
Brows tugged together, Wren eyed the ladder that led to the loft, which was only for overflow. “Then I’ll bring water up there.” She checked the kettle, felt that it was hot, then used a knitted pad to carry it to the ladder. How she hated interrupting guests in the loft. It was rarely used, for with no door, checking in on them was a mite awkward. Having climbed the ladde
r countless times with a kettle in hand, Wren called a greeting when she reached the top. “Hot water. May I bring it up?”
“Certainly, m’lady.”
Jaw hinging open, Wren popped her head above the opening. “Tate,” she hissed in a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Sitting on the edge of the low bed, his open pack beside him, he gave a lopsided grin. “Nesting?”
She would not smile at that.
He was pulling things from his pack with one arm. The other lay cradled against his stomach. Wren frowned for more reasons than one. He tugged off his glasses and set them on the nightstand before rubbing his eyes.
After nudging the kettle aside, she climbed to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, realizing her mother would have heard her rude remark. And to a guest, no less. Even if it was Tate Kennedy. “I brought you hot water.”
“Thank you.” He asked if he could help her and went to rise.
“Just sit,” she said flatly. “I can do this.”
She filled the porcelain pitcher below the window and, from a little cupboard nearby, grabbed a pair of small clean towels. Hanging one on the rack, she draped the other over the edge of the bowl, then checked that there was a small cube of soap in the glass dish. Wren adjusted the curtains on the tiny window to give him more light. Sun warmed where she stood. “Supper’s at six.” She felt him watching her every move.
“I know.”
Of course. “Do you need anything else?”
Slowly he set his pack aside and for a moment didn’t move. Finally, he stood. “Actually, yes.” He ducked under the low eaves and straightened only when he stood before her in the center of the roof pitch.
Tate shoved his hand in his pocket, then pulled out one of his folded bills, which he held out to her. “May I take a bath, please?”
Had her eyes always been that green? Speckled around the Virgin Islands, the sea took on an emerald hue so vivid, he could watch it for hours. He was staring at that very color now. Her eyes so very wide. And wondering.
“This is too much—”
“Then maybe I’ll take one tomorrow.” Though he planned on forgetting.
She stared at him, uncertainty clear in every blink. He wondered if it had something to do with how her family had scraped to make ends meet since the doctor’s death. Her sculpted cheeks had always been nothing but pretty to him, even now. But there was something in her face that made Tate fear she was hungry. His chest constricted.
Releasing only when she closed her hand around his money. “I’ll draw the water.”
“Thank you.” He slowly lowered his arm, then wished he’d reached out with his other when she watched him closely. The way he was favoring it.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“I’m what?”
“Hurt.” Her eyebrows lifted with the word, a trace of worry just beneath.
“I…”
Stepping closer, Wren pressed her hand to his forehead, taking him by surprise. Her touch was so gentle, he had to fight to keep his eyes open.
“You have a fever.” She moved her hand so the back of it brushed his cheek. “How long have you been this way?”
Her skin was so cool. So soft. Nearly losing the battle, his eyelids fluttered, and he shifted his feet, relieved when she pulled away. “Just a few days.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a cut. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You have a cut and a fever, which means you have an infection.”
“You, Little Bird, are very—” The endearment stopped him up short. He hadn’t meant to say that. Or perhaps he had.
Either way, she was frowning.
“Wren. I’ll let you look at it, all right? You can tell me what you want me to do, and I promise to listen. But can I take that bath first? I haven’t had one in a while. And we both know an hour won’t make any difference at this point. If I’m to die… at least I’ll die clean.”
When she rolled her eyes, he grinned. Some things never changed.
“It will take a bit for the water to heat.” She snatched up the kettle. “I’ll have it ready in a half hour. In the lean-to.”
He dipped a nod. “Takk.”
Her eyebrows furrowed.
“Sorry. I meant ‘thank you.’” A hard habit to break, that language.
Her mouth set in a straight line. Did she hate the whole country of Norway? Or just him?
Probably better that she couldn’t answer that.
“You’re welcome.” She turned away.
With her gone, he waited his half hour, trying not to listen to the low murmurs of her and her mother below. A peek out the window showed the twins weeding the neighboring field. Wren’s brothers were mere tots when their father died. Wren had been twelve, four years shy of his own sixteen. He did the math in his head. That was seven years ago, which meant the twins were close to eleven if not twelve. How time flew.
Feeling a tremble, Tate thought of that bath and moved to his pack, but no matter how much he shuffled through it, there wasn’t a clean thing left. He cursed the idea of putting the same shirt and pants on, but that’s what he was going to have to do. Tomorrow he would ask Mrs. Cromwell if there was somewhere he could do his wash. Maybe he’d even take it down to the creek to be out of their way.
With his arm paining him, going down the ladder was harder than climbing up, and Tate was glad when his feet landed on the bottom floor. He shot an exhale against the pain and stepped into the yard. His shirt clung to his skin, and he remembered Wren’s worry that he had a fever.
The lean-to was on the back of the house, the little door propped open. The faint scent of soap hung in the air. He stepped in just as Wren was pouring another steaming kettle into the sloped metal tub. He hated the thought of her doing this work for him, but he’d paid her—and handsomely—and if he knew one thing about Wren, it was that she had a system to everything. He would no doubt be in her way if he started fumbling around.
“You can put your things here on the chair.” She eyed him. “Where are your things?”
“I’m wearing them.”
“Hmm.” She glanced from his threadbare shirt to his face, then moved to the tub and checked the water. Her dark hair, loosely tucked and pinned off her shoulders, caught the light. “Soap here. A washrag. Towels in the cupboard along with a shaving kit should you want it.” She pulled a towel out and draped it over the chair, and turning to leave, she hesitated. “Will you…” She didn’t quite look at him. “Will you wait just a moment?”
“Uh… sure.”
She slipped away, and Tate watched the water steam from the tub, craving everything about getting out of his clothes and climbing in. But he stood as she’d asked him to. She returned not two minutes later with a bundle in her grasp.
“Take these.” She held out the little pile. “These were Papa’s.”
He thought of the doctor’s jovial smile. His goodness. All they’d lost. “Please, I can’t…”
“Take them. If you want, you can give them back.” Her eyes finally found his. “But you don’t have to.” When Tate didn’t move, she held the offering closer.
Slowly, he took the stack of clothing, and with a weak smile and a twirl of her skirts, she left.
Chapter Four
The room smelled thick of meat and spices. Cooling bread.
Fresh from his bath, Tate ducked into the cabin and fought a wince as he closed the door behind him.
“Have a seat.” Standing at the stove, Wren motioned him to the bench along the wall.
His hair still damp, Tate dropped his bundled clothes on the bench and cursed the fact that he was shivering. In passing, Mrs. Cromwell pressed her hand to his forehead as Wren had done. He feared what Wren might have told her mother when he was gone. They practically asked him where the cut was in unison. If he had any energy left, he would have smiled at that.
Wren was nearest as he rolled back the right sleeve of the shirt she’d given him. He u
nwound the bandage, then rested his forearm on the table and set his palm up so she could see the stitching that could hide the infection no longer.
Behind him, Mrs. Cromwell cleared her throat. He really didn’t want to see her expression.
“Tate,” Wren breathed out his name. Eyes round and wide lifted to his. “What did you do?”
He relayed the story in a better fashion than he had at his brother’s. Of how his ship had been off the coast of New England—nearly home. How his mates had mixed tuna fishing with too much rum. A poor cast… the rip of the hook across his arm.
Though the sun was still up, Mrs. Cromwell lit a lantern and set it near.
“We need to open those stitches,” Mrs. Cromwell said.
Tate released a thin laugh. “Can’t we just pour more whiskey on it? I have some in my pack.” He tugged the bottle out and set it between them when she traded places with Wren.
“I’m afraid not. Who stitched this?”
“Um…”
Wren watched the exchange. A lie flitted through his mind, but he left it where it fell. “A friend.”
“You needed a doctor.”
“I didn’t have a doctor.”
“Wren, if you’ll boil some water, I’ll fetch my sewing basket.”
Tate sat there as the women bustled about. The door opened and the twins burst inside, followed by the clackity-clack of a dog’s paws. Seconds later, a brown mutt crashed into Tate’s leg.
“No, Destry,” Mrs. Cromwell cried.
One part furry, panting mess, one part curiously guarded, the dog backed up, tail wagging furiously against the ground. Wren bent to rustle his ears. The twins spotted Tate and looked about to rush him as well, but Mrs. Cromwell halted them with a promise of supper and time with Tate within the half hour. Clearly disappointed, they obeyed and took in what Wren was making.
“Sugar!” one of them cried. “We haven’t had real sugar since—”
Wren shushed the freckled-faced boy. A few whispered words for her brothers and she shooed them out. The dog, she shooed out as well, but he turned and lay in the open doorway. Panting tongue hanging down, watchful eyes on Tate. Shaking her head, Wren smiled a little. She quietly sprinkled the spoonful of sugar into a cornmeal batter, and Tate prayed they ate this well without company on hand, but by the way she eased the jar onto a high shelf, he feared they didn’t. He hoped she wasn’t going to any trouble for him. He’d eat boiled potatoes a lifetime over if he could just sit across the table from Wren Cromwell.
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