The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Nearby, her mother sat in the sunshine, mending basket—and a snoozing dog—at her feet. “Oh, for pity’s sake.” She held up Tate’s sun-bleached shirt to the light. “Did he wear these clothes or scrub the decks with them?”

  Wren laughed softly. “With Tate anything is possible.” She peeked up to the loft to make certain the window was shut. Not that it mattered; he was likely still sound asleep.

  Mama unraveled a length of white thread before searching for what must have been a needle. Wren unearthed several more daffodil bulbs and piled them in one of the pots. At the sound of running feet, she knew the twins were about to barrel into the yard. They did, even as they held up their haul from checking traps. A rabbit and two squirrels. The twins were old enough to use a gun and had done so from time to time, but for the most part, Mama preferred that they stick to trapping small game until they were older.

  It meant that meals were humble, but no one minded. It wasn’t delicate food they all missed. It was the man who had once sat at the head of the table. The man who had walked these woods and this garden. How Wren missed her father. She missed his deep laugh, his Londoner accent, and the way the whole world felt safe because he was in it.

  Her hands stilling in their work, Wren clutched the edge of the workbench when she was hit afresh with the memory of gathering bulbs with her father. A naturalist from the first day he’d toddled through his mother’s English garden, he always loved working with the soil and what grew from it. He had cultivated everything from remedies to vegetables. For that which grew wild, he set out, walking stick in hand. Wren would trail along, swinging an empty burlap sack even as they chattered about what they might discover. One of his favorites—American ginseng.

  It had been his specialty and the very reason he’d landed in the Appalachians where they cut through eastern Virginia. To carve out a humble life far from the grandeur he was raised with. Straying from the expectations of his prestigious upbringing, he’d married Mama, a barefoot mountain woman. And never went back. Years later, Wren had knelt beside him, learning all she could even as Mama did the same.

  Some seeds and roots he collected himself. Others he had brought with him from the south of England or purchased through other botanists. Never would Wren forget the time he’d planted hundreds of heirloom pansy seeds all over the front yard, right up to the door, in honor of Mama’s birthday. One of his most prized varieties, he’d saved them for years, and though Wren had only been a wee thing, she’d known no gift could hold more value as he slipped them into the earth a few weeks prior to the special day. Wren had been his ally in the secret scheme. For days, she crouched in the yard, watching the earth—awaiting the little shoots that would one day blossom into Mama’s surprise.

  The shoots took a week or two, and the buds didn’t bloom on her birthday as Papa had hoped. No. They began to open two days before. His wife just stood there, making a fuss over the blossoms, pretending to be stunned. White, purple, yellow, and burgundy glinted everywhere one looked—like magic. With mischief in her eyes, Mama confessed she hadn’t noticed them growing. Papa had laughed and swung Wren up in her arms. They’d done a little dance among the pansies, and with his arms outstretched and Mama’s belly blooming with two babies at once, they’d turned in a slow circle. It was the best birthday party Wren had ever known.

  Tears pricked her eyes from the memory as she toted the pot of bulbs around to the front of the house and crouched in the shadow of her favorite dogwood. With some effort, she buried all the bulbs, then patted each little mound of soil with her spade. She was just wiping her fingers on her apron when something dipping in the sky drew her attention. Wren sat back on her heals, realizing it was a hawk. The great bird swooped along the sky that was tinting the softest shade of pink—like a baby’s blush. With her hair pulled back loosely, several wisps tickled her cheek in the rising breeze. Wren brushed them away.

  Mama toted her sewing basket up to the house and slipped inside, no doubt to start supper. Tate would be awake soon, if he wasn’t already. Knowing his dressing would need to be changed, Wren nearly took a step in that direction. But she paused, thinking perhaps it would be best—easier—if Mama tended to him from here on out. Though her heart pulled her toward him more strongly than she wanted to admit, Wren made herself linger in the yard. She stood fast and still, watching the mountains with their smoky grays and purples promising sunset. Then she lowered her gaze to the garden and wished the state of her heart could be labeled as easily as the thin sticks she’d plucked from each pot of soil.

  Though chilled without the sun’s warmth, she stood fast because she feared it would be better to shiver in this spot than to sit beside Tate just now. His nearness, the very thing she’d yearned for all those years. Still yearned for. She’d been reckless with her heart the first time. And though it pained her, she was determined to be wiser.

  When three knocks sounded on the wood below, Tate lowered the boot he was oiling and peered over to the opening in the loft. “Uh… come in?”

  Mrs. Cromwell appeared. Her hair was done up just like Wren’s, except wisps of gray tinted what she had swept back and pinned.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cromwell.” Finished with his second boot, Tate set it on the floor beside the other, then the rag as well.

  “I have your things. Freshly mended.”

  He shifted his hips farther back on the bed. She made quick work of unfolding the shirt, which she handed to him. Gaze falling, she cleared her throat a little and fiddled with the odds and ends in her basket.

  Tate slid into the shirt and buttoned it up. “Thank you.”

  When she looked at him, her smile was warm. “My pleasure. I’m sorry you woke to find it missing.” She slipped him a kind wink. “I’ve come to check your bandage again. It should only take a few minutes.” Stepping away, she nudged the curtains farther apart, letting in more light.

  Tate squinted.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Good. But I’m kinda tired of lying here.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to be tired of it for a while yet. Wait. What are you doing?”

  Having risen, Tate steadied himself on the edge of the bed when his head went light. Fortunately, his legs felt less like jelly than he’d expected. “Oh, I thought I’d go fetch some water from the well. Then maybe chop a cord or two of wood.”

  Alarm filled her voice. “Truly?”

  He chuckled as he went to go sit on the windowsill. She tossed a hand at him, but laughed herself.

  Settling down on the cushioned seat felt good. The bed was awfully comfortable, but after spending a handful of days in it, he was more than a little stiff in the joints. Kicking one leg out, Tate leaned against the wall and savored the coolness of the wood and the way it filtered through his shirt. Part of him wanted to close his eyes because he was still that tired. But with Mrs. Cromwell here, he was glad for a reason to stay awake. If he slept too much, he’d grow soft altogether.

  She brought over her basket and removed a fresh bandage roll. Next, she took advantage of his unbuttoned cuff by rolling it back to his elbow. Tate did everything he could to hold still for her.

  Her face was gently lit by the pink sky glowing through the window. A pensive slant to her brow made him wonder if she hadn’t come up for something more pressing than herbs and strips of torn linen.

  “It’s healing nicely.” She tipped her head to the side and studied the cut as she unwound the bandage. “The infection is all but gone.”

  He could see how pleased she was by that.

  “All thanks to you and Wren. I could have used your help a great many times over the last few years.”

  “Are you saying this wasn’t your first run-in with a fish hook?”

  He chuckled. “No. That was the only fish hook. But there were other accidents, and most of them were the same kind of lousy timing.” He showed her the thin scar on the side of his neck and relayed the story of how a piece of rigging had come loose while he was hoisting
sails. He’d walked away fine enough, but her eyes were still wide when he finished the story.

  “And what of this one?” Using her littlest finger, she pointed to the small scar living on his palm, just at the base of his thumb.

  Spreading his hand, Tate studied the thin line a moment. “This one…” Other memories swelled to the front of his mind. “This one was on purpose.”

  “On purpose?”

  “It’s quite a tale.” Probably a fool-headed one.

  Still beside him, she drew a bowl of water near and began to flush his wound, rinsing away the herbs. Finally, she peered over at him as if waiting to hear the story. When Tate hesitated, she lowered her head, urging him on.

  “I promise not to interrupt,” she said.

  “That’s Wren’s job, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Cromwell’s eyes crinkled, for they both knew that one couldn’t tell Wren a story without her interjecting something at least a dozen times.

  “All right, then.” But uncertain of how to explain the scar, Tate searched for where to begin. “Are you familiar with Norse mythology?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Not entirely.”

  “It’s sort of their legends. Or folklore.” Stories he had learned at sea when spoken words were the only thing to chase away the bleakness of black, frost-covered nights. “As the tales go, there was supposedly a great battle between two enemies. Warriors. A Norwegian and a Swede.” He peered over at her to see if she was following that.

  “Two warriors—two different lands.”

  He dipped his head in a nod. “So as the story goes, this Norwegian by the name of Örvar-Oddr had fewer ships than his Swedish rival, Hjalmar.” Tate scratched the back of his head, wondering if Wren’s mother really wanted to hear all this. “But Hjalmar, too proud to have the upper hand that way, well, he sent some of his ships away, equaling the balance. I don’t know, maybe he didn’t feel like a man if he had an unfair advantage.”

  She smeared a pale green salve onto his skin, then unraveled a length of bandage, her gray eyes fixed on his face.

  “So as it’s told, the two warriors fought for days. It must have been quite a fray. Lots of blood-spilling, which I’ll spare you.” His arm growing tired, he was relieved when she lowered it to his lap. “But the moral of the story is that finally, realizing that they were equals, the two men took an oath. Formed a bond. They became not only friends but blood brothers.” As if holding an invisible blade, Tate made a small swipe across that side of his palm. He looked down at his scar when Mrs. Cromwell did.

  “Blood brothers?” Slowly, she added, “So this is a true story as well.”

  He nodded.

  She eased the tip of her finger against this skin where the blade had pierced by his own will. “And you and the other man… were enemies?”

  He nodded again. “A Norwegian fella who was born in the States. Not too far from here, actually. Maybe we had too much in common. I don’t know. But I wanted to wring his neck. He probably felt the same.”

  “What made you dislike him so?”

  Tate fell quiet a moment, not sure how much he should relay. While he was certain Wren’s mother knew more about the ways of men than her daughter, it still felt improper to color in any kind of picture. “Let’s just say that he wasn’t the most moral person.”

  “And you hated him for that.”

  Tate tipped his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say that I hated him. I was angered by him. The way he treated others in his past. Then hid from it. Not all men go to sea because they are brave.” He glanced sideways at her. “Some are there because they’re cowards.”

  She set her mouth, eyes searching the ground beside her small black boots. “Yet you befriended him?”

  “Strangely, yes. I saved his life once.” Brow furrowed, he shifted himself so she could more easily knot the bandage. “Awhile later, I suppose you could say that he saved mine. It was then that we knew it was time to call a truce.”

  Her smile was soft. “And you became friends.”

  Tate nodded. “There’s more to it than that.” In all honesty, he didn’t really care to burden her with any of this, but it was an easy way for her to know where he’d been the last four years since he’d left them with no word of his whereabouts. “It came to the point that it was time for us to stop wanting to kill each other and realize that who we were both angry with was ourselves. That there were things that we both needed to turn around and face.” Tate glanced over at Wren’s mother. “It seems trite to use a ship analogy—but we were each like a vessel without a sail. Because of that, I think we spurred each other on. First in the wrong ways and then in the right ways.”

  Feeling the pain of the scar afresh, Tate smeared his hands together. He missed the sea. Missed Timothy. And now he missed his Norwegian brother.

  But he remembered the promises they’d made when sealing their brotherhood. The one that sent his friend back home and Tate back across an ocean to return to the place where he’d left his heart. “Mrs. Cromwell?”

  “Yes.” Glassy eyes searched his own.

  “I missed her. I missed Wren terribly.”

  She slipped her bottom lip between her teeth and slid her gaze away. He watched her swallow once and then again. He wondered how much heartache he’d put upon them with his leaving the way he had.

  Finally, she looked back at him. “Have you told her?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve done the best job of it. I think she may be unhappy with me.”

  Mrs. Cromwell glanced toward the window where the last traces of day were nearly gone. The collar of her white blouse was tinted gray—as was her skin in the failing light. Someone ought to light a candle, but neither of them moved.

  “Sometimes we’re separated—even from those we love. At times, it’s not by choice.” Her voice was heavy with sorrow, and he could only imagine that she was thinking of the doctor. “Other times, it is by choice.” Her eyes found his. “Each one brings a different kind of pain.”

  Getting his mouth to move proved difficult, so he simply nodded.

  She patted his hand, then slipped her own into her lap. “But I know why you left. At least, I believe I do.”

  “May I ask what that might be?”

  “That you made a vow to someone.” The saddest smile he’d ever seen passed over her lips. “And—while I think there may have been other ways to go about it—I think you went about it the way you felt was right at the time.” She rose quietly and dug around in a nearby drawer. A few seconds later, Tate heard the strike of a match, and she had lit a fresh candle. Mrs. Cromwell shook out the match and set it aside. “But you were gone a long time.” Slowly drawing her basket onto the crook of her arm, she rose and crossed the floor. At the top of the ladder she paused and glanced back. “I think Wren has convinced herself that a bond like you two had couldn’t last forever.”

  He tried to think of what to say to that. Some way to blow Wren’s worries into oblivion—where they belonged. But as he’d said…

  Not all men who went to sea were brave.

  It was time to make sense of all the reasons he’d left. There were three of them. At least, three that he’d learned to see. The first was that just a few days before Jase’s wedding to Abigail, the oldest Kennedy had told his younger brothers to either straighten up or get out. Wanting to heed his warning, Tate and Timothy, who was two years his junior, had passed the winter in the barn. When a second winter rolled around, they couldn’t take that kind of living anymore. Poor as dirt, they had nothing to their names except strength, comradery, and a taste for adventure. All of which served them well.

  Which led him to his second reason—wanting to be able to provide for Wren.

  She’d have married him while he had nothing to his name because she loved him that much. And he loved her the same. Which was why he’d toted himself off before he was reckless enough to ask her to make a life with him when he hadn’t a thing to offer her save the left side of a hayloft.
/>   And the third. Well…

  He knew now that Mrs. Cromwell already knew that one. So he simply spoke her name when she set down her basket at the ladder opening. At her pause, he asked if he could stay on a little longer. “Maybe a couple of weeks? I’ll pay my way, of course. But if I could just have some more time, there’s something I’d like to ask Wren. With your blessing…” He moved to his pack and dug around in the bottom, finding what he was looking for quickly. He withdrew a small leather satchel and handed it to Mrs. Cromwell. “Wren’s grandmother… she gave that to me, for her.”

  With a tug of the strings, Mrs. Cromwell peeked inside, and her eyes brightened. “Oh my.” Then she looked at him—joy flooding her face. “Tate,” she whispered excitedly.

  He grinned, but it fell just as quick. “It’s awfully pretty, so I suppose she’d like it, but I don’t know that she’d want it from me. And rightly so.”

  “This pleases me to no end.” She squeezed his arm, holding it. “But to your worries—you just follow your heart. I know she’ll follow hers.” Mrs. Cromwell clutched both sides of his head, pulled him lower, and pressed a kind kiss to his forehead. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Still smiling, she stepped down, and when she was gone, Tate looked at his palm, flexed his hand—the scar as much a part of his flesh and future as he prayed Wren might one day be. He remembered afresh the vow he’d made—not to the great sea, the salty air, or the brilliant sky, and not even to the friend who would always be one of his brothers. But to Mr. Cromwell. The man who wanted the best for his daughter. The vow Tate had made before he left. The final reason why he’d left.

  Chapter Eight

  With afternoon light spilling through the window, Wren buttoned up a clean blouse. She’d just finished dumping a jar of pickled watermelon rinds down the front of her bodice, and with the stain now soaking in the washstand and the spoiled rinds thrown to the chickens, she smoothed the waist of the fresh blouse into the hem of her dark blue skirt.