And with this blasted gash on his arm, he knew he was going to need help. Because he’d just sealed himself into a tiny window of time—two weeks.
Two weeks? To build Wren a whole house.
There was timber to be had nearby, but he couldn’t swing an ax just yet, which meant he’d needed to find someone who could. He hadn’t been about to ask his brother, which left few options. So he’d spoken to Mrs. Cromwell, and she’d agreed that the boys were old enough. He’d promised to pay them as Mr. Paddock did. He knew what the extra money would mean to Wren’s family, and he could play a role in teaching the boys carpentry, a skill that would surely come in handy down the road.
Which was why Ansel and Odin had walked with him to the meadow this morning, axes slung over their thin shoulders. And why they were standing behind him now, one of them clearing his throat.
Rising, Tate nodded for them to follow him across the meadow and toward the woods that bordered his—and hopefully Wren’s—land.
Tate had spent the time before breakfast watching the twins sharpen the ax blades, and now with a hefty prayer that he’d bring them back home in one piece, he led them to the creek bottoms where they set to work. The twins had assured him that they’d been chopping firewood for years, and Tate tried to rest in that as he showed the eleven-year-olds which trees he wanted to come down.
Swinging the ax with one arm, Tate made a gash in a tall, slender oak. “You can start here, Odin.”
“Yes, sir,” the lad replied solemnly.
“Keep your feet squared and a good grip on that handle.”
Odin nodded.
Tate explained how the tree would fall where they’d direct it, and after Odin chipped away at the trunk, Tate helped him form the wedge for a precise fall.
“You yell ‘timber’ when it starts to give.”
Odin nodded again.
Tate stepped back and watched him work. The twins were good listeners and caught on quickly.
At Odin’s shout of “Timber!” the first oak snapped, and after a few long seconds of leaning, it crashed to the forest floor. Never had Tate seen such a moment of pride on a young man’s face.
Letting Odin rest, Tate set Ansel up for his turn, and by the time he had promised to have them back for dinner, seven thin trees were felled. Tomorrow Tate would have to brave a visit to his brother to see about borrowing a wagon, but for now, he left the logs where they lay and, with a pat on Ansel’s back, led the twins toward home. As promised, the boys ate quietly, saying not a word to Wren as to what they were up to.
Tate watched her sweep beside the hearth, her broom making a soft swish-swish sound. That brow of hers folded in confusion at their evasiveness.
“Will you be back for supper?” she asked her brothers, who exchanged glances before looking to Tate for direction. Having advised them on absolute silence, they were proving to be excellent students.
“Absolutely.” Tate gave her a smile, which only seemed to confuse her more.
The three of them walked back to the meadow side by side, and while Tate had mused over the idea of felling a few more trees, he knew the boys would be sore enough in the morning as it was, so they spent the rest of the afternoon staking the corners for the house. Tate had spent the last year envisioning the layout, but now, standing in the very meadow he’d promised to Wren years ago, he suddenly felt overwhelmed.
“What do you think?” he asked the twins. Using his hands as a frame, Tate held them up. “A kitchen window here? It faces west, which would catch the sunset.”
The boys looked at him as if they’d rather be catching frogs than sunsets. Tate chuckled, then set them to work breaking up the sod to lay the footings, which left him to worry about windows and doors and nineteen-year-old females. Tate twisted his mouth to the side. He had just enough money to spare for six windows. If he hewed the floor, doors, and furniture himself, that would leave enough to live on a little while and buy seed corn and potatoes for planting.
Seeds. Planting. Farming. The very existence he’d once tried to run from. How much of his life had he spent in the fields? How many years had he toiled under the sun amid the whisper of the wind through shoulder-high wheat? Counting off the days of his life amid rows upon rows of something steady and sure and common. It clashed in his mind mightily with the memory of a seagull’s cry. The creak and moan of a great ship and the shouts of a hundred sailors at the sight of dry land. A clearing storm. Whales cresting beside the bow.
As a yearning for the latter life rose, it was tempered with the memory of missing her.
Of missing her so fiercely he was willing to trade the wonder of the sea and of distant lands for the chance to simply see her face again. The determination had turned to a prayer, and that prayer had led him back here. A prayer that he could build her something strong and safe. A steady place to call their own.
Clipping the blade of his ax against the nearest log, Tate stripped away branches. He worked until his arm burned, then let Odin take over. It was a simple task really. Something a boy would learn from his pa at a young age. When Odin got off to an unsteady start, Tate directed him with each splice of the ax, and Odin’s instincts soon kicked in. Tate smiled at that and the way the young man’s concentration hinted at memories of Mr. Cromwell with the very same expression. The way the man had befriended Tate when he was that same young, green age.
Wren had been twelve when her father passed away. Dr. Cromwell had once described his ailment in terms Tate hadn’t quite understood, but it had whittled the man’s body away until there was little left to bury. It was only weeks prior that Tate had requested a few minutes at Mr. Cromwell’s bedside. Knowing the man was fading fast, Tate had asked him a question—if he might marry his daughter. She was still a girl really, but Tate had wanted to give Mr. Cromwell the chance to answer him and for the doctor to hear his vow that he would cherish her always.
A wet sheen in his eyes for reasons Tate couldn’t even begin to imagine, Mr. Cromwell had consented, asking only two things in return.
The first was that Tate not dabble around with her affections. A bit embarrassed, Tate had scratched his head, and with a sparkle in his fading eyes, her father had simply told him to make sure she was of age and better yet that there was a wedding on the horizon before he even so much as thought about kissing her. Tate vowed that he would hold to that.
The doctor’s second request was that Tate never make her a promise unless he kept it.
For Mr. Cromwell declared that he himself was letting her down in leaving this life sooner than any father should. They’d both witnessed it crushing Wren. Flooded with emotions, Tate had agreed.
He looked at the twins now. Realized they were staring at him. Tate straightened and motioned the boys to follow him. His thoughts still on Wren and her pa, he said, “Did you know that your father was one of the smartest men I ever knew?”
Their brows lifted in unison, a hunger shining in their eyes.
“He was,” Tate said, letting both solemnity and awe fill his voice, for it was true. “He could read any book and figure anything out. He even made me believe that I could, too. So the same goes for you boys.”
“Really?” Odin asked.
“Oh yes. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was discovering things or helping people.”
“He was a naturalist,” Odin said proudly.
“And a doctor!” Ansel added.
“He sure was. I can’t tell you how many times he helped me. Once”—Tate held out his arm—“I broke this wrist. It was winter, and I’d crashed my sled right into the side of our barn. Smashed the thing to bits, and my arm right along with it. It wasn’t much of a sled, I confess, but it was all I had. And your pa”—he swallowed hard, taking in the sight of their faces watching him, no doubt thinking of the man they’d barely had a chance to know—“he needed to set the bone. And I was crying. I’m sad to say that I was twelve.”
Tate made a play of being sober at such a revelation and knew he had t
he twins’ rapt attention.
“He told me not to cry and that everything would be all right. But I was so scared. And then he started telling me a story about a sled he’d been building. He said it could hold three boys, easy. And that if the blades were waxed just right, it would fly.”
Tate used his hand to motion how that sled could slip right down a slope. The twins watched him in awe.
“I was sitting there on the kitchen table, and he was feeling my wrist. He told me all about that sled and promised to let me give it a whirl, and before I knew it, I looked down and he was done. My arm wrapped and everything.”
“And did he?” Odin asked. “Did he let you try it?”
Tate grinned and gave a little nod. “He made me wait until my arm healed. And made me promise not to crash into anything. But my, how that sled flew.”
The twins exchanged glances.
“I bet it’s still there in your barn. Have you seen it?”
“We’ve never checked.”
“I’ll help you,” Tate said. “We’ll look together.”
They smiled at him.
They passed another hour stripping branches from the logs, and after seeing the lads safely home for their chores, Tate headed off for his brother’s cabin to see about borrowing some horsepower.
Jase met him on the steps, and Tate stated his request.
While seeming intrigued about the notion of his little brother building a house, Jase simply stuck up his bottom lip and pointed Tate toward the barn where the team was. Thanking him, Tate hitched up. Before the sun went down, he had just enough time to haul the first load of logs up to the meadow. The twins joined him on his trek home, them scarcely able to walk and Tate’s arm bleeding a little.
With supper bubbling on the stove, Wren sat Tate down at the table and gently scolded him as she changed his bandage. “What on earth have you been doing?”
“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure.” He smiled up at her. “But as soon as I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”
Chapter Ten
Curled up beside the windowsill in the corner of the main room, Wren savored the sound of chirping crickets. A cup of tea sat beside her, and with Grandmother Willow’s notebook in her lap, she tried to focus on the words on the page, even lighting an extra candle to make out the airy print. But with the laughter coming from the kitchen table as Tate and Mr. Parkinson swapped stories of the sea, she was having a difficult time indeed. Tate’s own book had long since been abandoned. From her rocking chair, Mama watched the scene with laughing eyes and rosy cheeks.
“So wait.” Holding up a hand, Mr. Parkinson leaned toward Tate, a chortle shaking his shoulders and the threadbare shirt there. “You jumped into the Atlantic Ocean, off a brigantine in the middle of the night, and were surrounded by whales.”
“Not exactly surrounded, but they were close. You could see their dorsal fins in the moonlight.” Tate raised an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t trying to get to my friend, I’da been screaming like a little girl. As it was, he was doing it enough for the both of us. Have you ever seen an orca up close?”
Mr. Parkinson laughed. At the opposite end of the table, Odin and Ansel’s eyes were round as saucers. Pretending not to listen, Wren glanced back at the notebook, only to lift her gaze again when Tate continued.
“For one, it was freezing.” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “And two, I’m deathly afraid of whales. Especially orcas. They’re hunters, you know. You should see what they do to a pod of seals.”
“Which is why your mate was screaming like a girl,” Mr. Parkinson pitched in.
Tate pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Wren covered her face with her hand and didn’t know if she should laugh or cry.
“How did they get you two out?” Odin asked, still looking stunned.
Hiding the side of her face with her fingers, Wren peeked over. Tate caught her watching him, so she gave up on being discreet. He smiled a little as he pulled his gaze from her. He eyed her brothers, then Mr. Parkinson, who was as amiable a guest as they’d ever had.
“They threw down a rope, and we got it knotted around him. Then I held on for dear life.”
“Was he still screaming?” Ansel asked.
“I do believe I joined him at that point.”
The twins laughed, and Mr. Parkinson slapped Tate on the back. Tate winced good-naturedly, and Wren remembered his arm. She’d need to check it before he went to bed.
His book on the table beside him, Tate turned it over, fiddling with the tattered cover. “Honestly, though? He was pretty quiet at that point. He was half frozen. Had been in the water longer than me, and he was tired. The cold water, it slows your blood. Even his breathing was quiet. I’ll never forget those sounds.” Tate glanced toward the dark window. “The sound of the water lapping against the hull. The creak of the rope, our weight, and the rumble of a dozen Norwegian sailors working to pull us up.” He swallowed and pulled his gaze back. “It was very orderly. Very calm. And even though you’re scared, you know that everything is gonna be all right because they’re gonna do everything they can to get you back.”
A sting pricked Wren’s eyes.
“Which is what you did for your mate.”
Tate looked over at Mr. Parkinson after he spoke. “He was my friend, and when he went under, I think I jumped before I thought.” His brow knotted. Looking down at his hand, he rubbed at a small scar there.
Wren didn’t dare move. She simply stared at Tate, realizing how lost he could have been to her. And then it gently hit her. With his eyes shining like that at the memories—his fondness for them ever so clear—he was lost to her in a different way.
“It sounds like you were born to be a sailor,” Mr. Parkinson said.
Tate looked up.
“The sea. It’s hard to get out of a man.”
Tate nodded soberly. His brown eyes lifted to Wren, and she didn’t look away.
“So tell us more stories,” Odin chipped in. “Where do you sleep? What do you eat? Do they make you swab the decks when you misbehave, or is that just for pirates?”
“Oh!” Ansel joined in. “Did you see any pirates?”
Tate chuckled and seemed grateful for the shift. “We slept in hammocks. They’re actually quite comfortable.” He tipped his head from side to side. “Most of the time—”
“Do they sway during storms?” Ansel reached for a cookie. The plate of them a splurge Mama had allowed on account of the two guests.
Tate took a sip of his milk. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” He seemed to think a moment as if needing to recall all the questions. “Oh. Food. We ate fairly ordinary things. Stew and potatoes and any fare the cook had on hand, which didn’t vary much. Lots of hardtack.” He made a face. “I wish I’d brought you some. It would put you off sailing for life.”
Wren hid her smile with a bow of her head. The book still in her lap, she folded it and set it aside.
“What was the name of the ship you sailed on?” Ansel asked.
“There were a few different ones. The first”—Tate scratched his head—“was the Styrke. It means strength. That was another brigantine. Before that”—he scratched his head again, further mussing his short hair—“Oh, after that was The Favorite II. It was fashioned after the first ice ship ever built.”
“And what were your duties?” Wren hadn’t realized she’d spoken until everyone looked her way. She gave Tate a shy smile. “When you weren’t rescuing people from the sea.”
“Um…” He rubbed the side of his jaw, and she could see how something in her words had jarred him. “When we weren’t cutting, I helped load the ships. We packed the ice with sawdust. It helps insulate everything, and shipments can be made as far as India or the Caribbean that way. I did a lot of different things. I picked up on the languages quickly, which was helpful to the captains.” He glanced over at Mr. Parkinson as if uncertain how to say all this to her. “Dutch and a bit of French, which wer
e both useful in the tropics, and Norwegian the rest of the time. They used me for trade and different positions, which allowed me to stay inland at times as a cutter to build up those relations. Other times I went to the tropics.” He looked back at Wren. “They used me however they could really.”
“Basically you were a great asset to them,” Mr. Parkinson said.
“Uh, you could say that.”
Wren could see in the humbleness of his expression that he was trying to phrase it modestly. Never had there been a thing that Tate Kennedy couldn’t learn when he set his mind to it.
He talked on, and the notion of those different places flitted through her imagination. She could scarcely picture them even as he described the clear blue oceans. White sands. She said as much, and Mr. Parkinson asked her if she had ever seen the sea.
“No,” Wren said with a soft smile. “I’ve never been. I haven’t been much beyond these four walls.” She realized Tate was watching her, and she forced herself not to look at him until Odin spoke.
“Did you do anything else?” he asked Tate.
Tate turned his cup in his hand and seemed reluctant to talk about it anymore. More so, Wren knew, when he looked at her again. A hint of apology in his expression as if he feared talking of his adventures would hurt her. Yes, there was a time that she was a part of that. But those days were gone. And if he were pressed to choose, she had a feeling it would mean him leaving over those hills again. His spirit was too wild. Too free.
She wasn’t the adventurer he’d made it seem she could be. She wasn’t much more than an anchor. Tethering him. He’d cut the cord long ago, and she was thankful. She couldn’t bear to simply be what held a man into place. Not when the current was pulling him. Wren clutched her hands in her lap and leaned her shoulder against the cool glass of the window. She’d long since known it was time to try and let him go. She didn’t know how, but she wanted to be brave enough, for his sake.
The Heirloom Brides Collection Page 18