The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Wren smiled softly.

  Mama leaned toward her again, cupped the side of Wren’s head, and kissed her hair. “And that boy’s heart has been in that pocket of yours since that very same day.”

  With a few hours until Wren would arrive, Tate decided to put in as much work on the little house as he could. The twins were at their own tasks, so he’d set to work alone to notch another log or two. He was just beginning the second notch on the first log when he looked over to see Jase—of all people—walking across the meadow. The man led a calf by a rope. Tate’s ax hung limp in his hand where he stood.

  “Call that a day’s worth of work?” Jase said in clear jest.

  Tate smiled and turned the handle in his hand. He looked back up as he spoke. “Just wasn’t expecting company.”

  Jase slowly nodded, and it was enough. He lifted the end of the rope in his hand. “This is for you. Abigail and I thought you could use it.”

  Tate felt his brows shoot up. “For me?”

  The side of Jase’s mouth quirked, and he glanced from Tate’s expression to the meadow that would one day be called a farm. “I think you’ll need a barn first.”

  “I think I will, too.”

  Jase nodded slowly again. “Well, I can lend you a hand. Between the two of us, we could have it up in no time.”

  Tate dipped his head in gratitude. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll keep her until you can claim her.” The cuffs of Jase’s plaid shirt were undone, as if he himself had called it a day.

  Kneeling, Tate held out his hand, and the calf stepped closer. Her long, knobby legs a light brown just like the rest of her. When she drew near enough to touch, Tate smoothed his hand along her soft hide. Large brown eyes blinked at him. She’d make a good little dairy cow one day.

  When Jase took a step back, the calf lingered. Jase climbed up the first log and turned to sit on the top of the low wall. Tate staked the yearling’s line into the soft turf, then left her to graze. He joined his brother and settled just a few inches beside him on the log wall.

  They sat awhile without talking. There were so many fragments—so many unspoken words between them—that Tate didn’t know how to put any of them back together again. Broken things had a way of doing that.

  But Jase spoke into the silence first. “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?” Tate asked, intentionally mirroring his brother’s drawl. The very accent he himself once had.

  Jase smirked. “That place.” He rolled a meaty hand forward as if to help words along. “That place you went off to.”

  “Norway.”

  “You and Timothy.”

  There was something in the way Jase said those three words that had Tate looking over at him. Realizing that they’d left Jase behind. Tate had never once imagined that his older brother would have been anything but glad to see them go, but with the way he spoke and the look in his eyes, Tate realized there might be much more to his brother than he’d ever taken the time to see.

  Not knowing how to make up for all the years they spent angry with each other, Tate simply told his brother of the Norwegian snow—how high and white it was. Of villages with peaked roofs lining icy fjords. Dark green mountains so tall, one could barely see the tops of them.

  He told Jase of the Caribbean, too. Of Tortuga and Barbados. Palms and hot white sands. Waters so clear he could see fish of more colors than he knew existed. And turtles with their clumsy fins and shells. Smiling, Tate told his brother of the first time he and Timothy had ever shared a coconut. Of how they’d both decided that they would have gotten into it a lot faster had Jase been around.

  Jase chuckled. “I’da like to have seen that kid’s face.” His eyes shone.

  “It was worth the effort.” Tate rubbed his hands together and realized that he wasn’t the only one missing Timothy. It struck him then, what else that implied.

  Tate thumped his fist on his knee, wishing he were better at words with this man.

  He looked over at his brother, and knowing Jase’s life was no less vibrant, Tate asked about the children and Abigail. Jase took a little while to warm up to the subject—he’d never been much of a talker. But within a few minutes, Tate saw in his brother’s eyes just how much Abigail and those children were loved. It was in the little things. The fields his brother planted. The way he took his oldest boys out to check traps and teach them the land. How he and Abigail picnicked with them all last Sunday near the creek.

  Jase finished by saying, “Ain’t no grand tale like yours.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t know about that. Sounds pretty nice to me.”

  Jase bumped his heel against one of the logs and looked across the land.

  “And you’ve got something I don’t have.” Tate thought of Abigail and how there hadn’t been a thing standing in the way of her and Jase getting married.

  “That’s true. But you’re thinkin’ of one-uppin’ me, ain’t ya?”

  Now it was Tate’s turn to chuckle. “I’ve a mind to, now that you mention it.”

  Jase nodded slowly. “Well, the Cromwell girl…” He tugged at his light brown beard. “She’ll be looked after. There’s no mistake about that.”

  Dipping his head, Tate nodded a quiet thanks—the words so simple, yet nonetheless meaningful coming from the brother whose shadow had always been impossible to catch. Maybe the feeling was mutual.

  Perhaps it was the evening sun beating down on them. Or perhaps it was the cool breeze coming in from the north. Maybe it was the call of birdsong or the fact that for the first time in a long, long time, Tate felt a fresh sense of peace. Whatever the reason, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. Thankful.

  After a few moments, Jase cleared his throat, and Tate looked over just as the man motioned toward the east. “You ever think of headin’ off again?”

  Slowly, Tate shook his head. “Nope. Right here’s the place for me.”

  Nodding, Jase leaned forward and clasped his thick hands together. “I’m glad you came back. And I hope the kid comes back one day, too.”

  Adopting his brother’s position, Tate looked toward the very direction he himself had walked from. And thought of their little brother. “He’ll be back,” Tate answered, remembering Timothy’s promise to do just that. “He’ll be back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wren smoothed her skirt. The blue-and-white-striped cotton was nearly threadbare in places, so she’d tied her mother’s new apron around her waist. The walk to the meadow was short but laced with so many memories the minutes seemed much longer. As Wren ran her hand along the tall grasses, she thought of how many times Tate had chased her over these very hillocks. How many times he’d led them on some quest. And she knew.

  It wasn’t this place. It was that man.

  She didn’t need anything else. If she could just have him, she would be happy all her days, and life—even though it wouldn’t always be easy—would be beautiful with Tate Kennedy holding her hand throughout it.

  Desperate to find him, she glanced around. The meadow was empty—all save a house in the distance. Well, the beginnings of a house. Wren looked at it. Swallowed hard. It shouldn’t take her aback. She knew the land had sold all those months ago. Dipping her chin, she looked to the grass, then back to the small building. And wished the new owner the best.

  And heavens. Whoever was building it was sure working fast, for it hadn’t been there the last time she’d come this way. She didn’t blame the tenant for being eager. She would be, too.

  Wren glanced all around her again. Tate had told her four o’clock, and it was a few minutes after, for it had taken her as long to walk here. Eager to spot him, Wren turned in a slow circle. Then she froze. Hanging on one of the logs of the house was Tate’s pack. Wren drew in a chestful of air. Let it out.

  So this was what he’d been doing. Had… had someone hired him? Perhaps he had been working to save his money. But remembering his words from the day before, something else was risi
ng up inside her. The realization that he had wanted to meet her. Here.

  The jolt that had her pressing her hand to her stomach.

  He hadn’t…

  No. Not possible. She drew closer and, with a final glance around, hiked up her skirt and climbed over the low wall. Even before she landed in the grass that would someday be a floor, she saw the lunch pail Odin had forgotten the day before. Her pulse beat faster, rushing hot through her when she spotted a pallet in the far corner. A few blankets and a pillow. All askew, but all very clearly…

  Tate’s.

  Wren’s chest lifted as she forced herself to draw in air. She released it in a rush, suddenly dizzy. It was well past four now. Where was he? Overwhelmed, Wren turned. She looked around at the rough-hewn logs and sank down on unsteady legs. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but at the sound of cheery whistling, she rose and looked to the west. Tate was walking through the grass, ax slung over his shoulder. The logs rising no higher than her chest, she had a clear view of him. She knew he spotted her when he slowed. He glanced around, then back to her.

  “Wren,” he breathed when he drew near. “What are you doing here?” Sweat laced his brow and the breeze ruffled his slit-top shirt. The very one he’d been wearing when the winds had blown him back to her.

  “You told me to come. Four…” She gulped, struggling for words. “I believe it’s past four now.”

  “No, it’s not.” He glanced up at the sky and studied it a moment, then he lowered his head and thunked himself in the forehead with his fist. “The sun is in the wrong spot in this country.”

  Wren didn’t mean to laugh, but a giggle bubbled up.

  He squinted over at her—his expression equal parts flustered and amused. “I can’t believe I did this.”

  “Tate, what have you done?” She must have said it too soberly, for he smiled.

  “Well, as you can see, nothing’s done. But this is what I wanted to show you.” He seemed nervous. It was just as well, for she was shaking. “Would you like me to give you the grand tour?” He gripped the top log of the low wall and climbed over, landing on the other side where she stood. He turned to her, that light in his eyes. “I promise we won’t get lost.”

  She smiled.

  “This”—he motioned around them—“is a house, as you can see.” Then his hand was on hers, warm and strong and perfect. “Here will be the kitchen—I think. And here.” He pulled free to shape a frame with his hands. “Will be a window. But that could be changed. And here”—he pointed up—“will be a loft. There’s still some things to do before I start it. But I thought that would be a good place to put little people.” His eyes widened as if he hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

  Biting her lip, Wren took his hand again, missing the feel of it.

  He pulled away a moment later only to help her over the side of the house again. He hopped back over himself before leading her around the outside corner of logs. A small picket fence edged this side of the house, and a knobby arbor cast lacy shadows on freshly tilled soil. The warm-springy scent of it rose up, greeting her.

  He motioned with his arm toward the back meadow. “There’ll be crops, of course. But this would be just for flowers, herbs. Whatever you like.” He hesitated on you. As if just realizing he was making an assumption.

  Wren was ever so glad he was. She touched the gate—her eyes taking it all in at once.

  He stood silent as if to give her time, then he spoke softly. “Those seeds your grandmother sent with me… there’s a story there that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  Turning, Wren gazed up at him.

  “I just need you to know something.” He tossed his hand back and forth through his hair. “There were other things your grandmother thought to send that day. She showed me all around the different rooms of her house. Where your father used to play.” He smiled softly as if aware of the bittersweet way that knowledge washed over her. “She sat me down in the kitchen. Turns out she makes really good gingerbread.” He winked. “We talked, and she asked all about me and you and the boys. Everything. We talked for hours. I think she kind of adopted me.”

  Her heart bursting, Wren smiled.

  “We also sat in the garden for a spell. You’d have loved it. She showed me her potting shed and all around the grounds.” He lifted his gaze to the horizon, then back to Wren. “You might like to know that she had eyes like yours. And laughed just like your father used to.”

  Her throat tight, Wren pressed her palms together and leaned against the logs. Felt their strength. Took in his words.

  His brow furrowed. “There were other things she thought you might like, but nothing I could fit in my sack.” He flashed her a hint of regret. “Then as we were talking, I realized that she was preparing those little packets. I always knew the two of you swapped seeds, so I didn’t think much of it. But when she finished, she slid them in my hand and said they were for you. For a new beginning.” He tilted his face to the ground and kicked at a clump of dirt with his worn boot. Finally, he looked back at her. “Something about making a home.” His broad throat dipped. “With me.”

  A slow draw of air didn’t seem enough time to take in those precious words, so Wren did it twice.

  Such vulnerability lived in his eyes. “I was just chatting away about you and all the things I loved about you, all the times we had together… and there she was, planning a garden.” His sleeve brushed hers as he stepped nearer and leaned against the wall beside her. “And…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Skimmed his fingers down the side of his temple.

  Wren sensed there was more he wanted to say, but he looked a few moments shy of needing to sit down.

  Not wanting him to feel rushed with what he might have to say or, as he’d phrased it earlier, ask, she peeked over her shoulder. “What goes in there?” she asked to try and ease him. Wren looked over the low wall that would surely rise much higher than her head before long. “I mean”—she leaned on the edge and pointed to where the loft would go—“If that’s to be for little people…” Her heart soared at the thought of a family—with Tate.

  “Oh…” He followed her gaze to the wide space beside them. “This is for the big people.” He grinned impishly. “I was thinking you and me.” He leaned on the edge of the wall beside her, his shoulder pressing strong against hers.

  “I like that idea,” she whispered.

  Head bowed between them, his words were soft. “Do you?”

  She nodded, which seemed to do something for his nerves, for he smiled again. His eyes were the warmest brown as he bent to kiss her hair. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

  She held her breath, having waited for this for so long.

  Straightening, he squared his stance. Hope in those eyes of his. “Wren Cromwell. If I promise to never forget to wash behind my neck and to leave my shoes in front of the door only occasionally and to… to never, ever leave you again until the good Lord takes me home, would you do me the honor of being my wife?” Then he quickly added that he would do everything in his power not to snore.

  Every hope she’d clung to unfurled. Joy bursting forward. Wren opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

  He made a face as if that had come out all wrong. He wet his lips and seemed to struggle before blurting, “Can I try that again?”

  But every word had been perfect.

  Squinting down at her, he clearly disagreed. “Have you ever heard of the Northern Lights?”

  As desperate as she was to answer him, she wanted to let him finish. “No.”

  “They’re colors in the sky. Brilliant colors. It would take your breath away.” When he tilted his head to the blue sky, she did the same as if a hint of them might appear. “I watched them shine more nights than I could count, and every time I did, I wished you were there to see them. I know I didn’t write you any letters, but I was writing you in my heart. As I watched those lights color the sky, I sat and talked to you. I probably sounded like an idiot.” He gave
her a half grin. “And I wondered what you were doing and if I might have lost you. And it only made me want to work harder and quicker and be stronger so I could hurry up and come home to you and have something to give you.”

  Tate watched the sky, and she watched him.

  “There was something about those lights. Maybe it was the way they moved or the way they changed. Or the sheer impossibility of it all. Color up in the sky.” His eyes found hers. “And that’s what kept me holding on. That if God could make a miracle like that, then surely He could get me back to you.”

  Tears rising, Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. She thought of the way he’d walked up to her that day in her mother’s garden. Having come so far…

  “You’re already my best friend.” His fingers grazed her sleeve, reaching around her back, holding her gently in a way he’d never done before. “And life just isn’t right without you.”

  Needing him more than she’d ever confessed to him, Wren clutched his sun-faded shirt, then slid her hand to the top of his chest before gripping the back of his neck. She rose up onto her toes. But then he was backing away, only to bump against the side of the arbor he’d built for her. The knobby branches trembled, and he sidestepped, almost stumbling again.

  “You’re about to break my promise to your father.” An ardent look in his eyes made her realize how strong his struggle was.

  She wondered if so simple a word could ever be sufficient. “Yes.” She stepped closer, and he didn’t back away. “Yes. If you’ll have me.”

  He stared at her, then ducked his head, closed his eyes, and seemed to collect himself. As if he hadn’t been certain that would be her answer. Her throat tight, she remembered every moment of their years together. Even the ones spent apart. The ones readying his heart for hers. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

  Rising back onto her toes, she slipped her arms around his neck again.

  A muscle in his jaw shifting, he looked at her—uncertainty on his voice—a readiness in his eyes. “Now, I’ve never done this before, mind you.”