Even dishes were more enjoyable back then. Mama used to sing when she washed, and Clara and I swapped rinsing and drying. We crowded over that enameled sink, as if we were fighting for the last piece of Mama’s strawberry rhubarb pie.
Washing the plates now felt different, strangely lonely, as if the echoes of yesteryears were calling out to me in giggles and tears. It is just a sink, I reminded myself, and Clara and Paul are still alive, somewhere.
I had not heard from Paul in far too long. I worried. My letter remained unanswered, even a month after it was posted. Colorado was not so far away.
I dried the last dish and turned to Daddy. He was right where I had left him, hunched over the table. I wheeled him to the front room and placed a blanket over his legs. It was still summer, but his skin was cold to the touch. I read his favorite column.
Daddy did not make a noise. His mouth drooped.
I wiped his saliva and turned him toward the window. The sun would set soon, and the Idaho skies always lit with flames of pink, orange, and purple. Mama always had him watch the sunset.
Daddy grasped my hand.
I froze. Was this an apology or his gratitude? “Sorry?” I asked.
Daddy clicked his tongue, his signal for yes.
I pulled my hand away, emotion clouding my line of sight. I did not know if he was apologizing for making me take care of him, or if it was for all the years of pain I still harbored against him.
“Ahhhway.”
“Away?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper. “You are sorry you sent me away?”
A click of the tongue.
I turned from him, grasping the back of the sofa for support. It was such a simple word. Sorry. But the feelings and pain were a mess of layers and wishes and missed chances. Apologies were easily given, but forgiveness? I could not find words.
The old, worn piano across the room called to me, and I sat on the dusty wooden stool. The keys were chipped, and dark circles marked the commonly pressed keys. A lone note sounded. It was flat and sounded more like a watered-down flute.
But I played the piano anyway, my hands rolling across the keys. “The Rich Lady O’er the Sea” came to me, faster than I could believe. It was one of the songs we had sung together—Mama, Paul, Clara, Daddy, and me. Every Sunday we would sing, usually with Mama at the piano.
Mr. Withers’s American history lectures came to mind, singing about the tax of the tea. I finally understood the lyrics fully, and I smiled. How often had I sung the song without the slightest idea of what it meant?
I got to the end of the song, singing, “ ‘Oh Mother, oh Mother,’ quothe she. ‘Your tea you may have when steeped enough, but never a tax from me!’ ”
My fingers froze as the last phrases came from my father seated across the room.
“ ‘But never a tax from me! But never a tax from me!’ ”
It was more of a hum, but the words and tune were still there. Tears welled inside my eyes, and I ran from the piano back to Daddy. I fell to my knees and rested my chin on his leg. “Dear Daddy,” I said, choking back a sob. “You still have your voice.”
His lips quivered again, in that now all-too-familiar way, and he tried to speak, his light eyes glistening like mine. “Ethhhh.”
I hesitated, not knowing if I should hug him or pull away.
He seemed to understand, for he stared out the window, watching the colors flare across the sky. “Muthic.”
I sat at the piano and sang once more, and the words came back to his lips, as if only the music could prompt the muscle memory. It was a start, and so music began to fill our house once more.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MID-JULY HEAT CAME ON LIKE A wool coat—it scratched at me, and sweat permeated my face, neck, arms, and back. I knelt in the strawberry patch, wishing the flies would leave me alone. I swatted at them, but I only encrusted my cheeks with dirt. I was in desperate need of a bath.
The cows had broken through the fence a few nights earlier, and George stood only a few yards away, mending the fence. He grinned each time he saw me swat a fly, mumbling something or other about me growing up to be as silly as any girl he’d known.
I wanted to set him straight, but my focus slipped away each time I saw his green eyes or the way his shirt clung to his muscle-ridden arms. To defeat a foe, one must know the other’s weakness. I had not yet figured out his weakness.
My basket overflowed with berries. We would have more than enough jam for the year. I stood to take them back to the house, but Mama met me in the pasture. She handed me two glasses of lemonade in exchange for the basket. “I brought these for you two. It’s a mighty warm day.”
“Must I?” I said, giving a quick glance at George. He had been teasing me all morning. I had hardly given a reproach. Now I was to bring him lemonade? I cringed.
The tips of Mama’s lips lifted. “He has worked awfully hard, Elizabeth.”
I huffed but ultimately elected to obey her. It was easier than trying to explain why I did not want to take it to him. “George” was all I said before extending a glass toward him.
A smile stretched across his tanned face, and the contrast accentuated the whiteness of his teeth. “You shouldn’t have, Elizabeth.”
I tilted my head and rolled my eyes. “Mama sent me.” I pushed the glass closer to him. Why did he have to prolong each exchange?
“Thank you,” he said. He dropped the pliers to the grass and wiped his brow. “Just the thing.” He moved to take the glass, but his fingers lingered near mine. “You know, the huckleberries are probably ripe already with this heat. You always loved them.”
I blushed, surprised, once again, at how well he remembered my childhood and preferences. “I have been meaning to go picking. I plan to sell jam at the Fall Harvest Festival. It is the least I can do for Mama.”
George took a gulp of lemonade, emptying half the glass. He cleared his throat. “I’d be willing to take you. I haven’t been in the mountains all summer.” He took a last gulp and handed back the empty glass.
I tensed. A day of picking huckleberries with George—enduring his teasing and heart pounding–inducing glances? I caught my breath. It seemed the epitome of torture and all things unladylike. Yet, I was no longer in Virginia. My lists did not apply to George; he was Paul’s best friend and the hired hand. “You mean, you would accompany me alone?” I asked. “I do not think Mama would be able to leave Daddy for a whole day.”
George reached for the pliers in the thick grass. His smile faltered. “I suppose it would be just the two of us, unless … ?” His question hung in the air unfinished, and his eyes rested on mine in anticipation of my answer.
I inhaled. His eyes—they were breathtaking and mysterious and absolutely lovely. I restrained myself from stepping nearer. A nervous laugh escaped me. I hoped it camouflaged my continued blush. “If you can stand a day of picking, I would appreciate the extra set of hands.”
He straightened. “I’ll take you tomorrow then.”
I grinned all the way back to the house. I despised myself for being fond of George Hughes after all he had done to tease and torture me throughout the years. Yet I could not deny the pull I felt to be near him. I could not deny the strength in his will and in his gaze. George Hughes had grown into a mystery—one that I felt compelled to solve.
I adjusted the brim of my hat, wiping the sweat against my forehead. My fingers were stained from the huckleberry juices, my skirt spotted with imprints of purple. I had grown tired of the silence between us—the rustling of a leaf or snap of a branch the only evidence of his presence. “Why are you still here?” I asked.
George laughed and stepped around the bush to meet me. “Well, I suppose because your Mama entrusted me with your care. It would be strange to leave you in the mountains alone.”
I shook my head and bit the edge of my bottom lip. “No, not here—at the farm. I know Mama has not been able to pay you for two weeks.”
“I cannot abandon you now, not when you ha
ve no one else.” He reached around me and lifted a stem, revealing huckleberries the size of blueberries.
“But Mama and Daddy—and me—we are not your responsibility.”
George dropped the branch. It whipped against my skirt. He arched a brow. “I thought you remembered. Here in the valley, we take care of each other.”
I nodded. Mama used to say that whenever she donated a quilt to a struggling family or took soup to the sick. “What about your mama and your brothers? I am sure they miss your help.” I swallowed.
“Didn’t you hear?” George asked, lowering his voice. “My mama died two years ago.”
I shook my head, and a lump rose in my throat. Mrs. Hughes had died? Why hadn’t Mama mentioned it in any of her letters? Sympathy washed over me, and not just for George. I did not have many memories of his mother, and it was only when I accompanied Mama with the pie that I understood why; Mrs. Hughes had been depressed and ill for years. I well remembered the sadness of George’s home. I cleared my throat. “I had not heard. I am so sorry, George.”
“Don’t be. At least she isn’t suffering anymore.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “So you see—I’m not as needed at home anymore, and your daddy needs all the help he can get.”
“It is just that—it is not easy for my family to accept help; it is not easy for me,” I said.
George nodded. He exhaled, as if a weight had lifted. “You’re like your daddy in that way, never wanting to accept the help extended.”
My mouth dropped. “I am nothing like my daddy.”
“Just in that way,” George said, nudging me with his arm. “I could see it the moment you returned, all gussied up in your fine dress and hat, come to give me a scolding for chopping your wood. You thought yourself much too reliant for the likes of George Hughes.”
My cheeks burned at the recollection. “I wish you would not speak of such things.”
The edge of his lips pulled, and the line beside his lip deepened. “Why?” he asked, leaning closer. “It happens to be one of my favorite memories.”
I forged onward, trying to distract myself from my racing heart. He could not possibly mean what he implied. I lifted another stem and picked a few berries. “I am sure it is, seeing me embarrass myself like that.”
“No. I could give you other reasons.”
My cheeks burned hotter. What other reasons? I did not press him. I feared what he might say; he teased me in the cruelest ways. The way Toby Lowry had looked at me flooded my mind, and I swallowed. I was sure I looked at George like that—helpless and adoring and … it was laughable even to me. “In any case, thank you. Without Paul …” My voice grew raspy, and the ache rising up my throat threatened a sob. “I keep hoping Paul will come home.”
He grazed my arm. “I know you do. You can’t give up hope.”
I turned my mind back to the farm, back to Daddy’s condition. Besides Daddy’s singing, he had not made great strides. At times, he mumbled a familiar word, a welcome change from his “ahhhs” and grunts, but he remained far from recovery.
So I would pick berries all day, make jams and pies, sell eggs and milk, and try my hand at embroidery. They were worthy efforts, but without Paul’s return and the opening of the butcher shop, I knew that none of it mattered; we would have to sell the house and farm and join Nora and Uncle Johnny out east.
I dug my heels into the mountainside, more determined than ever. My boot skidded against my pail, and it tipped. I scrambled on all fours to save the mound of berries slipping down the mountain. “Not again,” I said, too angry to lower my voice.
“It’s probably those fancy boots you’ve been wearing. It’s not like you have anyone to impress,” he said. “Unless—”
“No one at all,” I said, interrupting him. I was embarrassed to admit to myself how much care I had taken in dressing that morning.
“Look, I know how you want berries, but we best get home before that storm rolls in.”
“What?” I asked, looking past the tree canopies.
Dark clouds loomed in the distance, a gray mist of rain trailing each cloud. I nodded, at last scooping up the remainder of my fallen berries. I studied the last berry. I had missed these berries almost as much as the peaks they grew upon. Huckleberries grew miraculously and spontaneously on the most beautiful mountainsides I had ever seen, and then just waited—waited to be picked and enjoyed. Just a handful of the purple berries were enough to flavor a dessert or quench my seemingly insatiable sweet tooth.
“Yes, just a few minutes more. I wanted four full pails. In another twenty minutes, this one will be full,” I said, picking faster.
Lightning streaked across the ridge and cracked into thunder.
I covered my ears. It had been too close.
George scrambled toward me. “Come on, there’s no time to waste. The storm’s already on its way.”
I grudgingly conceded when I saw another flash of light. We pushed through the forest of plants and fallen logs. There was no clear path. The rain rolled in, turning the incline into a treacherous endeavor. George held back the bushes and branches, ushering me forward.
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle it,” I said, picking up my pace. “Hester must be spooked. You must go to her.”
“Always having to do it your way.” George bounded down the mountain, looking over his shoulder at me every few steps to make sure I was all right.
I pushed forward to catch up to him, no longer trying to push back the brush or protect my dress from snagging. I ran straight through it, and the branches whipped against my cheeks and arms.
The wagon came in sight, and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were almost there.
A flash of light, only fifty feet away, descended on the mountainside, and an ear-splitting crash of thunder rang across the sky. My heel slid against the now-wet dirt and caught against a branch. My ankle twisted, and the impact sent me hurtling down the mountain. I grabbed at the branches and rocks—anything to save me from a more disastrous injury. I came to a stop ten feet down.
I hunched over my ankle and cried out in pain. I attempted to stand but fell in an instant.
“Elizabeth?” George asked. His words were faint, and I could tell he had lost me in the fall.
I winced. “Over here,” I said, trying to remain calm. My ankle throbbed in pain, and I wanted more than anything to unlace my boot. The joint was already swelling at an unsettling rate, as if my body had determined to prevent me from another attempt at walking. I cried out in pain once more.
The rain came down thick, and I had lost my hat.
“Over here,” I repeated.
George broke into a sprint when he spotted me. “What’s happened? Is it your leg?”
I shook my head, fighting back tears. I gasped. “My ankle. It is just a sprain, but enough that I cannot walk.”
He shielded himself from the rain with one hand, searching the sky for a hint of relief.
The sky had grown darker. I cursed myself for not heeding George’s warning. “Where are the berries? And my hat?”
He slipped a hand beneath my knees to lift me.
“Wait,” I said, pointing up the hill. “My bucket.”
“Never mind those,” George said.
I shook my head. “No, at least the berries.”
George reeled backward. “Of all the times to be stubborn, Elle.” He shuffled past me, stepping over logs and twisting through the branches.
He returned with my hat and berries. “Here,” he said, placing the hat upon my head and the bucket in my lap. He lifted me in his arms.
I buried my head in his rounded shoulder. I felt like Clara, playing dress-up at the barn. Why had I worn those heeled boots? Had not Clara’s broken ankle served as a warning to me all those years ago?
I was thankful for the rain and the way it covered up the tears spilling down my chilled cheeks. My ankle was hurt, but my pride was shattered. Wasn’t it enough that I was trying to do my part in saving the farm? I was co
ntinually reminded of my weaknesses, my inability to stand on my own two feet—quite literally in this case.
I allowed myself to crumble in his arms. I was safe. My head rested on his chest, and the sound of his heart, steady and strong, served to relax me. Amidst my racing heart and throbbing ankle, I breathed a sigh of relief.
He reached the wagon with a jerk, but there was undeniable tenderness in his gaze and words. “There, we’re through the worst.”
I reluctantly slid to the wagon bench. “Thank you.” If only I had not been in pain, I might have enjoyed the moment. I might have relished the feel of his arms around me. Instead, I stooped over my ankle once more and sobbed.
George hoisted himself beside me. The wagon shook against the weight and uneven dirt. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.
I lifted my chin.
The storm clouds had turned his eyes to a forest green, and the flecks of light I had grown accustomed to seemed to vanish. He ran his hand along my booted ankle and tugged at the laces. “The swelling is already bad.” He bent beneath the bench. “Here, use this. You’re shivering.” He wrapped his coat around my shoulders, but his hands hovered near my collar.
I held his gaze, aware unspoken words passed between us. There was a directness in his gaze, a fierceness in his expression, and I recognized it from long ago.
Julia’s sixteenth birthday two and a half years ago. It was then that William had looked at me like that. It had unnerved me, but it was nothing to the way I felt seeing the expression come from George. The stranger across the dance floor years before was just that—a stranger. I had known George as long as I had known anything. And if I were truly honest with myself, I had cared for him almost as long. Yet when George looked at me like that, I worried that I did not know him at all—not really.
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 16