James smiled. He could rise above this. “Ready everyone? Ernest, lead the way.”
They walked down a vast field for some time, Ernest easily out-walking anyone else. His sisters ran to keep up. A few moments later, friends from town joined them. James laughed at the coincidence. Or Providence. Perfect timing, in his mind.
“I hope you don’t mind if they come with us, David?” Kirsten pled.
“ ‘Course not.” James glanced at Dorothy who gazed at the sky and the surrounding land. “You see, Mr. MacDonald exaggerates about my land.”
“That’s why my cousins are so eager to hike today?”
“Well, there are some pretty parts.”
They walked in silence for a while. James gathered courage with each step, until, with surprise, he lost his worries altogether. This wasn’t usually an issue. Felt easier somehow to reveal another man’s secrets than his own.
They reached a slope that dipped into a long, trailing creek with tufts of waterfalls. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere...leaves unfurled in shadowy greenness. Dorothy’s cousins and their friends’ echoes skipped across the large tumbled stones in the hollow of the wooded hill.
James offered his hand. “Shall we go down?” She placed her small hand in his. His heart tugged. Now was the time.
She moved to join her family. But the time had come. “Wait.”
She pulled her hand away and protectively wrapped her middle with her arms like he’d seen before. Did she already know what he’d done?
“I have to tell you something.”
She stood with her lips parted. She looked to the left and then back into his face. Color rose. A warm breeze blew, a bee buzzed.
“Dorothy...” his voice sounded rough. He cleared his throat, glanced beyond her where the sun gave witness.
He lost himself in the moment. Watched her stand there holding herself. Watched her fix her gaze at the patch of violets growing around her feet. Everywhere but him.
She blinked. “You told me there were no more secrets.”
“That’s not exactly what I said.”
“Oh.” Her brow lifted in tired concern.
His collar grew hot. He jerked it open. “Dorothy, I don’t know if you can trust me.” That is not how he’d planned to say it...This wasn’t working.
“I don’t understand.”
“Come back to the house. I must show you what I have.”
They walked quickly. James didn’t trust himself to slow down. They climbed the small flight of steps and entered the library. She’d grown silent. Her healing heart braced itself for another wound. So easy to see.
He pulled out the metal box.
Confusion washed over her. “Is this?”
“Yes.”
“Wh—
“Hammond wanted me to peruse your father’s papers to see if there were any outstanding bills. He didn’t want you to know. I shouldn’t have, but I did.” James opened his hands, releasing the tension. “I thought there might be something there that would point back to me and ruin my friendship with him. I couldn’t let that happen...” The words—out in a rush.
“You did him a good turn, didn’t you?”
Did she already know? “You’re not angry?”
She touched the lid with her hand. “What did you take from the box?”
Ah. There it was. “I’m sorry, Dorothy. I honestly don’t know why I obeyed Hammond’s command. I promised to always tell you the truth.”
“What did you take from the box?” Somehow she knew.
“A few letters I’d written to your father.”
“Did you put them back?”
“I burned them.”
“Oh. Any bills I need to be aware of?” She felt trust, not fear?
“No. Not at all.” He placed his hands on his knees and gazed at his honey golden floor.
Her voice quivered. “You offer me an admission of wrong, that has more of kindness about it than anything.”
“Couldn’t rest easy until I confessed.”
She didn’t seem altogether pleased, sitting there on the couch alone. He moved to sit next to her. “I didn’t expect this would make you happy ...”
“It doesn’t altogether.” She knotted and unknotted her hands. She struggled to speak. “Too many secrets—missing parts. I feel like I never knew my parents at all. And you had to go and burn part of Father’s legacy.”
James leaned back, “If I told you what I know...” A rush of panic filled his gut. Should he? And guilt this innocent who merely needed more time to heal? The truth had been wounding her. And yet...
She sat on the edge of her seat. “I can handle it.” She nodded with certainty.
Now or never. “Your father and I...”
Footsteps trundled through the door.
“Hammond?” James stood quickly.
Hammond’s eyes leapt to the box. “What’s this?” His face turned pasty white then deep red.
“Mr. Trafton’s business papers. We were just discussing them.” He hovered at the cliff’s edge.
“I told you not to do that.” His voice clipped each word.
“Why, Uncle? They are mine, after all.” Dorothy’s voice trembled.
James reached for her hand and squeezed. She shouldn’t speak.
Hammond pointed a finger at him. “You’re after her, aren’t you? To get my land?” Hammond began shaking. “How could you do that, after what we’ve been through?”
“It’s Dorothy’s land. Before that, it belonged to her father. Has for some time. Why would it matter if...”
He didn’t finish. Hammond had gone pale. His fury revealed in clenched jaws and a hatred James had never seen came boiling over. How did rage so quickly find its way into a man where there had been none before? Dorothy was not at fault. Something else was at play...
Dorothy let go of his hand and clutched the back of the couch, afraid.
Hammond lumbered towards her and his great body collapsed and seized on the floor, knocking a small table over on his head.
James knelt by him, rolled him on his side. “Dorothy, get Ruth. Quick.”
A streak of blood dripped down Hammond’s brow and red clouded James’s vision. Bile rose up his throat. “Ruuuuth!”
JAMES LAY IN HIS OWN bed, blinking in the darkness. A wet cloth covered his forehead. Fresh mint lay in a cluster on his bedside table and ginger water sat nearby. How long had he been here?
A candle flickered in the corner of his room, highlighting pale blue plaid. Dorothy’s head dipped to the side and rested against the hard wood of the rocking chair. She’d stayed with him? Had she seen the worst?
Footsteps sounded from below. A murmur. A door being latched. A horse, and another galloping away. Hammond. The doctor. Must be. He rose—the dizziness gone. He leaned forward and touched Dorothy’s hand.
She woke with a start and blinked awake in his gaze. “You’re better?”
“Yes.”
She stood and gathered her shawl, preparing to leave, he guessed.
“Dorothy—what he said...”
She held a hand up. Light was gone from her face. “I shouldn’t be here.” She yawned. “But you were so ill. And Ruth had her hands full getting help for Uncle.”
“How is he?”
She shrugged. “I feel as though he hates me. I don’t understand. How can you two be so...”
He knew what she was asking. How could he befriend a man who’d showed himself to love land more than family? How did they enjoy a brotherly friendship if he was thus?
“Hammond was a crack-shot in the war. Between the eyes every time. Spent his nights crying like a baby. Only thing that saved him from madness was thinking about his farm. The work he goes about each day is like a personal heaven after being quartered in hell.”
“What difference does it make if I own the farm and not my father?”
“Don’t know.”
“And why would he near kill himself with anger at the thought of you owning it?” C
olor rose in her cheeks, heightening her beauty.
James stepped back into his memories. He’d shown up in a suit and carried a sack of fine linen shirts. The other boys had heckled him. Clearly, he’d come from money.
He’d wet himself at the first battle. Hammond found him stuck in the hollow of a tree, drum wedged in front of him endlessly repeating his childhood prayers.
Hammond’s voice whispered through his memories. “One man’s the same as the other in battle, mind you. Brass buttons and those fine hankies of yours can’t save you.”
Hammond had tossed him scraps of respect until James had warmed up to the man. Found a father figure that he’d not had at home. They’d been a help to each other in those days. And when he’d purchased the farm next door five years ago, he’d gained more family than he’d ever had.
Hammond was always a bit uneasy. James thought it was the same malady he suffered from. When Hammond nearly lost his farm a few years ago, he’d done what a true friend would, though he had no need for his fine silver. Backed away from it like a serpent about to strike. That’s when he’d appealed to Mr. and Mrs. Trafton. Filled their coffers to purchase the farm. To keep it in the family as it had been for over one hundred years already. He never imagined they would die, and die together.
He stepped out of his memories back to Dorothy. “I don’t know.” The whole ordeal bewildered him.
She looked up to him, “What were you going to tell me? I’ve been waiting.”
He chuckled. “Have you now? Well then. Your father and I worked together to save your farm. That’s all you need to know. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to share everything.”
“Uncle owes you a great deal, I imagine.”
“Don’t imagine another thing, please. Hammond doesn’t know. And if he found out now, it may kill him.”
“How can such kindness kill a man?”
James led her down the hallway, unwilling to answer. Only one reason—guilt.
Footsteps came up the stairway. Ruth, Ernest, and Aunt peered in. Ernest looked troubled, and Aunt’s forehead covered in worry lines. “He’s loaded in the wagon. Best get home.”
He followed them down the front steps and grasped Dorothy’s hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes contained pools of knowledge, her lips poised for caution.
He could trust her.
Chapter 20
MAY 15, 1880, EVENING
I can’t possibly sleep. Mr. Bleu helped save this farm! My farm. I knew he’d done something good for Uncle, I just didn’t know what. Did he and my father join funds for this venture? How much money did he spend seeing my Uncle safely secure for the sake of the family?
Mr. Bleu’s initial worries are finally understandable. He must carry a sense of ownership, protection. I wonder why my parents did not tell me. Why the secrets? True, mother had begged me to come here for a visit. No promises of revelation. But with no forthcoming information. Would I have been more interested knowing that Father owned this place?
When I think back to the days before their deaths—their profound grinding sickness. Their bodies were wracked with fever, hallucinations haunted them. The doctor and nurses worked tirelessly. Lucid moments were rare. They knew. But I refused to believe them. Refused to acknowledge death’s nearness.
I busied myself brewing broth, boiling linen, and wasting their final precious moments. Perhaps Father would have told me if I had stayed by his bedside. How can they have gone together? And now I own the farm that was never meant for me. Perhaps it wasn’t Father’s parting gift after all.
Mr. Bleu. His home is lovely! Red brick with Italianate windows. A small balcony. As if the home could be a small mansion, but not nearly as pretentious as Cedar Gate. His home is elegant yet understated. A welcoming feeling. I enjoyed our luncheon there until Uncle’s near fatal overreaction—positively shocking! His childish fit has spilled out over that perfect and quiet home, sullying the fine day we’d been having. How can I sweep this out of my mind? I wonder how much Aunt knows, and my cousins?
Father’s box of papers yet sits at Mr. Bleu’s home. Perhaps it is safer there. But what is left? Evidence of his goodness is burned. I still have to trust him. But Uncle? Mr. Bleu may have burned some letters, but Uncle has burned our hearts. How does one recover from an injustice? How can I keep from being callous to his condition?
Uncle Hammond has jumped to outrageous conclusions. And has been a bit underhanded concerning Father’s business papers. Mr. Bleu at least confessed and apologized. Such accusations against him! What fury! To marry me is betrayal to the family? I blush at the thought of marriage, but surely, they cannot expect me to remain a single woman. The farm will eventually go to my future spouse, whoever that may be. I am tempted to hand the deed right over to him and walk away from this place forever. Has it only been days since I appreciated this dear family that gathered around its glowing hearth?
Ernest has begged to know what happened. He senses that all is not right. I told him to talk to his father about it, and his face dropped. How can I tell him how strangely Uncle behaved? And that his sickness resulted from unfounded anger...
The wind has picked up tonight, the warm air is being chased away by cooler winds and whistles through every crevice. A branch tapped my window. I suppose I should turn down the lamp and get some rest, but my eyes are wide open. As though I’m waiting for something.
I heard little Ruby wailing downstairs. The boys paced back and forth for hours—perhaps afraid to show their fear of an impending storm?
I closed my eyes for a second, just to pray. To let God know that I can recall my parent’s death without anger. And to thank Him for Mother’s shawl that wraps my shoulders. This soft crimson wool feels like her gentle hug and God’s presence all at once. I can’t explain that, but despite the terrible ending to this day, He’s with me. This I know.
My thoughts turned to Mr. Bleu again, so I have prayed for him too. Mustn’t leave out Uncle, no matter how disappointed I am in him.
MAY 16, 1880
Destruction. How could I know that the whirring, whipping wind would gather in a cyclone and destroy my home? Yesterday’s trauma has not left me, and the night’s wind and rain still assault.
This place I called home for the past three months, this farm, is destroyed. I count myself and my cousins blessed to be alive. Aunt is well enough, but seems to skate through the debris ghostlike. Uncle is unwell. He made it to the root cellar in time, for Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom is decimated. Where is the bedframe? The mattress? Half the kitchen is splintered around the cast iron stove. Dishes lay about, some whole, others fractured into a million bits.
The upstairs rooms are intact, but I am uneasy about climbing a stair with the open world on the other side of it. Uncle rests on Helen and Kirsten’s bed, though his eyes are wide in shock. He cradles a cup of tea on his broad chest and refuses to look at me or answer my kind queries. As if I had brought the tornado down on this land.
The barn is flattened and five dead horses lay side by side. Some of the foals and colts survived and scamper about looking for a patch of grass to nibble on. So soon they forget the stable that housed them, the terror of the night.
Ernest does not hide his tears but lets them fall like a summer rain. And like the summer rain, I foresee that those tears will help him regrow this place. His younger brothers are wild with wonder. No despair touches their sense of adventure. The crack of timber and trees lifted by the roots only brightened their ignorant eyes. They will dull with the reality of clean up and rebuilding.
And that leads me to my most concerning question. Does Uncle have the money to rebuild? I certainly do not.
I am weary. The long night spent with my back pressed against a dark, moist brick wall of a root cellar after such a day as yesterday has exhausted my spirit. Mr. Bleu still has father’s box. I am glad, for otherwise it might have ridden away on the wind.
I rescued my journal and inkstand. Packed my trunk, so than
kful my room and its belongings are intact. I am to be relocated to Cedar Gate. Ernest plans to camp here in the root cellar. The rest of the family are off to the preacher’s home, for Hammond’s continued recovery. The old stone tavern in town, no doubt too expensive to house them. I can scarcely see how they will all fit within the cottage. I wonder why Helen and Kirsten were not invited to come with me.
Uncle has refused Mr. Bleu’s help, but I saw Ernest talking to him—shake hands. I know Mr. Bleu will do whatever he can, regardless. Maybe that’s the trouble. Who can tell?
All of the locals are here with lengths of oil cloth and wheel barrows to preserve what they can and haul off to a bon fire what they can’t. Apparently, our farm was the only place damaged, aside from a few small buildings.
I am bewildered. The wagon from Cedar Gate approached and drew me away from this place of destruction.
Philip and Chess rushed past me, wearing coveralls. “Hi-ho Miss Trafton!” Chess waved. “Quite a barn dance last night, huh? Brought down the walls. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “The girl lost her home, dunce.”
“Look on the bright side. She’s staying with us!” He winked at me—right in front of his mother! The cheek.
Did they not realize I’d already lost my home months ago? Losing a second—I still can’t grasp it. Despair compounded.
A pair of horses that were hitched to another nearby wagon stamped their feet, ready to march. Philip gave her a polite bow. “We’ll do what we can to help out.” They climbed up and left with another wave.
“Thank you, both!” I shouted to them. More words lodged in my throat. Chess looked back, no longer grinning like it was a joke. Uncle should feel so loved by the outpouring of this community.
“Where are Helen and Kirsten?” Mrs. MacDonald looked up to my driver. “You’ll just have to turn around and fetch them.” She lifted a confident grin in my direction.
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