The door flung wide. “Sakes alive, but you gave me a fright, girl! What are you doing up here, and a storm coming on?”
“I lost track of time. Mrs. Tweedie, if you’ll let me put Goatsbeard in your barn until this blows over, I’ll clean the stalls and do the milking, all right?”
“Bless you, child, but that’s not necessary. Go on with you. Put yon beastie away and come back afore that rain hits.” She shook her head. “Here. Give me your poke. You don’t want your drawing doodads to get wet, I reckon.” Chapped, stumpy fingers plucked the cloth bag from Garnet’s shoulder. “Don’t suppose you’d let me sneak a peek at your sketchbook in exchange for a couple of my nobby buns, fresh from the oven?”
Garnet brushed a kiss across the plump cheek. “You know better than that. But I’d still enjoy one of your buns. I ate the lunch Leah packed hours ago.” She hesitated. “You . . . you won’t . . .”
“No, child. No. I was pulling your leg a mite. But I did want to tell you that Nahum never meant nothing by his prying. He’s a good boy, my grandson, and you know he’s always been sweet on you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Ever since she’d caught him leafing through her sketchpad a month earlier, Garnet had tried to time her weekly visits to Mrs. Tweedie when Nahum would be out in the fields. She’d hoped Mrs. Tweedie wouldn’t notice, but obviously she had. And had taken upon herself the responsibility of . . . meddling.
Garnet avoided the elderly woman’s eye. Even though it had been a month, she could still remember the excruciating sense of vulnerability that washed through her when she’d seen her open sketchbook in Nahum’s hands. It had made her feel as though her soul had been stripped bare. No one, not even her father or her sisters, had ever seen her works in progress. Nahum’s inquisitiveness had been almost as wounding as—
“Now don’t be going all bashful on me, child. You know I—”
“It’s not too early to milk Sadie, is it?” Garnet asked in a rush. “Perhaps by the time I finish, the rain will have quit. Is . . . where’s Nahum working today?”
“Boy’s carried himself off to New Market for an auction. Won’t be home ’til late this evening.”
Concerned, Garnet glanced outside. “I can stay with you for a few hours, but you know Papa and Leah will have a conniption if I don’t show up by sunset.”
“And so they should.” She folded her massive arms across an equally massive bosom. “Can’t say as I blame ’em none, but I do enjoy your visits.”
Garnet smiled. She knew that Mrs. Tweedie also appreciated the help, even if she was too proud to admit it. “I’ll take care of Sadie for you,” she promised, and dashed back outside, accompanied by an earthshaking clap of thunder.
An hour later, with the bucket of foaming milk balanced on the seat of a high stool so the cats couldn’t tip it over, Garnet finished raking the last of some fresh straw around Sadie’s stall, then carried the soiled straw and droppings away in a rickety wheelbarrow. She made a mental note to ask her father if he could contrive a scheme to repair the thing without smacking into the wall of the Tweedies’ pride.
One of the barn cats padded down the aisle, her white-tipped black tail gently waving. With a plaintive meow the animal nuzzled Garnet’s feet and ankles, a hopeful look in her unblinking feline eyes.
“Babies hungry again? All right, I’ll sneak y’all a cupful of Sadie’s milk. Just don’t tell the Tweedies. And”—she fixed a stern eye on the indifferent cat—“I get to play with your children as long as it’s raining.”
She was sprawled on top of a bale of hay with her chin propped on one hand, holding her sunbonnet with the other, ribbons dangling for four sets of furiously batting little paws, when Nahum strolled into the barn.
“Garnet? Hoo-ee, Garnet. Where are you, gal?”
Garnet scrambled to her feet, kittens scattering as she brushed straw from her clothing and straightened her rumpled skirts. Several pins had fallen out of her topknot so that stringy coils of hair hung limp about her face and neck. But there wasn’t time to do anything about that now.
“Coming,” she called, and lifted her chin. Had to face him sometime, after all. Might as well be now, even if she did resemble a bedraggled scarecrow. “I thought you were in New Market.”
Nahum snatched off his hat, gawking at her as though she’d sprouted an extra head. Tensing, Garnet mentally rolled her eyes. “Did you buy anything?” she prompted, glancing behind him. “At the auction?”
“Aw, they sold everything I was interested in afore noon. Caught a ride home with a feller from Fisher’s Hill. He let me off at the Tom’s Brook tollgate. You know I don’t like leaving Gran by herself at night.” He cleared his throat. “Sure is nice to see you, Garnet.”
“It’s nice to see you, too.” She hesitated. “I have to be going. It’s getting late.”
“Wait a spell, Garnet.” Nahum’s ears turned bright pink. His hands crumpled the soft felt brim of his hat. “I . . . um . . . dang it, Gran peeled my skin for trifling with your drawing stuff. That’s why I haven’t seen you these last weeks, hain’t it?”
Garnet felt his embarrassment almost as keenly as her own, and that realization loosened her taut neck muscles enough for her to finally relax. “I suppose,” she confessed, smiling at him. “I don’t even let my family see my unfinished drawings, Nahum. It’s not just you. All right?”
He nodded, a wave of greasy straw-colored hair falling over one eye. “I’m powerful sorry, Garnet. I won’t do it again, ever.” He blinked, his eyes anxious. “Will you stay for a spell? Gran’s made her nobby buns, you know. She even hauled down her fancy crockery for us.”
“It’s late, Nahum. Perhaps another time.” She smiled again to soften the rejection, wishing not for the first time that she’d been born with Meredith’s flirtatious nature or even Leah’s diplomacy.
Undeterred, Nahum trailed after her while she fetched Goatsbeard and insisted so vehemently on hitching the animal for her that she gave in. “Still raining,” he pointed out, threading the traces through the loops. “Sure you can make it home all right?”
“A little dampness never hurt anybody. I’ll be fine.” Garnet stuffed the limp sunbonnet back in place. One of the ribbons, she saw in amusement, had been clawed to shreds. “I’m going to tell your grandmother good-bye.”
“I wish you wouldn’t wear that thing. It covers all your pretty hai—” he gulped, dropping the reins over the dash. “Beg pardon, Garnet.”
“It’s all right, Nahum.” Garnet suppressed a sigh. “I wear a bonnet because it keeps the wind from blowing my hair into my face and ears when I’m drawing.” After five years, the lie fell easily from her lips.
A short while later she climbed into the road cart, then turned to wave to the Tweedies. A basket full of sugar-dusted nobby buns wrapped in old newspapers was stashed beneath the seat. Garnet herself was wrapped neck-to-toes in a gigantic mackintosh that smelled of camphor and rosemary. “Pappy’s got no use for it, now has he?” Mrs. Tweedie told her, fastening the garment about Garnet. “Reckon it don’t rain overmuch in heaven. And if he went t’other way, I know it don’t rain there. Now don’t be a stranger, child. Nahum’ll behave in the future, keep his nose out of your business. Won’t you, boy?” she added with a good-natured buffet to her hapless grandson’s head. “Watch that stretch of track at the bottom of the hill. Tends to wash out when it rains . . .”
“I will.” She waved a final farewell, then turned Goatsbeard’s head toward home.
But for the next mile or two she wished she’d given in and asked Mrs. Tweedie why she didn’t know where her husband was spending eternity. For the past several years—a little over five of them, now—Garnet had struggled with uncertainty over her own eternal destination.
Three
By the time Garnet reached the Valley Pike, the rain had intensified to a steady downpour. Rumbles of thunder and intermittent flashes of lightning over the mountain warned of another deluge, so Garnet urged Goatsbeard to a brisk
trot. Several years earlier her father had modified the one-horse road cart for better protection from the elements, using parts from an old coupe rockaway. But an open front remained, still leaving the driver somewhat vulnerable.
Which was why Garnet had promised to always keep an eye on the weather and return home in plenty of time to avoid a drenching. Guilt lashed her like the rain lashing the wooden panels, soaking into her spirit like the moisture dampening Mr. Tweedie’s old mackintosh. She should have known after becoming distracted by those bird-foot violets that she wouldn’t make Cedar Creek today.
The memory of the meadow brought to mind her brief encounter with the dark-haired stranger. What an odd gentleman he’d been, tramping all the way up the hill just to speak to her! At first terror had all but paralyzed her, until she realized that he was a stranger to the Valley, his presence in the meadow benign. Of course, the bonnet had covered her distinctive hair, so even if they had finally hired someone to track her down after five years—Hush up, Garnet. The notion was beyond absurdity.
The man had seemed a trifle put out when she refused to linger. What was it he’d said? Something about her staying a few more moments? She hadn’t paid much attention, because after realizing he hadn’t been sent after her, all she’d been thinking about was Cedar Creek.
Had she been rude? She supposed Meredith would have lingered, drawn him out until she knew all about the tall, forbidding Yankee. Leah would probably have invited him to dinner. Her sisters didn’t understand Garnet’s attitude toward men, even though over the last few years they had finally ceased harping on her indifference. Indifference, she thought with an inward flinch. If only they knew . . . Indifference was much more acceptable than the terror.
She knew her family loved her, that her father and sisters might even sacrifice their lives for her. Yet she had never been able to explain what had happened, that summer when she’d turned sixteen.
Goatsbeard came to an abrupt, tail-swishing halt, hooves digging into the soggy roadbed. A brook had overflowed, spilling muddy water across the Pike. “It’s all right, you old goat.” Garnet leaned forward to pat the soaked flank, then firmly urged him forward until both animal and cart navigated the fetlock-deep flooded roadway. “Now, that wasn’t so fearful, was it?” she asked, jiggling the reins.
Fearful . . .
Papa had tried once to talk with her, she remembered. Right after she began wearing the sunbonnets. It had been raining about like this, and she’d holed herself up with her heartwood chest, in the attic her father had converted to a studio for her. Jacob had come looking for her, and she’d asked him again about the cardinal feather in the hidden drawer.
“Why not a flower, or one of Mama’s handkerchiefs, since you say I’m the most like her? I don’t even like birds that much.”
Jacob hadn’t gotten upset or even impatient. Just stood there, fondling the bright red feather, his gaze wistful, a little sad. “Why don’t you tell me why you’ve taken to wearing your mother’s old sunbonnets when you wander about the countryside? Or why you no longer go with Meredith to the Sunday school socials or picnics. You didn’t even go the annual Fourth of July celebration. ”
“Meredith’s interested in young men. I’m not. I’d rather be drawing. And I wear Mama’s old bonnets because I got tired of my hair blowing in my face when I’m outside.”
She’d managed the words without batting an eye, even though after five years the memories still chilled her. But it was the truth, Garnet reminded herself fiercely, even if it was only a portion of it. The rest would remain buried. She must never reveal what had happened that day when she’d returned home by herself from the high school in Woodstock, because Meredith had stayed behind to help Tate Zickle clean blackboards.
For a long time, she’d wondered if God was punishing her because she couldn’t be like other young ladies, couldn’t seem to discipline the wild streak in her nature. Couldn’t stifle the doubts: Why hadn’t God given her a fiery temperament along with red hair or plain brown hair to match her unexceptional disposition?
Instead the Lord had chosen to create a . . . a patchwork personality. An even-tempered redhead. A restless gypsy with an equal need for home and hearth. Likely as not she would never fit anywhere beyond Sinclair Run, especially after what had happened to her. Which meant Garnet must accept her solitary lot in life. Besides, defying her world by revealing her secret would result in shame, probable banishment, and threat to her family. So she lived a lie and strove to accept God’s will with grace and humor. But ever since that summer afternoon five years ago, she hadn’t been able to trust Him.
If only loneliness didn’t strike like a poisonous snake at odd moments, biting deep with its venom, filling her with an unnamed longing for something more. For someone.
With an impatient sniff Garnet tossed her head, resolutely flinging off her melancholy along with the raindrops. She was healthy, with a family who loved her regardless of her eccentric ways, and lately a rewarding profession unheard of for most ladies, especially here in the Valley. She should be grateful that the Lord allowed her to make use of her artistic gift, not whine because no man would ever feel about her the way Papa did about the mother Garnet barely remembered.
And as long as she covered the beacon of her hair when she was out, she—and her family—should be safe.
One of the wheels rolled into a rut, throwing Garnet sideways and causing her to yank the reins. “Sorry, Goatsbeard,” she called, swiping muddy water from her eyelashes. “Did I pull your mouth?” Better keep her mind on the task at hand, she decided. Returning home in a downpour would be forgiven. Riding home astride because of a snapped axle or a broken wheel . . . well, that was a fate to be avoided at all costs.
A prolonged growl of thunder reverberated over the mountains, initiating a chilly deluge. In seconds her head was drenched, the sunbonnet clinging to her scalp in limp defeat. The fresh blast of rain soaked into the mackintosh’s heavy wool. The pungent odor of mildew and herbs took her breath away. Oh, she was in for a rare scolding for sure. And yet . . .
Exhilaration pulsed through her veins. Since she was going to be soaked, she might as well enjoy it. In reckless abandon Garnet lifted her face to the sheeting rain and laughed aloud.
By the time Sloan reached another of the tollgates situated every five miles along the Valley Pike he was shivering and soaked through. For the last half hour he’d had to slog through relentless rain and gusting wind, leaving scant energy to fume over Garnet Sinclair, or anything else.
Of course he could have waited out the storm in a local drygoods store in the small community of Tom’s Brook. But due to the rain, the store had been crawling with locals and other travelers, and when he’d passed by, Sloan had shuddered more over the cluster of horses, buggies, and buckboards crowded along the hitching post than he had over the weather.
When the middle-aged woman who collected the toll at the next gate invited him to dry out by the fire and share a meal with her and her husband, Sloan accepted at once. He was far too miserable to nurse his foul temper any longer. Even her sideways study of his medical bag didn’t deter him from the promise of food and warmth.
An hour later, clothes dry and belly full, Sloan politely refused Ebenezer Wickham’s invitation to join him for a smoke, earning instead Katie Wickham’s flustered gratitude when he helped clear the table. “Least I can do, after enjoying the best meal I’ve eaten in months.”
He stacked plates and bowls, then carried them to a large wooden tub Mrs. Wickham was filling with hot water in the kitchen. When she firmly shooed him off, he joined Ebenezer in front of their parlor stove, sitting down opposite the older man in an identical cane-bottomed rocking chair.
“Where you be headed, Doctor?” Ebenezer tamped his corncob pipe against the stove’s grate, a benign expression on the long-jawed face. “Mighty poor weather for travelers this evening, ’specially ones on foot.”
“My horse drew up lame, back in Winchester. It was a pretty m
orning. I decided to walk.”
A low chuckle rumbled up from Ebenezer’s chest. “Weather here in the Valley takes a notion more often than not to surprise us with a tantrum.”
“So I discovered.” They shared a companionable smile.
Sloan leaned his head against the chair’s high back. The peace of the cozy stone cottage was seductive; laziness lapped around his feet, winding its way up his legs, softening his bones and the bitterness that festered inside like a canker. “Since I’m no longer a practicing physician, how about calling me Sloan.”
Ebenezer harrumphed, pursing his lips around the pipe. “I go by Eb. Might as well tell you, Sloan”—he cocked a bushy white eyebrow—“I was sorry to hear you say that. But the way I see it, when a man makes a decision, he’s obliged to stand behind it, no matter what folks comment behind his back.”
“Appreciate it.” Sloan set the rocker in motion. It was the first time in weeks he hadn’t felt compelled to justify or defend himself.
For a while they sat in silence, content to listen to the snapping fire behind the isinglass windows on the front of the stove. Rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof, the creaking of Sloan’s rocker beating a counterpoint. The homey sound of rattling dishes and cutlery floated through from the kitchen. Eyelids half closed, Sloan absorbed the essence of his humble surroundings. The rectangular room functioned both as dining room and parlor, where the Wickhams apparently spent most of their waking hours. It was sparse, even plainly furnished, almost absent of frills and ornamentation other than a set of inexpensively framed pen-and-inks tacked to one wall.
He would have given half his inheritance for a place of his own that exuded the same aura of quiet contentment.
“The pen-and-inks are nice,” he remarked after a time. “I’ve always been partial to watercolors myself, but those are some excellent renderings.”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 3