Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  “Rosie?” Sloane sought her gaze. “It’s just Garrett. Lauren’s coming.”

  Pale blue eyes and a blank expression peered back at her.

  “Orrin’s here too,” she hastened to add.

  “Who?” Rosie looked at Garrett, but no recognition flickered across her face. Sloane’s stomach churned.

  Another thunderclap announced Lauren’s arrival.

  “Grandma. There you are. Listen, we’ve got to get you inside. There’s a storm coming.”

  Rosie glanced toward Lauren, then back at Sloane. “A storm?”

  “Not a bad one.” Sloane hated to lie, but she didn’t want to worsen Rosie’s panic. “I think we’d all be safer in the cellar, though.”

  A wall of wind slammed the side of the shed, and rain drummed the metal roof. Rosie glanced around, eyes wide with fright.

  “It’s okay, Toots.” Sloane gave a wink and a jaunty fluff of her hair, as she imagined someone who answered to the name of Auntie Boop might do. “We’ll help you get down there, quick as a whistle.”

  As if to emphasize her point, the wind grew louder, and with it the tell-tale pop of hailstones.

  “O—okay,” Rosie agreed.

  Garrett didn’t waste a moment. Closing the gap between them, he scooped his grandmother into his arms. “Come on.”

  “I’m right behind you, Toots,” Sloane reassured Rosie. “You’ll be just fine.”

  Lauren tugged open the shed door, and Garrett darted into the deluge. Sloane ran close behind, shielding her head awkwardly with one hand. Cold rain drenched her clothes; small hailstones stung her skin and bounced at her feet.

  Within seconds, they reached the stone steps of the cellar. Lauren yanked the door open, and Sloane held it until everyone was safely through. Inside, she pulled her glasses from her pocket and slid them on, but all that did was make the darkness less fuzzy.

  “I never got that flashlight,” came Garrett’s voice behind her. “But I think Grandpa left a lantern down here somewhere.”

  “Here.” Sloane fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone. Good. Still dry. She switched on the flashlight, and a narrow beam of bright light split the blackness. It rested on wooden shelves, doubtless stacked in decades past with the farm’s bounty. Ready to see the family—the Brennan family, her family—through another prairie winter.

  “Here it is.” Lauren stretched on tiptoe and retrieved an ancient-looking green camping lantern from a shelf. “Let’s pray this thing still works.”

  It did. Breathing silent thanks, Sloane switched off the flashlight and tucked her phone into her pocket.

  “Grandpa had us take cover over here.” Garrett guided his grandma to a corner and helped her to a sitting position. Lauren knelt beside Rosie and wrapped an arm around her, while Sloane crouched on the other side of Garrett.

  His skin seemed to glow in the lantern light. His clothes were soaked with rain, and a chunk of wet hair draped over his forehead. When he quirked a smile and pulled her close, her chest filled so full of love for him she was certain her body couldn’t contain it all. The cellar might not even have room for it.

  “The wind stopped,” Lauren announced from Garrett’s opposite side. “Guys, the storm’s passed.”

  But Sloane’s ears filled, then popped, and she knew. It hadn’t passed at all.

  As if on cue, the wind picked up, but it sounded different this time. A waterfall, a steady whoosh at a constant crescendo, peppered with the thump of her heartbeat. The whooshing waterfall grew louder and louder until it was right on top of them.

  “This is it,” came Lauren’s quiet, tremulous voice.

  Garrett pulled Sloane closer. “I thought it was supposed to sound like a freight train.”

  The whoosh became an angry hiss, and Sloane’s ears popped again. “Me too.” God, please keep us safe. Please keep us safe. Please keep us safe. It was all she could think to pray.

  Crashes and bangs punctuated the shrieking wind, a stark contrast to the heavy, humid calm inside the musty cellar. Nothing within these earthen walls moved, but above it sounded like a giant, demonic snake had been let loose to wreak havoc across the farm. Something cracked, then thudded, and Sloane’s mind spun nearly as fast as the storm. Was it the barn being torn apart? The shed where they’d found Rosie? The house?

  Dear God, please. Not the house.

  To her relief, the storm began a slow yet certain retreat. The hissing lessened. The thumps and bangs came less often, then stopped altogether. The wind died down.

  And then it was over. Calm. As though nothing had happened.

  Seconds. Mere seconds.

  But it felt like a year.

  “Is it over? It’s over. Isn’t it?” Lauren’s shaky voice echoed the trembling in Sloane’s legs as she cautiously stood.

  “I think so.” Garrett got to his feet, and together they helped Rosie stand.

  “Goodness, that was a doozy,” the older woman exclaimed.

  Sloane managed a smile. “A doozy” was the only way to put it. And yet they were all in one piece. God had kept them safe. Tension melted into gratitude that warmed her fear-chilled hands.

  Lauren pushed the door open, and Sloane’s eyes ached as bright light spilled into the cellar. As dark as the sky had been moments ago, now there were shadows. A weak one hovered on the stone steps. One that looked like … a tree?

  Whew. That meant at least one still stood.

  She climbed from the cellar on Jell-O legs to a landscape littered with branches, along with a few hailstones and a handful of shingles. The largest of the downed limbs lay directly between the house and the shed where they’d found Rosie, its dark, leafy tips standing out against the pale, exposed wood on the jagged end. That must’ve been the loud crack. Sloane shuddered, thinking how near they’d come to meeting that tree limb up close.

  But the house still stood, stately and white. A regal serenity radiated from the whole structure, foundation to rooftop. A quiet triumph at having withstood yet another prairie assault. The only damage looked to be a shutter from one of the second-floor bedrooms, which now dangled from a single hinge.

  The image blurred with a flood of grateful tears.

  Her family’s house still stood.

  “Looks like we escaped the worst of it.” Garrett stopped beside Sloane and slid his arm around her waist. As Lauren guided Rosie to the kitchen door, he sighed and kissed the top of her head. “Are you all right?”

  She blinked away her tears. Yes. And no. Not really.

  Because in the cellar, right before the storm hit, when she looked into his eyes …

  She loved him.

  Despite all her baggage and her damage and her fear of loving him—of loving anyone—she loved him.

  “I think so.” Her fingers skimmed his cheekbone. “Are you?”

  His response was a fierce kiss. One that stole breath, stole sense and reason and thoughts of anything except him. The tension of his hand on her skin. The heat of his chest against hers. The desperate movement of his mouth as he clung to her and drank deeply, as though slaking some bone-deep thirst.

  It was too much, this kiss.

  And yet it would never be enough.

  Breathless, he pulled back, his eyes a deep sapphire. “I am now that I know you’re all right.”

  Shaky, her legs rubbery, she slipped her hands along his shoulders. “Good.”

  And then she returned to the well from which she’d just drunk so deeply.

  “Good night, Orrin.”

  Grandma’s sleepy voice drifted from her nest of pillows and blankets, and her eyes slid closed.

  From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Garrett leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Good night, Rosie.”

  After Sloane left for the evening, it had taken a while to get Grandma settled, what with the trauma of the tornado. She’d wanted to talk about it but couldn’t summon the right words, which sent her into a tailspin of panic and tears. It took much pacing, patient negotiation, and
a bowl of vanilla ice cream to get her calmed down and into bed.

  When Grandma’s breathing evened and slowed, Garrett carefully stood, pulled the blankets to her chin, and crept from the room. A soft hallway lamp illuminated the creaky wooden staircase.

  Time had worn the banister to a smooth patina. Striped wallpaper bore nail scars and faded spots where the gallery of family photos had been displayed. This staircase had carried his ancestors up and down, likely for generations. Pioneers. Flappers. Veterans of two world wars. His grandparents.

  Mom.

  It all could’ve been obliterated this afternoon. More than a century of history wiped out in seconds. Instead, the twister had passed to the north, its short-lived path damaging only a few outbuildings at a neighboring farm. No one had been injured. And the house still stood.

  But would it survive his plan? A plan their frantic afternoon had proven more necessary than ever?

  He switched on the kitchen light, but Lauren’s startled yelp made him switch it right back off again.

  “Sorry, didn’t know you were in here.”

  “’S okay.”

  She sat at the table, bathed in a pool of moonlight. A cabinet door, slightly ajar, cast an eerie shadow over the domed plastic lid of … was that a cake?

  Chocolate, looked like. With frosting and everything. The kind of cake you bought at the grocery store, that was patently not paleo, keto, gluten free, or anything else his nutrition-obsessed sister would ordinarily eat.

  Yet there she was, shoveling it into her mouth at a frenzied pace.

  Alarm churned in his chest. “Lauren?” She hadn’t done this for over a decade.

  “Don’t judge,” she snapped.

  “I won’t. Long as you’re willing to share.” He retrieved a fork from the silverware drawer and sat across from Lauren, who wordlessly slid the cake toward him.

  He sank his fork into it and fished out a bite. “Grandma’s finally asleep.”

  “Good.”

  “Took a while.”

  “I’ll bet.” Just like it had been while watching her ex-boyfriend give the weather forecast, Lauren’s voice was flat. Emotionless. She shoveled bite after bite of cake into her mouth but gave no indication of even the slightest enjoyment. And after all these years of dedication—and deprivation—she should enjoy it.

  He placed his hand over hers. “Lauren, I—”

  “I know.” She slammed her fork down. “You don’t have to lecture me or rub it in or be all high-and-mighty big brother, because I know, okay? I was irresponsible. I left her alone, and she wandered off. But she’s never done that before, not even once, and I—”

  “Hey, hey.” He squeezed her hand. Rant stilled, she looked up at him, caution and challenge sparking in shadowed eyes.

  “I’m not blaming you. Not in the slightest. Promise. Because it’s not you. It’s her disease.”

  Lauren took another bite of cake, though at a more reasonable speed. She actually seemed to taste it this time.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “A lot. About how Grandma was. Y’know … before.”

  “Yeah.” Garrett stuffed more cake into his mouth. He’d been trying not to remember. It was too painful.

  “Didn’t matter what time of day or night, she’d be waiting for us at the front door.” Lauren’s voice held a smile. “And the second we got there, she’d hurry off to the kitchen to pull a chocolate cake out of the oven.”

  Ah. That explained Lauren’s choice of comfort food.

  It was good cake.

  But nowhere near as good as Grandma’s.

  “The local news would always be on in the background, remember?”

  Warm memories tugged at the corners of Garrett’s mouth. “And Grandpa always pulled out his grouch act and pretended to be annoyed that we were interrupting his program.”

  “But then he’d pick us up and spin us around in circles.”

  Garrett chuckled. “I think he regretted that decision the time you had stomach flu and nobody had any idea.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Lauren laughed, but her laughter quickly dissolved into a sob. She looked across the table with tear-filled eyes. “It’s time, isn’t it? For us to move her, I mean.”

  Garrett’s heart broke, even as relief flooded in. “Yes. It’s time.”

  Her tears spilled over, and he got up and wrapped her in a hug.

  “I miss Mom,” she sobbed against his chest. “And Daddy. And Grandpa. And Grandma. I miss them all.”

  The litany of their losses brought a lump to his throat. “I miss them too. So much.”

  “And this house is all we have left of them.” She sniffed. “Grandma didn’t even remember you today. Not as you, not as Grandpa, not as anyone.”

  And that blank look had scared Garrett to his core.

  “So … it’s time.” Lauren’s voice was quiet but resolute.

  “It’s time.”

  Lauren’s heartbreak stung his eyes. But gratitude mingled with the grief. Finally, she saw the truth that moving their grandmother to a skilled nursing facility was the only choice. Finally, she understood.

  He could only hope and pray that Grandma would understand too.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  September 30, 1882

  ANNABELLE SNIPPED ANOTHER strip of muslin and added it to the growing pile on the worktable in Uncle Stephen’s spare bedroom. Just this summer, Jack and Oliver had helped build this room, a space for patients requiring overnight observation and care.

  She never imagined Jack would be its first occupant.

  He was still asleep in the bed behind her, though his increased tossing and occasional moans indicated he’d awaken soon. Dread knotted her stomach, and she snipped more quickly. When he awoke, they’d need to redress his burns.

  A sudden pop split the air, jolting her with terror and sending her scissors clattering to the wooden floor.

  It’s only the fireplace, you silly goose. The logs shifted and settled, as if to chide her foolishness.

  Trembling, she bent to retrieve the scissors, the coppery taste of fear washing through her mouth. How long would something so safe, so necessary, make her want to curl up in a ball and hide like a terrified child?

  Of course, there was a world of difference between a friendly home fire and the frenzied fury of a prairie wildfire. She’d learned that all too well Wednesday afternoon. Jack and the neighbor men had fought to beyond exhaustion, beating at the flames with wet sacks and blankets, but their valiant efforts proved useless against the ferocious wind. Annabelle and the children had made trip after trip to the creek, soaking the parched ground around their little cabin in hopes of persuading the ravenous flames to feed elsewhere.

  In the end, only the cabin was left.

  They’d lost the barn.

  Two-thirds of the stock and most of the chickens.

  The seed for next spring.

  The half-finished house on which Jack had spent every spare minute.

  Years of toil incinerated in moments.

  Though she longed to weep at the enormity of the loss, Annabelle refused to allow the luxury of self-pity. Their family was intact. Their children unharmed. Their home spared. And though Jack’s hands and arms bore blistered burns and his lungs struggled to clear the smoke he’d inhaled, he was alive. Uncle Stephen reassured them that, in time, his damaged limbs should regain full function.

  A quiet knock came at the door, and her uncle stepped inside. “Is he awake?”

  “Not yet.” She added another strip of muslin to the pile.

  Uncle Stephen glanced at the ticking clock on the mantel. “I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer. Perhaps he’ll sleep through it.”

  “Perhaps.” A fanciful thought, and they both knew it. But her uncle was right. To prevent infection, it had to be done.

  Swallowing hard, Annabelle picked up the bandages and the little dish of pungent salve they’d apply and stepped to the bed, where Uncle Stephen took up residence on the opposi
te side.

  He eyed her over his wire-rimmed spectacles as he spooned a little brandy into Jack’s barely open mouth. “You needn’t stay. I can manage.”

  She shook her head. “Jack needs me.”

  “All right.” Uncle Stephen squared his shoulders and slipped into his professional façade, but it took a beat or two longer than usual, as it always did when the patient was family.

  The work began, and with it the heart-wrenching moans from Jack. Gentle as could be, Uncle Stephen removed the bandages, snipped away dead skin, and applied the salve, but even slight contact with the burns was excruciating.

  This was why they were staying here rather than at home.

  So the children wouldn’t witness their father’s agony.

  Finally, mercifully, Uncle Stephen finished and slipped from the room. Her legs wobbly, Annabelle sank onto the bed beside Jack and looked into eyes almost ebony with pain.

  “It’s over.” She stroked his sweat-soaked hair with a shaky hand, speaking as much to herself as to him. “It’s all over. You were very brave.”

  She winced at the words, something she might say to the children. Jack must’ve thought so too, because he grunted and closed his eyes.

  Annabelle dipped a cloth in the cool water of the washbasin and smoothed it over her husband’s pale, stubbled face. The fire had singed off his beard, at first glance making him look younger. But the fan of lines beside his eyes, the defeat etched around his mouth, aged him at least a decade.

  “Uncle Stephen says you’re healing nicely. No sign of infection.”

  “Good.” His voice was still thick and heavy from smoke.

  “You’ll make a full recovery in time.”

  Jack glanced at his hands and forearms, swathed in fresh muslin. “Then as soon as these useless things will let me, I’m writing to my brother.”

  “Robert?” The two hadn’t spoken in ages. Some falling-out upon which Jack refused to elaborate. “Why?”

  “The folks say he’s doing well for himself. Perhaps he’ll rent us some of his land.”

  Her fingers tightened on the wet cloth as she trailed it down to the hollow of his cheekbone. Robert was in Wisconsin. What was Jack saying?