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Chapter Five

Charlotte and Haven found Pratt and Emery in a pair of rockers on the front porch watching a flock of wild geese in flight.

Pratt came to his feet and Emery followed. "Ready, ladies?"

Charlotte hooked her arm into Haven's. "Lead the way."

They strolled through a plowed field bounded by great white pines on three sides. Up ahead, the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the hardwood and pines in a golden glow of light. From somewhere deep in the belly of the woods, timber groaned and muted voices filtered out.

Pratt kept walking but dropped his voice to a snarl. "Damnation! The loggers are still at it!"

Haven cupped a hand over her brow in an attempt to see through the thick mass of trees. "At this time of day?"

Tension cracked the air, despite Charlotte's low-voiced attempt to diffuse it. "Sometimes they work until dusk."

Another discordant snap of wood resounded, followed by a large thud. "On your property?"

Emery chimed in. "I'd like to see that."

"No, child," Charlotte said. "Pratt would chase them off with a shotgun if they tried cutting down our trees."

"They'll fall when they're good and ready, without assistance from man." The elderly man dug his toe into the dirt. "The landscape in Minnesota is similar to Maine's, including the variety of pines and timber. That's why we came here, but every day it looks less like Maine."

Emery sneaked a glance at Haven. "Big money in St. Paul and Minneapolis call it progress."

It wasn't clear if Emery shared Pratt's disgust for lumberjacks. Curiosity propelled her onward. "Yet you provided land for the loggers and built a school for their children?"

"Of course, dear." Charlotte blew an exasperated sigh. "Children are caught in the middle. We don't dislike lumberjacks; we dislike their occupation. In any event, we must live in harmony with all of our neighbors."

"It's not only their choice of work," a disgruntled Pratt added. "When they're done destroying the forest, they leave acres of slash behind . . . to either rot or worse, go up in flames one day."

"You have me at a disadvantage. I'm not familiar with these terms. Exactly what is slash?"

Something similar to a militant glare sparked in Pratt's eyes. "The leftovers, the parts no one wants, severed branches, tree tops, all left behind. Damn fire hazard if you ask me."

The closer they got to the woods, the easier it was for Haven to peer through the trees and see the marks of the logger's trade. Row after row of stumps rose from the ground like pitiful amputees. Around them, lopped off limbs and treetops littered the ground.

Severed from their life force. She had no idea why the words popped into her mind, unless she felt a kinship with discarded pieces. In a way, Matthias had been severed from her life force, or most definitely her life. Everything had changed with his death. True, she went through the motions every day, but dead in spirit. A woman in her prime with an entire future to look forward to and she didn't care if she lived or died. How had it come to this? How could she have tied her life, her heart, no . . . her entire being, to his existence?

Tears came unbidden to her eyes. She clutched the locket, the one tangible item linking her to Matthias, a picture of her beloved. Dear God, it could not happen again; she wouldn't allow it to. She wouldn't live through another loss like this. A simple equation in her mind: Withhold your love, prevent this soul-crushing agony.

Someone tugged on her elbow, Emery's voice coming to her through a tunnel. "Haven, you're as white as a sheet. And you haven't heard a word we said."

"I heard everything…slash is the part left behind."

Emery rocked his head backward. "That was way back there. Charlotte asked if you liked the fresh coat of paint on the schoolhouse."

"Sorry." She placed her fingers to her temples. "Got lost in daydreams for a minute." More like nightmares. "Fresh white paint, yes, and it's an adorable schoolhouse." Affecting her best smile, she looked from Emery to Pratt to Charlotte. "How about a tour?"

* * *

Daylight had taken its last breath by the time they returned to the house. Overhead, a lustrous moon shimmered beneath a starlit sky. Emery and Pratt returned to their rocking chairs on the porch when Charlotte offered to walk Haven to the guest cottage. Although emotionally drained with conflicting feelings, the woman's presence brought her a semblance of peace. An unspoken comradeship had emerged in the short time they'd known one another. Underneath Charlotte's cheery demeanor, inner strength resided. Like a hapless moth to a flame, Haven was drawn to the woman and that potent force.

Walking arm in arm up the steps of the small veranda, Haven halted near the door. Should she bid her goodnight or did the woman walk her home for a reason? In the end, she decided to take her cue from how Charlotte responded to her offer. "I discovered the tea you left in the cupboard. Should I brew a pot?"

"Don't bother, dear. Let's sit for a spell on the porch, listen to the Crickets parley with the fireflies."

They settled into the rockers, Haven drifting into thoughts of home, Charlotte seemingly content with her own reflections. Long minutes passed before the woman spoke. "Pratt mentioned earlier we arrived here from Maine."

"I remember," Haven said. "Because Minnesota reminded him of Maine."

"Yes, that's what he likes everyone to believe." She waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Don't get me wrong, the terrain and trees are similar, but not the real reason we left Maine."

Haven allowed the pause in conversation to pass without asking questions. The woman should be given free rein to reveal as much or as little as possible. She would listen, and in the interim, calm her own turbulent emotions. Shrubs near the front steps infused the air with the delectable aroma of roses. Haven closed her eyes and drew several deep breaths.

"We lost three children in an epidemic many years ago. Weeks, months and finally years passed, but I couldn't come to grips with their deaths. Waking up to three white markers was like taking a knife to a fresh wound every morning. Pratt fretted and stewed, said it was bad enough to lose the children but he wasn't sure he could live with losing me."

"He suggested the move?"

Charlotte shook her head. “After a fashion, I suppose. One day he found me standing in the middle of the cornfield staring at the clouds. ‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘what are you about now?’ realized my worst fears had come true, that one day I'd end up under a cloud without reason, without purpose. That incident scared Pratt. He thought looking at those graves every morning would eventually do me in. He convinced me that starting over in a new locale would bring me to my senses."

"Did it-did it help?"

"It helped me understand that time eases all pain. It wasn't the markers; I just needed time to grasp the horrendous loss. I've never told Pratt that to see those graves now would bring me comfort, not pain. It wasn't the tombstones that severed me at the knees; it was the emptiness in my heart."

Haven reached across the short span separating them and placed a hand on Charlotte's forearm. "I'm honored you shared this with me but so sorry for your loss."

"Don't be sorry. I want you to know that the grief, the agony subsides with time. You'll never forget, and no one wants you to. To erase the memories means they never existed, and that can never happen. What you thought you couldn't bear will one day turn on its ear and bring you comfort."

Tears pooled in Haven's eyes. "Right now, I can't fathom that. I want it to be true but . . .."

"And therein lies the reason I shared my past with you. I'm here, Haven. It might seem as if you're all alone in a strange new land but you're not alone." Charlotte came to her feet and tugged her into her arms. "Now let's have a goodnight hug."

Haven locked the door after Charlotte left, undressed and pulled a cotton nightshirt over her head. She climbed into bed and before dousing the lantern, opened the locket around her neck. Matthias' brown eyes captured hers. Snapping it shut, she buried her face in the pillow and cried herself to sleep for the hundredth time.

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