Chapter Eleven

The day broke bleak and dismal the morning Jane Miles and Levi were laid to rest. Word spread fast throughout the small community that Hiram’s son took a turn for the worse last week and died in his father’s arms. Rory stood in the cemetery with neighbors and friends while they were lowered into the ground to a chorus of Amazing Grace. Rory focused on the marker Hiram had ordered from Vermont shortly after his wife died: Jane Miles, beloved wife of Hiram, born 1843-died 1860, Rest in Peace. A local granite marker had crafted the image of a lamb for Levi but hadn’t etched his name, birth and death dates into the stone.

Rory turned from the gloomy reminders and cast a sorrowful gaze on Hiram. A stooped and broken man, he stood in front of the crowd, head down, his gut-wrenching sobs unbearable. Silently slipping from the throng of people, Rory could stand no more. Maybe she should have stayed with him longer, made sure Levi would make it through the winter. What would become of Hiram now; what would become of them all?

Near the wagon, a tap to her shoulder spun her around. Hiram’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes sent a wave of guilt and sadness through her. "Don’t know what I’ll do with Jane and Levi gone."

"I’m so sorry." Rory reached out and touched the sleeve of his long coat. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes, of course."

"Spend time with me."

Staggered by his words, Rory couldn’t form an answer.

"After Levi passed, I had to get out. I spent two days in the woods." People passed behind them, one or two delivering a comforting pat to his back before walking on. Hiram seemed to be oblivious to their gestures. "I came across a clearing and thought you might accompany me there when the weather breaks."

Find your tongue girl, say something. "I’m not sure that would be a good idea." She broke from his steady gaze and looked around. "You know how people talk."

"As if I care." He covered her hand on his sleeve with his. "I see you holding Levi in your arms, still smell your scent. Do you know you left your shawl? I sleep with it every night."

Oh, God, this can’t be happening. "No, Hiram, this is wrong and too soon after Jane’s death." She pulled her hand out from under his. "I know you’re lonely, but replacing Jane with anyone when you’re still grieving would be a disservice to her memory, to you."

His eyes misted over. "You’re not anyone to me."

Please don’t cry again. She shook her head. "The day will come when you’ll meet someone new, a woman who will return the love you deserve. I’m not that woman."

When something cold and hard flashed in his eyes, her scalp prickled. "You said you’d do anything. I see now you didn’t mean one word." Rory shriveled when she looked at his white-knuckled, clenched fists. "You got your sights set on Dawson Finch, don’t ya? I saw you fawning over him on the porch that day."

"Ready to leave, lass?"

Thank heavens, Jon’s voice. "Yes, I’m done saying goodbye to Hiram."

"We wish you well, son." Jon put an arm around his shoulder. "Drop by the house anytime for a visit or a meal. No need to wait for an invitation."

Rory took her cue, turned and climbed aboard the sleigh. A shiver shot down her spine. Hiram hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and his expression was anything but passive.

"Here we go, then." Jon scrambled into the seat, picked up the reins and clucked to the team.

"Poor man." Isabelle clucked her tongue. "I hate to see him standing there alone as we leave."

Rory held her tongue and tried to make sense of the conversation she’d had with the man. She relived the days she’d spent caring for Levi and couldn’t recall a moment she’d led Hiram to believe she cared for him . . . or ever could.

Jon’s words broker her reverie. "He’s young. He’ll find love again."

Rory remembered the look in the man’s eyes when she rebuffed him and shivered again. God help the woman he sets his sights on.

* * *

Rory flung the windows open in the kitchen and inhaled an endless breath of sweet-smelling air. The winter chill had left her bones and the warmth of the sun sang in her veins. She glanced at the turquoise sky and a white chain of billowing clouds. Tilting her nose up, she closed her eyes and whispered a stanza from Thomas Nashe’s Spring, The Sweet Spring: "The fields breathe sweet; the daisies kiss our feet. Young lovers meet; old wives a-sunning sit."

From the front porch, Isabelle called out, "Ah, lass, you’re up."

"What are you about this morning?"

"Beating rugs but I’ll be right in for a cup of tea."

"Perfect, I just finished rolling out biscuits." Rory wandered toward the cupboard, grabbed two cups with one hand, lifted the teapot from the stove with the other and headed for the table.

Voices floated into the kitchen, Isabelle’s and a man. "Beautiful day, isn’t it?"

"Morning, Isabelle. Yes, a grand day. Spring arrives on the wings of renewal, hope and the start of better times for all."

Rory’s legs turned to rubber. Dawson.

"You look well after the long winter," her sister chuckled. "A tad thinner, but healthy."

"Now don’t go making plans to fatten me up already." Rory pictured him smiling, charming the socks off of Isabelle. "How did everyone here fare?"

"They’re hungry all the time, like bears after their winter sleep."

In the pause that ensued, Rory pushed the wild mass of hair from her face and pinched her cheeks. "I bet you didn’t drop by to talk about the weather all day, did you?"

"No, ma’am, I came to see Rory."

"Come on in, she’ll be happy to see you."

Rory’s heart fell to some unknown place beyond her knees when he walked through the door. He affected a dramatic bow, straightened and graced her with a devilish smile. "Miss Hudson, you survived your first winter in the wild?"

Gathering her scattered wits, Rory plucked the towel from the apron around her waist and waved it in the air. "Survived and declaring victory."

He put a hand over his mouth, but couldn’t stifle his laughter.

"What’s so amusing?" She looked at Isabelle. "Have I sprouted warts all of a sudden?"

"No . . . flour." Her sister covered her mouth with a hand, the laughter spilling through her fingers.

"I’m sorry," Dawson clutched his belly. "I see two green orbs peering out from a sea of white."

Grinning, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. "Isabelle is a slave driver, I tell you."

"She made biscuits this morning," her sister added. "For the hungry bears."

"In that case, she deserves a reprieve. What do you say; can I steal her for a while?"

Isabelle put a finger to her lips and squinted. "Let me think . . . oh, very well. Be off with you then."

With hands on hips, Rory looked to her sister and then to Dawson. "Do I have anything to say about this?"

"Of course, lass."

"Then, give me a few minutes to change and wash my face."