MB02 - A Noble Groom (12 page)

Her smile broke free. And even though she didn’t laugh, he could see the hint of laughter dancing in her eyes.

He had the feeling she wasn’t used to smiling, much less laughing.

“I suppose after my performance today, you’d like to hand me back over to the duke?”

“Maybe I will.” As soon as her return jest was out, she ducked her head, almost as if she feared his response.

Couldn’t she see how much he enjoyed bantering with her? “If you must return me to the duke,” he persisted, “then at least persuade him not to put me back in the dungeon.”

Her gaze jerked up, and her smile faded. “You were in a dungeon?”

“Yes. And only hours away from losing my head.”

“How horrible.”

He rubbed his blistered fingers against the grimy skin of his
neck. The thought of how close he’d come to dying sobered him. He ought to be thankful God had spared his life, even if the current conditions were less than ideal.

He was alive. Couldn’t he make the best of the rudimentary living situation for a short time?

The cool evening air, the endless canopy of stars overhead, the strong earthy scent of freshly plowed soil infused his weary body and breathed fresh energy into him. The gentle strength of the woman standing before him spread into him too.

The unasked questions radiated from her eyes, but there was also something else. Deeply ingrained reservations about the roles between men and women? Perhaps fear of retribution? Whatever it was, he knew she wouldn’t pry into his life.

She wouldn’t ask him about his past, or why he couldn’t do the simple things that most people knew how to do. No matter how much she might want to question him, she wouldn’t.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for my bumbling efforts today,” he said softly. “I may not be the best help, but I assure you I’ll work my hardest.”

Through the increasing dusk she gave him a tentative smile. “That’s all I could ask for.”

Her words were meant to reassure him. But suddenly all he could think about was how she deserved to know the truth, even if she wouldn’t ask.

Chapter
6

Someone had been tampering with the land along Mill Creek.

Annalisa let the quail carcass slip off her shoulder and fall to the ground with a thud. She bent to examine the stones along the water’s edge.

Ja, someone had been there. Several of the large ones that she and Gretchen liked to sit on had been moved.

“Take off shoes?” Gretchen asked, pointing to the recently thawed water near the bank.

“Nein, liebchen.” Annalisa’s voice was sharp, causing Gretchen to cease from tugging off her boot. “It’s much too cold.” In fact, in some places—particularly around the center island—drifts of snow and ice still lingered.

But it wouldn’t be long before all the ice was gone. With the thaw, the logs from the lumber camps farther inland would soon cover the river, from bank to bank. The river drivers, with their spiked caulk boots, would be hard at work, doing the dangerous job of pushing the logs along, breaking up jams, and steering the logs with the current until they reached the sawmills
in Forestville on Lake Huron. From there, the cut boards and shingles would be loaded onto steamboats, eventually to be delivered to southern ports in Detroit.

Annalisa studied a boot print, fresh in the mud, tracing it with her fingers. Was it Ward’s?

She followed the man-sized footprints to the water’s edge, where they disappeared among tangled branches and dead leaves that had become snagged among larger branches and rocks. The damp, moldy scent of the ground mingled with the muddy odor of the swollen creek, which overflowed its banks and poured over the natural fall with the steady rushing and crashing she usually found so soothing.

But not today.

A frigid gust of wind slipped under her thin coat and climbed up her back, pushing her to her full height. She glanced around, clutching her rifle in fingers stiff with cold, readying it, aiming it at the unseen enemy.

But the shrubs didn’t move, except to sway with the spring breeze and bend under the drizzle of icy rain. The dismal layers of clouds overhead reminded her of winter, and she’d been hoping all morning they wouldn’t have a spring snowstorm. Even though Carl had plowed all week, he’d made slow progress, and snow would slow him down even more and delay the planting of the spring wheat.

“Another quail, Mama?” Gretchen eyed the overgrown brush, where Annalisa had trained her rifle.

“Nein. We have all we need today.” Annalisa scanned the waterfront, taking in the few large oaks and willows that Jacob Buel hadn’t cleared when he’d first purchased the land years ago. Like many in the lumber industry, he’d cut down the profitable white pine. Once he’d gotten what he needed, he parceled out the land and sold it to the immigrants for farming.

The tangle of brush and sticks and windfall lay in piles among the stumps still waiting for the burning that would eventually free her forty acres for full-scale farming.

“Shoot squirrel?” Gretchen asked, watching Annalisa’s face. Her eyes were wide and questioning as if sensing Annalisa’s unease.

Annalisa gave the gray, leafless foliage a last scouring. Whoever had been there earlier was either good at hiding or long gone.

She lowered her rifle, picked up the quail by the legs, and slung it across her shoulder. After the long winter the quail wasn’t as plump as the one she’d shot in the fall, but it would fill their bellies nevertheless.

“Time for us to head back.” She tucked the rifle under her arm and held out a hand to Gretchen. Carl would be ready for his midday meal soon. And if she hoped to have the quail ready for his supper, she would need to make fast work of the plucking and dressing.

A movement on the strip of land in the middle of the creek caught her attention and stopped her. She narrowed her eyes and examined the island from its wider western end to the eastern tip. It was covered with an overgrowth of brush and several tall beech trees.

She held her breath and resisted the urge to lift her rifle, even as she had the chilling sensation that someone was on the island, watching her. Yet the only movement was the red flash of a cardinal and the lighter brown of his mate as they fluttered to a lower branch, likely building their nest.

As much as she loved the creek and its beauty, she’d grown to despise the fact that their farmland bordered it. If only Hans had chosen land somewhere else, how different things might have been. The day Ward had approached him about buying
the land for the sawmill, Hans had started down the path of destruction. All he’d seen was the opportunity to build the mill himself and become rich through it.

That’s when he’d started taking their hard-earned cash over to Saxonia Hall and gambling. He’d hoped to earn a quick profit off the money so he could begin purchasing the supplies needed to construct the mill.

But all Hans had done was squander their money. And instead of having more to invest in the mill, they chanced losing the land altogether. He’d lost his own life as a result of his foolishness, and now he put hers and Gretchen’s in danger as well.

Annalisa stared hard at the island for a long moment. She stifled another shiver and then tugged Gretchen forward by her hand. “Come with Mama.”

“Another story?” Gretchen skipped to match Annalisa’s pace.

Even though Annalisa couldn’t keep from tossing glances over her shoulder during the walk back to the cabin, she managed to tell Gretchen a story. When she passed by the east field where Carl had been plowing that morning and saw that he’d finally finished, she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. But her prayer stuck in her throat when she saw the door of the cabin ajar.

What was he doing inside? What could he possibly need in the cabin?

What if he found her crock with her savings in it? He wouldn’t steal it, would he?

Her mind told her Carl had proven he wasn’t like Hans—not in any way—at least so far. Still, her heartbeat pattered with fear.

“Quickly, liebchen!” She tugged Gretchen faster over the uneven ground, dodging mud puddles and fighting against the
wind and drizzle. With each step Annalisa imagined looking into the interior of her clay crock and seeing only dark emptiness. She pictured herself turning it over and nothing falling out. She imagined the past months of savings being gone, of having to start over as she’d had to do whenever Hans had taken the money.

By the time she reached the cabin door and wrenched it open, her breath came in gasps. All the past disappointments poured through the cracks in her heart and pooled there, weighing her down, making her chest ache as it had so many times before with Hans.

Carl was kneeling in front of the fire and looked up at her with guilt upon his features. “I hope you don’t mind I collected your sap.”

The wooden bucket she used to collect sap sat on the floor next to him and was empty.

“I decided to boil it down for you.” He turned back to the fire. He’d taken off his hat, and dark strands of his damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’d also shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Instead of the usual kettle, he’d poured the sap into the rectangular pan she used in butchering. He’d placed the ends of the pan on even stones and had raked the hottest coals from the fire underneath the pan. He’d also made a contraption of some kind that was fanning the fire.

For a long moment, she could only stare at him. That he’d collected sap and carried the heavy load back to the cabin for her was unusual enough. But to begin boiling it for her? Why would he do such a thing?

Of course, the sap wasn’t flowing as much as it had in the beginning. But still, the collecting and boiling had kept her busy in her spare moments.

“Having the heat spread over the larger surface area will speed the evaporation process,” he said, sitting back on his heels and watching the steam rising in a steady white cloud up the chimney.

Gretchen, with Snowdrop in tow, crossed the room to investigate the new boiling method.

“If I had a thermometer,” he continued, “I’d be able to ascertain the right temperature for boiling. As it is, I’ve experimented with varying levels of heat and I think I’ve finally landed upon the correct amount.”

She didn’t know anything about heat levels, but even she could see that the water was evaporating from the sap more quickly than it normally did when she boiled it in the kettle.

He rose to his feet, wiping his sleeve across his perspiring forehead. “And I fixed the latch on the cabin door so that it will lock now.”

She glanced to the door, to the strange lever he’d installed.

“I thought you’d be safer at night if you could lock the door from the inside.” His eyes were dark, the same shade as the thick gravy she hoped to make with the roasted quail. His kindness probed her, begged her forgiveness if he’d overstepped his bounds.

She lowered the fowl to the table and pulled off her headscarf. She didn’t know what to say. Suddenly her fear about him stealing her money seemed silly.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “You’re very kind.”

He let out a breath and smiled. “Then you don’t mind that I’ve let my curiosity get the best of me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t expect you to do extra things for me.”

“I like fiddling around. I’ve always been a bit of an experimenter.” A shadow flitted across the angular lines of his face,
and he looked as if he would say more. Instead he pressed his lips together and turned his attention back to the boiling sap.

Did he miss the Old Country and his life there? What had he left behind when he’d run from the duke? Did he miss his family? Had he left a woman he loved?

Over the past week he’d shared very little about himself during their brief interactions. Even so, it hadn’t taken her long to conclude that he knew even less about farming than her family had when they’d first arrived.

Vater had worked the mines of Essen in order to earn what they’d needed for living. But that hadn’t been enough. All the members of their family had worked for hire and had done their share, whether in the field or in the households of noblemen. They’d been accustomed to the hard labor of surviving against the odds.

But while watching Carl, she’d realized that although he was an eager and fast learner, there was something different about him, something that set him apart from them. Not only was he lacking in basic skills, but he had an air of importance about him, as if he were above their simple way of living.

“I finished the plowing,” he said, turning back to her with one of his disarming grins. His eyes sparkled with the pride of his accomplishment.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him the cornfield would need plowing next and that it would be much harder due to the stumps. Then they’d have to do the harrowing and the sowing. And after that, there would be more work to do. There was always work to do.

Not that she was complaining. Even though it had been six years since they’d moved from the Old Country, she could still remember the hardships, the poverty, and the times of near starvation. While they’d faced all that and more in their new
homes in America, at least they had the hope of owning their property someday, which was something that had never been possible in Saxony. There they’d lived on the nobleman’s land, rented from him, and worked his fields or mines like slaves. He’d made the laws, and fair or not they’d had to abide by them.

Vater was right. Noblemen like Baron von Reichart had been cruel and heartless, demanding much and giving little in return.

“I’m sure you wondered if I’d
ever
finish the plowing.” Carl scratched his head.

He had lice. She’d noticed him scratching his head plenty of times before.

She—and each of her family members—had come off the ship in New York the same way, full of lice. Mutter had deloused them not long after their feet had touched solid ground.

But Carl had obviously not had the same fortune.

“I had faith you’d finish,” she said, trying to ignore the inner nagging voice that told her she should help him, that she had it within her power to put an end to his itching misery.