Serendipity (7 page)

His neighbors would probably parcel out his beloved horses – the ones he hoped to someday use for his breeding stock. He’d get the horses back, but the chickens and hogs were a different story. With so many mouths to feed, some neighbors might slaughter a hog even though it wasn’t fat enough for butchering. They could fry up his chickens, too. He had to provide for Ma now, and they’d need eggs, chicken, pork, and lard. . . .

The next train won’t get us home until eleven fifteen Thursday night.
I’ll be gone a full eleven days.
He couldn’t help imagining the disaster awaiting him – scorched wheat, withering alfalfa, and missing tools. By now he should have planted sorghum, but that field remained an unplowed patch of dirt. Whoever said “time is money” must have been a farmer. Lack of time on the farm equated with a huge loss of money. A hired hand’s help would probably turn the tide, but Todd couldn’t promise to pay someone when every last cent went toward the mortgage. The stack of boards grew higher as he sawed out his frustration.

Finally, he went back inside to check on Ma. A mouthwatering aroma hit him as he entered. “Mmmm!”

“Last night’s stew and tonight’s roasts are from a buck the Flinn twins downed.”

“I could tan your hide.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he groaned. “Not yours. The deer’s.”

Her merry peals filled her kitchen, making the huge room bright and warm. “I’m eternally grateful the Flinns kept that buckskin. Tanning reeks to high heaven.” Sweet-smelling steam bellowed out of the oven as she opened the door.

“I’d rather get a whiff and taste of that any day. What is it?”

“Pie. Tuesday’s the night I hold Sweets ’N Swagger, where everybody gets a taste of dessert and the men admire one another’s work.”

Tuesday. His gut clenched. Any reference to time reminded him of the disaster awaiting him upon his return. But that was his concern – not hers. He refused to drag her down.

“Carver’s Holler is known for the beautiful work her men do. It’s a shame for something to be sold or traded before we can all appreciate it.”

“Do you carve, too?”

“Only roast.” She wrinkled her nose. “My whittling lessons ended when I dropped my knife. It stuck straight into Paw-Paw’s wooden leg.”

Her admission charmed him. “I’m positive the other men will agree with me that your cooking is the masterpiece of the night.”

“Not necessarily. I bartered for shells a couple years back, and the men took up the challenge of teaching themselves how to carve on something that fragile and unforgiving. The first pieces were atrocious. Once they adapted the skills of carving wood to carving shell, some of the men turned out to be gifted craftsmen, but all of them do wonders with wood.”

He watched with wonder of his own as, with hands moving at blurring speed, Miss Rose chopped enough carrots to fill the biggest mixing bowl. With his help, she dumped the carrots into a roasting pan.

About five minutes later, Todd stood on the side of Ma’s bed. She’d been facing the far wall earlier. Now she faced the door. Miss Rose tucked a nest of pillows around Ma to make her stay put
. The
woman just has to build nests – whether with mixing bowls, her “treasures,”
or pillows. But Ma looks okay, and that’s what matters most.

Todd moved to assist her. “I’ll do that.”

“I’m done.” Miss Rose sidestepped something.

He went to pick it up, but she tried to stop him. Towels. But she hadn’t had anywhere near enough time to bathe Ma. So why . . . ? His eyes narrowed. Those weren’t sheets. It was a stack of flour sacks inside a towel. Rooted to the floor, Todd looked from her to his mother, to the diaper-like thing on the floor, and back as the truth dawned on him.

“Such lovely hair your mama has.” Miss Rose’s lilting observation warred with her stern look. “The silver and brown look like sugar swirled with nutmeg.”

He nodded curtly to acknowledge the unspoken message. Miss Rose was kind to give him something to talk about. “My sister, she inherited Ma’s brown hair and eyes.”

“You have a sister?” Did relief tinge her voice?

“Arletta. She and her husband left last Friday for France.” Even if he reached his sister, it wouldn’t matter. After marrying a rich man, Arletta lost her values. When their stepfather died, Ma went to live with Arletta. Infrequent notes from Arletta accused Ma of being nosy – even making a pest of herself. At that time he’d been breaking sod and living in the barn. When he wrote that he’d take Ma as soon as possible, Arletta didn’t respond. Then, out of the blue, months later, a curt note arrived. They were going to Europe, didn’t know when they’d return, and it was his turn to take on the “burden” of keeping Ma. Ma knew nothing about it, and he’d make sure she never did.

It was supposed to be so easy. Now it’s impossible.

Miss Rose bent and scooped up the laundry. Lithe. Lively. She moved with such purpose. On this trip, Todd enjoyed ample opportunities to watch women. Oh, the pleasure of listening to a voice that wasn’t in a low register! Hearing the rustle of petticoats and catching a whiff of perfume could make him stop dead in his tracks. Some of the littlest things were most potent of all: the flutter of a narrow ribbon, the way sun skipped all over the peaks and valleys in a woman’s hair, or the glint of her jewelry. Even at a distance, he appreciated how women gestured as they spoke.

Back home the longing for a wife had him praying earnestly for a helpmeet. Privileged city women who dropped lace hankies, swooned, and didn’t know the working end of an animal – they’d make sublimely ridiculous farmers’ wives. Not that it mattered – they’d have tilted up their noses and sailed past him. Miss Rose moved more gracefully than all of them, and he’d bet she raised her nose only so she could appreciate the stars.

“Have you ever swooned?” The question surprised him; he didn’t realize at first he’d spoken aloud.

Her eyes twinkled. “I have more sense and better things to do with my time.” She dumped the towels into a wicker basket. “Earlier, you mentioned your farm. What are your crops?”

Walking back to the kitchen in her wake, he noticed the tiny little straggles of hair that teased away from the rest. They were a bit damp. And starting to curl. Was taking care of Ma putting too much strain on her? She turned around. “Hmm. I see. Cats. You have a cat farm, and one of them got your tongue.”

Spirited little filly.
“I’ve been in Gooding two years. Both years showed yield on the wheat. The second year more, since I cleared more land.” Her smile invited him to tell her more. “Most of the soil’s rich. I have a Dempster windmill. The water is sweet, but we’re suffering drought. Lack of rain for a third year is brutal on the wheat.”

“Bet that’s hard on your garden, too.”

“Didn’t do much gardening,” he confessed. “Makes me half wild – you opening that pantry door.” A rainbow of jars filled the pantry – fruits, vegetables, jams, jellies, crocks . . .

“I’ve gracious plenty. I’ll send home a crate with you.” When she put the lid down on one pot and lifted the lid on another, the aromas mingled. Her kitchen was a feast for the senses. “Everybody’s got their likes and loathes, so don’t tell me you’ll take anything. You may as well take your favorites.”

“Corn. Beans and tomatoes, please.” Scanning the kitchen, he spied a small oilcan. The back door needed attention, and Todd needed to stay busy.

“As for your mama, we’ll feed her warm grits gruel. Mashed ’tatoes and gravy. Thick applesauce. Then I’ll steam and mash up vegetables.”

His mouth went dry. Todd could handle the worst mess in the barn; he’d dealt with the bloodiest wounds on horses. But everything Miss Rose listed was fit for a baby with two teeth. His stomach churned at the memory of church picnics where mothers fed mushy food to their babies.
Even if I had the time, I couldn’t spoon that vile
stuff into Ma.
Immediately on the tail of that thought came,
Miss
Rose would be good at it. Real smooth and patient.

“It shows good sense, you thinking about these things.”

Todd let out a mirthless laugh. She’d think he lost all his good sense if she knew what was twirling like a desperado’s lasso in his head. Marrying Miss Rose would be an answer to every prayer – for a godly wife, a hard worker, a good cook, and now, someone who could tend to Ma. He started formulating a plan.

“Fair warning: grab yourself gravy straight away tonight, because my uncles hog it.”

Splurp!
Oil shot from the can as he wheeled around. “Uncles? All of them – ”

“Are like kin to me.” Affection coated her words and glowed in her eyes. “Uncle Bo’s the only real blood relative I have left, but don’t breathe a hint of that around the others. You’d break their hearts. Jesus and my uncles and Jerlund – they’re my world.”

She’d just summed up a life he’d heard about only once before. “My sister loved a book about a maiden who made her home with many little men. Dwarfs.”

“Snow White.” A winsome smile tilted her full lips. “By the Brothers Grimm. It’s Jerlund’s favorite.”

After putting away oil, he cleaned up the mess. “When you said there’s not another woman here, you weren’t joking, were you?”

A plethora of emotions flickered across her face. “I wish I had been. Cholera stole Aunt Maude, the granny woman who taught me her healing ways, and three other women. I lost them and the last five children all in one wave. Most of the men were off installing the altar, pulpit, and pews in a new church, so they escaped it. I tell myself to be grateful, because had they been here, I would have lost some of them, too.”

“It’s been hard on you.”

“Aye. But I have learned to open my heart wide so I hold no regrets of what was – only of what might have been. And then, I’m second-guessing God. So I enjoy those God gives me.” Turning, she began to mash the potatoes.

Todd took the funny implement from her hand. “I’m no cook, but this I can do.” She added milk, butter, and a bit of salt, and he massacred the boiled potatoes. “So this is how they are made.”

“Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy would make a rib-sticking meal for your ma.”

Ma. For a few moments, he’d let the predicament slide from being his primary focus. With Miss Rose on hand, he could set aside his worries . . . and with all these men depending on her, there wasn’t a hope he’d pry her away. Or could he? “Ma’s in a bad way.”

“Forsooth, she is – now. Time will reveal her true condition. If God granted requests based on the number of prayers dedicated to an issue, sure as snow’s a-fallin, your ma will be skipping all the way back to the train station.”

Another prayer got added to the count at suppertime. Tender roast, carrots, mashed potatoes – every bite tasted ten times better than the one before it. Afterward, the men set out what they’d been working on so the others could “take a gander.”

Miss Rose lifted a small box from the midst of the work and carried it to her pie safe. “We have some cameos this time.”

“They’re her favorites. She wears one every day,” Jerlund said in a loud whisper. “I like the birds best.”

“Everything is special in its own way if you pay attention.” Miss Rose lifted a cameo and held it before the kerosene lamp. “This only takes a glance, and the graceful profile proclaims it as a thing of beauty.”

Todd studied the woman instead. The lamplight cast a glow about her. Graceful and beautiful – those words fit her far better than a thin piece of shell. Ordinary conversation filled the room – weather, animals, memories of happy times. Todd would much rather talk with Miss Rose.

Time to see if his plan stood a chance. Elbowing in, Todd planted himself by her side. They’d stood close while mashing the potatoes, but this was closer still. Her response to his touch would reflect either instinctive withdrawal or acceptance. “By the time that cameo gets to me, I’m not going to know who made it.” His fingers slid beneath her hand, and he pulled it just a little to the right so he could see, too. For an instant, her hand shook. Did she feel the same jolt he did upon contact? He wasn’t disappointed in the least when her hand relaxed trustingly in his, but her voice trembled as she answered Jethro’s question about her parents.

Todd wondered aloud, “Do you take after your mother or father?”

“Both. Mama liked to bake and grow roses; Daddy loved books and folktales.” She passed the cameo to the nearest old gent. “How about you, Mr. Valmer?”

She’d ignored appearance. Interesting. And telling, too. “My love of the land comes from my father; to my great regret, I have none of my mother’s cooking ability.”

“An affliction common to men.” She kept a straight face. “Daddy couldn’t fix anything in the kitchen unless he used a hammer for the job.”

She refilled his coffee mug, then her own more delicate cup. But that cup crashed to the floor when a hair-raising wail sounded in the other room.

Four

It must’ve been vinegar pie. It always gives me nightmares.
Opening her eyes again, Helga Crewel felt sure the wild vision would be gone.

It wasn’t.

Even after the biggest slice of vinegar pie, she couldn’t possibly dream up anything this . . . junky. Gaudy, frivolous things that cost too much hard-earned money cluttered the room. Shelves along one wall held wood carvings. Angels – one or two would be tasteful, but nobody needed a whole host of them. A tattered rag doll slumped beside an exquisitely hand-painted china doll. Glass, ivory, and jet buttons and beads filled glass tubes . . . a few spools of ribbon and cording. Was this a dressmaker’s?