The Heirloom Brides Collection (16 page)

Wren froze. A gasp caught the air in her chest, and she clamped her mouth shut.
That
was not one of her brothers. Stomach utterly flipping, heat rushed her cheeks. Then down to her toes. Eyes trained on the dark soil, she couldn’t lift them. She knew that nickname. No one had called her that since she was a girl. Slowly she looked up.

Tate Kennedy peered down on her.

Short hair shoved back haphazardly, the faint shadow of a beard on his jaw, he smiled pensively. Not the lighthearted grin she’d always known.

She’d heard distant rumors of his coming—but like snatching leaves on the breeze, she hadn’t been able to catch hold of much. No hope of heart, she’d written it all off.

For folk had speculated before.

Unable to pull her gaze from his face, she slid her hands from the dirt, wiping them absently on her apron as she rose. “Where have you been?” she asked weakly as if the phrase weren’t common—what you asked when someone had been gone since breakfast.

It wasn’t that simple, and they both knew it, for his expression seemed pained.

He cleared his throat. “I was in Norway.”

She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. “Norway.”

“And other various countries.” Amusement flitted through his expression.

She drank in the sight of his face. The face she’d clung to in her memories. Her mouth opened, then closed. “For four years.” She cursed the ache that lived in her voice.

He blinked slowly, then pulled off his glasses. She’d only known him to need them while reading, and now, having a clear view of his brown eyes, she couldn’t look away.

“How did you end up there?” Her words slipped out sounding strange, emotionless. Though the question was anything but.

He glanced around the yard a moment, then back to her. He seemed to study her as she did him; soaking in the familiar, making sense of the new. “Do you remember…” His broad throat shifted, Adam’s apple dipping toward a tanned hollow. “I worked the ice season at Shirley Plantation.”

She nodded slowly. Just one county over, Shirley Plantation. Tools in hand, and as green as grass with but nineteen years to his name, Tate had gone with his brother to work as an ice cutter as he had in the past. By the strength of his back, and that of others, the wealthy had their ice for the following summer. Tate had always come home after a few weeks’ time. Not that year. The memory of that final winter struck her afresh, for it was the last she’d seen or heard of him.

He shifted his pack on his shoulder. His skin was bronzed. Shirt a few washes shy of the rag bag. He was only a mite taller than she remembered, but broader, much so.

Heavens, she was staring.

“We worked awhile there at the plantation, Timothy and I. Not long, and we kept hearing talk about the trade routes overseas.” Tate wrapped a hand around the pack strap that draped his shoulder. His other, he kept at his side… and seemed to be favoring it.

She brushed aside the thought before she could begin to worry.

“Ships that brought cargo—ice—to ports along the American East Coast and other places.” His sculpted thumb brushed back and forth across the frayed threads, eyes dancing over her face. “A growing demand that required imports.”

Money to be made, then. Off wealthy New Yorkers who liked their lemonade cold. Years that could have been with him… gone like that. Lungs on fire, Wren had to remind herself to breathe.

“Both Timothy and I thought we could see more of the world. We thought maybe just one trip. But there was plenty of work on the trade routes, the ships.”

So easy, then. No looking back. “And Timothy?” The words slipped out numb.

“He stayed. Not as interested in returning as I was. Sailing may be in his blood.”

“But not yours.”

He studied her without answering. What was he looking for? Some indication that she cared? She’d long since written Tate Kennedy out of her life. How she hoped he might know that.

She took her time wiping dirt from the sleeve of her striped dress. “If you haven’t been home yet, you’ll find things more crowded than you last saw.”

Of the three sons the Kennedys had, it was the eldest and his wife who had taken over the humble cabin of Tate’s childhood. They’d recently added twins to their growing brood. Six little ones it was now. Tate had to know. Surely not all people had been distanced from his life.

With the May sun bright on his shoulders, he nodded, neither confirming nor denying her tip. “I am headed there, next.”

So he came here first. Not sure what to make of that, Wren focused on simply retracing his words. “You talk… you talk a little odd,” she blurted, brushing soil from her palms. A tingle swept her cheeks at how silly that was to say. More so that he was even standing here before her. She dared not let her eyes trace the shape of him again. “More so than I remember.”

“Do I now?” Even there, the hint of an accent. One side of his mouth lifted. Shifting his weight onto one leg, he leaned back casually and eyed her closely.

She nodded.

“And I don’t remember you being this tense.”

“I’m not tense.” She pressed her hands into fists at her side and tipped up her chin.

His smile only filled out. A picture of the mischievous boy she’d known. Then all humor faded, and he kicked at a pebble, then another, finally pinning her with his gaze. “
Jeg har savnet deg.
”

She squinted at him.

His hand moved to the gate latch as if to open it. She pressed her own to the rickety pickets, holding them firmly in place. He seemed to take in the silent exchange. His unwelcome. The act had them standing closer now. She peered up, only to see that he was studying her so intensely it nearly took her breath away.

“That means ‘I’ve missed you,’” he said softly. “In Norwegian.”

She wouldn’t smile. She would not.

But he must have put a fissure in her stony expression, for the skin around his eyes crinkled. “See now. You’re already less tense.”

Tate. Always trying to make her laugh. Well, those days were gone. Stepping back from the gate—from him—she bent for another weed, then tossed the soiled root aside before straightening. “Go away.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “That means ‘you’re wasting your time.’ In English.”

He made a short sound in his throat—not quite a chuckle. Sliding on his glasses, he placed the earpieces with suntanned hands. He glanced to the house where she’d once bandaged his misadventures, the roof where they’d sat beneath the stars, then back to her face. He looked down on her a moment, then nodded slowly. His regret so clear that her words tasted bitter.

“I understand.” He tapped his thumb against a weathered picket. “Take care, Wren Cromwell.”

He’d never called her that before. Only Wren, or Little Bird. Sometimes even Raven when he wanted to annoy her, an ode to her dark hair.

But nothing formal. Not ever.

She watched him go. Watched him walk down the path that would lead him the mile to home, his weather-worn canvas pack slung over his shoulder. One hand in a pocket. He seemed to survey the surrounding hills and sloping braes as if seeing them for the first time. A pang struck her, knocking deeper with each step he took into the distance.

They’d spent years by each other’s side. Him reading her stories of faraway lands, her watching the clouds, listening on to the deepening cadence of his voice as the months turned into years…

Then just like that, he’d left her with no word. Not a single reason why she never saw him again.

Until now. Showing up at her garden gate, an adventurer through and through with the shoulders of his blue shirt bleached and faded. If she had drawn nearer, touched him, would she have felt the salt of the sea? Smelled its brine on his skin? Blinking quickly, she fought the sting of tears. Here he was, returned to her. The man who’d had her fifteen-year-old heart.

Yet it hadn’t taken long into that first empty winter for her to realize the sentiment had been unrequited. Lifting her basket, Wren clutched it in front of her as he disappeared over the hill.

W
ell, that could have gone better.

“I don’t remember you being this tense.”
Really? He had to go and say that?

Forming a fist, Tate used it to bump himself in the jaw. He didn’t need to glance back to know that Wren had long since faded from sight. Hitching his pack higher, he strode down the path that had carried him to her countless of times. But never had he felt so distant from her. Not ever.

“For four years.”
The way her voice had broken over the words. Heartache so clear in her eyes. If he could only make her see. Make her know that it was for her.

It was all for her.

His left arm hanging limp at his side, Tate flexed his hand. A burn in his forearm reminded him that he needed to look at the gash that was shooting pain into every nerve there. At least the bleeding hadn’t gone through his shirtsleeve. He’d need to bandage the cut again and was pretty certain he was down to his last roll.

He tried to ignore the pain as he watched for his family’s cabin to come into view, the first telltale signs appearing with the chicken coop and then the tree swing he’d hung with his brothers. Sandwiched between wise Jase and the baby, Timothy, Tate had always been the nondescript boy who became infamous for getting into scrapes and scuffles of one kind or another.

Why Wren had followed him along on all of his adventures he couldn’t begin to guess, but she’d been by his side. Knobby-kneed and dark haired. His little guardian angel. A throb in his chest, Tate rubbed his hand there.

The cabin seemed to grow larger as he drew near. Little purple crocuses bloomed all around the steps, and wedged off to one side of the porch rested a stout rocking horse that had seen better days. On the stoop, Tate held his breath and knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded, and the door opened slowly, creaking until it thunked into the wall. Tate stood face-to-face with Jase.

The man squinted at him through pale blue eyes and tugged a napkin from his snug collar. “I thought you were dead.”

Tate lifted his eyebrows, feigning regret. “Still kickin’.”

“I expected you months ago.”

“I got delayed.” His arm throbbing, all Tate wanted to do was sit down and see to it, but he stood his ground, waiting his brother’s next move. Even though the house wasn’t entirely Jase’s.

“Come in. We’re having an early dinner.” Tall and as broad-chested as a barrel of molasses, Jase stepped away.

Tate ducked under the low doorway as half-a-dozen blond heads turned his way.

Among them, Jase’s wife rose with a smile. “Tate. You’re home!”

“Abigail. Good to see you again.”

With spunk in her smile, she hadn’t changed a day. Her golden hair was wound in a thick braid at the base of her neck, and her coarsely woven skirt swished as she moved about the children with ease. She motioned him forward. “Come in!” She pulled a chair out for him at the table, then pushed aside a rolling pin and flour sifter to make room for the plate of brown bread she brought over a moment later.

Tate set his pack beside the empty chair and sat.

“How ‘bout some stew?” she asked.

“Thank you.”

Jase prompted the children to say hello to their uncle Tate, and a few mumbled greetings sounded around. Tate smiled back, took a few minutes to match faces with names, then wished he’d thought to bring them something. But he didn’t have much to work with in his pack beyond holey socks, stale hardtack, and an old newspaper. Maybe he could tell them a story or two soon. They would probably enjoy a few of the tales he had to tell. Tate glanced around at the little faces scrutinizing him and smiled again, but it was short lived when the throbbing in his arm drew his attention back to the gash.

Tate shuffled in his canvas pack, then freed a half-empty whiskey bottle while Abigail slid a plate of steaming stew in front of him. Even as his stomach growled, he pulled back his shirtsleeve and used his teeth to uncork the bottle. With his arm held out, he poured the amber liquid over the swollen cut. He grunted, then clenched his teeth. Whiskey sloshed onto the floor, and it struck him that he shouldn’t have done that. This was a home, not the belly of a ship.

He looked up at Abigail. “I’m so sorry—”

“Nonsense. It’ll wipe up. ‘Tweren’t but an accident.” She reached for a rag. “I s’pose you ain’t too used to domesticity.” She winked, her deep-hollow accent as muddy as ever.

He smiled. She went to sop up the mess, but he gently took the rag to tend to it. “You could say so.”

When he straightened, his gaze traced along the loft where he’d once bunked as a boy only to see three little faces peering over the edge. He cleared his throat, feeling the crush of need in the crowded space. His own presence, no doubt a burden. If not in this moment then in those to come… if he lingered. Abigail bustled about and returned with a rolled bandage in hand. Tate thanked her.

From a rocking chair in the corner, Jase puffed his pipe, eyeing him. His plaid shirt was patched but looked freshly ironed, and while his hair was a little thinner around his ears, it was the same brown as Tate’s own. As Tate wound the strip of cloth around his forearm, he counted six little heads, as he’d meant to. Though the possibility of one more arriving without his knowing wasn’t lost to him. He glanced at Abigail, discreetly noting the mound beneath her apron. Going on seven…

Tate ran his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and tried to think.

“What happened?” his brother asked flatly.

“Walked across the deck at a poor choice of time.” Tate slipped the cork back in the bottle, then tucked it all away. “Off the coast of Connecticut.”

“Just… walked across the deck, huh?”

Tate nodded, really not wanting to look at his brother, but he did anyway, barely noticing how Abigail placed a spoon in front of him.

Jase slipped his pipe from his lips. “And the other half of that story would be?”

Tate picked up the utensil and took a bite of stew. The flavors were heavenly—fresh herbs and vegetables and the perfect amount of salt and pepper. He almost groaned and likened the feeling in his stomach to that of a hollow log. He spooned a second and then a third piece of meat, chewing and swallowing before giving his brother an answer. “Beware of crew members who drink too much and then decide to go fishing. Those tuna hooks… they hurt.”