The Heirloom Brides Collection (27 page)

Her mother called for her again, and he watched as Wren stepped toward the ladder. But she looked over at him, smiled, and promised she would come.

W
ith her brothers groaning about sore arms and backs before they even climbed out of bed, Wren offered to do the morning milking. She toted a pail out to the barn for the chore, but with her mind on anything but the task, it took her longer than usual to get settled and fill the pail.

Destry trailed her to and fro, and when she was finally back in the kitchen, Wren set the milk aside for the cream to settle. With Mama at the stove, spooning out pancakes, Wren went to the cupboard and pulled down a stack of plates. She clanked them into place, then went back to the cupboard for a handful of forks. Thinking the table might look cheery with some flowers, Wren slipped into her garden, snipped a few early roses, and prepared a jar of the deep red blooms.

“Oh, one too many,” her mother said, toting the platter of golden-brown griddle cakes to the table. Wren went back for the butter and slipped it into place as her mother dipped her head toward the place settings. “Just you, me, and the boys.”

“No Tate?”

Her mother shook her head, half distracted by the eggs she’d set to sizzling in her skillet. A lift of the towel showed that half-a-dozen pancakes were gone.

“He’s paid for a week of meals, so it was no surprise to see him.”

“He was here?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I asked him to join us, but he said he had to get back to work, so I sent him off with breakfast.” Mama’s smile was easy as she glanced over at Wren. “Never known that boy to turn down a meal.”

“No, he never has.” Her gaze drifting to the path, Wren plucked up the plate and silverware she’d set out for him and returned it the cupboard.

Mama called the twins to table, and Wren took her seat, then reached for her mother’s hand and Odin’s. She looked to the empty edge of the bench where her father had once sat. Where Tate had sat. He wasn’t the first guest to sit there, for her mother always offered it. Wren had always wondered why, and now she knew. Because it made this room—their lives—feel a little less empty.

Closing her eyes, Wren listened to her mother’s prayer and fought the urge to peek at the bench again. Which was why when the prayer ended, Wren told her mother that she would need to slip away for a spell tomorrow.

“Where could you possibly have to be?” Odin asked.

Cutting into her breakfast, Wren wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Oh, I know!” Ansel blurted, and Odin kicked him under the table. “Ow, that hurt!” Ansel gave his twin a pinched look.

“But it’s not done,” Odin whispered.

Mama tried to hide her smile behind her cup.

Wren glanced at them all. “Does everyone know what’s going on except me?”

When her mother simply fiddled with a loose petal on one of the roses, Wren sensed an answer wasn’t coming. “Lovely that these flowers are in bloom. Thank you for cutting them and bringing them in.”

Wren sat silent.

Her mother turned the jar. Much too slowly. “Such a pretty bouquet.”

“Thank you,” Wren said hesitantly, still eyeing her mother. “Grandmother Willow had a list of blooms for her favorite June bouquet. I just looked for the few we had around here and—why are you looking at me like that?”

Mama pressed her lips together and demurely evaded Wren’s gaze.

Wren stood and took her plate. “That’s it, then. I’m eating on the porch.” She strode out, unable to ignore her brothers’ snickers as she did. “You are a meddlesome family. I hope you know that.” Fighting a smile, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the three of them exchanging grins over Grandmother’s bouquet.

She sat on the porch, looked out across the farm, and set her plate aside. The tiny garden book still in her apron pocket, Wren pulled it out. She slipped the ribbon that had been marking the page for a June bouquet, and just before she closed the book again, she turned back several thin sheets to where her father’s very own sketch toddled across it. Wren let her fingertip graze the pencil drawing. Her mother joined her then. Sitting quietly.

“I’m going to miss you.”

Surprised, Wren looked over at her mother. “I don’t know that I’m going anywhere.” Which was met by a look that said differently. Wren dropped her gaze. “Did he… say anything to you?”

Mama deflected the question by leaning closer, admiring the open pages in the little book Wren held. “How I love this picture.”

Wren looked down at it. “Me, too.” She handed it to her mother and folded her hands tight in her lap. “I used to wish that I could be just like him. Papa. I realized, though, years later, that I think I’m more like you.”

Mama smiled. “In ways…” She nodded gently. “But there’s a spirit in you that I saw in him. The way he used to wander these hills, his heart for those herbs he hunted. That ginseng that brought him halfway across the world. He was a dreamer. An adventurer.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m an adventurer.” Wren rolled her eyes so theatrically that her mother laughed.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Her mother slid a finger between the pages of the book to hold it open as she leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. She stared off toward the rising sun. “From the moment you met him—that boy—I do believe you up and slipped your heart inside his pocket.”

Feeling her cheeks warm and that very heart swell, Wren looked down at her shoes.

“And since that moment, you’ve been just like your father. Off on some adventure.” She tapped Wren’s chest. “There’s a dream in there that just won’t die, isn’t there?”

Wren smiled softly.

Mama leaned toward her again, cupped the side of Wren’s head, and kissed her hair. “And that boy’s heart has been in that pocket of yours since that very same day.”

With a few hours until Wren would arrive, Tate decided to put in as much work on the little house as he could. The twins were at their own tasks, so he’d set to work alone to notch another log or two. He was just beginning the second notch on the first log when he looked over to see Jase—of all people—walking across the meadow. The man led a calf by a rope. Tate’s ax hung limp in his hand where he stood.

“Call that a day’s worth of work?” Jase said in clear jest.

Tate smiled and turned the handle in his hand. He looked back up as he spoke. “Just wasn’t expecting company.”

Jase slowly nodded, and it was enough. He lifted the end of the rope in his hand. “This is for you. Abigail and I thought you could use it.”

Tate felt his brows shoot up. “For me?”

The side of Jase’s mouth quirked, and he glanced from Tate’s expression to the meadow that would one day be called a farm. “I think you’ll need a barn first.”

“I think I will, too.”

Jase nodded slowly again. “Well, I can lend you a hand. Between the two of us, we could have it up in no time.”

Tate dipped his head in gratitude. “I appreciate that.”

“I’ll keep her until you can claim her.” The cuffs of Jase’s plaid shirt were undone, as if he himself had called it a day.

Kneeling, Tate held out his hand, and the calf stepped closer. Her long, knobby legs a light brown just like the rest of her. When she drew near enough to touch, Tate smoothed his hand along her soft hide. Large brown eyes blinked at him. She’d make a good little dairy cow one day.

When Jase took a step back, the calf lingered. Jase climbed up the first log and turned to sit on the top of the low wall. Tate staked the yearling’s line into the soft turf, then left her to graze. He joined his brother and settled just a few inches beside him on the log wall.

They sat awhile without talking. There were so many fragments—so many unspoken words between them—that Tate didn’t know how to put any of them back together again. Broken things had a way of doing that.

But Jase spoke into the silence first. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” Tate asked, intentionally mirroring his brother’s drawl. The very accent he himself once had.

Jase smirked. “That place.” He rolled a meaty hand forward as if to help words along. “That place you went off to.”

“Norway.”

“You and Timothy.”

There was something in the way Jase said those three words that had Tate looking over at him. Realizing that they’d left Jase behind. Tate had never once imagined that his older brother would have been anything but glad to see them go, but with the way he spoke and the look in his eyes, Tate realized there might be much more to his brother than he’d ever taken the time to see.

Not knowing how to make up for all the years they spent angry with each other, Tate simply told his brother of the Norwegian snow—how high and white it was. Of villages with peaked roofs lining icy fjords. Dark green mountains so tall, one could barely see the tops of them.

He told Jase of the Caribbean, too. Of Tortuga and Barbados. Palms and hot white sands. Waters so clear he could see fish of more colors than he knew existed. And turtles with their clumsy fins and shells. Smiling, Tate told his brother of the first time he and Timothy had ever shared a coconut. Of how they’d both decided that they would have gotten into it a lot faster had Jase been around.

Jase chuckled. “I’da like to have seen that kid’s face.” His eyes shone.

“It was worth the effort.” Tate rubbed his hands together and realized that he wasn’t the only one missing Timothy. It struck him then, what else that implied.

Tate thumped his fist on his knee, wishing he were better at words with this man.

He looked over at his brother, and knowing Jase’s life was no less vibrant, Tate asked about the children and Abigail. Jase took a little while to warm up to the subject—he’d never been much of a talker. But within a few minutes, Tate saw in his brother’s eyes just how much Abigail and those children were loved. It was in the little things. The fields his brother planted. The way he took his oldest boys out to check traps and teach them the land. How he and Abigail picnicked with them all last Sunday near the creek.

Jase finished by saying, “Ain’t no grand tale like yours.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know about that. Sounds pretty nice to me.”

Jase bumped his heel against one of the logs and looked across the land.

“And you’ve got something I don’t have.” Tate thought of Abigail and how there hadn’t been a thing standing in the way of her and Jase getting married.

“That’s true. But you’re thinkin’ of one-uppin’ me, ain’t ya?”

Now it was Tate’s turn to chuckle. “I’ve a mind to, now that you mention it.”

Jase nodded slowly. “Well, the Cromwell girl…” He tugged at his light brown beard. “She’ll be looked after. There’s no mistake about that.”

Dipping his head, Tate nodded a quiet thanks—the words so simple, yet nonetheless meaningful coming from the brother whose shadow had always been impossible to catch. Maybe the feeling was mutual.

Perhaps it was the evening sun beating down on them. Or perhaps it was the cool breeze coming in from the north. Maybe it was the call of birdsong or the fact that for the first time in a long, long time, Tate felt a fresh sense of peace. Whatever the reason, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. Thankful.

After a few moments, Jase cleared his throat, and Tate looked over just as the man motioned toward the east. “You ever think of headin’ off again?”

Slowly, Tate shook his head. “Nope. Right here’s the place for me.”

Nodding, Jase leaned forward and clasped his thick hands together. “I’m glad you came back. And I hope the kid comes back one day, too.”

Adopting his brother’s position, Tate looked toward the very direction he himself had walked from. And thought of their little brother. “He’ll be back,” Tate answered, remembering Timothy’s promise to do just that. “He’ll be back.”

W
ren smoothed her skirt. The blue-and-white-striped cotton was nearly threadbare in places, so she’d tied her mother’s new apron around her waist. The walk to the meadow was short but laced with so many memories the minutes seemed much longer. As Wren ran her hand along the tall grasses, she thought of how many times Tate had chased her over these very hillocks. How many times he’d led them on some quest. And she knew.

It wasn’t this place. It was that man.

She didn’t need anything else. If she could just have him, she would be happy all her days, and life—even though it wouldn’t always be easy—would be beautiful with Tate Kennedy holding her hand throughout it.

Desperate to find him, she glanced around. The meadow was empty—all save a house in the distance. Well, the beginnings of a house. Wren looked at it. Swallowed hard. It shouldn’t take her aback. She knew the land had sold all those months ago. Dipping her chin, she looked to the grass, then back to the small building. And wished the new owner the best.

And heavens. Whoever was building it was sure working fast, for it hadn’t been there the last time she’d come this way. She didn’t blame the tenant for being eager. She would be, too.

Wren glanced all around her again. Tate had told her four o’clock, and it was a few minutes after, for it had taken her as long to walk here. Eager to spot him, Wren turned in a slow circle. Then she froze. Hanging on one of the logs of the house was Tate’s pack. Wren drew in a chestful of air. Let it out.