Until the Harvest (15 page)

“How’s it going?” Margaret stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised, looking a question at him.

He jumped up. “Oh, I think that’ll do it. I was just giving it a minute to warm up.”

“Oh. Good. Maybe you could come move some furniture while you wait.”

“Sure.” Henry followed her out into the sitting room. The walls were cleaner but still shabby. What they needed was paint.

For the next hour Margaret bossed Henry as he shifted the sofa, moved the dinette into the sitting room and then back into the kitchen, and moved all the bedroom furniture into just one of the two rooms. Margaret said it was so they could paint the other room before buying another bed, but Henry halfway thought it was just to aggravate him. Even so, he found he didn’t really mind. He kind of liked being there with Margaret. It felt domestic. It was the first time he’d really felt relaxed since—well, since Dad died.

“Oh, my goodness.” Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “It’s almost noon, and I haven’t even thought what we’ll eat. I meant to get back over to Emily’s in time to make lunch.”

Henry stretched his back out. “I don’t guess it’ll matter if lunch is a little late. Although I feel like I could eat my weight in hamburgers right about now.”

Margaret rolled her eyes and they hurried into coats and
boots and then drove back over to the main house. They walked in to find Emily bustling about the kitchen.

“I decided it was high time I cooked for you, Margaret,” she said. “Consider it a housewarming gift.”

Henry could see that Margaret was upset. She hung her head, then looked up and smiled as though she’d made up her mind about something. It made her look kind of pretty. Henry felt a stirring of emotion, but he brushed it aside.

“Thank you, Emily. You’re far too good to me.”

“Pishposh. You need someone to fuss over you a bit.”

Emily slid oven mitts on her hands and pulled a tuna noodle casserole from the oven. “I put almonds on top,” she said.

She placed the dish next to a tossed salad and a basket of rolls. “Wash up and let’s eat.”

Henry watched the women as they ate. He knew both of them carried something hard. His grandmother had lost her son and her husband before that. Margaret was leaving home and felt she had to rescue her sister from her own mother. How did they carry on the way they did? How did they know what to do next? How did they look forward without bending under the weight of what was past? How would he? He suddenly felt overwhelmed.

Pushing his plate away, Henry stood, knocking his chair back with a loud scraping sound. “I’ve got some things to take care of.”

His grandmother looked surprised. “Why, Henry, you’ve hardly finished your lunch. Don’t you want some cookies?”

“I’m not a kid.” He felt bad as soon as the words left his mouth and tried to soften his tone. “Thanks for lunch. Don’t forget to milk Bertie this evening.”

He started for the door, grabbing his jacket and shrugging into it as he went. Hand on the knob he, felt more than saw Margaret behind him.

“I appreciate your help today,” she said. “I hope—”

He turned without releasing his grip on the doorknob. “What do you hope, Margaret?” He really, truly wanted to know.

Margaret looked surprised. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I hope you don’t mind our moving into the house. I wondered if you might feel sentimental about it.”

Henry felt his throat tighten. He gripped the doorknob tighter. “I guess I felt a little funny about it at first, but now . . .” He opened the door. “I guess I’m mostly glad.” He slipped through the door and eased it shut before Margaret could speak again.

What was that about, Margaret wondered? She walked slowly back into the kitchen and began clearing the table.

“Is he gone?” Emily asked.

“Yes.” Margaret set dishes in the sink and began running hot water over them.

“He’s still struggling in so many ways. I wish I knew what to do to help him.”

“I think, maybe . . .” Margaret stopped, hands unmoving in the sudsy water. “I don’t know, but I think being here on the farm with us helps a little bit.”

Emily smiled. “I know it helps me. Some days I wake up and think about all I’ve lost and wonder how I’m going to get out of bed and face it. Then I remember Bertie needs to be milked, and you girls are moving in next door, and Henry is even sadder than I am, and somehow I feel like I have a purpose.” She smoothed a wrinkled hand over the tabletop. “Casewell made this table. He made it so we could gather around it to share food and love in equal measure. I don’t suppose he meant to limit who would sit here.”

Margaret turned back to washing the dishes so Emily
wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. She’d never done anything to deserve Emily’s love, and sometimes she was tempted to push it away for fear it wouldn’t last. But right now, with Henry’s words and his grandmother’s fresh in her mind, she allowed herself to feel like maybe, just maybe, she belonged.

What was wrong with him? Henry drove aimlessly, trying to sort himself out. He’d enjoyed helping Margaret fix up the house this morning. And it was nice to sit down to a meal with people to keep him company. So why didn’t he stay?

Henry felt fear bubble up in his belly but couldn’t explain its source. He wanted to strike out, to do some damage, but he doubted it would make him feel any better. He wanted to pull over to the side of the road and cry, but no way was he going to do that. He turned toward the Simmons farm. Maybe he could do another run. He needed something to keep him busy. He might even get caught, might have to talk his way out of another tight spot. It would be exciting.

When he pulled up in the yard, Clint and Harold stood on the front porch, rifles slung over their shoulders. Henry walked toward them, trying to leave his slurry of emotion behind in the truck.

“Howdy, Henry. We’re fixin’ to do some hunting. You’d better come along,” Clint said. “I’ve got a hankering for a piece of deer backstrap.”

Hunting sounded okay. Henry hadn’t been hunting since he and his dad got a deer over Thanksgiving, but he wasn’t prepared. “Don’t have my rifle,” he said.

“Use Charlie’s. He still ain’t fit to hunt with that busted leg.”

Harold disappeared inside the house and came back out with a .30–30 Winchester and handed it over. Henry took it and sighted through the scope at the barn. He’d be willing to
bet it hadn’t been zeroed in or even cleaned for that matter. He guessed he’d do well just to carry it and not take a chance on firing at anything. He pulled the worn leather sling over his shoulder and gave Clint a nod.

“You Phillips boys always did have lucky timing,” Clint said and started out toward the back pasture.

Henry wondered what he meant by that, but didn’t think it was worth asking. He trudged along beside Harold, who had never been much of a talker. Suited him. He felt his earlier confusion give way as the quiet of the woods and the companionship of men filled his spirit. Clint might have a mean streak, but he was a sure woodsman, moving with an almost feline grace that belied his age. And Henry knew he was a crack shot. This was better than sitting around a table listening to women gossip any day. He inhaled a lungful of crisp air and let it slip out again. Peace began to settle around him, making him think it was just the company of other men he missed.

After walking twenty minutes or so, Clint pointed out a tree stand and waved Henry up into it. He didn’t much like hunting from stands but doubted Clint wanted to hear that, so he clambered up and tried to make himself comfortable on the rickety platform. Clint pointed Harold off in one direction, and he circled the other. It was clear they meant to run any deer back this way past the stand. They were leaving it up to him to do the killing. Henry felt a stab of pride at that. He’d show ’em.

He sat and tried to appreciate the fresh beauty of the late January day. Although it was still cold and a skiff of snow lay on the ground, the sun had come out, and Henry felt its warming rays. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and wished he’d had time for a practice shot. It would be nice to know which direction the rifle was off. And surely Charlie’s rifle would be off.

The silence of the woods, the warmth of the sun, and the
emotions he’d been battling worked on Henry, and he dozed a little. He jerked upright, feeling disoriented and thinking it was never a good idea to nap in a tree. He rubbed his eyes and looked around when he heard something coming his way. Either a man or a deer was running through the trees in his direction. He pulled up the rifle, made sure the safety was off, and waited until he saw movement, wanting to be absolutely certain it was a deer before he pulled the trigger.

There. The deer bounded through the woods, but its flight had gone from an all-out run to more of a hopping lope. It might even slow to a walk in a minute. Henry sighted through the scope and waited for the right moment, aiming for the chest and praying the rifle wasn’t too bad off. He eased his finger onto the trigger, pulled, and nothing. Misfire. Clint would be mad.

Henry’s only thought was to eject the bad shell and chamber another before the deer got out of range. Even as he ejected the shell, he remembered his dad telling him to always wait at least thirty seconds in case of a hang fire. He looked in the direction of the falling shell and saw it tumble past the edge of the tree stand right before it exploded.

12

H
ENRY
WOKE
and thought he must have drifted off in the tree stand again. Clint would skin him alive if he missed getting a deer. He moved and heard the rustling of leaves. He realized he lay sprawled on the ground. He started to sit up, and pain shot through him. Groaning, he tried to take stock of what was happening.

Hang fire. The bullet he ejected had fired outside of the gun. Fear shot through him. How badly was he hurt? He tried to pinpoint the pain. His head throbbed, and his left arm—no, hand—felt like fire. He touched his face with his right hand. It came away sticky, warm, and wet. That wasn’t good.

Clint appeared in his line of vision and squatted down next to him.

“Boy, you get so excited you couldn’t stay in the stand?”

“Hang fire,” Henry mumbled. He worked his jaw, but that hurt, too.

“Huh. Guess you’ll know not to eject a shell right off next time.”

Henry wanted to tell him he knew better this time, but he’d clearly been stupid and talking hurt too bad.

“I reckon you’ll live,” Clint said and put an arm under Henry’s
shoulders to hoist him up to a sitting position. As soon as his head was up, he wanted to lay it back down, but instead he gritted his teeth and looked at his left hand. It was bleeding, and there was a bit of shrapnel stuck in the back of it. He felt the world begin to close in and fought to stay upright. He would not pass out in front of Clint and Harold.

Clint chuckled. “Reckon you might not be as pretty as you once was, though.” He pulled a mostly clean bandana out of his back pocket and handed it to Henry. “That cut on your jaw is bleeding pretty good. Reckon it might just about match the one your daddy had.”

Henry clenched his sore jaw. He’d forgotten his father’s scar. Dad had worn a beard off and on, and he was kind of surprised Clint knew about it. He wondered how his dad got that cut. He wondered what else he’d never have a chance to ask Dad about, and a sudden, deep longing for his father sliced through him sharper than any bullet. He bit his tongue to keep from crying.

“Well, get on up. Guess you ain’t fit to hunt anymore today. Might get us a squirrel or a rabbit on the way back.” He helped Henry to his feet none too gently. “You sure have ruined my chances for getting venison for supper.”

Henry shot him a dark look but was just as glad Clint turned the other way. Harold took the Winchester from Henry with a sympathetic glance and led the way back to the house. Henry staggered along behind the pair, hoping he could avoid the ministrations of Clint’s woman. He wasn’t quite ready to say so out loud, but he wanted his mother.