Weathered Too Young (22 page)

“Here ya go, darlin’,” Slater said, putting one end of the licorice whip in his mouth and lifting Lizzy into the back of the wagon.
Lizzy giggled
,
and Slater thought that it would be good to have the laughter of children at the house.

“And here you go, baby,” he said, lifting Lark in the cradle of his arms.

She gasped, startled by his picking her up, and he chuckled as he lifted her over the side of the wagon and into the bed.

He bit into the licorice whip, tearing off a piece with his front teeth
and
stepping up to sit dow
n on the wagon seat next to Katherine
.

“Everybody ready?” he asked over his shoulder.
The children nodded
,
and Tom chuckled as Charlie and Lizzy immediately snuggled up on either side of Lark.

He chuckled when he heard Tom say to Johnny, “Looks like a mighty nice place to be, don’t it?”
Johnny blushed
,
and Slater chuckled too.

“Here,” he said, taking off his hat.
Reaching around, he soundly pressed the hat onto Lark’s head.
“Keep yer head warm.”

She smiled up at him, nodding.
Truth be told, he nearly bolted back over the wagon seat to kiss her then and there!
She always looked so darling wearing his hat.
He’d taken to putting it on her head whenever the opportunity was ripe.
The way it sat so low over her forehead—he sometimes wondered if she could just curl up into a little ball and have it swallow her up altogether!

“Thank you for this, Slater,”
Katherine
said.

He unwillingly turned his attention from Lark to
Katherine
.
“You’re welcome, honey,” he said.
He put
t
he licorice whip between his teeth and took hold of the lines.
“Girls,” he said, slapping the lines at the back of the team.
Dolly whinnied as she and Coaly began pulling the wagon home.

Things would be different with
Katherine
and the children there now.
He wondered for a moment if it
would be easier to resist pulling Lark into his arms every time he saw her with so many other people in the house—or would it be more difficult?
Would other people wanting or needing her time—taking her time away from him—spur him on to more self-control
or less?

Lark watched as
Katherine
linked her arms through one of Slater’s and rested her head on his broad shoulder.
His hat was warm—smelled like him—and she tried to concentrate on the fact that he’d placed it on her head.
She imagined the gesture had been more than simply a concern for her being warm enough—that perhaps it was his way of connecting with her somehow.
Still, she had never seen Slater so attentive to anyone—not anyone! She watched while his disarming smile stayed on his face as he talked with Katherine—constantly stayed on his face. Several times, Katherine put her small hand to Slater’s whiskery cheek and spoke softly—lovingly smiling up at him.

As the wagon rumbled along, Lark felt the odd sensation of wanting to escape begin to spread through her. Her sense of security—of
happiness
—
was beginning to wane.

She looked up to see Tom watching her as she handed Charlie and Lizzy a licorice whip.
She handed one to Johnny
and
then to Tom.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked quietly.

Lark shook her head a little
and
tipped it back to look at Tom from underneath the hat’s brim.
She shrugged and said, “Oh
…
nothing. Just a little melancholy, I suppose.”

Tom smiled.
“Now, I don’t understand that…not when it’s so near to Thanksgivin’,” he said.
“Christmas is just a ways away too…and now we’ll have young
-
uns here for both.
That makes for a heap more fun, don’t you think?”

Lark smiled and nodded.
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
She could well imagine how delightful Thanksgiving and Christmas would be with the children in the house—especially Lizzy and Charlie.

“Does Santa come to your house, mister?” Charlie asked.

“Course he does, boy! Course he does,” Tom said, reaching out to tousle the boy’s hair. “I bet old Santy Claus will bring somethin’ special for ya this year.
You too, Lizzy.”

“And Johnny too?” Charlie asked.

“Of course!” Tom exclaimed.

Lark smiled as she saw the relief plain on Johnny’s face.
The death of his father had forced the boy to growing up faster than he was meant to.
It was something Lark understood all too well, and her heart ached for him.

“Even Miss Lark?” Lizzy asked.

“Well
…
I’m not sure he
—
” Lark began.

“Especially Miss Lark,” Tom interrupted. “She deserves somethin’ from Santy near more than anybody else.”

“Why?” Lizzy asked.

Tom chuckled
,
and Lark smiled at the familiar mischief gleaming in his eyes.
“’Cause she’s always havin’ to mend your cousin Slater’s raggedy drawers, that’s why,” he answered.

The children erupted into giggles.
Tom laughed, amused by his own wit and the delight of the children.

“My drawers are nobody’s business but mine, Tom,” Slater grumbled from the wagon seat.

Tom winked to Lizzy, put one hand to the side of his mouth
,
and loudly whispered, “
Y
ou see why Santy will spoil Miss Lark?
Slater’s drawers are near as raggedy as he is.”

The children laughed
,
and Lark giggled, gasping when Slater reached around and pulled his hat down over her eyes.

“You hush, baby,” he teased her
,
“
o
r else you’ll have to reckon with me and my raggedy drawers.”

By the time Lark had pushed the hat back on her head, Slater and Katherine were already lost in their own conversation once more. It seemed as if they were each entirely unaware of anything else—of anyone else.
Lark’s anxiety thickened like cold mud.

“They was close as kids,” Tom said in a lowered voice.

“Were they?” Lark muttered, looking away to the horizon again.

“Yep. I used to feel badly that they was
—
”

“I know, I know. You felt bad that they were cousins. I know,” Lark interrupted, annoyed.

Tom suspiciously arched one eyebrow “Now, you don’t have nothin’ to worry about, honey. They’re just good friends, that’s all. Just good friends.”

Lark looked at him, attempting to feign innocence. “Worry? Why would I be worried about it?”

Tom smiled.
He leaned over Charlie and whispered, “I ain’t as blind as Slater, darlin’.”

She looked to him, horrified—astonished and thoroughly humiliated. Was it so obvious—her secret where Slater was concerned? She thought she’d been concealing it well.
If Tom had seen through her feigned indifference, could others be aware of her feelings for Slater too?

“Oh, don’t get yer bloomers in a ruffle, Lark,” Tom whispered, though still grinning. “Nobody but me could ever see it.”

But Lark didn’t believe him.
Tom was uniquely observant—she knew he was—but it didn’t make her feel any less agitated.

“What’s in them packages, Miss Lark?” Lizzy asked, pulling Lark’s attention from the worrisome course of her thoughts.

“Oh!” Lark said, suddenly remembering her purchases.
“Those are mine.
Some fabrics, thread…some new needles.”

“And a book,” Charlie said, scrambling over the wagon bed to pick up the small poetry book Lark had purchased.

“Yes,” Lark said as he handed the book to her.

“
Favorite Poems
,” Lizzy read as she studied the cover. “Oh, it’s so pretty, Miss Lark!
Will you read to us?”

“Well…it’s a book of poetry,” Lark explained, thinking her explanation sounded ridiculous
,
considering Lizzy had already read the title.
“Are you sure you want me to read it to you?
You might not find it interesting.”

“Oh, we love books!” Charlie exclaimed.
“We don’t care what they are.”

“Go on, darlin’,” Tom encouraged.
“It’s a ways home yet.”

“All right,” Lark said.
“Where should I begin?”

“With the first poem,” Lizzy said
.

Lark opened the small book
and
turned several pages of publication information, finally settling on the first poem.

She cleared her throat and read, “
‘
The Gardener’s Gate
’
…by George Whickets.”

“I know this one,” Tom said, smi
ling.

“So do I,” Slater unexpectedly offered from the wagon seat.

“Oh, you do not,”
Katherine
said, playfully slapping Slater on the arm.

Slater glanced over his shoulder to Lark.
He winked at her and recited, “
A
nd there beneath the meadow dew
…
lay petals which the soft wind blew
…
from roses where her garden grew…beneath her window’s fragrant view
…
?”

Lark skimmed the page
,
smiled
,
and said, “Yes…toward the end
. H
ere it is.”

He winked at her
,
and molten warmth traveled through her
body
.

“Oh, read it!
Please read it all,” Lizzy begged.

Lark smiled as Charlie laid his head on her lap in preparation for the reading.
Even Johnny looked interested.
Tom—as ever—was smiling.

“
‘
The Gardener’s Gate
,
’
” she began again, “by George Whickets.”

Slater pulled the team up before the house.

“Oh, Slater!” Katherine exclaimed. “It’s just as I remember!
You boys haven’t changed it a breath.”

“Nope,” Slater affirmed.
“Me and Tom…well, we’re pretty set in our ways. Ain’t that so, Lark?”

Lark was surprised by his addressing her. “Oh…um…yes. You’re very set.”

“Not too set to accept a bit of change, I hope,” Katherine offered.

“You ain’t no change, Kate,” Slater told her.
He smiled, adding, “Yer more like
…
habit.”

Lark couldn’t wait to evacuate the wagon. The jealousy gnawing within her bosom was feverish. She didn’t care what Tom said
;
she did have reason to worry.
Katherine
was Slater’s first love—and from what she’d been told, a body never completely
recovers
from their first.
Furthermore,
Katherine
was in distress—a beautiful, fragile vision of vulnerability.
Lark briefly wished she’d worn the pretty lavender wool coat Slater had given her.
At least in that she would’ve looked somewhat feminine. Instead, she sat in the back of the wagon like
a
child, wearing a plain buckskin slicker and Slater’s hat.
Why, she must look ridiculous!

Thus, without waiting another moment,
Lark stood up in the wagon bed
and leapt over the side.

She needed distraction, for she could feel the tears brimming in her eyes as she watched Slater assist
Katherine
in elegantly
de
scending from the wagon.

“Charlie,” she said, taking hold of the small boy’s hand
,
“
w
ould you like to go with me to feed the chickens?”

“Oh yes!
Yes!” Charlie chirped, clapping his hands together with excitement.
“Can I go, Mama?
Can I?”

Lark wondered how any mother could ever deny such an adorable boy anything.
Katherine smiled at Lark, and Lark immediately felt guilt rising in place of jealousy
,
for she seemed a warm, sincere woman—a woman any man could little else but love.