Remembering the trust that had been hinted at, Aven let him pull her off the ledge. His strength—that which had frightened her only days ago—made her feel safe now. Her feet hit the ground, and his touch fell away as her own did.
Though only a few paces wide, the beach was enough for her to walk on. She stepped forward until cool water splashed at her toes. She thanked Thor, and he nodded before trudging back into the water. Alone again, Aven waded in so that her ankles were wet. Minnows gathered about her feet. They rippled and twirled above the loamy soil. She was all but lost in the decadence of the cool water when she glanced back toward the wagon and the loaded harvest. Though whatever they intended to make wouldn’t have been a temptation to Benn, the bounty brought a twinge of sorrow.
Liquor wasn’t so much a matter of conscience but a still-raw hurting from her past. Would the men understand if she expressed that? Perhaps she could use the berries she had picked to make into jams and jellies.
With Haakon climbing onto the dock, Aven thought to investigate. “What will you do with so much ripe fruit?”
“Do you want to swim?” he said instead as he clambered up.
“No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I cannot swim.”
“You can’t swim?” Haakon came around and started down the slope. “What kind of person can’t swim?”
“This one, apparently.”
“How did you sail on a ship?”
“I prayed it wouldn’t sink.”
With a wince, he skidded to a stop beside her. “Aren’t ya hot?”
“See now.” Lifting her hem, she inched forward until the wet coolness churned around her feet again. “This keeps me cool.”
“Oh, aye.” He sat and leaned back on his hands. “Ye look quite cool, lass.”
Aven gathered up the hem of her skirt, keeping it modest as best she could. “It must be blessedly refreshing to be a man.”
He squinted over at her. “It’d be more refreshing without my clothes on.”
“Haakon,” Jorgan snapped from where he was just gripping the dock.
“Well, it’s true. I hate swimmin’ in my pants.”
“I’m sorry, Aven,” Jorgan called over.
Unoffended, she angled back to the young man beside her. “Has there ever been a thought, Mr. Norgaard, that you have not voiced?”
Haakon’s brow deepened. His expression immersed in matters that looked far beyond this place, this moment. He glanced out to the horizon where the sun was sleepy and low, then to Thor, who was pulling himself up the side of the dock. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Norgaard . . .” Haakon’s blue eyes moved back to hers, and when he spoke, she realized he hadn’t yet answered her question about the berries. “All the time.”
EIGHT
Thor tried to fasten his sleeve cuff as he strode down the hallway. His fingers were shaking, and while whiskey would help, he made it a point not to drink on Sunday mornings. For that reason his fingers were still struggling when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
Ida intervened. She secured both cuffs, and he tipped his chin up when she reached to tidy his collar. His hair was tied in a knot at the nape of his neck, which seemed to satisfy her as she made no complaints. Even his beard passed inspection. He knew well enough to trim it before standing in front of her.
“You look fine, Thor. Right fine.”
Ida closed her warm hands around his trembling fingers, squeezing her strength as if it were an offering. He was grateful to have it. For a few hours of sobriety at church, he would ignore his thirst. A battle until they got home and he could give in. Already he was thinking about those wagon wheels returning to the farm. Him twisting the metal lid off a jar . . .
Thor gulped, his need like a leech that was never satisfied.
With a heap of chatter that Thor didn’t catch, Haakon strode in and used the reflection of the window to comb his hair.
“Did you bathe, Haakon?” Ida asked.
A nod.
“And did you use soap?”
Haakon glanced at her. “We’re supposed to use soap?”
Thor smiled, and Haakon winked at Ida even as she shooed him from her sight. His nerves settling, Thor stepped onto the porch. They were all waiting on Aven, but she was yet to appear. In the yard, Jorgan stood beside the wagon. The team was already hitched. Thor nodded his thanks before climbing up to the seat to take the reins. He sat there, squinting against the brightness of dawn, cursing the headache that was forming.
At a flash of pale blue, he looked over to see Haakon helping Aven up to the wagon seat. She wore a dress that most definitely wasn’t for mourning. The same dusky shade as the mountains that hazed in the distance. Faint embroidery twisted up the snug bodice, accentuating the curve of her waist. She smelled sweet as spice cake as she settled next to him. Thor gulped again, and this time it had nothing to do with cider. Even Haakon seemed awed as he backed away.
Aven gave Thor a small smile, her brown eyes bright. “Good day, Thor.” Freckles dotted her nose, and the rest of her skin was nearly as pale as the lace at her collar. A stark contrast to her ginger hair.
He dipped his head in response. With his palms now damp, he ran one and then the other on his pants before adjusting his grip on the reins. The wagon jostled as Haakon and Jorgan climbed in. Miss Ida waved from the doorway and Aven waved back. Dressed in Sunday best herself, Ida would go with Cora to a small church they attended with former slaves and freeborns.
As for Thor and his brothers, Ida made sure they went to the packed service in Eagle Rock at least once a month. Anything less and she would stop cooking again. Everything in the kitchen . . . slamming to a halt. During one of their rebellious stints a few winters back, she’d nearly starved them out until they finally got their sorry hides into a pew. They had decided never to test her again.
They wouldn’t have gone this week, but Aven had inquired into church so they thought it right to take her.
The wagon ambled along, and every minute of the drive was harder than the last as Thor’s thoughts raced between Aven and the cidery. Each a yearning he had to tamp down. Thoughts of the Lord would be his saving grace, so he tried to draw a scripture—any scripture—to mind as the drive wore on. He was still fumbling through a shaky remembrance of the Twenty-Third Psalm by the time the small, white chapel came into view.
It would have been a fierce relief if the throbbing in his head wasn’t threatening to do him in. Thor squeezed the back of his neck and knew he had to be breathing hard when Aven slid him a worried look. She seemed about to touch his hand when he lifted it to tug the reins. The wagon slowed to a halt beside others. It took all his concentration to set the brake. Jorgan helped Aven down.
Thor’s next steps were a blur—faces of people he knew hazy as usual as he walked toward the chapel. A deep breath in . . . then another one out. Amid the pain there was only one face he was able to distinguish from the rest. Peter Sorrel.
The young man was deep in conversation with someone, but when Aven strode by on Jorgan’s arm, the youth’s mouth stilled midword. Peter tipped his head and watched her as if she were spun gold. The same as he’d done the other night when he’d been in his Klan covering. Thor kept nearer to Aven than he might have otherwise, and Peter went back to minding his own business.
Inside the chapel, Jorgan motioned Aven toward the women’s sections where the female sort filled the benches that ran along the west and south walls. Along the east and north walls were benches of men and boys, each section four rows deep. Hesitantly, Aven drifted toward her own gender, and when she looked back over her shoulder, it was just Thor there.
He gave her a reassuring nod.