No one moved. All still as the steamy air. A throb pulsing in her chest, Aven placed a hand there. She drew in a deep breath through aching lungs. ’Twas no time to despair. Yet the very tremor rose as a flood. Her vision blurred, and someone spoke words she didn’t hear.
The porch creaked, followed by heavy steps. A moment later someone lowered a glass of water in front of her. She peered up to see Thor set it in place. Water dripped down the side of the glass as if it had just been filled from a spring. When she didn’t reach for it, he nudged it closer, then dried his hand on the side of his pants.
A small sip sent cool water down her throat as well as a whisper of gratitude to the man who had fetched it.
With a slight limp, the housekeeper stepped near and placed a tender hand on Aven’s own. The woman’s face was soft with concern. A sensitivity that pressed the ache of tears to Aven’s eyes. The woman bid the men to leave them for a few minutes. When they strode out, the housekeeper squeezed her hand again.
Aven closed her eyes and sent up a prayer, nay, a plea, that this day was a dream.
“Now, don’t you fret none. We gonna see that you’s just fine. Better’n fine. I promise ya. I been keepin’ house here for nigh unto thirty years. The boys used to call me Mammy, but now’s they grown, they call me Miss Ida. I’ll take good care of you.” A few stray coils of gray hair framed her glistening forehead, and the eyes studying Aven were filled with such kindness that Aven felt safety edge around the uncertainties.
“You don’t need to be afraid of nothin’. The Norgaards are all good boys. Raised ’em up meself, and they’s as loyal a lot as comes.”
Slowly, Aven nodded.
“Now.” Miss Ida motioned deeper into the house, one that seemed to groan with the same emptiness that hollowed Aven from within.
Yet this house was far, far away from the life she’d known, and perhaps this time—in this place—there might be safety and rest. Even a home. Had Dorothe not written of that very thing? The scripture she’d shared had coaxed Aven away from the shadows of the past and onto the gangway of that ship.
“The Lord also will be a refuge for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble.”
With a ginger grip Miss Ida led them both to stand. She plucked up the carpetbag as if it weighed nothing at all for her spindly frame. “If there’s one thing I know about Haakon, it’s that he don’t always know what he’s ramblin’ on about.” Ida gave a friendly squeeze to Aven’s arm and winked. “Let’s find a spot to put ya.”
TWO
Thor watched from the porch as Ida led Aven into the great room. He stepped inside and followed just close enough to see the way the young redhead skirted around the faded sofa, then an end table laden with books. Her feet slowing, she stared up at the massive antlers above the fireplace. Eyes wide, she lowered them to the firewood flanking the brick hearth on both sides.
Though the logs were neatly stacked, the curtains that had once framed the windows just above were no more—having been used to make clothing during the war. Her attention skimmed to the guns that rested on a side table, then to the boxes of ammunition slung open, freshly rummaged through. His own doing there.
She peered back at him as if knowing all along where he was. It was the same wary look she kept sending his way.
Why? He wasn’t going to touch her. And he certainly didn’t bite.
Aven’s black skirts swayed like a bell as she trailed Ida up the stairs, and that slip of a waistline looked like it needed a month of meals.
Thor had meant to head upstairs himself, but best not to follow too closely. His work in the orchards was finished for the day. The buckets all moved, and with Jorgan’s help, he’d hired their extra hands for the coming harvest. Thor had selected three. All of them Negro youths who had been his hardest workers the autumn before. Certain neighbors would be none too pleased with that, which meant there’d be uninvited company soon. Another warning.
With that in mind, Thor went back to his work of cleaning the guns. He lifted a rifle from the side table, closed and locked it. Raising the rifle to eye level, he squinted, centering the bead sight on a pine board in the far wall. He lowered the gun, blew at a few specks of dust, then realigned the sight on the small knot. Satisfied, he set it down.
As if of its own accord, his hand reached for the quart jar sitting there. It was half-filled with the best brew in the county, as always. Already he’d consumed enough to sustain himself until his morning whiskey, but Thor drank a few strong gulps, then set the jar aside, certain he’d be reaching for it again before nightfall. With their guest here, he needed all the liquid courage he could get.
The burnt end of a match went sailing past him, and he glanced back to see his older brother wanting his attention. Jorgan puffed from a freshly lit pipe, then used it to point up the stairs where their new houseguest had gone. Last, and with a sober sincerity, Jorgan made the hand sign for beautiful, fanning an open hand downward in front of his face.
Thor turned away. He didn’t need to be reminded. Sliding the lid on his jar of cider, he twisted it into place.
Jorgan stomped for his attention again. At the rattle of floorboards, Thor shot a glare at his brother who spoke words Thor could read by sight but never hear. “You know why Dorothe had her come.”
Thor closed the box of ammunition, his gaze still on the man who, at thirty-two, was four years his senior.
“Because you never venture out.” Never leave, Jorgan added. Dangling his pipe from his lips freed him to form the last two words with his hands.
I leave, Thor signed back. He held up his thumb and two fingers for three. He’d gone to church on Sunday and twice that week to the pond for a bath. He declared as much.
Jorgan chuckled. Thor saw it in the flash of a smirk and the quick jolt of his chest.
When Jorgan spoke again, Thor couldn’t understand. He pointed to his brother’s pipe and Jorgan pulled it free.
“You keep to yourself at church,” Jorgan said more clearly. He glanced over his shoulder at what had to be a sound. As all those in this house knew to do, Jorgan didn’t speak again until Thor could see his moving lips. Harder with Jorgan, whose beard needed trimming. “And there’s no women at the pond.”
Thor rolled his eyes, and though he tried to exude calm, the way Aven was braided into this conversation alongside him was unnerving. Ida strode down the stairs, seconding Jorgan’s declaration about women with a dramatic nod as she fetched the broom. Fresh sheets lay folded over her arm, and her limp was more pronounced in the evening, as usual.
Thor released his breath in a huff. Little eavesdropper. He jabbed the tip of his finger in her direction, and having no hand sign for the word, he had to fingerspell. M-E-D-D-L-E-S-O-M-E. Irritation moved his hand so fast the letters blurred.
Ida just smiled. Outnumbered, Thor plucked up his jar and headed for the stairs. Two at a time he took them, then stepped down the hallway. Of the four doors there, he strode past Jorgan’s room first, then kept his head down as he passed the room where Aven would have been placed.
There was a bed in there, but last he saw, it had been buried under a mountain of furs as well as two baskets of old canning lids. Judging by the way the pelts and baskets were now stacked in the hallway, Aven would soon be settled. Thor didn’t dare glance to find out as he hurried past.