He’d eaten some more, and combined with much sleep, it had given him the needed strength to finally rise from bed all on his own. He pushed his feet into his boots, laced them, and with slow, steady movements headed outside. The air was crisp. It hit his face, and it felt like a new beginning.
His hair wet, Jorgan was returning from the pond. Grete cantered beside him. Jorgan lifted a hand when Thor passed, and Thor did the same—guilt mounting inside him for all he’d done to his brother. As for Haakon, Thor hadn’t seen him much in the last few days and that was probably best. A hunch told him that Haakon was at the west cabin, tending to odd jobs as he often did when space between them all was wise. Head down, Thor trudged on, needing the sanctuary of his trees.
They grew in neat rows on the hills and valleys beyond the farmyard. He looked down along his different varieties landing on the Arkansas Black, his best storer. On the opposite side of the road were a handful of Sweet Coppins, just bland enough that he sold them cheap. Past those were two acres of Baldwin, good for cider and a nice pie apple he’d sell to market by the wagonload. Those would earn a pretty penny, but the most acreage was made up of Foxwhelp, an old bittersharp, and Roxbury Russet, one of his sweetest and best. After harvest, he’d press and blend their juices with care, creating palatable ciders that once fermented were irresistible to his customers. Keeping him and his brothers in a rich living. It was for that reason and that reason alone that his pace slackened and he bowed his head, pressing a hand to his eyes.
God help him.
Because none of this acreage was paid off yet. Though he and his brothers were closing in on that day, they had a few hundred dollars left to go. With another eight of interest due every month, there was little time to waste. Yet Thor couldn’t think past this day. This hour. Not even this moment to what lay beyond it. He didn’t want to think about prying the boards from the cidery. Of stepping into the cool, still air that held the lusty fragrance of his very work and memories that threatened to bring him to his knees even here and now.
Pushing the fears aside, Thor rubbed his sore upper arm as he walked on. Hair unbound, it pressed against his cheek in the breeze. He pushed it back, wishing for something to bind it with, but his wrist was bare of its leather cord.
Reaching one of his favorite spots, the place where an old McIntosh tree grew in the oddest of shapes—like a woman drawing water from a well, Ida had once said—he moved to sit against it. It had rained in the night so the ground was dewy. The air still damp. Thor cared not as he settled down on the orchard floor amid soggy leaves. The world made sense here. It had been the same for Da. Thor had understood that more and more over the years.
When the wind shifted, a few golden leaves tumbled down. He turned one in his fingers. Seeing something on the road, he squinted that way. The team and wagon ambled along, Haakon at the reins. Where was he going? By the way the wagon looked loaded up—and covered with a canvas tarp—Thor had his answer. How had Haakon gotten into the cidery? And what was he doing? Their orders were filled for the rest of the month. Thor had made sure of it.
While Haakon had always had a habit of wandering off, this was different. As the wagon drove from sight, Thor’s mind tried to ponder further down that path, but thoughts and worries muddied together until he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The world that was gently swaying flushed to darkness. Relief was sweeter than any need to ponder Haakon. No matter how much his younger brother might be undermining his authority just now, it was a dilemma for later.
The late-summer sun and early-autumn breeze were working together to lull him to sleep. Thor nearly drifted off until he felt a brush of wings against his pants leg. He opened his eyes to see two crows hopping about, pecking at his fruit. Picking up a half-rotted apple from the ground, he chucked it that way, scattering them both.
When he turned his head, it was to the sight of Aven strolling down the row, Grete loping alongside her. Aven wore a blouse of cream with tiny, pale flowers. The same make of cloth he’d stacked in one of the old sheds after Dorothe’s passing. Aven’s patchwork skirt brushed the orchard floor only for leaves to cling to the hem. She glanced down the cross paths with each one she passed, seeming to search for something. When she finally spotted Thor, she slowed.
Was that something him?
Grete ran ahead and collided into Thor with licks and wags. Turning his face, Thor pushed her away and the dog circled the tree, then flopped beside him. Aven treaded nearer and knelt a few feet away. The lace at her collar said she’d taken effort with her stitchwork, and he’d never thought that plain fabric could look so fine. Her hair, even more ginger beneath the sunny sky, was braided loose. She pushed a few stray strands from her cheek and looked happy to see him.
That expression giving him a pang, he let his eyes trail the length of her. There was a tenderness within him so severe he wanted to draw himself closer to her and touch the curve of her waist again. To touch the same curving line at her neck and shoulder. Skin that was so soft, he could hardly contemplate it, and knew it wisest not to try.
She’d just seen him at his worst.
Seen his mayhem and unrest. His anger. Even the nausea he’d battled against. She’d held him amid his sickness, only to humble him further by wiping his mouth. Clutching him in the yard even when he’d smelled like a pint gone bad. But there she had been, nearer than she should have gotten. Embarrassment spread a heat just beneath his shirt, and he suddenly couldn’t raise his gaze from the ground between them.
When she moved closer and touched his sleeve, he pulled away. His gaze finally lifted. Just in time to see confusion line her face.
Blinking quickly, she glanced around as if trying to rally from what must have seemed a snub. She did so with grace. “As soon as Haakon returns with the wagon, Jorgan and I are away to town.” Aven gave him a weak smile. “Fay is due to arrive any day, and Jorgan wanted to ask after the train schedule. We’re also going to the mercantile as he’s in need of a new part for the cider press. He’s wondering if there was anything you needed while we were about. We each set off to find you.”
So she was here as a favor. It was small comfort to know the reason for her seeking him out was an indifferent one. Plain and to a purpose. Her gaze skimmed his pocket the same moment he withdrew his pad and pencil. He looked from it to her, and while there were things he had need of, his head throbbed too much to write in English. The language was convoluted enough and right now, well, beyond him. She wouldn’t understand his requests in Sign, so he shook his head. The only answer he could conjure up.
Thinking she would rise and leave, he was surprised when she took the little book and opened it to a blank page before she slipped it back in his grasp. The pencil she stole as well, turned it right-side down, and tucked it back in his hands. Blazes, what was wrong with him?
Her eyes flooded with concern as if wondering the same thing. “Are you in pain?”
Desperate to pull himself together, he wrote in Norwegian. And crooked at that. Ja, litt.
Her mouth moved with the words as she read. Sadness drew itself across her pretty face.
Recalling one thing he couldn’t do without, he added tobbak. When Aven’s expression went regretful, he realized she didn’t know the word. Heaven help him, what was it in English? His mind was a quarry today—a thousand hammers and pickaxes at work within. And for some reason, not much was being unearthed.
Squinting against the pain, Thor did his best to shape the curves and lines with the lead tip. When he finished, the crude drawing looked more like a teakettle than his pipe.
Aven squinted at the figure, tipping her head to one side. Then she seemed to understand. “ ’Tis a pipe you’re wanting?”
Nei. Thor slid his finger to the rounded chamber.