“Ah, tobacco.” Her light-brown eyes were warm when they lifted to his. “I’ll be sure to get some.”
He made the sign for gratitude. When he lowered his fingertips from his mouth, she seemed to understand, for she smiled. Beyond that, she didn’t move. Just looked back down the row. Knowing she should be getting back, he put his notepad and pencil away. When he rose it was a struggle, but to his relief she didn’t try and help him this time.
Hoping he appeared steady, he stepped on with her beside him. Grete plodded along just ahead.
Aven’s chin tipped up when blue jays flapped overhead, dipping through his orchard in search of a free meal. Cocking her head to the side, Grete watched. Useless dog. Thor wanted to pick up another apple and hurl it at the birds, but he didn’t want to startle Aven. Her hands were clutched in front of her skirt, and the way she was twisting her fingers together, it seemed she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
He wrestled with the notion of turning to her, motioning to his eyes, then her mouth—an assurance that she could say what she wished. But his whole body was thrumming with the need to sit down again, so he locked his focus on the porch steps and reaching them, sat.
Aven slipped into the house, and he didn’t see her again until Haakon came along the road with the team. She and Jorgan came down the stairs and into the yard, having waited much too long. Shielding his eyes, Jorgan looked about as pleased as Thor felt.
The wagon ambled into the yard. Haakon called a command to the horses. When they stilled, he hopped down, reached for an edge of the tarp, and flung it back. Every crate was empty.
“What did you do?” Jorgan asked.
Haakon tugged a thick fold of cash from his pocket. “Paid a visit to some neighbors of ours. There’s forty-six dollars here. And no more interest due for each month we sell ’em more.”
They’d never sold to the Sorrels. Granted, a few of their accounts bought more than could be consumed, and they all knew it was being funneled elsewhere. Matters being what they were, Thor and his brothers had turned a blind eye, but to sell to the Sorrels directly? And without his permission?
Haakon was out of his mind. They weren’t selling to those men. Thor didn’t even know if he wanted to sell to anyone from here on out.
You not think, Thor signed, but before he even finished, his gaze lifted to the cider barn. One of the windows was uncovered and open, the removed boards stacked off to the side, warped and splintered. His whole body froze. A tingle rose that became warmer and warmer and warmer until his skin lit up with need. His mouth growing wet with it.
He turned to Haakon, who was practically in his face. Bruises flanked the flesh beneath Haakon’s eyes, and cuts on his lip and cheekbone told Thor just why his knuckles were sore.
“Did you have something to say to me?” Haakon asked.
When Thor didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink, Haakon took a step back. “See now . . . I didn’t think so.” Haakon strode off.
Looking like he wanted to throttle the runt, Jorgan stormed toward the cidery. At the window, he fetched the hammer from the ground, then a board and a bent nail. Thor couldn’t hear the blows, but he could see his brother’s urgency.
Both shamed and grateful for it, Thor turned away and went into the house, leaving Aven alone beside the wagon.
EIGHTEEN
Rain tapped against the window. A welcome clatter after so many warm days. Upstairs in her room, Aven unfolded a fresh sheet. With Fay due to arrive any day, she spread the bright, clean linen over the new feather tick Jorgan and Ida had made. It rested atop another tick, that of straw. Aven had watched Jorgan over the last three days—the care he’d put into the tasks.
She tucked the sheet into place. The wood frame Jorgan had built was sturdy, and the rope he’d woven across to hold the mattresses made a fine bed indeed. To make room for it, they’d moved Aven’s bed against one short wall of the room, pressing Fay’s up against the other. In between was just enough space for a braided rug and the dresser with its small mirror. Aven had emptied half of the drawers, which was no effort at all, so little she had. With Jorgan’s beloved a child of missionaries, Aven had a feeling Fay would understand that well.
To think of a wedding soon . . .
Her heart soared at the thought. At how two people who had been separated as children went on to form an attachment through letters. A friendship that had flourished into a romance so sincere that a young woman was soon to return.
Aven smoothed sheets into place, then a quilt that had been stitched by Dorothe herself. Fay would be rooming with Aven the few weeks before the wedding, and Jorgan’s intent to do things honorably showed in every detail.
With the house quiet, Aven finished her task. ’Twas naught but an unhurried Thursday. The men were out and about, and having visited Cora’s family, Ida would be gone much of the day. At the very least, until the rain let up.
At a gentle knock on the doorframe, Aven looked up to see Jorgan.
“May I come in?”
“Of course.” She perched on the edge of her bed and he leaned against Fay’s.
He considered it. “This is nice, thank you.”
Aven smiled.
Falling quiet, Jorgan ran his hand over his beard so many times, she feared there wouldn’t be any whiskers left for the wedding.
“If something is on your mind . . . ,” she began.
“I’m trying to think of how to ask.” He cleared his throat, looking so uncomfortable she sensed what he sought.
“Perhaps ’tis about Fay?”
He nodded and started tugging at his beard again.
Aven checked a smile. “Perhaps marriage as well?”
“Yes’m.” Jorgan peered out the window, then looked back to Aven’s hands folded atop her lap. “I’m not sure what to ask. But I want to be good to Fay. I haven’t spent much time around women . . . apart from Ida, or Dorothe. Or now you. Never in a . . .” He cleared his throat again. “A wooing sense.”
Of course. He’d romanced her only through writings.
To set him at ease, then, Aven shifted on the bed, pulling her stockinged feet in beneath her skirt. “A woman simply wants to be loved, Jorgan. Cherished. Seen and, most especially, heard. To be valued. I have no doubt that you intend this.”
He nodded firmly.
“But we also don’t break so easily that you men need be afraid to stand up to our will if we’re heading down the wrong path. Or trying to lead you down the same. ’Tis good for a woman to be given due consideration yet also to trust the wisdom and strength of her husband. And . . .” Aven fiddled with the edge of her quilt, smoothing her hand along a favorite patch. “When it comes to other matters . . .” She cleared her throat, feeling a hint of her own embarrassment. “Being both tender and unafraid will welcome her most assuredly to a joyous union with you as her husband.”
The side of his mouth lifted in a smile.
“There are few men I have known who possess those qualities so genuinely as yourself.”
After a thoughtful delay, he answered, “I thank you for that.” He lifted the smallest of the pillows from the end of Fay’s bed and fingered a bow. When he set it back, he spoke. “Ida mentioned that I wasn’t the only one to get a letter the other day.”
She’d almost forgotten.
“Have you decided what you’ll do?”
“Nay.” Sewing in a shop in Lexington—a fine offer. With room, board, and a modest wage—a fair living. But the distance . . .
Aven took the letter from the dresser. Good sense told her not to waste the opportunity. A life so near to what she’d dreamed of. Work to be proud of and wages to live comfortably on. What more could she possibly want?