Al hitched up the team while Abraham and Jacob heaped a fresh round of crates into the wagon. Thor nicked two picking bags from a pile, and after Peter had gotten the gist of how this worked, Thor handed one over and motioned for the Sorrel to follow him to the orchard. Once there, he worked side by side with Peter, keeping an eye on him to adjust any skills needed. While the young man seemed to be in pain—gritting his teeth whenever he had to raise his right arm—he was a quick learner and a hard worker.
After filling his third crate, Peter lugged it over to the wagon. Al was already there, sliding one into place. He turned for the next without noticing who extended it. Peter was equally as surprised, and down the crate tumbled. Apples spilled across the row.
Thor strode over, knelt, and helped gather it all up. Sweat glistened on Al’s forehead and Peter was red under the collar. Angling to Jorgan, Thor signed Aven’s name. He pointed next to the knocked-around fruit so his brother would know those were for her to use up. Better they be apple butter than rot in storage. Jorgan placed the wooden box on the wagon seat.
Thor rose just as Peter spoke. “I’m real sorry ’bout that.”
Thor shook his head. He motioned for them to come near, then patted Al’s chest and signed the wiry youth’s name. A-L. He squeezed Peter’s shoulder, looked Al square in the eye, and signed P-E-T-E-R. Next Thor gripped Peter’s sleeve and raised his arm high enough for Al to shake his hand. Al hesitated, then with his gaze strong and squarely on the Sorrel boy, he gave a firm shake.
A start, then. Thor nodded his gratitude to them both. From appearances, Al had lost more than Peter ever had, but Peter knew his own kind of grief. As a grandson of Jed Sorrel, being a member of the Klan might not have been voluntary. To commit acts of violence because it was a family cause was no way to live.
Maybe that’s why Peter was here. Maybe that’s why he’d knelt in the great room that night and tried to hand Georgie back her lost spool doll. Bold, yes. Especially since no one would put it past the Sorrel men to pistol-whip their own kind if crossed. Son or no son.
Thor didn’t envy Peter. Not now nor in the days to come. As the youth grabbed another crate and got back to work, Thor couldn’t shake the burden to look after him if it was in his power. He hoped that day wouldn’t come, but something told him it might.
They worked until the wagon was brimming, then everyone walked along as Jorgan led the team slowly back to the cidery. Once there, crates were unloaded and carried into the cool storage space. Tomorrow was Sunday, so they’d wait until the workweek to begin grinding. For now, the fruit would pass the night behind closed doors.
Back in the orchard, they began all over again, the cycle not slowing until just before noon when Tess approached with a pail of water. She offered a drink to each of them in turn. When she extended a cupful to Peter and he declined with a shake of his head, she tipped the cup, spilling it onto his boots. Peter’s brows shot up, and he looked to Thor as if not sure what to do.
Thor turned away to check a smile. It seemed Al’s sister had her own mind about how this was to go. Tess was equally as cool as she helped Ida and Fay serve up the noon meal. Cora wasn’t around, and Thor didn’t blame her. Some things took time—if they healed at all. He’d leave that up to each of them, but for himself, he needed to oversee that this operation ran smoothly, so it was a relief when Tess simply shoved a plate into Peter’s hands . . . as opposed to placing it elsewhere.
With a redhead nowhere in sight, Thor got Ida’s attention. Where A-V-E-N?
“She’s upstairs. Poor thing done twisted her ankle this morning. Stepped funny off the porch. She tried to make it over as nothin’, but was hurtin’ real bad. I sent her up to bed and she’s restin’.”
Thor signaled to Haakon to prep the cider press, and Haakon gave a curt nod. Thor polished off his meal as he strode to the house, then set his plate on the table before climbing the stairs.
Aven’s door was ajar, so he knocked with a knuckle before touching it farther open. She sat on the edge of her bed, head bowed, ginger braid draping one shoulder. Her bare foot was soaking in a deep pan of water. A coarse bag of soaking salts rested nearby. Aven looked up when he stepped through the doorway.
“Thor. Is something the matter?”
Her cheeks were flushed and her pretty eyes seemed tired. She swallowed hard. Never once had he been in her room, but he doubted that was the cause for her distress. There was a cup on the nightstand, so Thor filled it for her. She sipped, looking grateful. Taking a knee in front of her, he lifted her bare calf and gently felt around the bone.
Aven eased the hem of her skirt out of the way, looking taken aback. Thor took care to keep his focus on the injury so as not to set her ill at ease. The skin around her ankle was swollen and bruised with a spread of purple. He kept his touch as soft as possible as he circled her ankle slowly. Aven flinched some, but to his relief it only felt sprained. Still . . . painful, those.
Thor pulled the hand towel from the nightstand and dabbed her skin dry. He helped her move farther back on the bed. Once she was settled, Aven rested her head into the pillow and closed her eyes. Finished, he bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. His thumb grazed her cheek, and with work needing him, he left her.
He returned to the yard to find it empty, everyone back in the orchard save Haakon, who was in the cidery, tugging a tarp from the different sections of the giant press. Haakon shook out the oiled canvas, and Thor moved to help fold it. When they had finished, Thor followed him to where the scratter still sat in the yard from the recent cleaning. Haakon gripped one end of the handled machine and Thor took the other. They slid it off to the side to make room for the press.
The scratter was easier to nudge about than the larger contraption, but by no means less important. Nestled within a wooden box was the cam—a wheel that had dozens of nail heads jutting out of it. Awful to the touch, but it had been grinding apples into mash since Da had built it over twenty seasons ago. Jorgan kept it so well maintained with oil and cloth that it had some years left in it.
Back at the press, Thor and Haakon disassembled and carried the segments out to the yard one piece at a time. They set down the old, white oak crossbeams and went back for the center pivot, which was just as heavy. He and Haakon heaved out the screw next. Made of red oak, it was as massive as all the rest. Wide enough that Georgie would scarcely be able to wrap her arms around it.
It would take grease soon, but for now they just fastened it into place with as much effort as it might have taken to hoist a barn wall. The heavy iron and wood pieces were not made to move back and forth to the yard, but this year Thor couldn’t abide the smell of the cidery for days on end. Better the fresh air and moving breeze to sweep the aroma of even the sweetest ciders away.
When pieced together, the press was strong enough to apply ten tons of pressure. Enough to get three gallons of juice per bushel. As for the apple pulp left behind, Ida would use some of it for the garden. Folks would come and take away the rest to feed to chickens and pigs. Others would soak the pulp with water to make ciderkin—a poor man’s drink, but not something to be snubbed in these parts, especially since it was good for children.
After Thor and Haakon had carried the center pivot into the yard, they set it up on its end and attached the iron braces. Wrench in hand, Haakon grimaced as he tightened every stiff bolt. Thor spelled him after a time until everything was snug. The surrounding sections went next, but they didn’t attempt the larger crossbeams until Jorgan had returned.
As three, they lifted the chunks of white oak into place. The nut of the screw was almost as heavy as the twisted, carved column it rested atop, so it was with much effort that they had it all assembled. Sweat dampened his skin as Thor climbed down from the contraption, only to see that the pickers were returning with another wagonload. The last of the day.