“Your mother should have taught you some kitchen basics before you left home.”
Gid’s tone was equally testy: “Why would she bother? I had my sister for that. And what about you? You’re the bachelor.”
“With Granny Barnes for a housekeeper and cook.”
“Then how’d you survive the journey?”
“Dried meats, fruits, nuts. And the same thing we ate the whole time Harriet was at Phineas’s—meat roasted on a stick.”
“Think she could handle a little charred rabbit?” Daniel must have shaken his head, for Gid continued with forced cheer, “No matter. We can decipher this broth business.”
I heard the exchange with utter indifference and felt no compulsion to offer suggestions. Frankly, in my weakened state, talking was too great a challenge. I burrowed under the mountain of blankets and drifted in and out of sleep. Usually, it was the men’s talk that pulled me back to consciousness, questions and comments that blended together like a peculiar mental soup:
What can we put in it? Onions. I always see her digging up onions. How many? Don’t know. Five, six. Did you skin it? Reluctantly. Glad Freddy usually handles that. Damn. They slipped out of my hands. Never mind. I’ll go rinse them. Again. Add a log to that fire, why don’t you. You’re supposed to be helping. Huh. Seems like there ought to be something else in this. I know! Let me grab Freddy’s herbs. Good. Now let’s see. Smell this. What do you think it is? Dill? Why not? Sprinkle some in. Not sure if that’s enough. Dump in a little more. Is it finished? No idea. How long has it been cooking? Maybe an hour? Poke the rabbit. Feel done? How is done supposed to feel?
I didn’t cherish high hopes for the broth, nor did I get any for some hours. Night had fallen by the time Daniel parted the canvas and climbed into the wagon. Over his shoulder, the gibbous moon shone in a sea of clouds and stars.
Gid’s face took the place of the moon. “Suppertime!”
The two approached in a deep-crouched shuffle, my betrothed carrying a steaming bowl, Gid bearing a big spoon and lantern.
I braced my body on an elbow.
They looked so eager to please, bringing forth their offerings, sporting solemn faces, acting very ceremonial. They reminded me of the wise men in the Christmas story, presenting frankincense and myrrh to the baby Jesus.
“Thank you.” I accepted the spoon with a shaky hand and smiled wanly, determined to like the meal or at least pretend to.
But the spoonful of broth, perhaps more suitably called pickled gamy onion juice from hell, sat like a poisonous pool in my mouth. My stomach rebelled, my nose fought the wafting odiferous onslaught, and like a country closing its only port, my throat utterly refused. With some desperate sounds, it signaled that an enemy disguised as broth was attempting to infiltrate my poor body.
Mouth full, eyes watering, I glanced from one man to the other.
Daniel grimaced. “That bad?”
I couldn’t help it. I nodded and wrenched at the nearest tie holding the canvas to the wagon. Lunging up, I spat the horridness into the night; then, with a moan, I fell back to the bed.
Gid blinked.
Daniel cringed. “Want me to get you some water?”
“Please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next day, as soon as he left the unfinished cabin, Daniel glanced toward the wagon and, at the sight of me, visibly brightened. He tossed aside the saw and walked over, swiping his damp brow with a sleeve. “Good morning?”
I lowered the bucket to the wagon floor. “Compared to yesterday? More than good.” At his feet, the canvas cover made white ripples on the ground. There was a second pile behind him: blankets. Crates and satchels littered the space between the two mounds. I was airing and scrubbing everything. First thing upon waking, I’d done precisely that to myself. Now the wagon’s interior was almost finished, too.
I dropped the wet rag in the bucket, pushed back my hair, and sat heavily. My strength hadn’t quite returned.
Daniel joined me on the wagon bench.
I smiled a little, thinking about last night’s dinner disaster. “You here to finish me off?”
His expression turned sheepish. “We couldn’t eat it, either. Tried. Ended up dumping the whole kettle’s worth far enough away that we wouldn’t have to smell it. We ate walnuts for dinner.”
“I’ll make some biscuits in a bit.”
“You shouldn’t be pushing yourself”—he frowned, taking in my cleaning project—“or worrying about this.”
I shrugged and peered toward the stream. “Where in heaven’s name is Gid?”
“Left early for the brothers’ place, ostensibly to invite them to his housewarming tomorrow, but really to steal their breakfast.”
“Think the Welds boys are better cooks than you two?”
“Can’t be worse.”
“Never mind. It’s the thought that counts.” I smiled at his dismal expression and gave him a cheering nudge. “The party’s tomorrow? Will the cabin be done?”
“Would have been up today if we hadn’t wasted yesterday on a witch’s brew.” He scanned me critically. “You still look wan.”
“Think so?”
He put a palm on my forehead.
I held my breath. Definitely better.
“Cooler, thankfully.”
“I’m not so sure.” I tapped my neck. “Check here.”
Frowning, he slid his hand along my nape.
I shivered. Lovely.
“Huh. Doesn’t feel too warm to me.”
I rubbed my waist. “What about here?”
In a flash, his eyes met mine. “Harriet.”
“Daniel. Please.”
His color was so hectic, he looked feverish, but he sent his hand along my belly to my side. “You must be fully recovered.” He tentatively pulled me closer. “In fact, I think you feel fine. Hmm. Very.”
“We’d better make sure,” I said close to his mouth.
We did, thoroughly, moving from the seat to the wagon floor and banishing bashfulness along the way. Maybe putting feelings into words didn’t come easily to Daniel, but once he got started, he communicated exceedingly well with his hands. Thanks to the whittling, no doubt, I concluded hazily before reason gave way to sensations and I lost my train of thought.
Eventually, however, I dragged myself into a sitting position. “Daniel,” I gasped. “We have to talk.”
He looked up, dazed. “Now?”
I nodded. Gid would be back soon. “I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage. About”—I cleared my throat—“babies.”
With a groan, he sat up. His hands swept down my back. “I am interested in all matters related to the making of babies.”
“No.” I leaned out of his arms, found his hands, and drew them to my heart. “I mean the not making of them.”
“Oh.” Then his brow cleared. “You don’t want any?”
“That’s just it. I might. In the future. But not right away and”—I met his eyes—“most assuredly, not many.”
His mouth came up in a corner. “That day at the sugaring. You knew I was teasing about the dozen children.”
“Even half that is too many for me.”
Concern creased his brow. “Your birth mother…”
I shook my head. “I’m no wisp of a girl like she was. It’s not just the childbearing. Child-rearing is hard on a woman. Too many children, and raising them is all she has time to do. I want more than motherhood for my life. I want selfhood.” It didn’t matter that my middle name was Submit. God hadn’t given me a good head and sound body just so I could yield to others’ expectations. I would make my own decisions.
“Then we won’t have children.” He brought my hands to his lips. “I’m marrying Harriet for Harriet—no one and nothing else.”
Warmth flooded me. “Well, I might not mind one or two little ones.” Maybe even three. I thought about this, shrugged. Or maybe not.
“Only if you’d like. Doesn’t make sense, really, to have a large family, not in New England. Portion off a farm to too many children, and no one gets much of anything. I’d rather properly provide for one or two and keep the family close together than force our sons and daughters far away”—he smiled wryly—“to wilderness like this, where resources aren’t yet scarce. One or two. Yes, you’re absolutely right.”