Tracie Peterson - [Land of Shining Water 02] (7 page)

“I’m not that young.” She gave a brief chuckle. “Not young at all.”

“You cannot be that old, either.”

“I’m twenty and eight.”

“And I’m thirty-three. We’re both still quite young.”

She looked at him oddly. “Most people would say otherwise.”

“And they’d be wrong,” he declared. “I firmly believe that age is all about the mind and the heart. If the mind sets out to think in youthful ways and the heart feels young and carefree, it could beat inside an eighty-year-old, and that person would still be young.”

Emmalyne frowned and let out a heavy sigh. “Then I’m even older than my years. My heart feels neither young nor carefree.”

Dr. Williams reached out and placed his hand over hers. Emmalyne gripped the basket beneath his hold.

“Perhaps you’re in need of a doctor’s attention,” he said with a smile.

Emmalyne shook her head. “The cost would be too great.” She broke away. She had nearly reached the back door of the house when the doctor took hold of her arm.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

She turned and locked her gaze with his. Emmalyne felt sorry for him. He looked so confused—so worried. “I apologize,” she finally said. “I’m afraid the duress of all that has happened and all that is required of me has made me testy. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, his smile returning.

“Good.” She squared her shoulders. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to supper. My father and brother will soon return from a hard day’s work at the quarry and need to be fed.” She went inside without another word.

Jason stared after the feisty redhead for several moments after she’d disappeared into the house. He wasn’t sure why his comments had upset her so much, but it was clear they had. Perhaps she was simply tired and overworked. But he really had a feeling the problem went much deeper.

He returned to the front yard, climbed into the buggy, and took up the reins. This was a most curious situation, he thought. He’d finally found an intriguing, witty, and intelligent young woman, and she appeared uninterested in his attention.

“Well, as I said, all things are possible with God, Miss Knox.” He glanced at the house once more, then snapped the reins with a shrug and a smile. Maybe it was time to focus on what God had in mind, rather than what Emmalyne Knox did not.

“I cannae believe you’re really here!” Morna MacLachlan exclaimed, embracing her eldest.

Tavin felt her warmth and breathed in the scent of her hair. She smelled of lavender soap and freshly baked bread. It stirred his heart as nothing had in the last eleven years. It was good to be home—good to be in his mother’s arms. Did a man ever truly move far enough away that those arms could no longer reach him?

She pulled back and looked at him again, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’ve grown. I thought you were done with that afore you left, but now look at yourself. You must be at least another two inches taller.”

He smiled and patted her head like he might a small child. “Or maybe you’ve shrunk, Ma. I seem to remember you being taller.”

Morna laughed and waggled a finger at him. “I’m still big enough to put you o’er my knee, and don’t be forgettin’ it.”

Laughing along with her, Tavin glanced around the room. It was a well-kept house with beautifully papered walls and painted trim. The paper had a floral and striped print that made the room decidedly feminine and bright. Curtains at
the sparkling windows were handmade by his mother. Their blue color matched the ribbons of blue in the paper.

“Tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing,” Mother ordered him, leading him over to chairs on either side of the fireplace.

Tavin shook his head. “This and that. But honestly, I’d rather know what’s happening here. Father, for instance. Is he worse?”

“Oh no. He’s completely recovered,” his mother replied. She tucked a strand of graying brown hair behind one ear. She’d aged considerably since he’d last seen her, and Tavin wondered if he had been the cause of such a change. Eyes that matched his own shade studied him carefully. “He’s off to the quarry even now.”

“Whatever possessed him to buy a quarry? I thought he liked the idea of his freedom.”

She shrugged. “He had the opportunity to purchase a quarry that was already established. A good friend of his was injured, and your father had been working for him. The man needed to sell, and your father thought it would be a smart investment. Everything fell into place quite naturally, and your father declared it the work of God.”

Tavin thought it more likely his father’s ingenuity. “And how many men work for him?”

“Well, your brother, of course, and about twenty or so other men. Some are drillers, others handle the derrick and horses. They’ve mainly been working with getting the rock out of the ground and nae so much with high polishing and finish. There are plenty of other shops that will take the stone off their hands.”

Tavin nodded. “And Gillam is well?”

His mother broke into a smile. “More than well. He’s married now, and they’re expecting a wee one in November.”

“Married?” Tavin asked in disbelief. “Who would have him?” He grinned, remembering the scrawny kid brother who always seemed to be in motion. He’d been only thirteen when Tavin had left.

“He married a local Swedish lass named Irene. She’s salt of the earth and all that a mother could hope for her bairn.”

“And Fenella? You wrote to tell me that she lost her husband. I think it was a year or so ago.”

“Aye.” His mother looked up at the fireplace mantel. “There’s a photograph of them when they wed a few years back.”

Tavin stood and picked up the small portrait. A long-legged man sat in a chair with a rather stern expression. His hair was parted in the middle and seemed to be as light in color as Fenella’s was dark. His sister stood slightly behind her seated husband, looking for all the world the picture of a model bride. Dressed in white with a veil and flowers in her hair, Fenella appeared quite happy.

“He died in an explosion at the quarry,” Morna said quietly. “He was skilled in working with black powder and dynamite, so it came as a shock to everyone. His death . . . well . . . it changed Fenella. She’s not recovered.”

“And didn’t you also say that they have children?”

“Aye. Two wee bairns. Gunnar is four and Lethan just a little over a year. They’re sleeping just now, but you’ll meet them when they wake. They’re precious lads.”

“And where is Fenella?”

His mother glanced toward the staircase. “In her room. She is seldom anywhere else. I’ll take you up in a while. She might be glad to see you, but it’s hard to say.”

Tavin saw his mother’s worried expression and sat down again near her. “Is she all that bad?”

“Aye. I wish I had something braw to say.”

“Good things to say don’t change the bad that’s going on,” Tavin said, reaching out to put his hand on hers.

“’Tis true. The loss of her husband has caused her such grief. She’s not been able to care for the wee ones, so I’ve found myself watchin’ over her and the boys. Poor little Lethan thinks I’m his mother.” She wiped tears from her eyes once again. “I fear Fenella will never recover.”

“Is that what the doctor says?”

“He doesn’t know what to say or think. None of them do. She’s seen several, and they all say the same thing. They think she’s become tetched from the loss. Fenella may well be lost to us forever.”

Her sorrowful words left Tavin wondering what he might do for her. “So,” he began in an effort to change the subject, “do you have a room for me in this new house? I thought I might stay on for a while.”

“Oh, but ’tis joy to my soul,” she said, looking over at him with an expression of great happiness. “And of course we have room for you. There’s a nice empty room at the top of the stairs. It used to be Gillam’s, but now it can be yours. I’ll show you if you’d like.”

“In a while. There’s no rush. Why don’t you show me around down here, Ma?”

She nodded, and they both stood. His mother looked at him with such love and rejoicing that Tavin felt a pang in his heart that he had not returned sooner. She gave him another hug, then led him through an arched entryway into the dining room. “We can seat twelve if need be,” she told him.
Running a hand along the highly polished surface of the oak table, Morna MacLachlan seemed thoughtful. “Although we seldom have company these days.”

“It’s a lovely room, Mother.”

“Your father gave me the furnishings as a gift for my fortieth birthday. Of course, that was some long years ago, and we could barely squeeze the table into our other place. Here it fits quite nicely.” She gave a little chuckle. “I told him I’d be expectin’ even better things when I reached fifty.”

Tavin smiled. “And what did he say?”

“He told me he was already hard at work to figure out exactly what that might be. He threatens to get me one of those newfangled horseless carriages. Said he could just imagine me driving it around the countryside.” She chuckled once more, then paused and looked at her son again. “He’ll be so happy to see you, Tavin. He’s missed you and worried about you for as long as you’ve been gone.”

“I’m sorry to have caused you all to worry after me,” he said, his voice low.

“’Tis no matter now. You’re home, and that will warm his heart. I wish I could get word to him at the quarry. ’Twould be good for Gillam, too. He and Irene could join us for supper.”

“Perhaps another evening, Ma. I’m fairly spent from the journey.”

She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. “But of course you are! Here I stand, bletherin’ on like you’ve just risen from a sleep. Let me get you settled upstairs, and you can take a rest. Your father winnae be done for another two hours at best.”

“I think I’d like that,” Tavin replied. He’d not slept much
in the last seventy-two hours, and the thought of stretching out in a real bed sounded most inviting.

His father’s expression was more than enough to make Tavin certain he’d done the right thing in coming home. Robert MacLachlan had aged as much or more than his wife. Tavin didn’t like to think of his parents getting old. Though still quite capable of taking care of themselves, their graying hair and wrinkles were reminders that their youth was long behind them.

“Son, I cannae think of a better answer to prayer,” his father declared, shaking his head. “Ye’ve made my heart glad. I’ve a new large contract, and I sure can use yer help at the quarry.”

“Grandpa, can I help, too?” four-year-old Gunnar asked. “I want to cut the rock like my papa did.”

“Yer a tad too wee for such ventures. Give yerself some time to grow tall like yer uncle.” He nodded toward Tavin. “See how big his hands are?”

The boy looked at his own hands and then at Tavin’s. “When my hands are that big, Grandpa, will you let me cut the rock?”

“Aye. I’ll be right proud to have ye by ma side.” The boy beamed with pride and jumped up to do a little jig while his little brother pounded the flats of his hands on his high-chair tray, as if approving.

“Gunnar, sit back down and eat your supper,” his grandmother told him. The boy did so quickly.

Tavin laughed at the antics of his nephews, which did his heart good. Maybe coming home wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“I can’t say that I like quarry work any better than I used to,” Tavin told his father, picking up his fork, “but I do want to be useful to you.”

“And what is it ye have yer heart set for?”

“I continue to enjoy working with the stone to set images and script,” Tavin admitted. “I find it much to my liking, in fact.”

“And have ye done much of this since ye left us?” Father questioned.

“When I could. I’ve worked at quite a few jobs, as I mentioned in my letters. I wanted to experience different trades to see what suited me best. Of course, that isn’t always easy. Some tradesmen are less inclined to train strangers than others. Even so, I worked for a good long time at my last job, helping to carve gravestones.”

“And this is what you desire?” his mother asked.

“Aye. I find the tools to be a part of me, and the rock comes alive under my hand. It fills me with wonder at times.”

“Rocks can’t be alive,” Gunnar said, looking at Tavin with a frown.

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Tavin said, rubbing the boy’s head. “And one day I’ll show you, if you’d like.”

Gunnar nodded warily. “Can they talk?”

“In a way.” Tavin grinned. The boy seemed positively mesmerized by the idea.

Before anything more was said, however, Tavin’s father spoke up. “I’ll be makin’ ye a deal, son. Ye come and help me fill this contract, and I’ll see ye set up in a business of carvin’. Much of the stone around here is well suited to that, and I’m thinkin’ there is many a need for grave markers and statuary. We could build ye a room off the quarry office or maybe make a separate shed. What do ye think?”

Tavin hadn’t expected his father’s interest and enthusiasm. “I think it sounds good. Do you really believe there would be enough of a market in this area to keep me in business?”

“Aye. And don’t be forgettin’ that Minneapolis and St. Paul are only a few hours from here. Those big cities are always needin’ something from the stone. Ye might well find yerself with more orders than ye can handle.”

“That would be wonderful,” Tavin said. He dug into the meat pie his mother had served him. “But not nearly as guid as this bridie,” he said, pouring on a bit of Scottish brogue for effect.

“There’s more if you’d like,” his mother replied, beaming with pleasure at his praise.

“Aye. I’m sure I will.” Tavin had all but forgotten his mother’s good cooking. The life he’d known in the past decade had been strewn with few pleasures and a great many poor meals.

“So ye’ll commit to help me?” his father asked.

He sounded rather hesitant, but Tavin figured it was nothing to be concerned about. No doubt his father was still surprised to find his eldest child back in the nest. “I will. You have my word. I’ll help you to meet your contract, and then we’ll discuss my future business.” His father seemed pleased and went back to his meal.

After supper was over, Tavin went outside with his father, enjoying the warmth of the quiet evening. “It seems different here than the place we had before. I know our old house was to the north of the city, but it wasn’t all that far away. Yet this place has a different feel. I can’t really say why.”

“Mebbe because ye’re older,” his father offered, pulling a pipe from his pocket. “The years have a way of changin’ a man.” They both seated themselves on a bench situated by a small plot of flowers.