Spruce Hill, Vermont
July 1896
Edith Grace checked her outfit, making sure she was prepared to garner as much honey as possible in one trip. Harvesting honey for free from her neighbor was a deal made in heaven, as far as she was concerned. At the fiftieth annual Rutland State Fair, she intended to make her mark as the best baker in all of Vermont, thanks to Mr. Oscar’s honey.
He had taught Edith how to harvest the honey from the supers over the hollow logs, called log gums for some reason. Today was the third time she had donned her veil and thick gloves to gather the liquid gold by herself. She approached the log gums with caution. Experience had taught her that bees didn’t want to sting her. It cost them their lives, after all. But experience had also taught her some stings were inevitable. Although she wasn’t allergic, they still hurt and itched. Another reason she harvested as much as possible at one time—so she could wait before returning.
She loved this meadow. The honey only made it sweeter. Every wildflower native to Vermont swayed in the gentle breeze. No two varieties looked alike, from the green boneset that blended with the grass, to the brilliant magenta of an Indian cucumber root, to the yellow marigolds and violets that bloomed in every shade of the rainbow. Standing at the edge of the meadow, watching the flowers, the mild buzzing of bees flying to and from flower to colony made her smile every time she saw it.
It was time. She put cotton balls in her ears to lessen the sound of bees buzzing and approached the third log gum. She blew smoke into the log to encourage the bees to fly away and lifted the bowl-like super.
The honey poured into the pail, and the bees were attracted to the scent. Gloves protected her hands, the net protected her face and neck, and honey slowly filled the pail.
The sound of a thousand angry bees assaulted her ears, but Edith ignored them by singing softly to herself. However, the noise grew louder, different.
Someone yanked the super from her hands, her pail toppled over, and the precious honey oozed down the side. She lunged for the pail. Something—someone?—stood in her way, and she fell to the ground. The crash unsettled one glove, and bees dived on her skin. One sting. She struggled to stand. Another bee stung her hand, then a third.
She made it to her feet, her hand on fire, and her wagon on its side, losing what honey she had gathered. She stepped toward it but stumbled.
Strong arms caught her and picked her up. “I’m sorry.” He ran to the shelter of the trees and beyond before he sat her on the ground.
If her hand didn’t hurt so much, she would yank the veil off and give the stranger a piece of her mind. He had caused the loss of several pints of honey and the attack on her hand. Then he had whisked her away to safety. In his strong arms she seemed to weigh no more than—a bee. The silly analogy took her mind away from the pain for a moment.
He was talking again. Something about her bonnet? She flinched at the fear of another sting. Thick fingers touched her neck, unbuttoning the clasps that kept the bee veil in place. A fly landed on her nose, and a mosquito’s sting pierced the film of sweat on her forehead.
She raised her hand to wipe it off, the hand that had been stung, and she yelped. That—paw—so swollen that she could hardly see her fingers. The salty sweat burned her skin.
“Let me see that.” Her rescuer knelt down next to her, and something about him looked familiar. But she couldn’t place the face.
“I take it you’re not highly allergic to bees.” He held her throbbing hand in his, strong and calloused from hard work.
Her laugh came out as a groan. “This is bad enough.” She wanted to scream.
“If you were allergic, you’d be dead.” The man spoke in clipped tones.
“That doesn’t help when you feel like your hand is a pincushion. Ow!” Her voice raised to a howl.
“That’s one out.” He held the short stinger where she could see it. “You are hurting, but this represents the life of a bee. They were living happy lives until you threatened their home, and they gave their lives defending it.”
A second dig in her hand, another yelp, and he held up the second stinger.
“Haven’t you ever heard of tweezers?” She squeezed the words out of her throat as he slid a thin blade under her skin for the third stinger.
“That would only release more venom into your system. If you’re going to play with bees, you should know that.”
Who was this stranger who happened to know so much about bees? Apiarists weren’t all that common.
He lifted her hand close to her face. “I believe that’s all. Now I’m going to unbutton your sleeve. Your wrist is swelling as well.” He put his threat to work.
How dare he? Edith jerked her arm, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he held it over her head like a child wanting to answer a question in school.
Grant Oscar’s quick trip to the field his father left fallow hadn’t turned out as expected. First he had discovered a woman harvesting honey from log gums on his family’s land and then the nasty exchange she’d had with the bees. He hardly recognized the tomboy he’d left behind in this amazing beauty.
She didn’t seem to recognize him at all. She struggled to free her arm as if from a stranger. He loosened his grip. “Do you think you can stand up?”
She jumped to her feet. “I’d appreciate it if you would see if there is any honey left in my jug and bring it to my house when you have time.” She held her injured hand gingerly. “I’ll have to return to get more once I’ve healed.” She took a couple of steps and stopped. “I should tell you who I am and where I live.” She cradled her hand. “And thank you for getting me away from those bees. I’m—”
“You’re Edie Grace, and your parents’ farm is about two miles west of here.” So she hadn’t recognized him. “My home is closer, so you’re coming with me. You need to get ice on that hand.” He watched as his words sank in.
“Grant Oscar?”
“That’s me.”
She took a step and wobbled, and he wrapped his arm around her. “Let’s get going. I’d go for my horse, but that would just jostle your hand further.”
She nodded in agreement, her lips compressed in a straight line from pain, her hand looking angrier than a crying baby. He almost wished he had been around to watch her grow up.
When he had left Spruce Hill nine years ago to enlist in the navy, he had enjoyed visiting new ports and distant lands. Over the years it had grown tiring. His desire to see something besides the ocean on a daily basis combined with his father’s failing health brought him back to the farm that had belonged to his family for more than a century. He hadn’t known the herculean task ahead of him—bringing it back from the brink of bankruptcy.
He kept them under the trees, following the fringes of the meadow. Edie winced every time she brushed a branch, but she didn’t complain. When at last they reached the cultivated fields, corn and bean stalks marked the pathway to the barn. The sun beat on their heads; her forehead glistened and her body trembled. “Do you want to rest?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“At least drink some water.” He handed her his canteen.
As she shook her head, she stumbled, and he grabbed her arms to keep her from falling. Unfortunately, his hand clamped on her right wrist. Tears squeezed from her closed eyes.
He uncapped the canteen and handed it to her. “Please, drink. I don’t want you to faint before we reach the house.”
She took a sip and then a deep swallow. “Thank you, Mr. Oscar.”
“Grant, please.”
The water helped, and a few minutes later they arrived at the house.
She stared at the porch stairs and then at her hand. She drew in a deep breath and stepped up without holding on. The three steps to the front door took an eternity, but at last they crossed the threshold.
Edie walked gingerly to the closest seat, the sofa. She made it, too, with only a single wince. She attempted to straighten her skirts with her left hand. “Why, hello, Mr. Oscar.”
His chair faced the front window, looking over the farm. The stroke he’d suffered four months ago had robbed him of clear speech and he didn’t move well, but he loved to watch what was going on.
“Gr.” That’s about as much of his son’s name as he could manage. “Miss Grace.”
Edie sprang from her chair as if her hand didn’t hurt a bit. “Mr. Oscar.” She kept her hand at her side, where he couldn’t see it. “You must be glad to have your son home at last.”