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She was waving to him from the seat of a decrepit wagon bearing down on him. Well, bearing down maybe wasn’t quite the term to use. The old horse pulling it was barely gaining on him.
He waited for her to draw up.
“Colonel. Can we give you a ride?”
He eyed the wagon, wondering if it would support the added weight and was on the verge of tactfully refusing when the lad riding in the back piped up.
“There’s plenty of room here with us,” he said, moving over closer to the girl. “You can put your things behind, and lean on them. See? Like this.” He demonstrated by leaning against Miss Treymont’s bag. Then he straightened, stood up on the wagon bed and held out his hand. “If you hand up your bag, it’ll be easier to climb up.”
Like his commission, Nathaniel wasn’t sure how it happened, or why, but he found himself handing over his knapsack and hopping aboard. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing,” the boy replied, smiling.
Nathaniel smiled back, ignoring the foreign feeling of the expression.
Miss Treymont turned around. “How far are you going?”
“About another three miles or so,” he said.
“How fortuitous. That’s about how far we have to go. We must be neighbors.”
The old horse plodded forward while Nathaniel pondered this information and the boy, whose name was Jeb, kept up a running commentary on the countryside, the weather, his lessons and chores, the old horse and their even older cow “at home,” and how he’d been promised a kitten from the barn cat’s litter. Jeb introduced the girl riding with them as Lorna, and Nathaniel saw a beauty in the making, though her eyes seemed troubled and haunted.
They came to a set of familiar trees. A stand of pines lined the road, and a narrow dirt lane divided the trees in two.
“This is where I get off,” Nathaniel said and waited for the old man to bring the wagon to a stop. He hopped down and Jeb handed him his knapsack and rifle. “Thanks for the ride,” he said and stood at the entrance to the curving lane that led to his farm. He waited, making sure the old horse started again before turning and making his way toward home.
The closer he got to the curve that marked the halfway point to the house, the slower his gait became. Would his father be there, or was he already buried in the churchyard? What would he find?
Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and plunged forward. The house, his childhood home, stood before him, unchanged. The small porch was still in front, the second step leading up to it still tilted at a slight angle where the ground had settled unevenly beneath it. The window still had the same pink curtain on it his mother had sewn and put up the summer before she died. The fields to the left were bare and snow-covered. The barn to the right grey where the paint had worn off and the wood weathered.
But there was smoke coming from the chimney on the house. Someone was home. His father?
Nathaniel walked up the steps, noting someone had swept them clean of snow. He knocked twice and pushed open the door.
Inside was as unchanged as the outside. His father sat in a chair before the little potbelly stove. The same woven rag rug that had been on the floor when he left was still in place. The table and chairs as he remembered. The only thing different was the slump of his father’s shoulders.
And the girl standing at the sink in the kitchen.
Father and girl turned as one as he entered the house.
William Walker’s face lit up at the sight of his son. “You’re home!” he cried, trying and failing to stand.
Nathaniel’s heart broke just a little at the scratchy, old-sounding voice. The voice and manner of an old man. He rushed over and dropped to his haunches in front of his father. “Yes, sir. I’m home.”
“Stand up, boy. Let me see you.”
Nathaniel obeyed.
“You’re thin,” his father observed. “Never were a husky fella, but you’re definitely thinner than you were when you left.”
Nathaniel tried to smile. “Field rations weren’t plentiful. And there’s only so much cabbage soup and hard tack a man can take before he’d rather go hungry.”
“What about game? I know you coulda shot anything you wanted.”
Nathaniel pushed aside the retort that sprang to mind. His father knew nothing of what he could have and did shoot. Game was not among the choices. He simply said, “Game was over-hunted long before we got anywhere. I’ll be surprised if there’s enough of anything left to see the country through the winter. It’s going to be very tough for a lot of folks.”
William Walker nodded. “I expect you’re right. Emma here, and I, even noticed there’s not so much game around as before and there’s been hardly any fighting around these parts. Imagine the folks around Gettysburg are in for a pretty hard winter.”
Hearing her name spoken, the girl came and stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.
So that was her name. “Emma?” Nathaniel asked, prompting an introduction.
“Sorry, m’boy. I know you don’t know about her. Yes, this here’s Emma. She comes from the orphanage every day to cook and pick up for me. Some of the boys come every day to help me wash up and such. She’s been a Godsend. ‘Specially with you gone and your Ma in heaven.”
He turned around in his chair to partially face the girl. “Emma, meet my son, Nathaniel.”
She bobbed a small curtsy in response to Nathaniel’s nod before she went back to scrubbing a cast iron pan. She looked to be about fourteen or so, a fact William confirmed.
If she cooked and picked up, and some boys helped him “wash up and such,” Nathaniel couldn’t help but wonder how his father managed the most mundane of things. Like answering nature’s call.
Then Nathaniel realized what his father had said. Emma came from the orphanage every day. He assumed it must be Miss Treymont’s orphanage. He couldn’t imagine there would be two such places in little Salem Crossroads. He couldn’t have caused that many to be orphans, could he?
Nathaniel put his sack in his old bedroom upstairs and came back down to the main room in time for Emma to be dishing out supper.
“Didn’t know you were coming, m’boy. Don’t know if there’s enough here for the three of us.”
“It’s no matter, Mr. Walker, sir,” Emma piped up. “I can eat something back at the orphanage, after you go to bed.”
“You’re sure, girl?” William asked.
“I don’t need to have much, if anything,” Nathaniel put in. “You could still eat here.”
Emma shook her head. “You’ve got your son home now,” she said, addressing William. “I expect you’ll want to spend time with him, talk about all the two of you have missed while he’s been gone. In fact, I should probably go back soon, leave you to your visiting.”
She put the food on the table with a bowl and spoon for each of them, then came up to William’s chair. “Are you ready to get to the table?”
He nodded and she came to stand in front of him, put her arms around his waist and locking her hands behind his back, heaved up. William grunted at the effort and with his hands on the arms of the chair, pushed up.
Nathaniel watched in amazement as the two of them heaved, pushed and huffed. He was ready to push her away when suddenly his father gained his feet and stood. Nathaniel was sure if it wasn’t for Emma’s grip on him, his father would have fallen back into the chair.
“Here. I’ll do that,” he said, moving toward them.
“No. No,” William said and smiled. “We’ve got a system now. Just takes a bit to get going, doesn’t it, girl?”
“Yes, sir. Just a bit.” Emma puffed from the exertion.
This mere slip of a girl managed to keep his father standing. Then William raised his hands and put them on her forearms. They rocked for a moment, then one of his father’s feet moved just a fraction. Then the other. Slowly, slowly, locked in the strangest dance he’d ever seen, the two of them made their way to the table. He hadn’t noticed before, but before she came to get him up, Emma had pulled William’s chair out from the table. As they came nearer, she hooked it with her foot and drew it out farther. It stood a good two feet or more away from the table. Nearly there.
Nathaniel could barely watch. He vowed this was a job he would take over just as soon as his father allowed it. The girl could barely manage. Closer. Almost. There.
She hooked the chair again and swung it under William’s butt just as he fell back and landed square on the cushion. Both of them took several deep breaths grinning at each other, before she straightened and dragged the table to the chair. Nathaniel could see the scratched marks on the floor showing the table’s daily travels and was still amazed at how she accomplished the feat.
William followed the line of his son’s gaze. “Yep. This table moves around the house much more than I do. Something akin to ‘bringing the mountain to Mohammad’, I guess,” he said, chuckling. "There’re days I think we should have put it on wheels. It or me,” he added with a smile.
Nathaniel wondered at his father’s good humor at his own infirmity. At the lack of bitterness in him. His acceptance of his fate. How did he do it?
William waved to him to sit down while Emma took a shawl down from the peg behind the door—the same place Nathaniel’s mother had hung her shawl when she was alive—and wrapped it around herself. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll have Bernard and Benjamin still come around ‘afore nightfall, milk the cow and muck out her stall. That way, the children can have their milk before bed.”
William nodded. “You do that, girl. I expect Nathaniel here won’t want to be taking on chores first night he’s home. The boys can continue doing as they always have. Nothin’s changing.”
Emma said her goodbyes and left. William pulled one of the bowls toward himself and indicating the other bowl, he told Nathaniel, “Eat up, boy. She might be young, but Emma’s one good cook. You won’t be sorry to have her cookin’ for us.”
With that, William began scooping up what looked like a stew and eating with gusto. Nathaniel pulled the other bowl close and took a tentative bite of stew. His father was right, the food was well cooked and tasty. After months of hard tack and the rare bit of scrawny game, Nathaniel relished the meal.
“Whoa, son,” William said, chuckling. “Slow down. It ain’t goin’ nowheres. Leastways not until I finish my own.” Smiling, he put a hand on Nathaniel’s arm, urging him to eat slower.
“Sorry,” Nathaniel mumbled around a mouthful of food. “Been a long time since I had anything good to eat.”
“Figured that. You’re skinnier ‘an a used-up old rooster. We’ll put some meat back on you, but for God’s sakes, boy, at least taste it ‘afore it goes down.”
Dutifully Nathaniel slowed his eating, found he was enjoying the food even more. Once, he even closed his eyes while holding the food in his mouth, savoring the simple flavors.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the small cabin were the scrape of spoon against bowl, the slurp of gravy, and crunch of vegetables. A soft belch filled a void as Nathaniel tore off a hunk of bread for his father and slathered butter on it before refilling their bowls with a second helping of food.
Finished, Nathaniel carried their bowls back to the kitchen. The men had emptied the pot of all the stew Emma had made. Back in the front room, he looked at his father still sitting at the table. “What do you usually do, now?” he asked.
“Well, about now, Emma would get out her school books and read to me. It helps pass the time and gives her practice with her letters.”
“You still have Ma’s books around?”
William nodded. “In the upstairs bedroom.”
Nathaniel lit a lamp and went upstairs to the bedroom his parents had used up until his mother had died. After her funeral, his father moved his things to the downstairs room, saying there were too many memories for him to stay in the old bedroom. The move was fortuitous, since not long after, he began to exhibit the first signs of the weakness in his joints that crippled him now.
Nathaniel found an old book of children’s stories he remembered Ma reading to him as a lad. Whether it was a need for comfort or simply a longing for the familiar, he brought it down. He joined his father back at the table and opened to the first page.
“Jack and Jill went up the hill,” he intoned solemnly.
William looked at his son wide-eyed. “That the best you could do, boy?” he asked incredulously.
Nathaniel raised innocent eyes to his father. “Did I read something wrong?” He tried. He tried very hard, but he could not keep the smile from tickling around the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps I should embellish it a bit?”
William squinted one eye at his son. “What’dya mean?”
Nathaniel thought a moment, then proceeded to read the poem with a few additions. Very ribald additions. The more he read, the more outrageous the additions became, and the harder he and Pa laughed until neither could catch their breath.
“Where’d you learn such?” William asked between guffaws, then waved his hand. “Never mind,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You’re a grown man. Some things a father just shouldn’t know about. Lordy, I’ll never be able to read a children’s rhyme again with a straight face.”
Nathaniel smiled at his father, glad he could make the man laugh. Glad he could make him forget the infirmity, the pain, for just a little while.
A knock on the door interrupted them. Without waiting for an answer, a young boy about twelve or thirteen years old opened the door, poked his head in.
“Mr. William, sir. We’re here to milk Bossy and clean her stall. Anything else you want done tonight?”
William Walker waved the boy in. “Come in, boy. Meet my son.”
The boy stepped in, followed by another looking just like him. The identical twins stopped just inside the door.
“Boys, this here’s my son, Nathaniel.” William waved his hand in the direction of his son. The boys bobbed their heads in unison.
“Nathaniel, this here’s Benjamin and Bernard. They come every night, take care of Bossy. And sometimes, me, too.”
Nathaniel moved forward, holding out his hand. “Benjamin?” he asked, moving his hand from one to the other, hoping the right boy would take hold of it.
The second boy grabbed his hand, shook it briefly. “Nice to meet ya’, sir.”
“And you’re Bernard,” Nathaniel stated, studying the boy closely, looking for a difference, any difference, that he could use to tell them apart.
“Sir,” the boy acknowledged, and smiled. “There’s a way, sir, if’n you look hard enough.”
Nathaniel stared and stared, his gaze going back and forth between the brothers. He could see nothing different about one or the other. The boys grinned, clearly enjoying the game. Nathaniel looked back at his father in question.
“Don’t look at me, boy. It’s a pure guess every time for me. Some days I gets lucky.” He shook his head. “Still only a guess.”
Nathaniel turned back to the boys, stared some more, then finally sighed and shrugged in defeat.
The twins chuckled and slapped each other on the back, raised an arm each in an identical farewell, and ducked out the door.
Nathaniel stood by the open door, watching the boys run to the barn. They disappeared inside and closing the door, he turned back to his father. “They’re going to milk Bossy and then take the milk?”
William nodded. “Yep. Bossy still gives a pretty fair share. More’n I can drink. Can’t let it go to waste, and those children, they have practically nothin’.”
“So, you just give them the milk?” He tried hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Nathaniel knew his father was kind-hearted, but there were limits to generosity.
“They have practically nothin’,” William repeated. “Understand? It’s a sin to waste and un-Christian not to share when you have more than enough.”
“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel said, properly chastised. He resumed his seat and picked up the book again. “Should I read some more?”
“No. Not right now. It don’ take the boys long to take care of Bossy and the barn. They’ll be coming back in soon enough, help me get to bed.”
“I can do that,” Nathaniel offered.
“I know. But the boys, well, I guess they kind of look on it as their payment for the milk. They help me and then take the milk back to the home. It works out for all of us, and until I find somethin’ else they can do so’s to feel useful, we’ll just let it be. Okay?”
Nathaniel swallowed the comment he was about to make about hoping to feel useful himself. “Okay. Should I wash up the dishes or does Emma need to feel useful, too?”
“You can wash up. Reckon it’ll be a little gift to her, comin’ in the morning to find the dishes already done.”
Nathaniel went to his chore, and after a short time, Benjamin and Bernard knocked again and let themselves in. With an efficiency Nathaniel admired, they soon had William washed, changed and, doing their version of the strange dance, settled in his bed.
He knew his father would never think to replace him with the twins, loved him as his only son, but still, Nathaniel felt usurped. He finished the dishes and climbed the stairs to his old room, taking his mother’s book with him. Lighting the oil lamp, he settled in his bed to continue reading, missing his mother’s quiet voice and gentle hand, the way she had of letting him know how loved he was without becoming maudlin about it.
He heard the door close, surmised the twins had gone, taking the milk with them. He meant to go back downstairs for a bit, to continue reading by the stove, but the day’s events took their toll on him. His eyelids drooped. His hand went slack, the book falling gently to his chest.
*****
His lieutenant shouted the order. “Advance!”
The battalion moved as one, inexorably marching forward, guns with bayonets affixed.
Nathaniel looked up into the trees. His boys had taken their posts, the dark green uniforms blending in perfectly with the summer-green leaves, the gold of their buttons tarnished to a dull finish, so the bright sun would not reflect off and give away their positions.
The cannon fired.
Screams filled the air as men fell in their tracks.
A body fell from the trees, an arm dealing a glancing blow to his head.
NO!!!
They were outnumbered, outflanked. Out-anything—that—mattered. The boys cried. Some ran.
Most died.
Why did they leave him alive?
*****
Nathaniel awoke, bathed in that fine, cold sweat he’d become so accustomed to. He worked to control the shaking. Made his hand be still. Set his stomach aright again.
He’d hoped home would banish the dreams.
He’d been wrong.
And he knew he would not sleep again this night. He picked up his boots and jacket, crept down the stairs as quietly as he could and let himself out the door. Sitting on the porch stoop, he pulled on the boots and jacket, looked across at the barn.
A fine snow drifted lazily from the sky, adding to the soft layer already on the ground and coating the evergreens in the distance. Clouds hung low across the horizon while above them, stars twinkled against the black sky.
Snow crunched under his boots as he slowly made his way toward the barn. A wealth of memories flooded him–recollections of a young boy and then a young man following this same path at least twice a day, every day. A young boy full of hope for the future, a young man full of enthusiasm, energy and integrity.
He wondered at that young boy, then man. Where had they gone? But he knew too well where they were. Gone, replaced by this man now, full of regrets, bitterness and longing for what he’d decided he could not have.
Forgiveness, vindication, happiness would never be within his grasp. Those things belonged to others—the innocent ones. Nathaniel would never be counted among their numbers.
He pulled open the barn door and a quiet lowing greeted him.
He approached the cow’s stall. “Hey, old girl. How are you?”
The cow turned her enormous brown eyes to him, lowed again. “I’m glad to see you, too,” he said to the animal, scratching the top of her head. “It’s been a long time.
“His letters kept saying ‘All things the same,’ but they aren’t, are they?” he continued to her.
The cow swished her tail and Nathaniel took it for the non-comment it was.
“I’m thinking a lot has changed since I left,” he murmured, turning and surveying the inside of the barn. The calf Bossy had born the summer before he enlisted was not there. The chickens roosting off in the corner looked to number about the same, but it was hard to tell. There was only one horse now instead of three. Nathaniel was surprised to see any. Most farmers had their horses “requisitioned” by the army and those who’d escaped the official confiscation often found their animals stolen outright by soldiers desperate for any mount. Or something to eat. That his father had managed to keep any of his horses was nothing short of miraculous.
The pig he remembered was gone, probably a victim of more “requisitioning.”
A faint mewling attracted his attention. Off in a corner on an old blanket of his father’s lay a tangle of kittens and their mother. It was near impossible to tell where one started and another left off, but he thought he counted six little tails poking out from under mama’s warmth and protection. A mixture of black and white seemed to stick out in all directions. He bent down closer. Mama opened her blue eyes, her tail flicking once when she saw him.
“Morgana,” he said to her, “you still providing cats to the whole county? I would have thought you’re too old for that by now.” He grinned at her. “Haven’t you figured out yet how this keeps happening?”
She meowed once quietly and he reached out to scratch behind her ear. She began purring, pushed her head into the palm of his hand. He chuckled softly, scratched her some more before running his hand gently down the length of her black fur as she lay. Her purring grew louder and she stretched, drawing a mewl of complaint from one of the kittens.
Nathaniel noted with approval a good-sized bowl of fresh milk not far from Morgana’s head, and a few bits of cooked chicken. At least the twins knew enough to see she had plenty of food while she suckled her young.
“Sleep, now. One of us ought to,” he said to her. “Those young’uns’ need you strong and healthy.” He stroked her one last time. “Sleep.”
He headed back to the door, noting as he went that the stalls and hay were all clean, the water buckets full with fresh water, the feed bins filled. A quick sift through the feed grain showed no signs of weevils or other infestation. Nathaniel nodded. Seems the twins kept things in good shape.
Hard on the heels of that approval rode the realization his father didn’t need him to work the farm. He had Benjamin and Bernard. At least until it was time to plant again.
He pulled open the door and let himself out into the cold night.
*****
“Miz Mellie, how come Mr. Hoskins hates us?”
Melanie tried to smile as she brushed eight-year-old Katie’s hair and searched for an answer to her question. “Mr. Hoskins doesn’t hate us, sweetie.”
“Then how come he won’t give us any money?”
“That’s business,” Melanie explained. “It’s his business to decide who to loan money to or not. It doesn’t mean he hates us.”
“But if he liked us, he’d find a way to help, wouldn’t he?”
Now Melanie did smile. Katie was nothing if not persistent. And why couldn’t Mr. Hoskins have found them some money? “I don’t know, Katie. Maybe he just doesn’t have it to loan.” She separated Katie’s hair into three sections and began braiding it.
Katie twisted around on her stool to look at Melanie. “But he’s a bank! If he doesn’t have it, who does?”
From the mouths of babes, Melanie thought. If not him, then who, indeed? No one she’d found as yet. “I don’t know,” she repeated.
“But what’ll happen to us?” Katie’s lower lip trembled and her eyes shone with tears. “Where will we live?” she whispered.
Melanie bent down and hugged the little girl. “Don’t you worry. I’m working on it.” She stood up and looked down at her with a confidence she did not feel. “Just remember, the Lord will provide. Things will work out. Somehow.” I hope, she silently prayed. “Now, to bed,” she added, giving the little one a loving pat on the behind to urge her forward.
The older girls had helped several of the young ones to wash up and change, and Melanie made the rounds, listening to prayers and tucking them all in.
Every one of the children had prayed to find money to save their pitiful orphanage from the factory that wanted the property it sat on. The family who owned the property, and had let them use the vacant building for their home, needed funds and were now selling off the land. The only way Melanie could see to save the building was to match the offer. Only she didn’t have the money. She didn’t have any money. If kind Mr. Walker did not give them the milk from his cow, she wouldn’t have been able to provide even that much for the children. He shared his salt pork and eggs as well. Payment, he always said, for the children’s help caring for him and his farm. But Melanie knew better. And she thanked the good Lord above for the man’s generosity.
She went to her bedroom and took her shawl from where she’d left it draped over a chair, wrapped it around herself. She slipped down the hallway. Soft murmurings filtered from Mr. and Mrs. Grinkov’s room, quiet evidence they were still awake. Melanie stepped even more lightly as she passed their room. She had no desire to repeat the conversation they had after dinner, replete with all the well-meaning suggestions they made. Well-meant, but as useless as those put forth by the children.
The fire in the little stove was only embers now and there was a distinct chill in the air down here. Melanie pulled the shawl tighter, went to the small desk in the corner and took out the account books. Sitting at the table in the kitchen, she went over the numbers again, praying something—anything—would be different.
Nothing was. The wretched book still said the same thing-no money, not for buying the building, not for extra flour for Christmas cakes, and certainly nothing extra for gifts for the children for Christmas.
She looked out the small window above the sink. There was no reason to go out, save that she could not stand to be inside any longer. Could not stand to pick up children’s clothing, books and the occasional toy and be reminded yet again just what they all would lose because of her failure.
Outside was safe. Outside was quiet.
Outside, she could be alone to think.
The doorknob creaked in her hand. Mr. Grinkov refused to oil it, pointing out that no children would be able to sneak in or out of the house unheard. Apparently no adults, either, she thought wryly. As silently as possible, she let herself outside.
Stars twinkled in an inky sky. The moon had just begun its ascent in the east, the treetops limned by the faint glow. The thin layer of snow still sparkled, innocent and clean.
Crossing the yard, she turned back to look at the orphanage, a dark hulk outlined against snow and sky. She stood near a stand of pines, similar to those that marked the entry to the Colonel’s home, and found herself wondering what he was doing now. Was he sleeping? Did home provide the comfort he needed to be able to kill the demons that robbed him of rest? Or did they torment him, even here?
She walked aimlessly and eventually found herself by the fence that marked the boundary between the orphanage and Mr. Walker’s property. The new wire attached to the posts gleamed in the starlight. She smiled at the simple reminder of neighbors. It was how she had met Mr. Walker. His cow had found a broken section and wandered onto the orphanage grounds. While the children had celebrated their good fortune, Melanie knew cows simply didn’t appear out of thin air, and this one belonged to someone. It didn’t take long to find out where she came from, and Melanie led the creature back through the rend and home. She was horrified at the condition of his stable, but as soon as she met him, she understood the crippled farmer’s needs. They struck a bargain. And a friendship.
Helping the old man would give the children lessons in caring, sharing, responsibility and Christian giving, as well as the solid experience in farming that would serve them all well in the future. In return, he gave them another lesson in sharing as he gave them full use of the milk, eggs, and potatoes he had stored for the winter. The boys mended his fence, running only a wire across the top half, the cow being much too dumb to notice the gap in the bottom. A gap the children made use of as a short-cut to his farm to do their work.
Who would help him, she wondered, when they could no longer live at the orphanage? Even though his son had come home, the farm was more than one man could handle. How would they survive?
As much as she longed to continue to help Mr. Walker, Melanie knew the needs of the children came first. He and his son would just have to muddle through somehow.
She leaned on the fencepost looking out at the fields and hills beyond. Where would they go?
Despair filled her heart. She could find no answer. No way to continue to provide for Jeb and Lorna and Benjamin and Bernard and Emma and Rachael and Paul and...
Hot tears clogged her throat, stung her eyes. Chest tight, Melanie gulped in air. The gulp became a sob. Tears slipped down her cheeks leaving icy tracks on her face. One by one, the sobs followed each other until she fought to stand upright. She turned her back to the fields and leaning against the fence post, faced the orphanage and gave free rein to the despair and frustration that filled her. A cold gust of wind swirled around her and she hugged herself against the chill that filled her inside and out.
*****
Nathaniel crossed the field behind the barn, breathing in the crisp, cold air. Perhaps a bit too cold, he thought wryly, buttoning his jacket around his neck. He moved silently over the snow-covered grass, crossing to the edge of the property. He wondered, as good as Benjamin and Bernard were taking care of the animals, were they equally adept at keeping the fences in good repair?
He walked along the perimeter, noting they were, indeed, good at their jobs. At least for the portion he walked along. Dad had chosen well in taking on those two.
He narrowed his eyes trying to see clearly through the night. One of the fence posts was sorely misshapen. As he edged closer, Nathaniel could see it was not a fence post at all, but a human.
A woman. She seemed to be shaking.
The cold, no doubt, although why in the hell didn’t she just go inside if she was that cold? The thought occurred that perhaps she had no home, in which case, he decided, he would offer her the barn and a blanket.
As he approached her, he realized it was Miss Treymont. What the devil was she doing here?
He was about to speak, ask her that very question when he heard the sob. He stopped in his tracks. Crying women were not his strong suit. He’d had more than his share of them in the war.
And yet...
There was something so forlorn, so lost and full of despair about her. She needed someone to comfort her, someone to understand her.
Someone that was not him.
He wanted to turn back. She hadn’t heard him yet, would never know he’d been there. So why wouldn’t his feet obey him?
He kept coming closer, finally stood directly behind her. His hands crept up of their own volition, soothing over her arms. She must have felt him. He’d expected her to startle. Instead, her hand inched over to cover his in silent supplication.
Nathaniel turned her around, drew her into his embrace, ignoring the fence post pushing between them. She moved closer, put her hands and her head on his chest. His arms wound around her, hands stroking her back as she cried into his jacket. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling her warmth and softness and laid his cheek on her head. Instinct overcame caution and he softly kissed her hair.
They stood a long time until her sobs finally subsided. Feeling her control returning, Nathaniel reluctantly let her go. He gazed down into her eyes, tears still sparkling like the new-fallen snow, and wiped away the last trace of wetness from her cheek. In utter silence, they looked at each other then slowly turned away, each to return to their own home.
As Nathaniel crossed the field, he paused and looked back at her. She walked as though caught in thick swamp water, her movements slow, dragging. It seemed it took all her energy to simply put one foot in front of the other.
He knew the feeling well and he felt an unfamiliar emotion unfurl in his chest. After weeks and months of ruthlessly eradicating all traces of it, he realized he was feeling sympathy.
Sympathy for this twin soul of despair he’d just held in his arms.