Breakfast was a subdued affair. Hettie passed around a platter of fried ham with a side of worried looks. Big Tom’s slow gaze shifted between my tired face and Abel’s injured arm, a troubled line forming between his bushy brows. Abel looked as weary and worn as I felt.
After the incident in the barn, I’d spent the remnants of the night searching for the seam where reality and horrible fantasy met, trying to convince myself I’d fallen asleep in the loft and didn’t remember it. The vision of the inferno had been only a nightmare. Hadn’t it? I’d finally nodded off on the stiff parlor sofa just before dawn.
Big Tom cleared his throat. “Believe we’ll all stay home from church today. Me and Hettie got up early and cut the cane down by the creek this morning.” He glanced at Abel. “We’ll make sorghum after breakfast. You and Verity can rest up for a while.”
My heavy lids closed. Again, I saw the torrent of fire spreading over the floor, felt my skin burning. “No!” With a gasp, I jolted awake, jostling the cup of coffee at my elbow. Three pairs of concerned eyes turned my way. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll help with the sorghum.” I gathered the cup with unsteady fingers. “Don’t forget to take your pain tonic after you eat,” I said to Abel, eager to divert attention from myself.
He bumped his knee against mine. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Dr. Pruitt,” he said.
Abel insisted on joining us at the far edge of the yard, where the sorghum press stood under the spreading bows of a live oak. “I’m not going to sit inside and go stir-crazy,” he announced, settling himself carefully on the ground with his back to the tree trunk. His face was drawn with pain. Or perhaps it was something else? After my confessions and the fire delusion of last night, Abel had seemed unconcerned by all he’d heard and seen. Still, a nagging worry played at the edge of my thoughts. He could easily decide that stepping out with me would be too complicated, too precarious.
Big Tom, Hettie, and I began unloading the sticky cargo of cut cane stalks from the wagon. A brick oven, topped with a long stainless-steel pan, stood near an iron sorghum press. It looked like two huge, rusted gears stacked on each other. A wooden beam lay horizontally atop the press, with the long-suffering Lady May hitched to it.
At Big Tom’s direction, I began feeding the stalks between the rollers, catching the bright green cane juice in a pail. We’d only worked for a few minutes when the sound of a bell vibrated the humid air. Wiping sweat from my brow, I looked up to see two bicycles approaching. Katherine and Jasper pedaled our way, with Della perched on the handlebars of Jasper’s bike.
Jasper wobbled to a stop and Della hopped down, her sturdy boots flicking the hem of her calico work dress as she strode over. Katherine rolled to a halt nearby. She wore a split skirt made for cycling, and a frown made for me. It seemed my very existence needled the girl.
“The cavalry has arrived,” Abel said. “I knew I was valuable around here, but I didn’t realize it took three people to fill in for me.”
“Pshaw!” Della scoffed. “Mama made a deal with Big Tom a while back to go halves on the molasses if I help cook it.” She shot me a grin. “I’ve got permission to be here, but with strict orders from Daddy not to go off anywhere alone with you. Because you’re a bad sort and all.”
“And we wanted to come check on you,” Jasper said to Abel. “Della told us about what happened. She’s been worried to death.” He pulled Abel to his feet and clasped him in a brotherly hug. “There’re easier ways to get the ladies’ attention. You don’t have to go snapping your arm in half.”
Abel’s eyes were shadowed. “Trust me, no one’s attention is worth this amount of pain.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my face expressionless.
Bright green cane juice seeped out from between the rollers as Lady May pulled the press wheel. Della patted the horse as she went by. “When we were eight, Abel convinced me the green stuff was a witch’s brew,” she said with a laugh. A smile sprang to Abel’s lips at the memory. I quickly looked away.
While Big Tom and Hettie unloaded the last of the cane, Jasper squatted by the brick oven, shirtsleeves rolled up as he fed logs into the fire. Katherine watched, arms crossed. “You’ll need it hotter than that or the syrup won’t ever set up right,” she said.
“Sis, you’re a wonder,” Jasper said, straightening his lanky frame. “There are old-timers who’ve done this for decades and still don’t have it quite right, and here you are, an expert on your first time.” The remark earned him a glower from Katherine.
We worked on in companionable quiet, pressing the cane, hauling pails of juice to the cooking pan, and boiling it until it thickened to a rich, brown syrup. Everyone took turns stirring, making sure to keep the sorghum in constant motion so it wouldn’t stick.
“I need to start dinner,” Hettie announced after a while, handing over an armload of cane for the press. “Stay here and help with the sorghum.” I nodded, turning my back as she departed.
Hettie was a few yards away, headed toward the house, when I heard the screen door slam, followed by an exclamation. “Goodness, you startled me!” Hettie said.
The stalks tumbled from my arms with a clatter as she added, “What can I do for you, Miss Maeve?”