9

On Monday morning, Fleeta woke well before dawn. She planned to meet Hank at the post office, where the county bookmobile parked from ten until two every Monday. She often went—Mrs. Pearson made it a point to get books about gunsmithing or the history of firearms for her—but today felt different. For the first time in her life, she found herself giving more than a passing thought to what she should wear to visit the bookmobile.

She finally settled on a clean pair of denim pants and a plaid shirt. She’d seen some of the girls around town turning the cuffs of their pants up, so she tried that and decided she could stand it. She tied on her serviceable Sunday lace-up shoes, wishing for half a moment that she had a pair of saddle oxfords. Instead of braiding her hair, she pulled it back at the crown with the bulk of its dark mass hanging down her back. The weight of it made her feel self-conscious, but Hank was probably used to girls being way fussier. She drew the line at lipstick, which she would have had to borrow from Elnora or Aunt Maisie anyway.

She started out of her bedroom, then at the last moment turned and scooped up her mother’s brooch. It didn’t look right against her everyday shirt, but she wanted her mother close, so she pinned it to her undershirt. No one else would know she was wearing it.

“Not for some man’s love, but for yours, Momma,” she whispered as she left the room.

Slipping downstairs, Fleeta was determined to get away without anyone seeing her. Uncle Oscar was out in the barn with the boys, Aunt Maisie tucked up in a chair near the fire and reading one of her romance novels. Fleeta moved to the front door, which was hardly ever used, and held her breath as she slowly turned the doorknob.

“Going to the bookmobile?” Simeon appeared as though from thin air.

Fleeta was proud that she didn’t jump. “Maybe.”

“I’ll come too. I want to see if Mrs. Pearson has any more books by Jules Verne.”

“Fine. I have a bone to pick with you anyway.” Fleeta opened the door, making extra noise now that her solitude was ruined.

“With me? What’d I do?”

Fleeta noticed her cousin looked uncomfortable in spite of his protest. She’d been waiting for the right moment to confront him. They set off down the road, Fleeta turning the collar of her coat up against the coolness of the first day of December. There was a crispness to the air that invited deep, cleansing breaths. It tasted good, and Fleeta was so pleased to be meeting Hank that she could almost forgive Simeon for taking her brooch. Almost.

“You stole the pin my mother left me and hid it in the woods over near the Markley place.” Even now she could feel the brooch resting just above her heart.

Simeon, who had been scuffling along with his hands in his pockets and head down, jerked around to look at her. “How’d you—?”

“How’d I find it?” Fleeta considered how much to share. “Maybe I tracked you to that ole stump out there off the cow pasture.”

“Hunh. You probably could.” Simeon looked at her sideways. “Hidden away in the back of a drawer the way it was, I didn’t think you’d miss it for a while. Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“I ought to tell Uncle Oscar and let him tan your hide, but I’m feeling too fine to see you suffer. I just want to know why you did it. Did you think you could get money for it?”

Simeon dropped one of the books he carried under his arm. “I had my reasons and money wasn’t any part of it.” He stuck out his lip as he picked up the book and dusted it off.

“Got a girl then? Thought maybe you’d give it to her?” Fleeta didn’t think that was the real reason, but she hoped to nettle Simeon into spilling the beans.

“Shoot, no.” The boy’s ears turned red, and he started walking faster. “That’s pure crazy. I just don’t want you to go and get a man.”

“You don’t want me to what?”

“Momma keeps talking about how you’re supposed to find true love now that she’s given you that ole pin.” He lifted his chin higher. “I read books. I know how that stuff works. If you keep that thing, you’ll find some man who’ll carry you off and we won’t see you anymore.”

Fleeta stopped in the road. “Simeon. Is that really why you did it?”

He stopped too, half turning but not quite looking at her. “I like having you around, and if you go, Daddy will make me take up where you leave off. I’ll have to hunt and earn money and I don’t know what all.” He looked miserable. “I just want to read books and maybe write them one day too.”

Fleeta, not prone to shows of affection, reached out and wrapped one arm around her cousin’s shoulders. “Oh, Simeon. I’m not letting any old piece of jewelry decide what I do with my life. Don’t you worry. The only reason I like that pin is because it belonged to my mother, and there’s not much left of her.”

Simeon leaned into her shoulder. “So you’re not afraid you’ll fall in love and have to go off with some man?”

“I am not.” Fleeta squeezed him and continued down the dirt road. “Now, once I have my own business and make my own way, I might look around a little. Although I’ll probably be awful busy, so it’ll have to be a man who can take care of himself.”

Simeon looked thoughtful. “Maybe you’ll find one who takes care of you.”

Fleeta threw her head back and laughed. “That would suit me just fine.”

Hank watched Fleeta and a lanky boy with books under his arm approach the post office. He’d had to plan carefully to get away from the house without two little shadows following him, and he was disappointed to see that Fleeta was not equally alone. He supposed the boy must be one of her cousins. Where Fleeta was all dusky skin and sinew, the boy was pale and clearly not used to his long legs yet. There was a protectiveness in the way Fleeta watched the boy—a fierceness. Or maybe that was just Fleeta.

Mrs. Pearson stepped out of the bookmobile van and smiled. Hank had expected a gray-haired lady of a certain age, but the librarian was middle-aged at most, with a full figure garbed in a bold, flowered dress topped by a bulky sweater and scarf. She’d already made Hank’s acquaintance and had a book ready for them to examine.

“Why, Simeon, have you finished those books already?”

“Yes, ma’am. I read this one twice.” The boy held up his copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Pearson clapped her hands. “I have here The Mysterious Island, which I think you will simply adore.”

Simeon’s eyes lit up, and he darted into the bookmobile behind the librarian.

Fleeta watched him go with fondness. “He surely does love books,” she said, shaking her head.

“Seems like a fine thing to love,” Hank said.

“I suppose, but he takes grief over it at school. The other boys would rather hunt and fish, and Simeon gets left out.”

“Is he happy?”

Fleeta flicked a look at Hank. “Mostly I guess. Might be he’s what you’d call content.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry too much. Lots of people go a long way looking for contentment without ever finding it.”

Fleeta furrowed her brow and rubbed the back of her neck. “Are you content?”

“I used to be, but here lately I’ve started to think I might want to aim for something more. Like my own business.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Maybe other things too.”

Fleeta gave him a sharp look. She took a breath and opened her mouth, then seemed to change direction midstream. “Let’s get on in there and see if we can find a picture of this flower you’re wanting to have carved.”

“Mrs. Pearson has the picture awaiting your perusal.” Hank made a sweeping gesture toward the door. Fleeta tightened her mouth and practically leapt over the steps into the van.

Inside, the space was tight with all four of them. Simeon stood in the rear, already reading a book open in his hand. Mrs. Pearson watched him with a bemused expression. There was a small book stand with a book of botanical prints open to a picture of a magnolia drawn by Georg Dionysius Ehret. Fleeta moved forward and smoothed the page, tracing the petals with her fingertips.

“Sure is pretty.”

“That it is, and you should smell it. The aroma of summer as far as I’m concerned.”

Fleeta nodded, clearly concentrating on the picture. “Can I check this out?”

“I’m sorry, Fleeta, but this is a reference book.”

Fleeta worried her lower lip. “I don’t suppose you have a piece of paper and a pencil?”

Mrs. Pearson moved to the front of the van and pulled out a sheet of typing paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. Hank smiled. Of course she’d have such supplies at the ready.

Fleeta took the items, propped a children’s picture book on the edge of the stand, and began making quick, deft strokes across the paper. Hank wanted to move closer, but he was afraid he’d distract Fleeta. Everything else seemed to have dropped away for her as she captured the lines of the flower. He finally edged closer as her drawing slowed.

“I believe you’ve got it,” he whispered, almost in her ear.

She jerked and swiveled her head to look him in the eye. It was the same look he’d seen in the eyes of a startled deer. For those moments Fleeta had been drawing, she’d forgotten about him.

Her eyes roved his face, and then she stepped back, banging an elbow against the shelves. “Yup. This should do it.”

Hank smiled, but didn’t give her any more room. For some reason, he liked unsettling her.

Fleeta looked all around the van, her focus landing on Simeon. “You ready to go? This is all I need.”

Simeon grunted and looked up from his stack of books. “You might wanna see this one,” he said, extending a book toward her. “I wanted to know more about Sir Walter Scott after reading that Ivanhoe book of his, and Mrs. Pearson found me this history of Edinburgh, Scotland.” He pointed with his chin. “This picture sure looks like that pin Momma gave you.”

Fleeta took the volume while Simeon stuck his nose back inside one of his books and wandered outside. Mrs. Pearson beamed after him. “I can’t wait to see how that boy turns out,” she said to Fleeta. “Anyone who loves books that much will surely do well in life.”

Fleeta paid her no mind, though, her attention riveted to the page in front of her. She read aloud but softly. Hank thought she was mostly reading to herself. He couldn’t make out all the words.

“‘. . . crafted of silver and set with gemstones . . . two intertwined hearts with a crown . . . Scottish love token . . . betrothed . . . luckenbooths were often passed down from mother to daughter in Scottish families.’”

Her head came up, and she looked at him, tears glistening in her eyes. She closed the book, clasped it to her heart, and staggered out of the van. Once they were outside, it was as though Fleeta finally got a full breath. He could see her push her shoulders back and lift her chin.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and reached inside her jacket, fiddling until she pulled out the pin he’d found in the stump on Thanksgiving Day. “I think I told you this belonged to my mother. Seems it’s something called a luckenbooth—a traditional Scottish pin given as a love token that mothers would then pass along to their daughters.” She tilted the pin so that the weak winter sun made the heart-shaped stone flash. “I wonder . . .”

Hank waited a moment and then quietly asked, “What do you wonder?”

“About all those mothers and daughters who have worn this. The little bag it came in has initials sewn into it for each bride who owned it.” One tear escaped, and she scrubbed it away. “What were they like? Who did they fall in love with? Were they happy? All that history and I hardly know any of it.”

Hank reached out and curled his fingers around Fleeta’s so that the brooch was concealed in both their hands. “Seems to me the history isn’t the main thing; it’s the love that pin represents. Mothers’ love for their daughters as well as—” he paused and swallowed hard—“a woman for the man she marries.”

Fleeta turned damp eyes on Hank. “I suppose she did love me. Just not enough to live for me when my father died.”

Hank wanted to draw her into his arms and comfort her. Saying her mother hadn’t chosen to die was no comfort at all. Who could know? Maybe she had let grief for her husband steal her from Fleeta. All he knew was the fierce surge of love he was feeling right at that moment. “I don’t know anything about your mother, but I do know you’re worth living for.”

Fleeta closed her eyes and inhaled as though breathing in his words. The hint of a smile touched her mouth. Her incredibly lovely mouth. “Do you really think so?”

“I do,” he said and gave in to the urge to wrap her in his arms ever so briefly. He released her. “Now, as to the business at hand. Can you capture my magnolia in wood?”

She finally gave him a full-on smile. “I can. The petals are nice and big, and it’s not as fussy as, say, apple blossoms or violets. Although I do wish I could see the real thing.”

Once again she was all business, and while Hank was happy to have distracted her from her pain, he wouldn’t mind comforting her some more.

“We’ll just have to get you down south sometime. In the summer, of course, when the magnolias are blooming.” Hank said the words without really thinking. Fleeta looked at him as though he’d suggested she run off to China. “Have you traveled much?” he asked.

Fleeta’s eyes shuttered. “Not much cause to go gallivanting around. I’m happy right here.”

Hank looked around at the fields, forests, and mountains stretching out beyond the post office and the two-lane road. “I can see why.”

“Really? Sometimes I wonder if folks don’t think we’re backwards.”

“If they do, it’s clearly because they haven’t met you.” Hank wanted to reach out and touch Fleeta’s cheek, but figured he’d already touched her more than she was used to. “Walk you home?” he asked instead.

Fleeta laughed. “I guess I can find the way.”

Now it was Hank’s turn to flush. “I’m not quite the helpless flatlander you think I am. And where I come from, a gentleman sees a lady home.”

Fleeta tilted her head to one side and furrowed her brow. “You might be the first person to accuse me of being a lady.”

Hank smiled. “Well then, I sure am glad God gave me eyes to see it.”

Fleeta ducked her head and called out for Simeon to come on, handing him his book about Scotland when he caught up. Soon the boy lagged behind them, nose still in a book, stumbling now and again as they set out. After they’d walked in silence for a while, Hank reached in his breast pocket and fished out an envelope.

“Here’s the down payment on your work.”

“I usually get paid after I’ve finished the work,” Fleeta said, not touching the envelope. “I’ve got your gun—that’s collateral enough.”

Hank pushed the envelope toward her. “I’d feel better if you took this.”

She reached out for it and accepted the money like it might poison her. She tucked it in the back pocket of her pants.

“Aren’t you going to look? We never did discuss an exact fee.”

Fleeta heaved a sigh like he was a great deal of trouble and pulled the envelope back out. She stopped and lifted the flap, peering inside. She thumbed through the bills, then turned sharp eyes on Hank. “This looks more like full price to me.”

Hank tapped her hand with an index finger. “Half. I’ll give you the same again once it’s done.”

“No sir. I don’t feel right about that. This is too much.”

Hank stopped and turned to face her while Simeon strolled on, oblivious. “‘The labourer is worthy of his hire.’ That’s from the book of Luke, tenth chapter. Jesus said it, so I’m willing to believe it’s true.”

Fleeta was clearly fighting an internal battle. Hank laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Honestly, Fleeta, you do exceptional work, and I’m proud to offer you what I think is an honest wage.”

She pursed her lips and studied the ground for a minute. “All right. But if it’s not absolutely perfect, you don’t owe me another penny.”

“Deal,” said Hank, holding out his hand. She grasped it in a firm shake and finally graced him with a smile. Which, Hank thought, was worth ten times what he’d put in that envelope.