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MARCHING INTO THE KITCHEN with the egg basket in her hand, Jessie announced, “Those girls aren’t all doing their job this week. I only gathered six eggs. Two of those hens seem to have lost interest.”
Bart put down his cup of coffee, laughing. “It’s cold, Jessie. Didn’t your folks have chickens?”
“Sure, we did. But it’s not even November yet.”
Lena looked over her shoulder, curious. “What are you two talking about? Are the hens sick?”
“Oh, nothing like that.” Jessie deposited the eggs on the counter and sidled up to Bart. “Hens just slow down their laying in the winter, is all. Some just give up on the whole matter.”
Bart added, “You forget our winter days are shorter than they are back where you come from. Those hens need daylight and warmth.”
“You mean there won’t be any more eggs?” Lena turned, startled.
“’Fraid not as many, anyway. You might get a few if you’re mindful of keeping the coop dry and warm. Mr. Nash set a lot of store by those hens. He built a sturdy coop and laid in a lot of straw for bedding.” Bart offered his coffee cup to Jessie.
Lena sat across from them, her stirring spoon forgotten in her hand as it dripped onto her apron. “I hadn’t thought of any of that. I suppose their water will freeze as well. Oh my, the poor things.” Here were more preparations to add to her growing list.
Bart suggested, “Some folks butcher their hens before winter sets in.”
Lena shuddered. “Oh, I wouldn’t wish to do that. There must be a way to care for them through the winter.” She handed the spoon to Jessie and hurried from the room.
Mr. Nash’s downstairs’ desk sat near a westward facing window. Two stacks of papers flanked the work surface. Lena scribbled notes on a pad of clean paper. Little details that slipped her attention disturbed her. She should have asked about the chickens. What else did she need to consider? Perhaps she should consider stocking in more cooking supplies. Did the freighters continue to bring in necessary items throughout the winter months? She hadn’t thought of that either. Laying her pen down, she cast her gaze to the mountains.
What was that quote, the one she’d heard years ago from a seminary student who’d boarded with her parents? It had struck her as poetic, something she didn’t associate with the Bible. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my strength.” Resting her chin upon her hand, she recalled Evan’s words to her last night. It seemed a tendency here to ascribe human characteristics to nature. A mountain or a season could become a killer, as if they were capable of intentional enmity toward men. It was nonsense of course.
She had to admit that the city she’d grown accustomed to insulated her to some extent from the realities of nature’s fury. Even that seemed like rather anthropomorphic language for an indifferent, unfeeling force. Was she coming to understand this perspective of man in a battle against nature? An uncomfortable prickle rippled up her spine.
Heavy footsteps from the porch distracted her. The footsteps were followed by a thump, and then another. She rose to her feet and peered out the window. Evan stood a little distance away, lifting a chunk of wood onto the chopping block. Hefting the axe, he drove it down into the wood, splitting it neatly in one blow. Tossing it aside, he pulled another chunk onto the block, repeating the action.
Curious. She assumed she’d hire someone to do the work. And judging from the pile of split wood already stretching around the porch four feet high, she thought she’d have plenty stockpiled. But here he was, stripped to his undershirt, sleeves pushed up, adding to the stacks.
Smoothing her hair back from her face, she opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. “Mr. Hartmann, I’m surprised you’re still here. Aren’t you usually at the mine at this hour?”
“They’ve cut our shifts again. Had the day free, so thought I’d help out here.” He swung the axe, the satisfying crack of wood echoing off the lodge walls.
“At the rate you’re going, we’ll have wood enough for two seasons.” She slipped her hand around the giant porch post.
Evan glanced up, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag pulled from his pants' pocket. “Not by half, ma’am. Pardon me saying, but you don’t know the winters here.”
She felt herself bristling again, but checked her retort. “As you’ve said.” Despite her sudden rush of anger, she noticed a change in his expression at her reaction. There was no real heat in his eyes this time.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve no intent to offend you.” He dropped the axe head to the ground as if he had more to say.
Concern? Was this what she saw reflected in his green eyes, genuine concern?
“Thank you, Mr. Hartmann. I’m sure it will be used.” She turned then, taking a step back to the door. Before she reached it, the axe rang again. Hesitating at the door, she looked back at the man. Muscles straining the cloth of his shirt, the axe buried a good three inches in the cutting block this time. It struck her that he was a man built for such an environment. What attributes would a woman require to survive here? Were wits and determination sufficient?
Evan made sure he was back from the claim before dinner. The conversation at the table turned to the mine’s troubles with Eastern investors. Much of what they knew was derived from hearsay with little to substantiate. Ely remained quiet, confirming only that the investors were holding up funding.
Glancing up from his plate, Evan noticed how Lena’s body had stiffened as the conversation drifted from one piece of bad news to another.
Jessie scowled at the men. “What’s the good of talking about what you don’t know anything about, I say.”
“Well, Jessie, if the mine’s gonna’ close, we’d like to know and move on. It’s that simple.” Bart picked up his plate, taking it to the sink. Then he took Jessie’s hand in his. “But Swenson, my shift foreman, says there’s plenty of gold left in that quartz down the tunnel we’ve been working this month. I’m thinkin’ they’ll convince that group back East and work will pick up in the spring.”
Carrick snorted, “But can we wait till then?” He shot a glance at his brother. “We heard that there’s some color showing farther up the Salmon near Stanley Basin. Might be a good time to head up that way.”
Lena pushed herself away from the counter, her face calm considering the disturbing talk. “Gentlemen, Jessie, I think we need a little distraction. There’s nothing anyone can do about this tonight. Let’s take these cookies in by the fire and see what shenanigans Tom’s up to in Hannibal.”
The tension broke in the room; the gloom dispelled for a time.
Lena took the chair by the hearth, Bart and Jessie to her right, before the fire. The others settled into the oversized chairs as though this new routine was something they’d been doing for years. Evan found a place by the window where he could stretch his long legs. The position also offered him a good view of Lena, a view that was easy on his eyes.
Flames brought out highlights in her auburn hair and cast a warm glow along the gentle curve of her cheek. Her hair fell against her long neck, sweeping low to touch her breast, the curl resting there rising and falling with her every breath.
What could he offer a woman of such refinement as Lena? Even as the unbidden thought skittered across his mind, he felt like a cad. He already had a woman and child in his life, even if they were his brother's. A dream, if he should settle on one, would have to be attainable. But then a small traitorous voice whispered in his ear, “Will everything in your life, even your dreams, belong to the ghost of your brother?” Shutting out the familiar doubts, he settled himself back into the timbre of her voice, letting it weave its way into his imagination. He was Tom, romancing young Becky. He was Huck, fearful of his father. He was a man spinning a dream, a hopeless piece of fiction.
“'Injun Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming, snatched up Potter's knife and went creeping catlike and stooping, round the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams' grave and felled Potter with it—and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. He reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.'“
Jessie let out a little cry that caused Lena to stop, looking up sharply. “Oh my! That Huck was sure to get our Tom in trouble!”
Carrick nudged his brother in the ribs and said, “Sounds just like our cousin, Michael, back in the old country. He was one to get himself in the worst scrapes what with his hot-headed ways. Trouble seemed attracted to him like fleas on a dog.”
“That's for certain,” Donal agreed. “It was always a good thing to be as far away from him as possible when he got himself worked up about some injustice, real or imagined. But this Tom, well, he seems too smart to get himself in any real trouble. I'm thinking he'll come out of this smelling like a rose. Come on, Miss Lena, tell us how he escapes.”
Lena cleared her throat, reaching for her tea, now cooled in her cup. “I’m afraid my voice is giving out. Perhaps we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to finish.”
“Oh no!” Jessie wailed. “It’s just getting exciting.”
“I’m sorry, Jessie.” Lena’s voice, raspy and soft, convinced everyone else of the truth of it.
“I can read for you.”
Lena looked up. Evan stood before her, his hand outstretched. “Thank you, Mr. Hartmann. I think you’ll see where I left off.” She gave the book into his hands.
Evan took a seat on an upturned log at the opposite side of the hearth. He cleared his throat and in a sonorous tone began the story where Lena had left it. Stumbling at first over Twain’s diction, he pushed on until a few pages farther he captured the dialect. He gave himself to the story, his voice suspenseful where needed. He read the final chapters to an alert audience.
“So, endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop—that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.'“
Evan closed the book, handing it back to Lena as his audience applauded his performance.
Lena who had watched him with rapt attention, seemed too stunned to comment.
“But we'll never know if he married Becky, now,” Jessie pouted.
“It was over way too quick,” Bart frowned. He looked first at Evan and then Lena. “What will you read next?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I’ll look through my small library and find something if you like.” Lena clutched the book to her breast, a glow of contentment on her face. She glanced at Evan. “Thank you for that. You read wonderfully.”
“My mother was a school teacher with a love of good books. Our family took turns reading at night, just like you’re doing here, Miss Sommer.”
“Really? My family had the same habit.”
Good nights all around, interrupted the flow of their exchange. Lena waved to Jessie, promising not to stay up too long.
Evan turned to go, but Lena stopped him with a touch of her hand on his arm as he passed. “Mr. Hartmann, I wanted to say that I’m grateful for your concern for my well-being. I think I’m beginning to understand why you were so insistent that I not stay.”
He took in her slender, white fingers resting on his sleeve, then closed his eyes for one moment. When he opened them again, he was looking down into her dark eyes, so lovely and hopeful. What did she want from him? Did she hope to receive his blessing for her ill-advised decision? He couldn’t do that. But as much as he believed she’d be wiser to leave, a hope stirred that she would stay. It was a selfish thought with the danger of turning into a prayer that she would never leave.
“I’m glad that you do.” It was all he could say, not trusting himself to say more.
“Good night, Mr. Hartmann.”
“Good night, Miss Sommer.”
