As they walked down the main street that had become Brave Rock’s “downtown,” toward the smithy’s to pick up the rest of the nails, Katrine stared at her arm. Frowning, she tried not to be annoyed by the long gap between the end of her sleeve and her wrist. Tall as she was, most of the borrowed clothes she wore lately fit poorly despite good-intentioned alterations. She knew folks were kind to offer the clothes, but the “make do” tailoring served as a constant reminder that her own wardrobe lay in ashes outside of town.
“Still hurts?” Katrine looked up to find Clint’s brown eyes following her gaze. His jaw hardened, and she knew memories of that night tightened his chest in the same way it cinched hers. He clearly thought she was staring at her hands where all the scrapes and scratches had been.
“No.” His genuine concern made her complaints feel vain and petty. “It does not hurt. And I should be grateful it does not. Even my feet no longer hurt.” She gave a sigh that belied her frustration with her own heart and behavior. “I have much to thank God for.”
Before she could think better of it, Katrine looked up at Clint when she said the last sentence. Sure enough, something flashed behind his eyes. She knew it would, even before the words left her mouth. He diverted his eyes for a moment, but then his gaze returned to her. They were walking down a street full of busy townspeople, but were uniquely alone. That night had connected them. No matter how they tried to ignore it, the truth of it kept surfacing at surprising, confusing moments.
It hung in the air now, unspoken, suspended between them. Of all the things for which she should offer thanks, Clint’s hands that had pulled her to safety topped the list. Lately, the man himself—his protection, his encouragement, his very presence—topped her list. Feeling the moment too keenly, Katrine squared her shoulders and applied a pleasant, everyday smile to her face.
He could not be fooled. Catching her eyes with a sideways glance that gave her permission to be neither pleasant nor everyday, he simply cued, “But...”
The fact that he could now read her so well felt both comforting and invasive. She knew he would see right through any efforts to say the proper thing. His eyes held only a companionable recognition, not any judgment or advice. Rather than try to hide her silly ingratitude, she simply offered a sad smile and held her arms out straight. The cuffs of her practical white shirtwaist barely came past her elbows. “Everything is too short. Everything.” Even her petticoat and skirt fell more to a length suitable for a schoolgirl than a woman of twenty-one years, and she’d let down the hem as far as possible. Wincing, she recognized that the whine in her voice did indeed make her sound like a schoolgirl.
Clint smiled. Not an amused smile, but a softer one that spoke of understanding. Knowing what she knew of his harsh judgments where the law was concerned, his response surprised her. And then again, it didn’t—she’d somehow known he would understand. How could this man’s actions feel so out of character and yet familiar at the same time? Clint understood her feelings. As they had moments before, his eyes said, It’s all right even before he spoke.
“I’m the youngest of three brothers,” he began, adjusting his hat. “I’ve spent years grousing about having to make do with someone else’s castoffs. Some days it’s hard to be grateful.”
“You are the youngest. I had not thought about that.” The image of Clint as a young boy, shirt cuffs rolled up to fit and pants cinched small enough with a belt, poked its way into her imagination. Its contrast to the man ever in control and now walking down the street beside her brought a smile to her lips. “You are the most serious of your brothers, aren’t you?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Lije has a powerful purpose in life, and Gideon seems to prefer his own company to any of us—before Evelyn, that was—but I don’t know that either of them would rank me as the most serious. I was a mite dour as a child, though. Always grousing about how things weren’t as they should be.” He paused for a telling moment before adding, “Lots of things weren’t as they should be growing up.”
Goodness, but she knew how that felt. “The world should feel perfect and wonderful when you are young. But it does not always come to us that way, does it?”
“No.” Clint’s voice sounded as if he was far away in some memory. “Not for me.”
She wanted to ask, but knew this was neither the time nor the place to explore whatever sad stories made up his past. She’d heard bits and pieces from Lars or the other Thornton brothers: a father lost to the war, hard times after the plantation was lost, and nearly everyone in town knew something terrible had driven the wedge between his family and the Chaucers. No, Clint Thornton’s childhood memories were neither perfect nor wonderful. “Times were hard?” It seemed a weak question, but she could not come up with another.
“Sorrowful hard.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Matter of fact, I’m not sure I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t own a new shirt or shoes until I was twelve.” Then, as if to push all of those memories safely behind him, he raised one eyebrow and teased, “Twenty, maybe.”
“Twenty?” She laughed openly, feeling the bitterness unwind from around her heart. “Surely it could not have been as bad as all that.”
“Maybe not quite that bad.” His mischievous look faded, leaving a dark streak across his eyes. The sheriff had shadows in his past, too.
“At least all my brothers are my size.” She could hear him dismiss the unpleasant memories as if he’d wiped them off a slate board. “You can’t say the same about those who’ve lent you clothes. Near as I can figure, you’ve got half a foot on most of the ladies in Brave Rock.”
While she hadn’t given the issue much thought in years, she did seem to feel her height every day since the fire. Pulling on too-short clothes every morning made forgetting it impossible. Suddenly she was eleven again, feeling awkward and gangly.
“All of us Thorntons were short until we shot up like weeds near our tenth birthdays. Were you and Lars always tall?”
Lars. It felt so good to be able to talk about him. Most people in Brave Rock talked carefully around the subject of her “late” brother. They were trying to be kind, to spare her from crying and such, but it only made her want to shake folks and shout that he still lived and would come home soon. “Yes, Lars especially. I cannot remember ever feeling short. Such names I was called when I was younger! ‘Beanstalk.’ ‘Tree.’ All in Danish of course, but none the kinder for it.”
“Young’uns can be cruel. They never count how that kind of thing sticks to you.” He spoke from experience—that much was clear—but didn’t elaborate.
“I hated being so tall growing up. Even if we had enough money—which we never did—I have had to make my own clothes as long as I can remember. Or add trims to ones I could buy.”
“You shouldn’t take your height amiss,” Clint said, narrowing one eye. “It suits you. You’re graceful.” Then, as if he hadn’t intended to say something like that, he cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his vest pockets. “Besides, you’d look odd next to Lars if you were all tiny and dark.”
His attempt to cover up the flattery failed. He’d called her graceful. He thought of her as such. The genuine compliment—for she knew he wasn’t a man of false praise—settled warm and soft under her ribs. Why was he always surprising her with such gestures? “Well, you would look just as odd next to your brothers if you had corn hair.”
He burst into laughter at the reference, and she joined him. The world had felt heavy on her shoulders for so long that such frivolity soothed like cool water on a dusty afternoon. How she longed for the days when the hardest thing she faced was how to coax her roses to bloom in Oklahoma soil.
“That I would.” Clint suddenly turned completely around, looking back in the direction they had come. Katrine stopped, wondering what had caught the sheriff’s eye, but only found him staring down the ordinary-looking street, scratching his chin in thought. “You know,” he said after a pause, “Gideon told me Evelyn just got one of those fancy pedal sewing machines.”
Katrine shrugged, stumped by such an odd comment from a bachelor. “Did she?”
“She’s got one of those contraptions, I’m sure of it.” Without another word, he started walking toward Fairhaven’s Mercantile. “Come on.”
Even with her long legs, Katrine found herself almost running to keep up with him. “Why?”
Clint simply walked into the store and went straight up to Polly Fairhaven. “Mrs. Fairhaven, Pastor Thornton sent me here to fetch Miss Brinkerhoff some fabric. On the church’s tab. She’s a need to make herself some new clothes on account of the fire.”
“On my account,” Katrine corrected, not willing to be Brave Rock Church’s first charity case.
“On the church’s tab for now,” Clint reiterated with a look so commanding Mrs. Fairhaven nearly gulped. Katrine was afraid he’d gesture toward the star on his vest as if the law required the purchase. “We’ll settle up later if need be. Enough for two skirts and maybe a blouse or two of some kind.” He flapped his hand between Katrine and the shopkeeper as if declaring a partnership. “Seems to me you ladies ought to know what all that means.” Then he looked at Katrine. “I’m off to pick up the rest of the nails and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Katrine planted her hands on her hips. “But—”
“Mrs. Fairhaven, don’t you let her leave until she’s satisfied with her purchases and don’t you let her put them on her account. I’ve strict orders from the reverend.”
“You’ve no such—” Katrine started to protest, but the door had already shut behind Clint. She was sure she heard his chuckle echo down the street.
She turned back from the door, only to find Polly Fairhaven eagerly hoisting two bolts of good broadcloth. “I’ve some lovely buttercream for a blouse, and what about gray or navy for the skirts? No sense keeping to mourning blacks all the way out here.”
If only she could tell Polly there was no sense in keeping to mourning blacks at all. In time, that would come—she had to hold on to the truth of that. Right now, the prospect of new and finely fitting clothes called to her like the sweetest of confections. Katrine shrugged and offered a smile. “You heard the sheriff. All of it.”
* * *
“Shall we say grace?”
Alice extended her hand to Clint, as joining hands for dinner grace had always been the Thornton tradition. It wasn’t so hard to take at Sunday afternoon suppers with lots of guests around and a groaning tableful of food.
Tonight’s smaller foursome for a midweek supper meant Clint had to take Katrine’s hand during grace. He tried not to make a fuss about it, but a cannon went off in his chest when Katrine placed her hand in his. He felt the smoothness of her skin alongside the roughness of the bandage that still covered the deepest of his gashes. Even as he tried to hold her hand as lightly as possible, his mind shot back to the night of the fire. He was grateful prayer required him to bow his head, as looking Katrine in the eyes would prove too much at the moment.
“Bless this food to our bodies, keep us grateful for Your provision and Your gift of salvation. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” Even Elijah’s short grace was far too long to be touching Katrine’s tiny hand. It twitched a bit in his grasp, and he knew the moment was as awkward for her as it was for him. It had become torture and bliss to be around her lately, like one of her beloved roses—too appealing not to risk the angry thorns.
“Gideon couldn’t come tonight?” Clint asked, wishing there were more folks around the table than just the four of them.
“Too busy with his horses,” Alice replied. “You know how he is with those animals. Plus, I think his side is bothering him again. That accident with the horse was weeks ago, but I told him he should still take it easy.”
“Never did do what he was told,” Lije teased, patting his wife’s hand. “Don’t take it personal.”
“He’s been paying us no mind his whole life,” Clint offered. “’Specially when it comes to animals.”
“And Walt,” Katrine added. “He is wonderful to Evelyn’s boy. They make a fine family.” Her voice held true admiration.
Alice handed a basket of bread to Clint. “Katrine made her potato bread, Clint. Lije said it’s a favorite of yours.” Clint didn’t care for the look in her eyes, as if she were making matches where she had no business doing so.
“I did say it was tasty.” He gave Alice his darkest nothing more than that look as he took a slice and handed back the basket.
“I like it, too,” offered Lije, ever the peacekeeper. He took the basket from Alice’s hands and gave himself two slices. “Lars must eat—must have eaten well.” He tried to correct himself before the comment, but there was no way to take it back. “I’m sorry, Miss Katrine, that was thoughtless. I miss him and still can’t quite believe he is gone.”
“It is how I feel, too,” Katrine said. Clint had to admire her careful choice of words. She was smart enough to push a change in subject. “How is the Nelson baby, Alice? She was so tiny. I have prayed for her every day this week.” Clint noticed she had barely eaten any food on her plate, and she hadn’t touched much of the picnic lunch they had the other day, either. Even though he imagined it was normal for folks in grief to lose their appetites, he wondered if Alice or Lije had noticed how much thinner she looked.
“Oh,” said Alice, beaming, “Daisy is just fine. She may be small, but she’s got lots of fight in her. I expect she’ll hold her own against all those brothers.”
“Five brothers,” Clint said, catching Lije’s eye across the table. “Can you imagine the fights? There were only three of us and we tore each other to pieces twelve times over.”
“But we always had each other,” Lije said with a warm look toward Clint. His hand covered his wife’s. “And good things have come along.”
“A big family is a wonderful blessing,” Alice added, her eyes on her husband. “Especially out here. Come harvest, Don Nelson will be glad for all those strapping young boys and their strong backs.” She dished herself some more potatoes, handing the bowl to Clint when she was done. “I only pity Louise—that’s a passel of hungry mouths to cook for and it will only get worse as they grow.”
“A happy task, ja?” Katrine smiled at Alice. The longing for a home and family of her own was all over her face, Clint recognized. No wonder Lars had spent so much time pondering how God would send her a husband—it was plain she wanted one, and she was of more than sufficient age to be settling down on her own. Clint kept waiting for the day when such a notion of a wife and family wouldn’t stab him in the ribs, when he’d find a way to be satisfied with his role as uncle and protector. It wasn’t coming near soon enough. The way Katrine kept poking into his thoughts, it had better hurry up and arrive.
“Have you written down any stories since...the fire?” Lije’s voice was full of tender concern. “I saw your journals by your cot and hoped you found some comfort in that. It’s a marvelous gift you have. Don’t lose it.”
“Mostly, I write to Lars.”
Clint’s jaw tightened. Were she Lije or Gideon, Clint would have found a way to kick her foot under the table for the slipup.
“It is my way of saying goodbye, I suppose,” Katrine went on, and Clint felt a stab of guilt for his first reaction.
“Well, no one can fault you for that.” Clint found himself wondering if Lije had told Katrine the story of his own loss, having watched his fiancée succumb to the same influenza epidemic that took Gideon’s wife and child. Yes, sir, the Thornton men were no strangers to grief. Some days that was the only silver lining Clint could find to his solitary future. If a man had no family, he had no family to lose. “Perhaps when we order church supplies we can include more journals for you.” He turned to Clint. “Were you able to order all the supplies for Katrine’s cabin?”
Clint was glad for a safer subject of conversation. “The smithy’s making the last of the nails and hinges, so it’s just a matter of manpower from here on in. The foundation’s laid, so it’s just the walls—”
“And the windows,” Katrine cut in. Hang her, every time he got to thinking she was a frail thing she’d go and show him the strength of her spine. It did something to his heart he didn’t like one bit.
“And the windows. And the roof.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “Windows?”
Clint parked an elbow on the table and tried to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Miss Brinkerhoff has insisted the new cabin have a window.”
“Two,” Katrine corrected.
“Well,” said Alice, clearly aware that there was more going on here than the finer points of cabin structure, “windows are a fine thing to have, and I need the good light for nursing. I only wish the flies and the winter wind didn’t share my opinion.”
Now it was Lije’s turn to look beleaguered. “Alice has been after me to get some pane glass for the home and the infirmary.”
“What?” teased Clint, glad to feel the earlier tension clear the room. “Before stained glass for the church?”
“I have plans,” Lije replied.
“And I have patients,” Alice added.
“Now all you need is patience, my sweet.” Lije softened his jest with a tender kiss to his wife’s cheek. Clint turned his attention to his plate while Katrine found something important to adjust in her long blond braid. He was happy for his brother—he truly was—but watching all that wedded bliss with Katrine just one seat away stung worse than a whole nest of hornets.
He’d put in twice the hours at the Brinkerhoff cabin tomorrow. For crying out loud, he’d work all night getting Katrine’s walls and roof in place just to keep from having to endure another dinner like this.