26

“I never saw a soddy before we moved out here,” Caleb said.

Isaac worked beside the young man to mend a corner of the Nielsen soddy just below the roofline. Three winters of rain and snow had done their worst.

“Not much call for them in the country I hail from either.” Isaac hefted a fresh chunk of sod into place, breathing hard with its weight. “But then, so many trees in those West Virginia mountains you couldn’t even see your neighbors, most times.”

“Think the Nielsen sisters will ever build a real house?”

“Reckon so. They’ve just had a passel of other things on their mind. Never saw such a bunch of enterprisin’ women.” Especially Larkspur. The thought of her tugged his chest with an ache.

If this fall had gone like he hoped, he might have been working on a house for her and himself by now. A right pretty farmhouse, front porch and all. He’d laid it all out in his mind when he couldn’t sleep.

But at least she was alive. He needed little remindin’ to be grateful for that.

Caleb helped tamp the sod brick in, then sealed the gaps as Isaac had showed him.

Isaac glanced at the young man, his face serious beneath the shock of dark hair sticking from under his woolen cap. Boy could use a haircut . . . over two months away from his mother were showing their wear. Isaac stifled a chuckle. As if he were one to talk. But his own rough-cut hair and beard helped keep his neck warm at least.

They moved the stool Isaac had borrowed from the barn to another corner where the sod was crumbling and set to clearing space for a fresh block.

“So are you thinkin’ of goin’ home for Christmas, son?”

“I don’t know.”

Isaac chewed the inside of his cheek. “I know what your ma would say.”

“She ain’t the problem.” The young man’s words came so low Isaac could barely hear.

“I never did ask you why the Confederacy. Any special reason?” Isaac kept his gaze on his work, his tone casual.

Caleb’s mittened hands scraped hard at the crumbling sod and roots. “Just wanted to go where my pa wasn’t.”

“He weren’t at home, though, was he?”

“Should have been. He was too old to take off to war, leavin’ us. Expectin’ me to do his job.”

“So you decided to leave too.”

The young man had the grace to flush. “He never cared what I did before. Unless to tell me I was doin’ it wrong.”

“Sometimes that’s how folks show they care. Even if it ain’t the best way. So you were tryin’ to get him to notice you by runnin’ off?”

Caleb stared at him. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“Beg pardon. Just conversin’ to pass the time.”

Silence hung as they lifted in the next sod brick and tamped it tight.

Isaac stepped down and nodded. “That should hold. Just one more corner needs our attention, I’m thinkin’.”

“I did feel bad later.” Caleb finally spoke while handing the sod brick up to Isaac. “When I found out how worried my ma was. And about joinin’ the South. I didn’t really think it through, but after gettin’ to know William, out here . . . I was kinda glad I didn’t see action. Missin’ out had made me so mad before.”

Isaac nodded. Meeting someone who’d been trapped in that awful system of slavery, learning to see him as an equal and a friend . . . that would certainly give a man pause about signin’ up for the Confederacy.

Isaac tapped his gloved hand on his thigh. “Now that I think on it, I do believe I heard your pa’s to be speakin’ in church this Sunday. Might be a time you could hear what’s been on his mind, without havin’ it be just the two of you, if you take my meanin’.”

Caleb shook his head at the ground. “I don’t know about that.”

At the clop of horse’s hooves, they both turned to look. A lone rider came up the lane to the homestead, a man in hat and coat. When he swung off near the barn, Isaac recognized Anders.

“Everythin’ all right?” Isaac hurried toward him, his pulse galloping irrationally. But after what they’d all just been through . . .

“Fine, everyone’s fine. Didn’t mean to worry you. Just thought I’d stop by before I head out of town. My train leaves this evening.”

“Ah.” His heart thudding back into place, Isaac extended his hand. “Been good to see you again. And I reckon even more so for your family.”

“Thank you for all you’ve done, McTavish.” Anders gripped his hand firmly, looking into his eyes. “I don’t take it for granted, nor do my sisters. Same to you, Caleb.”

The younger man ducked his head. “They’ve helped me out too.” He climbed up on the stool and started back to working on the sod.

“Well, I may be out in these parts again come spring.” Anders tucked his hands into his coat pockets with a grin. “Lilac and Sam got engaged last night.”

A smile spread over Isaac’s face. “Well, ain’t that plumb wonderful.”

“Not sure Sam was planning to pop the question this soon, but with me in town, he didn’t want to wait to ask for her hand. And happy as they are, there wasn’t any need to wait longer.” He cocked his head. “I’ll confess I almost wondered if you’d be approaching me with a similar question, McTavish. If for a different sister.”

Isaac sucked a breath with a wry smile. “Well, I won’t lie to you, sir. I’d like to do that. But considering how I seem to have offended the lady in question, I don’t reckon it’d be of much use just now.” Not till he figured some way to win that woman’s heart. If he hadn’t already messed things up beyond repair.

“I see.” Anders eyed him. “Well, if something were to change . . . you’d have my blessing, for what it’s worth.”

Isaac glanced at the man’s eyes and saw he meant it. “Thanks.”

He and Caleb kept working after Anders left, packing the sod in good and tight till the air turned dark gray with dusk, their breath puffing white in it. At last Isaac stepped back and scanned the soddy, rubbing his hands together, numb despite his worn woolen gloves.

“That oughta hold her through the winter. Least better than before.”

“Seems like.” Caleb blew on his hands. “Guess it’s time for chores. You comin’ to the Eastons’ for supper?”

“Not tonight. The Nielsen ladies’ll be movin’ back tomorrow, from what I hear. Time I head back to your folks’ place.” He let out a long breath, clouded in the frosty air. “And figure out what’s next for me.”

Caleb headed toward the barn, and Isaac surveyed the farm a moment. The fields lay brown and fallow, sleeping till the spring, even the cornfield. They’d gathered the last of the drying shocks into the barn for winter feed.

He’d done all he could for Larkspur for now. At least there lay a certain peace in that.

“Show her you’re serious, and you’re not goin’ to leave when the wind blows foul. Prove yourself to her, man. Stay.”

Thinking of George Hoffman’s words, Isaac ran his fingers through the thick hair covering the back of his neck. I’m stayin’, Lord. But what else can I do to show her how much I care?

After helping Caleb milk and feed the stock one more time, Isaac rode Winter back to the Hoffmans’. Grateful George and Charlotte asked few questions, save to confirm Lark was recovering, he set his belongings in the Hoffman barn, brushed and fed Winter, and left her nosing hay in a stall. Supper passed in a pleasant blur of children’s chatter, thankfully requiring little from Isaac.

That night, by his bedroll in the hayloft, Isaac dug under the straw in the corner and felt with relief the hard iron shape of the object he’d tucked there before he learned Larkspur was ill. Lying back on his thin pillow, he held the iron piece up in the moonlight seeping through a crack, ran his thumb over the still clumsy edges.

He’d work more on it tomorrow. Even if he never gave it to her . . . it was something he wanted to do.

He tucked it into his haversack, then rolled over and slept deep and dreamless.

Sunday morning, George met Isaac outside the barn after milking. He wore a starched shirt, jacket, and pained expression.

“Don’t know why I ever agreed to Caldwell’s fool notion of me speakin’ in church. I ain’t no preacher, and there surely ain’t nothin’ I have to share that anyone’d care to hear.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong about that.” Isaac tipped his head. “I for one been mighty lookin’ forward to hearin’ what you have to say.”

“Well, you may change your mind.” George grumbled, trying to get the buttons on his jacket to meet in the middle. “Should have had Charlotte let this out . . . never mind. Charlotte! Young’uns!” His bellow reminded Isaac of the slam of the blacksmith’s hammer. “Into the wagon, we’re gonna be late.”

Hiding a smile, Isaac turned to saddle Winter. ’Twould seem George Hoffman did not relish speakin’ in front of a crowd. Truth be told, who did? Preachers and politicians, that might be the whole of it.

He arrived at church ahead of the Hoffman family, thanks to Winter’s easy gait, and slipped into his customary spot in the back. Ahead he saw folks takin’ their seats . . . the Caldwells, O’Rourkes, Webers, Kinsleys. Climie and Jesse with the doctor’s family. Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen stopped beside him in the aisle.

“I’ve got your suit near to finished, Mr. McTavish.” Mrs. Jorgensen cocked her brows. “When might you have time to stop by and try it on?”

All business, that woman was. He’d near forgotten about the blasted clothes. “Might tomorrow afternoon work, ma’am?”

She nodded and bustled ahead to her pew. Just ahead of the storekeeper and his wife, Del and RJ took their seats, followed by Lilac and . . . Lark.

Isaac straightened in the pew, pulse pounding. First he’d seen her since that awful night, lyin’ so still, her dark hair spread and matted on the pillow. She was still paler than her usual hearty color and thinner. But she held herself erect, her dark eyes sparkling as she nodded and greeted the welcoming friends around her.

Isaac sat back. He’d not spoil her first day back in church. Better she didn’t even see him.

But she did see him. He knew the very instant her eyes landed on him, their gazes darting together, then just as quickly apart, like partridges startled from the prairie. A flush suffused her face, and Lark turned away and sat in the pew, facing straight ahead.

Isaac’s heart pounded. Did it cause her such pain just to see him? Or did he dare hope for something else?

Mr. Caldwell rose to give the call to worship, and Isaac sat back, trying his best to listen.

Father, I sensed you tell me to stay. I even promised her I would, not that she recollects it. But what else can I do to prove myself to her? I can’t just keep skirtin’ round her forever, ’twould torment us both.

They were rising for the first hymn. Isaac followed, though his tongue stumbled on the words at first.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me,

Still all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!”

Isaac cleared his throat and tried to sing heartier on the next verse. Mrs. Caldwell played alone today, without the Nielsen sisters. Somehow the piano alone threaded the plaintive melody straight to his heart.

“Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

Darkness be over me, my rest a stone . . .”

That was him all right . . . the wanderer. Always searching, never resting. And now that he was tryin’ to stay in one place, his feet and soul itched till he could hardly stand it.

“There let the way appear, steps unto heav’n;

All that thou sendest me, in mercy giv’n . . .”

His throat suddenly thick, Isaac tried to swallow. Wasn’t this what mattered all along? That in all the twists and trials of his way, all he’d shouldered that wasn’t his burden to carry, and all he’d shirked that should have been . . . It all came down to whether he’d let it draw him nearer to his Savior. The One who held all history in His hands and also somehow cared about the life of paltry Isaac McTavish.

Could he believe all the Lord sent him truly was “in mercy given”?

Blinking hard, he mouthed the final words of the chorus.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!”

Another hymn, then everyone sat. Caldwell spoke, then George rose. But Isaac struggled to focus. He kept looking from the back of Lark’s dark head, to the ray of sunlight falling over the simple wooden cross at the front of the church.

Surrender. The word fairly burned into his soul, hot and cleansing as the smithy’s coals.

He covered his eyes with his hand. Father, help me. How can I let her go?

“I didn’t want to let him go.”

Isaac’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up straight. Hoffman was speaking.

“He was my brother, you understand. A year younger’n me, and I thought I should be the one to sign up, not him. We always had this fool rivalry, and then he had a new wife and a baby on the way to boot.” His nerves seeming forgotten, George warmed to his task. He leaned on the pulpit stand, coat open, easing into the storytelling as he often did around the table or fireside with friends and family.

Isaac smiled and sat back to listen. The man had worried over nothin’.

“But he was bound and determined. Stubborn, as younger brothers often are.”

“Like me!” Klaus shouted from the congregation. Folks chuckled, and Charlotte hushed her youngest son.

“’Tany rate, off he went, into the Mexican War. And got hisself killed, not three months after.”

A hush fell over the congregation. George glanced at his wife. “He left a widow in the family way. So I took it as my duty to marry that woman and raise her child.” He nodded. “That was Charlotte right there.”

Soft gasps and murmurs scattered. Isaac saw Charlotte shift in her seat and wondered if she’d known George planned to share all this.

“I already cared for her—didn’t take long for me to love her.” A wistful smile touched the blacksmith’s face. “But that baby—you all know him as Caleb—well, seemed we was made to butt heads from the very start. I distinctly recollect havin’ a full-on argument with him when he was only six months old.” Chuckles spread, but George sighed. “I’m ashamed to say I didn’t take that well. He was my brother’s child, but I was determined he’d know I was boss. So I took that little boy to task every way I could. I meant well, least I hope I did. Wanted to teach him respect, shape him to be a man. But mostly, I pushed him away.”

Charlotte put her arm around Klaus and bowed her head.

George shrugged. “Ain’t no secret to any of you that my family’s known some trouble these last months. Much of it from my failures over the years. Toward Caleb . . . my son. For he is my son, my flesh and blood, truly as if I’d sired him. And I’m proud of him.” The man’s mouth worked a moment under his beard. “Sure wish I’d get another chance to tell him so.”

Silence hung a moment, then the blacksmith blew out a long whistling breath. “Well, suppose that’s what I want to tell you folks. That I hope you won’t wait till it’s too late to tell your families you love ’em, even if they might drive you wild some days. Remember the gift they are before you lose it forever. Don’t be stubborn—stiff-necked the Bible calls it. Let the good Lord tenderize your heart.” He swiped his wrist across his eyes and gave a half laugh. “Guess He’s been workin’ on me.”

George sniffed hard and rubbed his beard. “There’s a verse Charlotte and me been learnin’ by heart with our young’uns. It’s from the fourth chapter of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. ‘Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.’” He patted the podium and stepped away. “Thanks for listenin’, folks.”

“Pa?”

A murmur again rustled through the gathering. Caleb Hoffman stood near the side entrance to the church by the corner of the front pew. Eyes fixed on his father.

“Caleb.” George stared. “Where have you—I haven’t known where you were.”

“I’ve been at the Nielsens’, Pa. Helpin’ out on their farm.” Caleb cast a glance at the sisters’ pew. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t stay unless they promised not to tell you.”

George frowned, then rubbed his beard and sighed. “Reckon I deserved that. But, boy, I’ve been worried sick.”

Caleb hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

“Caleb.” His father took a step toward him, then stopped. “These folks already know, but I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry for so much. I’ve done a terrible job as your pa. If you coulda heard what I said a few minutes ago . . .”

“Pa.” Caleb stepped near and laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. “I heard.”

George tensed, then his shoulders slumped. “You did?”

“I did. I heard you were goin’ to speak this week, and I heard what you said now. And I—I’m sorry too.”

Then father and son were in each other’s arms, gripping shoulders as if they might never let go again.

Hopefully they wouldn’t. Isaac smiled, a lump in his throat, as the congregation broke into applause.

“I think that’s the finest conclusion to any sermon I’ve ever seen.” Mr. Caldwell stood, beaming. “And I do believe it’s starting to snow outside, so let’s close our service and all get home while we can.”

Chattering and laughing, families rose and hurried outside, children squealing and reaching to catch the first flakes of drifting snow.

Lord, thank you. Looks like you’ve taken care of the Hoffmans—and as only you could. Isaac clattered down the church steps and squinted up at the floating flurries. Now, beg pardon to keep botherin’ you like this, but what am I to do about Miss Larkspur?

Let me take care of that too.

Really? Isaac hushed a chuckle. Well, reckon he didn’t have much choice.

All right, Father. Have it your way.