“Oh! I felt her kick again!”
Fingers rushed to feel Elizabeth’s gown, and laughter filled her parlor.
“I cannot feel a thing!” Katherine said with a pout. “Do you think they may come together?”
“It can happen that way, sometimes,” said Phoebe, her wild fiery red hair sticking outwards in the hazy heat of the June morning. “With sisters, I mean.”
Mariana snorted as she wound wool between her fingertips. “I will believe it when I see it – and Gerald says it rarely happens, unless you are twins.”
Abigail sat silently, allowing the babble of warm voices rush over her. The knitting circle had been Elizabeth’s idea: a chance for the five Bryant women – and Mariana, who had lost the name last autumn with her marriage to Doctor Anderson – to celebrate the coming of two new Bryants. Only Sophia, unwilling to spend an afternoon with her mother and aunts crafting, was absent.
“It does my soul good to feel her move,” said Elizabeth placidly, resting her wrists on her large bump as she finished a row. “And to think, how long we had wished for her . . .”
“You cannot know baby is a girl,” Mariana said peevishly, as Abigail took the wool from her and started balling it. “There is no way to know!”
Elizabeth laughed, and Abigail could not help but smile with her. It seemed like only yesterday that her brother Jonathan and Elizabeth had cried out to the Lord for a child. Two years of hoping, waiting, praying, and now – finally – they could only be days away from meeting their little one.
“I suppose I cannot actually know,” admitted Elizabeth, her smiling eyes unwavering. “But she feels like a girl.”
“And mine a boy,” interrupted Katherine with her typical exuberance. “I am quite certain ours is a gentleman!”
The Katherine before them was nothing like the Katherine that had appeared, years ago, as her brother Thomas’ wife. Abigail remembered the shock as he appeared back in Sweet Grove, as though he had never left – but with a quiet and nervous wife in tow. Four years of Sweet Grove’s warm embrace, however, and Katherine had grown into a joyful, spirited woman.
Phoebe laughed, shaking her head. “You could both be right, or you could both be wrong – there is no knowing until baby comes.”
Abigail watched, an inquisitive look on her face. Phoebe had her own little girl, and was the only one of them to know the mystery of childbirth and motherhood – but Sophia, similarly red haired and fiery tempered, had not been born with them. She was not a Bryant, but a Vazquez; the child of Phoebe’s first husband.
Sometimes, Abigail had caught her brother Aaron staring at his step-daughter, as though trying to understand her. She was certainly a wild thing, that was for sure, and Abigail smiled in spite of herself. Sophia was the person who said the things everyone thought, but no one dared to say.
“Abigail?”
She started at the sound of her name and looked up, blushing. The entire room was staring at her.
“I – I beg your pardon,” said Abigail, trying to work out who had just spoke. “I was thinking of . . . of something else.”
Mariana rolled her eyes. “What think you, I asked: do you think Elizabeth’s baby to be a girl, and Katherine’s to be a boy?”
Abigail’s cheeks were getting hot. She hated it when someone asked her opinion, anyone; she was almost certain to get it wrong.
“I – I say surely no one could possibly know, but the Lord and their mothers,” she said hesitantly. “And surely we do not have long to wait.”
“Long enough,” said Katherine darkly, rising from her chair and then throwing herself back into it, attempting to find a comfortable position. “I tell you, I had no idea pregnancy could go on for so long. I have had this stiffness four hours since, and there is no getting away from it.”
Abigail looked anxious. “I can pick some lavender from the herb garden, if that would soothe you.”
But Katherine waved away her suggestion with good humor. “Thank you, sweet one, but there is nothing for it; I shall just have to learn to live with it until he arrives.”
“How goes the herb garden, Abigail?” Phoebe said with a mischievous smile. “I see you out there often, with young Mr Weston.”
Please don’t, Abigail begged her complexion, but it was no good. Her cheeks blossomed scarlet, and giggles of laughter erupted around the room. Even Mariana, blind and unable to see her sister’s face, knew exactly what it would look like after such a provocation.
“Now then, let us not tease her too much,” said Elizabeth with a smile, ever the peacemaker.
Katherine giggled, a hand on her swollen belly as she winced at the movement. “Yes, we should not suggest in any way that Abigail and Mr Weston have anything to do in the herb garden except get their hands covered in soil!”
“Please,” said Abigail wretchedly. “He is only here to help me with the new herbs, nothing more – ”
“Is he a handsome man?” Mariana asked, her head tilting around the room to gaze, though unseeing, at the other guests in Elizabeth’s home.
Phoebe smiled gently at Abigail. “He is a striking man, I will give him that.”
She would have done anything – anything – for the floor to swallow her up. Dropping her gaze and focusing absolutely all her attention on the ball of red wool she was winding, she hoped if she remained silent, perhaps the topic of conversation would move around.
It did not.
“I think he is vastly handsome,” declared Katherine, wincing again. “But then, he reminds me my Thomas sometimes in his air, I wonder whether that is it.”
“Does he?” Elizabeth said, astounded. “I would never have put the two together. Laken is so flippant in his remarks, so direct in his meaning. Thomas is, I have always found, a softer, more gentle creature.”
Phoebe passed over her knitting to Katherine to count the stitches, and stretched. “I do not think he is like any of our menfolk. There is more wildness in him, perhaps. It comes from living on the road for years.”
“Please,” Abigail managed, feeling as though the sun was emanating from her boiling face. “Please, this is morti – I do not wish to – ”
“Come now, Abigail, we speak in jest and nothing more.” Elizabeth smiled at her warmly. “You know we mean no harm – except Katherine, perhaps, and she is just anxious that baby comes soon.”
“No, I am not,” said Katherine in such a strange voice that Abigail looked up from her wool. “Not anymore.”
Phoebe frowned. “Why on earth not?”
“Because I think he is coming now!”
Katherine rose unsteadily to her feet, and Abigail could see a damp patch on her gown.
“Your waters,” said Phoebe hurriedly, moving quickly and taking Katherine’s arm. “Elizabeth, we will need to move her upstairs. Mariana, hot water and clean linen, as much as you can find. Abigail – ”
“The herb garden,” Abigail nodded. “I know what we will need.”
“Aaaagghhh,” breathed Katherine, sharp pain on her face. “That hurt!”
“It is going to hurt a lot more than that before the day is out,” said Phoebe grimly. “Now then, one foot before the other. We need to get you upstairs and cozy before baby’s here.”
Laken’s shoulders were on fire, but he wasn’t going to say anything. The others on each side of the heavy logs had not said a word in complaint, and he was not going to be the first.
“Exactly where are we taking these?” he managed to say in a voice belying the effort of keeping moving and talking at the same time.
“Doctor Gerald Anderson’s,” came the reply from Jonathan Bryant, somewhere to his left on the other side of the heavy wood they were carrying down a field. “He needs it for firewood, to keep his instruments clean.”
Laken shuddered and adjusted his grip on the dry wood. He had not yet been inside the doctor’s surgery, and he had no wish to. All the doctors he had visited before were barbarians.
“Not far now,” said another voice, and Laken was relieved to hear Thomas panting at the front of the logs.
“I bet you are sorry you offered to help us now,” said Aaron with a laugh. “There are few heavy jobs on the orchard here, but this is one of them!”
Laken did not have the energy to reply. His neck was burning with the strain of keeping the logs level on the tarpaulin they were using, and he had almost missed his footing twice when he took his eyes from the ground. Sweat had drenched his linen shirt.
“Turning the corner!” Thomas’ voice called, and Laken focused on the feet before him. They were going left, and now it was a stony street beneath his feet, no longer grass and muddy path.
“Good afternoon – and thank you,” came a deep voice. Laken did not need to be able to see ahead of himself to know they had reached Doctor Anderson, and his shoulders sagged with relief. Not long now.
“Where would you like them, Gerald?” Aaron asked, grunting slightly at the continued strain.
An arm shot into Laken’s view. “Over there, if you would not mind; just by the house will be perfect. Be careful to avoid Mariana’s path.”
Mariana’s path? Laken could not follow this directive, but he did not need to. All he had to do was keep walking behind two of the brothers, with the third on his left, and do what he was told.
It was a rather freeing activity, he had to admit. When it is just you on the road, all tasks are completed alone, and if you do not do them . . . well, they just do not get done. It is a lonely life, but it is one he had always striven for. Now he was here – although only, he reminded himself, for a few months more – it was pleasant to have other strong hands to complete tasks.
Even if they did avoid him most of the time, after that disastrous dinner.
“Right then, stop here,” came Thomas’ voice, and they stopped. “Aaron and I will lower our ends down, and then we can roll them onto the pile.”
Laken waited, and the balance of the logs changed as they tilted downwards, relieving the weight from his aching back.
“And they are down!” Aaron shouted. “Now, let us tip them over.”
It was done in an instant, and the brothers clapped each other on the back in celebration.
“Well done, Weston,” said Thomas in a low voice.
Laken nodded at him, unsure exactly what response was required. “You too.”
That seemed to be enough, and Thomas nodded as he smiled now at his brothers. He was a strange one, thought Laken. At some times loud and forceful, and at others calm and peaceful. Perhaps it came with being the Pastor of the growing Sweet Grove town – if you could call it a town, with four other families beyond the large Bryant brood.
“And how is Mrs Bryant – Katherine, that is,” said Laken with a smile. “I suppose she is ready to bear her child soon.”
A smile broke on Thomas’ face, and even through his beard, Laken was astonished to see him transformed into a younger looking man.
“Indeed – and I hope she will not leave it too long either; I cannot wait to meet the child.”
“Nor I mine!” Jonathan grinned at them. “‘Tis a strange and marvelous thing, bringing a new life into the world, and after waiting for so long, I must admit my patience is wearing thin!”
Aaron shook his head and glanced at Laken. “They both have babies coming, and you would not know it, how little they yatter about it.”
Laken grinned at Thomas and Jonathan’s mock outrage.
“Why, that is most unfair of you, Aaron; you already have a daughter, fully formed!” Thomas protested.
What Aaron was going to say in reply, no one knew, for at that moment Doctor Anderson clapped him and Laken on the back.
“Come on in, gentleman, and have something cool to drink. I am sure you have built up quite a thirst!”
The others agreed and started moving towards the door, but Laken hesitated. These men: three were brothers, and the fourth their brother by marriage. Surely he could not be involved in the invitation. It would be best if he just returned to his allotted home – perhaps he could stop by the herb garden and see how the epazote was growing.
“And where do you think you are going, Weston?”
Laken turned, astonished, to see Aaron Bryant staring at him from the doorway.
“I . . . I did not wish to presume,” he managed.
Aaron laughed. “No presumption necessary, Weston, this is Sweet Grove; do you think we lock our doors? Do you think anyone is unwelcome?”
He turned and went inside. Laken hesitated; was there any point in befriending these men? He would be on the road before too long, and then – but what did it matter? One afternoon could not possibly hurt.
The Bryants and Doctor Anderson were in the kitchen, all seated save Jonathan Bryant, who was pouring apple juice into glass tumblers, along with something that looked like . . .
“Is – is that ice, Doctor Anderson?” Laken said in wonderment, striding across the room in amazement. One touch was enough to give him the answer.
Doctor Anderson laughed deeply. “Call me Gerald, Weston – and yes, that is ice.”
“But where did you get it?” Laken asked, amazed. “In June, too, in Texas?”
“Old Gerald has his own store,” revealed Thomas with a smile. “He keeps it in a cellar he dug out over the winter.”
“And really, it should be used for medical matters only,” said Gerald with a rueful smile. “But I gathered such an amount last winter, and I have not needed any this year. I am sure the stores I have put aside will be enough to last until next winter.”
Laken took the proffered glass and drank deeply. It was the most refreshing and delicious drink he had ever tasted.
“My, last summer’s harvest truly was extraordinary,” said Aaron with a sigh. “We will be lucky if we see another like it in our lifetime.”
Thomas snorted. “I am not so sure – this year’s crop already seems to be growing strong.”
“And this year, Abigail will have a harvest of her own,” Jonathan said, looking sharply at Laken. “Is that not so, Weston?”
All turned to him. Laken swallowed and smiled broadly. “Why, I hope so. That is the reason I am here: to help Miss Bryant with her growing, so that Gerald here can concoct his medicines.”
He had not noticed it before, but Laken was suddenly very aware the kitchen was hot. Uncomfortably hot. He gripped the cold glass with both hands and kept the grin on his face.
“How do you find Abigail?” Jonathan asked, not unkindly, but in a firm tone. “Happy?”
Laken blinked. Where were all these questions coming from? If it had been another situation, a different day, he would have guessed they were, and here this thought gave his stomach a leap, ascertaining his intentions towards her. But this was different. This was, if anything, more serious.
“Happy?” he repeated, trying to buy himself time. “I would say content, rather than happy.”
Thomas and Jonathan exchanged glances, and Gerald sighed.
“Why do you ask?” Laken said tentatively.
“We are her brothers,” Aaron said quickly. “We like to know these things.”
But Laken shook his head. “If you were truly concerned about her happiness, you would ask her yourselves. But you asked me. You wanted an . . . an outsider’s opinion. You are worried about her. Why?”
If he did not know any better, he would have said Jonathan’s gaze dipped slightly, as though unable to meet his own. “No reason.”
Silence fell between them as Laken stared around the brothers. Then he spoke. “There is something about Abigail Bryant, something deep, not on the surface. A sadness, or a sharpness. You can see her thoughts drift to it, and then flee it.”
They did not need to speak to agree with him; he could see it in their faces.
“What happened to Abigail?” he asked quietly.
Gerald, Thomas, and Aaron all looked at Jonathan, who sighed.
“I am trusting you to keep this to yourself, Weston, as a gentleman.”
Laken’s mouth was dry, but he nodded. “Anything you tell me stays with me. You have my word.”
Jonathan stared at him for a moment, with a look so deep and searching Laken felt almost naked in its path. That look seemed to last a lifetime, but it was only a minute later when Jonathan’s shoulders slumped.
“What you have to remember, Weston, is that Sweet Grove was not always the happy and God-filled place it is now. A few years ago – a decade, perhaps – Sweet Grove was a different place indeed.”
“Mariana and I had just turned eighteen,” interjected Thomas quickly. “Aaron was – what, one and twenty, and Jonathan a year older?”
“And Abigail was but eleven years old,” said Aaron darkly.
Laken stared at them. A rough calculation told him he had been fifteen; already on the road. Already alone.
“Our parents were both living then,” Jonathan continued. “And Sweet Grove was just a family orchard keeping us with enough to live on, just about. But it was not enough for . . . for our father.”
“He and I shared the same weakness,” Aaron spoke darkly now, and a flash of bitter self-loathing moved across his face. “We love to gamble, Weston, as you well know. We could not stay away.”
“And unlike our brother, our father never knew when to stop,” said Jonathan bitterly. “He did not want to be rid of the demon that possessed him whenever a pack of cards was brought into a room. He lost more money, more money and more, until the food we depended on, the warmth of the grate, all was lost.”
He seemed to have run out of words, and Aaron continued for him. “That winter was hard; harder than any of us could have remembered. There was little food, and no warmth, and still Father spent most of his time in El Seco, playing in the saloons. We were all weak, but . . . but our Mother . . .”
“She most likely died of a fever,” said Gerald softly. “Quick, short. She would have felt no pain.”
“It was all over in two days,” said Thomas bitterly. “Father had been away the entire time, and when he came back, it was not our Mother’s death that upset him the most: he had lost Sweet Grove.”
“Gambled it away,” Aaron spat. “To the Scott family.”
There was silence as the three brothers sat mulishly, but Laken was confused. “I do not understand. What has any of this got to do with Abigail?”
Jonathan sighed. “I think it was then Father realized what he had done. Lost our home, our livelihood, our Mother gone to be with the Lord. I think . . . I think he could not see a single way out.”
“He was a coward,” said Aaron harshly. “Too afraid of hard work, that was his problem.”
“Well, no matter what his reasons, in his mind there only seemed to be one way out, and . . . and he took it.”
Laken stared at Jonathan’s words, his meaning only starting to dawn on him. “You mean – you mean he decided to – ”
“He took his own life in the barn, and Abigail – his eleven-year-old daughter was the one who found him,” said Jonathan simply.
Laken’s eyes widened in horror. “No.”
“It should have been me,” said Aaron fiercely. “I had asked her to go; I was busy digging the . . . the grave for – ”
“You could not have known,” Thomas said, sighing. “None of us could have.”
“And that was that,” said Aaron, pushing back on his chair and the legs swung. “Arguments followed – ”
“None of which we are proud of,” interjected Jonathan, looking between Aaron and Thomas.
Gerald spoke gently. “From the sound of it, that was when Mariana and Abigail were sent to live with your grandmother, in El Seco.”
Thomas nodded wistfully. “Poor Nanny, she died just before I returned to Sweet Grove. I wish I could have thanked her for taking such good care of them.”
“And I was left here, alone, a worker on the Scotts’ orchard,” finished Jonathan.
Laken did not know where to begin. It was too much, too much to take in. “You are a complicated family,” was all he managed.
Gerald laughed. “Oh, Laken, you do not know the half of it!”
“But you can see, can you not, Weston,” said Jonathan firmly, “why we take a keen interest in Abigail’s happiness.”
Aaron almost tipped from his chair, and rose from it to prevent himself from falling. “So be warned, Weston: we are watching you.”
“She has not been the same since,” muttered Thomas. “Who would be?”