Gretta ducked down to untie her snowshoes, hiding the flush of heat that burned her neck from her wayward thoughts. She’d do much better to focus on how to pull Father back from the memories that seemed to be reasserting themselves. Maybe one of their language games would help.
With the last strap unfastened, she rose and carried the frames inside. Zeche slipped in behind her, and the warmth from the fledgling fire in the hearth washed over her.
Father stood beside his bed, his suspenders hanging from the waistband of his trousers as he buttoned his grey wool shirt. Interesting that he hadn’t donned buckskins, since the snow was still falling. It couldn’t be a good sign that he was retreating to the clothing of his past life.
She hung the snowshoes from the peg and headed to the fire, giving Father a smile as she approached. “Kalimera.”
His eyes widened at the morning greeting spoken in Greek, and the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Kalimera, Kóri.” Yes, this was exactly the exercise he needed to pull him into a better frame of mind. Her father had taught Greek and Latin for so long at the university, he slipped into that skin like a familiar coat. And those were the happy memories, before the war took over.
Turning to the shelf above her little work table, she scanned the crockeries of food-stuffs. She normally had breakfast ready by now, so she’d best do something quickly to satisfy the appetites of these menfolk.
“Is there a bucket you use to melt snow?”
She glanced back at Zeche, who’d moved into her work area and studied the crates under the counter. She hadn’t expected him to help, but she wouldn’t complain if he wanted to take on some of the heavier labor. “Use this kettle.”
He took the smaller cast iron pot she pointed to, lifting it like the thing was made of bulrushes instead of solid metal. Maybe she should have suggested the larger pot. With his strength, he likely wouldn’t have flinched.
She had the ground corn ready by the time he returned with a pot of snow, which she would melt to make corn mush. She could fry salted elk meat, too. Too bad she didn’t have any dried fruit left. Something sweet would be the perfect touch for the meal. But maybe honey in the mush would suffice. Yes, the perfect balance of textures and flavors, especially with the herbs she’d used to flavor the meat when they’d salted it.
But as she flipped the sizzling strips of meat in the frying pan, she glanced over the meager meal. Before the war, this would have been pauper’s food. The feasts that came from Mama’s kitchen had been fit for the Garden of Eden, using most of the recipes Nonna had passed to her. Even though Nonna had been Father’s mama, she’d taken Susan Michelly under her wing and into her kitchen, teaching her the art and the love of well-crafted food. Nonna had taught Mama to cook from her heart. And both Nonna and Mama had infused that passion into Gretta.
They would be disappointed in her if they saw this meager fare she prepared for Father. And their guest. When they’d had visitors from the college—Father’s students or fellow academicians—Mama had flown into a tizzy worthy of any Italian matriarch, even though the Italian blood was all Father’s. She’d double the food in her pots, calling for Gretta to pull out the china and sweep the floors.
The cabin door slammed shut behind her, pulling Gretta back to the present. Those memories of Mama would swallow her if she let them, but she forced the lid closed on the thoughts and turned to see her father removing his coat.
It took her a moment to find the Greek words she sought. “Kali órexi.” She nodded toward the table, hoping what she said was something close to let’s eat. She’d come a long way in learning the language, but conjugating verbs was still a chore for her brain.
When her father’s broad smile spilled over his face, she turned to Zeche, who knelt beside his saddle pack in the corner. “Breakfast is ready if you’d like to eat. Just move a chair to the table.” It really was time they built a third chair. Maybe she could suggest that for Father to accomplish today. Surely he had enough wood scraps in the shed to make something decent.
Zeche glanced at their little table on the far wall. “I can eat after you’re finished.”
She followed his gaze. “No, please eat with Father.”
He looked back at the two chairs as her father shifted one of them toward the table. Zeche cleared his throat. “I insist.”
“While you two fight about it, I’ll be here waiting for breakfast.” Father’s tone held a hint of a chuckle. A good sound to start the morning.
Gretta turned back to the fire and dished out three plates of breakfast. When she had them ready, she glanced at Zeche, who was folding up the blankets she’d laid out the night before as his sleeping pallet.
A pang squeezed her chest. Did he think he wouldn’t use them again? Surely he wasn’t planning to leave today. Not with the snow still falling. “You can leave those blankets out for the day if you like. No need to put them up just to get them out again tonight.”
She studied him as he turned a slow gaze on her. Something must’ve roiled in his thoughts, because it spilled onto his face in an odd pulling together of his brows. She wished she could read what simmered there. “I don’t mind.”
For a second, her silly heart thought he was saying he didn’t mind staying. The way he stared at her with such intensity. Such…meaning. Her pulse thumped louder in her neck, picking up a speed that made breathing harder.
But as her mind replayed the words, I don’t mind just meant he didn’t have a problem putting the blankets away. So was he staying? Or leaving?
And why did it matter so much to her?
He was only a stranger. A traveler who’d taken refuge in their home during a snow storm. Even if he did make her feel safe. Make her feel like she wasn’t alone as she struggled to bring peace to her father’s shaken reality. To make a home here in this slice of majestic wilderness.
No, more than a home. A haven.
She turned away from his gaze. Her weary soul would grasp at anything, it seemed. She took the honey crock from the shelf and spooned a generous dab in the center of the corn mush on each plate. As she carried two dishes to the table, she focused on sealing her heart closed. Separating her emotions from the reality around her.
One never knew what would happen next. This unpredictable life was easiest to maneuver when you guarded your emotions, choosing how to react in each event. She could do that if she tried hard enough. She offered a smile to Father as she placed the plate in front of him on the table, then settled the other at the spot she normally occupied.
Stepping back to the work counter, she kept her gaze away from the man still kneeling on the floor. “Are you sure you won’t sit at the table to eat, Mr. Reid?”
“Is there a reason you won’t call me by my given name, Miss Michelly?”
Her feet paused midstride, but she didn’t look at him. The sassy tone in his voice tugged up on the corners of her mouth, but she fought the grin. She had a perfectly good reason, and it had everything to do with the distance she was trying to place around herself. But if it bothered him…
She resumed her path to the work counter. “No, Zeche. There’s not a reason.”
As she reached into the crock that held the dried strips of bear meat, Nyx jumped to his feet and padded to the wooden dish where he ate his meals. True to his training, he sat quietly while she dropped three strips onto the plate. She held her hand in front of him for the thank you lick. “Good, boy.” She tousled the curly black hair on his head.
“Zeche, your plate’s here if you want to sit on the hearth to eat it.” She was careful to put emphasis on his first name. And she was careful not to glance his way. The man’s presence was overpowering enough without seeking it out.
She turned back to the table, settled into her chair, and eased out her breath. Normal. She only had to act normal.
Zeche sank the last nail into the chair leg, then lowered the hammer and sat back on his heels to study his work. It was possibly the ugliest chair he’d ever seen. And really, it was more like a stool, since he didn’t have enough nails or wood to piece together a back. Just a four-legged base with three uneven planks for the seat.
He gripped the edge and jiggled it back and forth. At least he’d measured the legs the same length so they didn’t wobble. That is, not out here on the packed ground of the lean-to. It might be different when the seat was positioned in the cabin at the table.
After pushing to his feet, he plucked up the stool and headed into the steady onslaught of snowflakes. Even away from the drifts, the snow on the ground came midway up his thigh, and it required all of his leg strength to trudge through the stuff. Maybe he should have accepted Mr. Michelly’s offer of the snowshoes again, but they weren’t the easiest things to walk in.
When he made it to the refuge of the porch, Zeche stopped to kick the ice from his boots. And his legs. He set the stool down and tried to brush it off his coat and hood. He should just strip down out here so he didn’t bring a pool of water inside. But of course, that was out of the question.
He picked up the stool again, then pulled the latchstring and pushed open the door. It was only when the man sitting at the table jumped to his feet that he realized he should have knocked before entering. Mr. Michelly reached for his hip, but the gun he must have expected wasn’t there.
“It’s just me. Zeche Reid.” He eased the stool down on the floor and held his hands out from his body, keeping every movement slow and steady.
Mr. Michelly’s face twisted in a pained expression. “Sorry, son. Hard to control my reactions sometimes.”
The way the lines around the man’s mouth and eyes deepened made him look older than he had that morning. Zeche had a sudden urge to step toward him and help him into the chair. Tell him not to worry. He settled for a shrug. “No harm done.”
Not this time, anyway. But what if he’d had a pistol hanging at his side? Would Zeche be lying on the floor in a pool of blood right now? And what if it had been Gretta entering instead of him? Her father had reacted before Zeche opened the door wide enough to step inside.
No, Gretta wasn’t safe here alone with her father. His reactions were too volatile. The memories too deeply ingrained in his body.
Gretta’s voice sounded from the direction of the fireplace, in another language, like she’d spoken this morning. And like her song during the night, it poked at his curiosity again. This time he would ask.
Keeping a wary gaze on Mr. Michelly as the man sat and sipped from his mug, Zeche carried the stool forward and arranged it at the far end of the table, where he could see what was happening throughout the room.
“I made a little something from the wood scraps in the lean-to.” He pushed down on the seat and wiggled it back and forth. Only a slight wobble. It would do for now. Maybe if he got bored later, he could find a rock to wear down the edges of the legs so they were more even. These folks probably didn’t have glass paper for him to make a truly smooth finish.
“We thank you for building the chair, Zeche.”
He nodded toward Mr. Michelly. “It’s not much, but it should hold up for a while.” He couldn’t help a glance toward Gretta. “And maybe it’ll stave off any arguments at mealtime.”
She didn’t look at him, but he could just see the corner of her mouth and would swear it twitched upward. She was a hard one to decipher, Miss Gretta Michelly. About as pretty as they came with her dark eyes and features, those long black eyelashes. There were times those eyes spoke to him in ways words couldn’t. Other times it was like she shut herself away. He couldn’t figure out for the life of him what went on in that pretty head.
He glanced down at his hands, folded across the surface of the table. Best he didn’t try too hard to figure out Miss Michelly. He’d be leaving in another day or two. As soon as he was sure the snow had stopped and Biscuit wouldn’t have too much trouble maneuvering the landscape.
Turning toward the older man, he asked, “Have any dominos around here?”
Mr. Michelly looked up from his book with a soft smile. “No, but I might be talked into a round of Game of the Goose. Are you interested?”
Zeche squinted at the man. “Game of the Goose?”
That smile deepened into a fatherly look as the older man rose. “Don’t tell me you’ve never played.” His voice drifted back as he strode toward a trunk on the wall behind the table. “You must be American through and through. Any European worth his salt was raised playing the Game of the Goose.”
Zeche cleared his throat. “Actually, we lived in England until I was nine. But I never heard of the game.”
Mr. Michelly straightened, a small wooden box in his hands. As he strode back toward the table, his dark, bushy brows rose. “England, you say?” Then they lowered as he made a tisking sound with his tongue. “What are they teaching the lads these days?”
He opened the box with the care of a butler polishing thin glass. He extracted a thick folded paper, easing it open to lie flat on the table. On the paper was painted a rather elaborate game board, with squares connected into circles forming a spiral. From a distance, the track looked like a coiled snake.
“We start here on the outside at the number one space. See? Then roll a dice to see how many spaces to move forward. The first one to make it to number sixty-three there in the middle is proclaimed the winner. Except you have to avoid the pitfalls if you can. Landing on one of the geese gives you double the moves that are shown on the dice.” Mr. Michelly handed him a tiny carved wooden goose, painted white. “Here’s your game piece. It’s traditional for the youngest to go first.” Then he winked.
A warmth slid through Zeche like he hadn’t experienced in longer than he cared to remember. Six years since his own pa had died. And at least that long since he’d sat across from a man who looked at him with an expression as warm and gentle as this man’s.
How could this be the same maniac who’d threatened Gretta’s life twice in the last day?