Tuesday morning, Ian hooked the wood trailer to the tractor, towed it up into the woods, and loaded the pine logs he’d felled the day before. He should have brought the trailer with him in the first place. No matter. At the time, he wasn’t thinking about anything but knocking something down.
Repeatedly.
The day before, when he grabbed the chainsaw and fuel can and stormed into the woods, all he wanted was to cut and keep cutting until he ran out of trees. Or petrol. But even if he had an endless supply of fuel and a blade that never dulled, he could have leveled an entire hillside and still not spent his anger or his grief.
Once he filled the trailer with as many logs as it would hold, he hauled the load back down to the farm and stopped at the clearing behind the woodshed. He pulled a log from the trailer and braced it on the cutting blocks. With the chainsaw, he cut it into stove lengths and continued cutting, one log after another. The process was simple, mindless, and repetitive. Not too hard, but enough effort to produce a burn, keep his blood pumping, work up a sweat. Besides, it had to be done. Winter was inevitable. He needed to prepare.
Where would she be when winter came?
Not here. Not curled up next to me and a blazing fire.
He yanked the next log off the stack so hard it rolled away and smacked into the shed. As he brought it back to the blocks, he saw Emily’s face and remembered the way she paled as he blethered on with his proposal. He could still hear the tremble in her voice when she told him she couldn’t be there for him.
So like Emily. Her future was collapsing in front of her and she was thinking of him.
He braced the log, jerked the cord, and cut the wood to pieces.
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?
“I’m not listening to You.” Maybe saying it aloud would discourage any more unwanted input. “I don’t fancy Your way of taking care of things.”
The way things were turning out, it seemed God had a nomad’s life in mind for Ian after all. When old Maggie was dead and buried, he would leave this place. Travel as he had before.
Alone.
As he worked, he kept seeing Emily, her eyes darkened by pain, tears streaking her face.
Who would be with her when she got sick? Grace? Her dad?
A numbing heaviness settled in his chest and spread out in waves, turning his arms to deadwood. The next log didn’t come off the trailer as easily as the others had.
“Ah, I see I’m just in time. Can I lend you a hand, Ian?”
Ian propped the log against the trailer and turned round.
Reverend Brown already had his jacket off and was rolling up his shirtsleeves as he climbed the sloped yard to where Ian worked. The grey-haired man offered a bony, outstretched hand as he approached.
Ian pulled off a work glove and gave him a firm handshake. “You’re not exactly dressed for wood sap and motor oil.” Ian put his glove back on.
Reverend Brown let out a laugh. “I’m not, am I? I should know by now when visiting the farms in my parish to come prepared to work.”
“No need for that.” Ian walked to the side of the shed, took the cart, and wheeled it back to the pile. “You have enough work as it is. Checking up on absent parishioners must be a tiresome job.”
The reverend laughed again, an easy, good-natured laugh. “Aye. We did miss seeing you and Maggie on Sunday. You’re quick, Ian.”
“So are you.” Ian tossed a chunk of wood into the cart. “It’s only Tuesday.”
Another hearty laugh. “I hope Maggie’s not unwell?”
“No. She’s strong as a mule. In more ways than one.”
That got a knowing smile out of the reverend.
“We have visitors,” Ian said. “They arrived from the States late Saturday night. They needed their sleep, so we stayed home Sunday.” He frowned.
That’s why Emily had been so quiet at the airport. It wasn’t jet lag that had her so shaken. She was distressed about telling him. Worried about how he would take her news.
“Maggie’s sister, isn’t it? I’d heard she and her niece were coming to visit.”
“Aye.” Ian continued to load the cart.
Reverend Brown stooped and picked up a piece that must have been heavier than he expected, by the look of the veins bulging in his neck.
“Ah, don’t soil your clothes, Reverend. I can manage, really.”
The minister had already broken into a sweat. He hoisted the piece of wood into the cart with a grunt and smiled. “‘Two are better than one. They have a good return for their work.’”
Ian eyed the frail man with a sideways glance. Sometimes a “good return” wasn’t the point. He reached down for another piece. “Sounds like a sermon.”
“Aye, ’tis. But it was written by a much wiser man than I. It goes on. ‘If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help.’”
Ian tossed the chunk into the cart. “If a man falls, he’ll get up on his own—eventually.”
“Perhaps. If nothing is broken.” The reverend smiled. “Then it says, ‘If two lie down together, they’ll keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?’” He reached for another piece and lugged it up to top the load with a grunt. Resting his hands on the last piece, he looked Ian in the eye. “‘And a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.’”
Ian hoisted the handles and wheeled the cart into the woodshed.
“I hope to see you next Sunday,” the reverend said as he followed, still huffing. “Gathering together, hearing God’s word, praying for each other—that keeps our faith strong. We make two good strands when we’re all together, holding one another up. And two out of three, it’s not bad. It’s far better than one.”
Inside the shed, Ian unloaded the wood and stacked the pieces against the wall.
The reverend strained with the lifting of each chunk, but he kept a steady pace, sweating as he passed the pieces to Ian. The man didn’t say much. He couldn’t.
They worked a while longer in silence, but the sermon would certainly resume once the cart was empty. At this rate, it could take the man days to recover and finish making his point.
Ian heaved a sigh. “And the third strand?”
The reverend chuckled. “I’ll wager one of your grannie’s pies you already know what that is. And perhaps you also know that when you have all three ...” The man swiped his brow with a rolled-up sleeve, hollow temples pulsing. “There’s not a thing a man can’t do.”
Ian stopped and studied him.
The minister was about the frailest man he had ever met. But in that moment, his face beamed with more confidence than the strongest of men.
The reverend handed the last chunk of wood to Ian. “It’s been good seeing you so regular at kirk these last few weeks.”
With a grunt, Ian chucked the piece to the top of the pile.
Reverend Brown wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “Will you be there next Sunday then? With your family?”
Family. Ian lifted the cart handles, then wheeled it out of the shed and back to the trailer. “I don’t know.”
“Are they here now?” Reverend Brown called out from behind. “Maggie and the others?”
Ian set the cart down near the cutting blocks. “Aye.”
“I’d like to meet them. I need to return your grannie’s pie plate.” He smiled. “No doubt I’ll see it filled again soon. Good to see you, Ian. The Lord bless you.” He shook Ian’s hand again and walked down to the house.
Ian stared at the empty cart.
Winter would come. There was no stopping it, no avoiding it.
If two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?
He braced the log and reached for the saw, but stopped and stared at the blade, already coated in shavings and beginning to dull. His shock and anger over Emily’s news had given way to pain. He supposed the next step—according to the laws of nature or some such rubbish—was to accept what Emily said about dying and let her go.
But even if he could find a way to accept it, it wouldn’t change the way he felt about her. Her shadowy future did nothing to lessen his feelings. In fact, the longer he wrestled with the reality of her fate, the deeper his love for her grew.
Was he supposed to simply forget her? Leave her to die on her own?
He knew exactly what she feared on his behalf. But Emily Chapman should not have to face the winter of her life alone.
And she wouldn’t—not if Ian MacLean had a scrap of strength in him.