Abigale finished washing the supper dishes and put them away. Breakfast would be more of the same since she had no eggs, so she was pleased that Seth had eaten heartily. She covered the remains of one pie with a napkin and set it on the table with the sugar and preserves, then put the other pie in the safe. Not that it would actually be safe if someone decided he was hungry in the middle of the night. Seth not only filled out Pop’s clothing, he filled out Pop’s capacity for food as well. Which was why she left a decoy on the table.
She settled onto the sofa, feet up, and tucked her skirt around them. The fire threw dancing shadows across the floor and onto Pop’s chair where Seth stretched his legs to the hearth.
What if he hadn’t shown up when he did? Would she even be alive?
Mams would have said the storm brought him here when Abigale needed him most and didn’t know it. She’d say it was God’s way to use a storm like that. The way He’d used Abigale’s very first storm of losing her parents to bring her to the Millertons, who had no children of their own.
She picked up the cross-stitched pillow, heavy with memories. A small brown stain marred one corner, no doubt blood from where she’d hit her head. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, making it hard to read the words. She knew them by heart, but reading them and fingering the tiny stitches reminded her that Mams’s faith had grown over time, just like the painstaking handiwork.
“‘Trust in the Lord, and do good,’” she whispered into the stillness. A log burned through and fell, a comforting sound against the night. “‘So shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.’”
Dwell in the land—that was what Abigale wanted.
Somehow, having faith sounded easy when Mams had talked about it, yet Abigale knew for a fact that it wasn’t.
Seth stirred and drew his feet in.
She’d forgotten he was there, so alone she was in her thoughts.
“You say something?”
“Just musing to myself.”
He rubbed his hand over his face and up into his hair. “Didn’t mean to doze off.”
“It’s all right. You were comfortable. You deserve to rest.”
His eyes flashed a question, surprised that she would say such a thing. Perhaps it was their circumstances, alone together in a solid house that held out the weather. Or she was softening further toward him. Realizing there was more to Seth Holt than a bigger, stronger, annoyingly bossy friend.
He turned the chair toward her a little. “About your plan.”
She shook her head. “It was silly. I see that now.”
“I disagree.”
Shocked, she stilled her fingers and locked on Seth’s dark features, shadowed by the firelight behind him.
“With modifications.”
So there it was. His typical assumption that he could improve upon her ideas. He’d been doing so for years.
Scooting the chair around until he faced her, he leaned forward, arms on his legs, mere inches from the edge of the sofa. “I suggest we go up there the next clear day we get and mark your trees.”
He’d lost his mind, of course. And he’d said we twice. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him using that word so much.
“And what would we mark them with? Ribbons and lace?”
Pain sparked in his eyes—quick as lightening—before he covered it with a smirk, but she rushed through the gap in his armor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you, it’s just, it’s just …”
“A habit.”
He’d nailed her, and she felt the blush of guilt rising in her cheeks.
Reaching for her hand, he let go a heavy sigh. Like a confession. “I fight the same habit, Abigale, but this time I’m serious.”
Her pulse jumped at his strong fingers atop her own, the way his thumb idly rubbed the back of her hand.
She glanced down.
He let go.
Attempting to mend the breach, she asked, “What would we mark them with?”
“Paint.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a grass fire.”
He leaned back, hands gripping his knees, his long fingers squeezing in and out as if he molded the words as he spoke.
“My dad has reddish-brown paint left over from the barn. If I set it by the fire for a day or so, it’d warm up so we could smear it on the trees, high enough that it wouldn’t be noticed by loggers in a hurry. Then I’d put a bug in Hoot’s ear to keep a lookout for stolen trees. Honestly, it’s a long shot, but it might work.”
“I think it’s brilliant.”
“You do?”
“It’s brilliant if I get to paint the trees. You can hold me on your shoulders.” Her admission came at a high price to her pride, but she wasn’t completely feather-headed. “When will you get the paint?”
“Same time I get a crate of hens and see if Ma will let me take one of her milk cows off her hands. I’m pretty sure she won’t mind. That is, if you let me borrow your wagon and mare.”
“Seth Holt, I could hug you.” Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and herself off balance.
He had to catch her to keep her from falling on the floor.
~
Deeper drifts sloped against the barn and outbuildings the next morning, but the wind had cleared enough ground that Seth was confident he could drive home and back before nightfall.
Abigale refused to go with him. She had it in her head that she wasn’t leaving and probably feared he wouldn’t bring her back.
And she was probably right, doggone it. Especially after he caught her in his arms last night.
Carrying her in the house when she was unconscious was one thing, but holding her while she was wide awake and laughing was something else altogether.
He shoved that memory aside and focused on making sure there was plenty of firewood in case he didn’t make it back tonight. By the time he finished splitting a pile and stacking it inside on the hearth, he’d lost an hour of daylight but gained enough confidence to leave Abigale alone for the time being.
After checking Tess’s harness, he went inside for his slicker.
Abigale approached him, a shallow basket in her hands, suspiciously pie-sized and covered with a checkered cloth. “Give this to your mother and tell her thank you for sharing her hens with me. I’ll be sure and pay her back in the spring.”
Judging by the wistful look on her face, she just might miss him while he was gone.
He accepted the basket and peeked under the cloth. “You don’t need to do this, you know. Ma’s happy to share.”
“I know.” Abigale rubbed her hands down the front of her apron, nervous-like. “But I want to.”
“What if I eat it before I get to the ranch?” He couldn’t resist teasing her, just enough to raise a little color in her cheeks.
“You’d better not, Seth Holt, if you expect to see any more where that came from.” Her fists flew to her hips and perched there while she drilled him with her pretty eyes.
He set the basket aside and moved in closer. Took her gently by the shoulders. Drank in the way she smelled, all womanly and domestic. He didn’t know whether to bargain or beg, so he dropped his voice and opted for bossy. “Don’t you ride out to the tree line, huntin’ trouble, while I’m gone.”
Like hair on a wolf, her hackles rose. She stiffened, but didn’t jut her chin. Just looked up at him from under her brows in a way that twisted his insides. “You come back to me.”
He swallowed. Hard.
“I need those chickens.”
Confounded woman. He grabbed the basket and stomped out to the wagon.
She came running after him. “Here, don’t forget your slicker.” She rolled it and shoved it under the seat. “I wouldn’t want you to catch your death. Like I said, I need those—”
He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She didn’t resist but molded perfectly against him, her heart fluttering like a captive bird. Surprise rounded her eyes, not fear. Her lips parted, her breath caught, and he knew if he didn’t leave right that minute, he might not ever leave.