| |
DECEMBER 8, 1891
Two days passed with no further opinions from Mr. Kincaid to conflict with Clara’s. The shepherd remained polite and indifferent to her, promptly picking her up each day and driving her home at night with little more than a good day and good night. They worked at their own tasks, Clara focused on her woodland creatures, Mr. Kincaid on the construction of the beds and a smaller scale table and chair for the child.
Clara enjoyed the painting. While at first apprehensive, she’d grown more confident as each creature came to life in the woodland scene. No longer tentative with her brush strokes, she worked with ever-growing speed, adding unplanned details as she moved around the room. A raccoon peeked out from behind a pine tree and a squirrel sat on a higher branch scolding him with tail flipped impertinently over his back. An owl perched atop the highest limb, watching them with eyes half-closed.
The fox was her favorite, and she added an entire family scampering in and out of grasses and around tree trunks. She made a game of the scene, revealing a paw here and a black tail there, partial images to invite one to study the paintings with care, creating a story for the viewer’s imagination to explore.
Occasionally, Lena would step quietly into the room and watch, only commenting on something that amused her. Jessie came a few times a day and took measurements or offered her a cup of tea and a sample of a sweet pastry she was experimenting with for the Christmas party. Less frequently, Mr. Kincaid slipped into the room to take a measurement. His visits were as silent as the owl’s.
On the third day of their collective project, the weather took a turn, and a chilling north wind blew down the long valley of the Wood River. A light dusting of snow made the trip back into town that evening a winter wonderland of sparkling white. If she’d been with anyone else, she’d have commented on the beauty.
But the dampening effect of the snow-covered road softening the sound of the horse’s steps, made the silence between them more apparent. Glad for the blanket Lena had given her as they departed, Clara pulled it tight to her neck and covering her ears.
“You want my jacket? The wool lining might help keep the chill off.”
Breaking the silence so abruptly, Clara jumped at Kincaid’s voice. She glanced at him in the dark, moonlight glimmering in his eyes. She clamped her teeth on her trembling lips before attempting a reply that would not give away her discomfort. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
“Pardon my saying, but you look less than fine.”
Clara turned her face to the snowy banks of the river. “Will the water freeze this winter?” Her lips trembled, betraying the lie of her earlier statement.
“Probably not. At least not in the main course of it. The edges, yes.”
She squeezed her arms tight to her body, but it didn’t stop her shaking.
The buggy slowed, then came to a stop. Clara turned back to see Kincaid removing his jacket. He handed it to her, his expression uncompromising. “Trade you. Give me the blanket.”
She accepted it without comment, giving him the blanket in exchange. Quickly driving her shaking limbs into the plush woolen lining, she pulled the collar high on her neck. It smelled of earth and lambs’ wool and all she associated with the shepherd beside her. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, but unfamiliar and even foreign.
When her trembling had lessened, and she thought she could trust her lips to work again, she asked, “How did you become a shepherd?”
Wrapped in the wool blanket, with his hat pulled low on his brow, he looked like one of the Shoshone she’d seen in town. She realized with some shock that the life he lived for all those months was more akin to their lifestyle than those of the ranch hands. They were both nomads of a kind.
“At my father’s side. I learned as a boy back home.”
“He was a shepherd like you?”
“He was a shepherd,” he said.
It seemed an odd statement, not quite an affirmation of hers. “You had a farm in Scotland?” Clara had nothing to draw upon to even imagine such a life. She’d traveled abroad once, but only as far as France, where she’d seen farmland and the quaint villages dotted across the landscape. It was alluring and romantic from a distance, but she wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was an easy life.
“Like most, we were crofters.” He hesitated, then added, “Crofters aren’t land owners.” Even in the ambient light, she saw the firm set of his jaw. This meant something to him, something unpleasant. She waited for him to continue, but his usual reticence seemed to have retaken its grip on his tongue.
Her curiosity brought questions to tickle her tongue, but something warned her to not allow them to pass her lips. The man’s stiff posture warned her there’d be no further discussion. So, they returned to town in the manner of the previous two days and finished the ride in silence. But she sensed that something had changed, some subtle shift of awareness of the other.
“Do you know what a crofter is?” Clara displayed only a casual interest when she put the question to Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds that night over dinner. “I heard the term today, but it’s unfamiliar to me.”
Dr. Reynolds looked thoughtful before saying, “A fellow medical student from Scotland explained the system to me years ago. It was a system devised to divide the land into farming shares, but oddly enough, not intended to support a family.”
Maddie frowned and commented, “That seems unfair.”
Dr. Reynolds nodded. “You aren’t alone in your opinion. But I’m sure you know such notions of class distinction have been at the foundation of British way of life for generations. In Scotland, wealthy landowners make the rules. They expect the crofters to work in another industry as well as farming their few acres. To the ruling class it’s a fair exchange.”
Clara pushed a slice of cooked apple to the center of her plate, studying it for a while as though it was a piece of the puzzle. “I suppose that’s why Mr. Kincaid developed his woodworking skills.”
“My understanding was that because many of these farms were along the coastline, the crofters took up fishing and worked in the kelp industry. I can’t speak for Mr. Kincaid’s experience, but he might have lived near a larger town that could support such carpentry work.” He shook his head, looking uncharacteristically solemn. “Graham Kincaid was born before the potato famine that devastated Ireland and Scotland, but I’m sure it affected his family. It forced many to immigrate. My classmate’s family moved to Canada. Do you know if Mr. Kincaid came here directly from Scotland?”
Maddie tilted her head for a moment. “I thought he did.”
Clara tried to recall her brief exchanges, then any information she might have had in conversations with Mrs. Hartmann. “I know he brought his dog with him.”
Refilling her husband’s glass with water, Maddie remarked, “It seems we know very little about the man.” She directed her next statement to Dr. Reynolds. “We don’t even know if he’s married or single, do we?”
Dr. Reynolds gave a hearty laugh. “Now, leave it to you to take the question of the man’s past to issues of the heart.”
Maddie frowned at him. “Well, the marital status of a man says something significant. Maybe he has a wife in Scotland and he’s saving his earnings to bring her here. That’s possible, isn’t it?” Maddie’s eyes darted in Clara’s direction.
Clara fumbled for her cup, fervently wishing she’d not brought Mr. Kincaid into the conversation at all.
Dr. Reynolds chewed with thoughtful intensity. The creases fanning from his eyes still held a suggestion that he found the conversation entertaining. “On that subject, I believe I can offer some enlightenment. He was married.”
“He was?” his wife asked, obviously surprised at this.
He nodded as he helped himself to a side dish of beans. “His wife passed some years ago before he immigrated.”
Maddie’s eyes widened. “He told you?”
The doctor shook his head and stabbed at a potato. “No. Jessie told me.”
“Jessie?”
“Yes, she asked him.”