been selling cheap. The tin panels in its doors were battered, but it would do for
storing the flour bin, dishes, and the pies he hoped Olivia would soon be baking.
Rain never stopped them from working, except for the day the wind started
howling and the trees cracked loudly. When the first branches blew past, they both ran for the cabin and slammed the door behind them. They took turns
standing at the peek hole to watch the trees bowing in prayer and snapping back
up, angrily shaking their tops. That storm lasted the day and most of the night.
Olivia passed it writing and sketching in her journal, shivering when the
lightning and thunder seemed to make the sides of the cabin shudder.
“The wind is so much stronger in Michigan,” she said, casting a frightened
eye at the roof. “Do you think that’s because everything is so flat?”
Mourning shrugged, sucked his front teeth, and got to his feet. “I got to go check on the team again.”
“You were just out there,” Olivia said. “What’s the point of you getting soaked every half hour? I’m sure they’re fine.”
He ignored her and had to use both hands to pull the door shut behind him.
“You’re going to blow the fire out doing that,” Olivia called after him, though
she wouldn’t have minded if he did. She didn’t think having the cook fire was worth the way it ate up all the air in the oppressive little cabin. She would have
preferred being able to breathe, even if it meant cold food.
The fire did seem about to go out when Mourning returned from the half-
roofed barn carrying his mattress. He struggled to get it through the doorway and
wordlessly lay it on the floor, as far from Olivia as possible. For the rest of the
day he sat on it, playing his harmonica, whittling, or just staring at the wall.
Olivia felt him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, but he did not
seem inclined to talk. He answered any questions she asked, but did not initiate
conversation. Finally, she put out the lantern and said, “Good night,” to which he
grunted in response. After lying awake for what seemed like hours, Olivia lifted
her head to see if Mourning had fallen asleep. The embers in the fireplace were
still glowing and she could see him staring at her, his face a sheet of stone. She
turned to face the wall, wondering if she had done something to make him angry.
But the next day, when they emerged from their prison into the sunlight, he assumed his usual manner.
Mourning drove into town once a week for eggs and milk, but Olivia chose
not to accompany him. It was too depressing. Besides, she thought it best that they be seen together as little as possible. And, most of all, she didn’t want to be
gone if Jeremy came to call. Olivia had been keeping careful count of the days
on her new calendar, and too many of them were passing with no sign of the sorely missed Mr. Kincaid. One morning they did, however, have visitors. She
and Mourning were out in the farm together, struggling with an enormous tree stump, when a voice called out.
“Hey there, neighbors.”
A dark-haired, bearded giant stood at the side of the cabin waving his hat. A
woman stood at his side, holding a basket covered with a white cloth. She barely
reached his shoulder. Olivia walked toward them, mortified that she had been
caught wearing trousers. She was soon close enough to recognize the woman.
“Mrs. Stubblefield, hullo, how are you? It’s so nice to see you again,” Olivia
said, remembering something she had heard her mother (or perhaps it had been
