“That’s right, “she was saying. “Ye have to remove the bark in order to see the wood beneath. Only then will ye know what it should be.”
“I want it to be something for my Mama.”
“We’ll start with something simple.” Her lips curved to a bright smile as she looked up and noticed Reed standing in the doorway. “I was teaching Cubby to carve. I hope that’s all right.”
He nodded. Wonder filled him. That he loved her was no surprise. That he kept finding things to love about her surprised him. A couple of nights ago, she’d plucked up her courage to talk about his father beating him. This morning he found her teaching a small boy to carve.
“When ye’re finished here perhaps ye’d like to ride with me? The snow is nearly gone but the ground is still hard.”
They’d not discussed marriage again since her pronouncement. Reed would have to answer her, but he hadn’t formed the words yet. Being home, which he thought would be a relief after such a long absence, was proving to be a challenge at every turn. Ghosts of the past continually speared him with guilt. He barely got through a day without running across some memory that caused him to mentally take to his knees for forgiveness.
“I would love to get out of the house.”
Another thing they had in common. Early rising and being outside.
“This afternoon we ride to Maple Bridge, so we’ll need to make it a short journey.”
“We are nearly finished. Meet ye in the stable?”
Reed nodded and left to find Randall. Like a refreshing wind, Ann appeared a few minutes later dressed in a riding habit the color of his morning chocolate. The urge to take her into his arms and kiss her again caused him to take a step forward.
Ann slipped by him to her horse.
Once out of the stable yard, Reed took them east.
~*~
A small, white clapboard house with black shutters and small hollow-looking eyes for windows came into view in the distance. A reedy stream of smoke rose from its one chimney.
“What is that place?” Ann asked.
“The house my grandfather first built on this land.”
“Someone lives there?”
“My grandmother lives there with Catherine, her caretaker.”
“Alone?”
“My mother thought it would be best for my grandmother to live where she was most familiar. She’s forgetful and she seemed to be comforted in the old place.”
“I heard ye were home.” A tall spare woman, who must be Catherine, greeted them at the door.
“How is my grandmother?”
“Come see for yerself.”
The woman stepped aside to allow them access. She showed them into the first of two rooms. Polished within an inch of its life, every surface, the few pieces of furniture to pine walls, gleamed. An old woman rocked and stared into the flames escaping the small fireplace. Bright red ribbons tied cushions to the spindles of her rocking chair.
Reed knelt down in front of his grandmother.
She recoiled into her chair raising frail arms as if to protect herself from blows.
Ann’s heart melted at the mist in Reed’s eyes. She remembered Mother Gibson as a strong, forthright woman, not unlike Reed’s Aunt Clementine. To watch people who had been her stars grow frail with age was the one thing about adulthood that Ann did not wish to embrace. Sharp, quick minds slowing. Slim, fit bodies shrinking in their clothes. Heart-wringing conversations with her Grandfather came to mind. She breathed deep and prepared to be sad.
“Grandmama. It is Reed.”
She let down her hands to peer at him. She creaked forward and placed a hand on either side of his face. “Reed, my boy.”
“Grandmama.”
It’d never occurred to Ann that Smith Archer, while mean enough to hit his wife and children, would mistreat his mother-in-law. Yet she could derive no other meaning from the recoil of Reed’s grandmother from the mere sight of him. Reed’s resemblance to his father was striking, but only a woman lost in the mists of her mind would have confused the two. Ann sent up a prayer for the woman’s comfort and provision.
“I would like ye to meet my friend.” Reed raised his hand to beckon Ann to join him.
Catherine left the room.
“Grandmama—”
A hesitant smile lifted the wrinkles in the old face and hooded brown eyes flecked with blue met Ann’s own. “It’s been a long time, Sarah King.”
“This is Sarah’s daughter, Annie Wright.” Confusion crossed the depths of Mother Gibson’s eyes as she processed the information. They cleared, and a confident smile broke through. “I remember Little Annie Wright. Yer mama had a time with yer carving knife. I expect ye outgrew that.”
Ann nearly giggled at the recollection. “No, ma’am.” She retrieved her leather-bound knife from her pocket.
The old woman continued to look at her with a smile still in place. As though she’d lost the thread and waited for the next line on a timeline that didn’t synch with everyone else. “Are ye still carving?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
