Jessie returned to the desk. “Thank you, dear. I still go out and paint occasionally, but my bones are getting old. I have to stick closer to home.” She started to drink from her cup, but it was empty. “I need more tea. Would you like some?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Laurel said, realizing her throat was parched. Jessie hobbled across the room. Laurel propelled herself out of her chair. “Why don't you let me do that?” She took the cup from Jessie and walked into the kitchen.
“I'm fine, really,” Jessie said, following. Laurel refilled the cup and handed it to her elderly friend. “Thank you, dear.”
Laurel poured golden liquid into her own cup, added sugar, and returned to her place at the desk.
Jessie lowered herself into the overstuffed chair and sipped her tea. “I miss my Steward. He was such a dear. His mind was always so much sharper than mine. But his drive to discover new things was so strong it sometimes blotted out reason. He got into a few scrapes.” Her eyes sparkled. “I never had his depth of commitment or his knowledge. Even so, he never left me out. He always asked for my opinion.” She settled back, getting comfortable in the chair. “The long dark winters didn't seem so long then.”
“Do you have children?” Laurel asked.
“No, God never blessed us in that way.”
“I'm sorry,” Laurel said, not knowing exactly how to respond and wishing she hadn't asked.
“No. Don't be. Steward and I had a wonderful life. I don't know if we could have done all that we did if we'd had children. I believe God knows what's best for each of us. Not having children was his decision. I can accept that.” She offered Laurel a sad smile. “Although, I must admit it was difficult in the beginning. We were young and had planned on a family. But I wouldn't trade a moment of my life.”
Laurel wondered what it would be like to love someone deeply the way Jessie loved Steward and her mother loved her father. Her mind wandered to Adam. She missed him terribly.
After their last evening together, she'd been confused about her feelings. Adam seemed superficial, driven to prove himself, and bent on success at any cost. He was a flirt and obviously considered relationships between men and women to be some kind of game. He wasn't a man to be taken seriously.
However, when he'd started spending time with her family, Laurel had glimpsed another side of him. He was hardworking, willing to help whenever needed, funloving, and seemed to genuinely care about her and her family. Her feelings about him had changed. There was something very appealing about Adam, something she loved about him.
“So, how are the hunting and fishing going for your father and brother?” Jessie asked, cutting in to Laurel's thoughts. “It's such a shame they had to pay for their licenses.” She shook her head. “Seems unfair to me.”
“Luke worked hard to earn the money, but it was a good experience for him. The hunting's going well. They've brought home a Dall sheep and two moose, and they go fishing almost every day. We have a lot of canned salmon, and we smoked some of it. Alex, Luke's friend, showed us how. He's been teaching Luke and my father some of the native ways of hunting and fishing.”
“Is that Alex Lawson?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He's a fine boy. I like his family too. They're good people. It's so sad though. They haven't had an easy go of it—with no father in the house the last three years and the grandmother needing extra care.”
“What happened to their father?”
“Douglas Lawson died in a fishing accident.” Jessie set her tea on a small table beside the chair. “He was caught in an outgoing tide.”
“Really?”
“Cook Inlet can have huge tide changes. They sometimes rise or fall as much as thirty-eight feet. Douglas got tangled in a net and was dragged overboard. The tide swept him away before anyone could do anything. He was never found.”
“How awful,” Laurel said, her sympathy for her two native friends expanding. “Alex told us his father was Scottish.”
“That's right. He came to Alaska looking for adventure and fell in love with a native woman, Alex and Mattie's mother. It happens a lot.”
Laurel glanced out the window. “It's snowing!” Setting her papers aside, she walked to the door and opened it. Snow and cold swirled into the room. After holding out her hand to catch a few flakes, she shut the door.
“It's about time. We've usually had our first snowfall long before this.” Jessie rose from her chair and crossed to the window. Standing with arms folded across her waist and a contented expression, she gazed at the world, which was quickly turning white. “It's really coming down. You ought to head for home. Around here you can never tell how bad it's going to get.”
Laurel scanned the room. “I still have so much work to do.”
“It will be here when you get back,” Jessie said with a grin. “I'd feel better if you left.”
“All right.” Laurel tidied up the pages she'd been working on, then pulled on her coat, drawing the hood tightly around her face and pushing her hands into gloves. “I love the snow.” She opened the door. Stepping onto the porch, she said, “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“All right, dear. But I don't want you walking over here if the weather's still bad. Now keep bundled; frostbite can get you before you know it.”
“I'll be careful,” Laurel promised and closed the door. In spite of her heavy coat, cold blew down her neck. She pulled her hood closer around her face. Fresh snow squeaked beneath her boots and swirled around her face, making her blink. Keeping her head down, she walked as fast as the slick snow allowed.
Cold and tired, she was grateful to see her driveway. Smoke rose from the chimney, and Laurel imagined the warmth waiting for her inside. She headed toward the house, then spotted the apple seedling bending beneath the weight of new snow. “Oh, no.” She'd meant to protect it but hadn't made the time. If she didn't do something, it would die.
Laurel headed for the barn. Pulling the door open, she stepped into quiet and near darkness. She waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, then searched the cluttered interior for something to shelter the seedling. An empty wooden keg stood against one wall.
She loaded the container into a wheelbarrow, then steered it to a pile of wood chips her father had saved when he'd planed timber for the house. Grabbing a shovel, she filled the barrel with shavings, then, straining to lift the cart, she wheeled it toward the open barn door. As she stepped into the storm, wind and cold hit her. Shoving the rusty metal wheel through deepening snow, she headed for the stream bank. Cold air burned her lungs.
Be careful of frostbite, Jessie's words echoed. Laurel stopped, cupped gloved hands over her face, and blew warmth into the air pocket. Then, gripping the metal handles, she pushed through the snow. The wheel thumped into a deep rut and tipped the cart, spilling out its contents.
“Oh, no.” Laurel grabbed the keg, set it upright, and dropped to her knees, scooping woodchips back into the barrel. When she'd refilled it, she righted the wheelbarrow, then tried to lift the container. It was too heavy. Immediately realizing her mistake, Laurel berated herself for the foolish error. She should have put the keg in first, then filled it.
“Laurel, let me help you!” Jean called over the howling wind. “Why didn't you come and get someone?” She grabbed one side of the barrel.
Gratitude and relief flooded Laurel. She took hold of the other side, and together they lifted the container into the cart. This time Jean held it steady while Laurel pushed.
When they got to the tree, Laurel and her mother carefully removed the snow that weighed down the seedling. It still drooped, but Laurel held it upright while her mother piled shavings around the base and around its fragile limbs. Together mother and daughter set the barrel over the seedling, fixing it in place.
“That should do it,” Laurel said.
Her mother nodded. “We need to get you warmed up. I'll take this back to the barn. You go inside. I'll be right there.”
