Come Spring (16 page)

“I don’t know how to make mush,” Annika said sternly. “And I don’t intend to learn, so sit quietly and I’ll let you have a sip of tea. Your uncle will see to your mush when he gets back.”

Baby amused herself with staring at her new shoes and alternately climbing off and on the chair and walking around the room while Annika searched through the tins lining the mantel. “There has to be some tea here someplace,” she mumbled to herself. She rearranged the crocks, tins, and bottles in her search. Opening a wide-mouthed jar, she reeled back when an odious smell from a greasy substance nearly knocked her over. Quickly screwing the lid down tight, she shoved the jar aside. Dried herbs and stinking tonics filled most of the containers. Finally in the back row she discovered a small, octagonal tin with the faded, gold embossed letters T-E-A. She was on tiptoe, stretching to reach the battered tin when the door opened and Buck Scott strode in.

“Dammit!” He was across the room like a gunshot. Grabbing Annika, he pulled her back and threw her down on the floor.

She screamed and tried to roll away. He lifted his foot and started to stomp on the hem of her skirt. The faster he stomped, the louder she screamed. Buck stopped as suddenly as he started. Annika quit screaming. He reached down and jerked her to her feet.

Eyes wide and wild, she shoved him away. His shoulders heaved as he fought for a breath. “Don’t ever touch me again,” she finally managed.

“Fine.” Still breathing hard, he turned away and picked up Baby, who had begun to whimper again. “Next time I’ll just let you burn.” Ignoring Annika, he took the kettle off the fire with his free hand while he held Baby against his hip.

“Me shoes, Buck.” Baby smiled happily and lifted her foot for his perusal.

“I see.” He inspected the improvised socks.

A scorched smell permeated the cabin. Slow realization dawned and Annika looked down at her many hems. A sooty black line of charred fabric outlined the edge of her wool shirt like unevenly sewn piping. She glanced up at Buck and caught him watching her, but when their eyes met, he looked away and busied himself with his task.

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.

If he had not returned when he had and acted instinctively to stomp out the fire, she might indeed have burned to death.

Annika swallowed.

Buck poured boiling water over the cornmeal in the pot.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hoping she spoke loud enough for him to hear. “I guess I owe you my thanks.”

“I guess you owe me your life,” he grumbled, half to himself. “Watch yourself in front of the fire from now on.”

She couldn’t resist snapping. “There won’t be from now on. We’re leaving soon, aren’t we?” When he was silent, she repeated, “Aren’t we?”

“You that anxious to leave all of this?”

Annika spread her arms wide. “Anxious? Yes, I’m anxious! I’ve been carried halfway across the country against my will, I spent the night trying to sleep on this cold, hard floor. I don’t know if my parents are beside themselves with worry. I’m stuck here with you and a child with no name. My clothes are ruined, I’m freezing, and I just nearly burned to death! Anxious to leave? Yes, Mr. Scott. I can hardly wait!”

He stirred the mush and reached for a crock of honey. Bowls clattered as he set them on the table. Annika stood, catching her breath, glowering at him from across the room. Finally Buck looked up.

“Well, at least you’re not complaining.”

She started toward him with murder in her eyes, tripped over the pallet on the floor, and nearly fell on her face. Quick footwork saved her but did little to cool her temper. She bent over in a fury, scooped up the pelts, and flung them on his unmade bed.

“Want some mush?” Buck plopped some into a bowl in front of Baby, who sat waiting expectantly.

“No!”

He spooned up some of his own and set the pot near the fire to keep it warm. While Annika watched, silently fuming, he poured warm honey over both helpings and then hunkered down to eat.

When his bowl was half empty he paused, looked again at Annika, and sadly shook his head. “You better have some. It’s gonna be a long day.”

“I don’t think—”

“In fact,” he interrupted what he knew was bound to be another tirade, “it’s going to be longer than a long day before I can take you back.”

“What do you mean by that?” Her hand was at her throat again, her blue eyes wide and questioning.

“I mean we’re snowed in.”

   8   

S
NOWED
in?”

Annika narrowed the space between them until she reached the table. Palms down on the scarred wood, she leaned toward Buck.
“How
snowed in?”

“Pass is bound to be closed after a storm like this one.” He made her wait while he swallowed two huge spoonfuls of mush. “Could be days, could be months. Depends on when this storm stops.” He shrugged. “Get one good chinook wind though, and it’ll melt in a few hours.” He bent over the bowl of steaming gruel. “Hard to tell.”

Unable to face him, unwilling to let the odious man see the stinging tears that welled in her eyes, Annika turned away. The wind was still beating against the north side of the cabin. Snow hissed in through every sizable crack. She paced over to the window. The glass was covered with frost; the shutters blocked out all but muted daylight. The lack of sunlight cast the interior of the cabin into a dreary netherworld of firelight, weak lamplight, and shadows. Feeling despondent, Annika wrapped her arms tightly about herself and whispered, “What am I going to do?”

“Have some mush.”

She whirled on him. If it had not been for Buck Scott and his stupidity she would not have to endure his constant presence nor her captivity in his dismal excuse for a home.

Although he didn’t appear to be laughing at her, she took two steps forward with murder in her eyes. “You can take your mush and—”

He cut her off. “Remember the child.”

“Don’t try to hide behind that baby. This is unthinkable. Unspeakable! I can’t stay here for months. I’ll go crazy.”

“Why? After all, I’m the one that has to live with
you.”

She thought of the possibility of days and weeks of living in the same small space with him. Months of lying on the pallet before the fire fighting off sleep, knowing he lay but a few feet away. She could feel her fear and anxiety steadily building but was unable to stop them. Glancing toward the window again she said, “Couldn’t you at least go out and open the shutters? It’s so gloomy in here.”

Still staring at her intently, he shook his head. “Drifts snowed them shut. Sometimes I can’t dig them out until spring.”

She clasped her fingers together and walked back to the table. With slow, forlorn motions she pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Propping her head in her hands, she groaned, “I really can’t stand it here.”

“There’s no need to starve to death.” He leaned back in the chair, stretched toward the bench behind him, and grabbed another bowl. As he ladled up her mush, Buck stared at Annika’s bent shoulders, certain she was about to cry. He didn’t know what he would do if she did.

“Look”—he set the bowl of steaming cornmeal mush in front of her and then got her a spoon—“if it’s any consolation, I apologize for this whole sorry mess, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Nothing at all.”

She batted away tears before she looked up at him again. He shoved the bowl closer. “Are you sure we can’t get out?” There was a catch in her voice.

“When it stops snowing I’ll go out and scout around. We’ll need fresh meat anyway.” Annika looked so sad he tried to reassure her. “If there’s any chance at all of getting through the pass, I’ll take you out.”

She looked up and found him standing over her. She didn’t know which frightened her more, his size or the fact that he was always watching her as if he were waiting to catch her unaware so that he could—could what? Perhaps what frightened her most was that she couldn’t quite fathom his intentions. “And until then?”

“Until then—we’ll just have to do the best we can to get along with each other.”

Baby’s spoon clattered against the empty bowl. “Down!” she shouted.

Buck lifted Baby off the chair, an indulgence since she had been climbing up and down on her own all morning. The child beamed when he lifted her high over his head before he set her on the floor again. “Go play,” he whispered softly, then paused to watch her toddle to the makeshift toy box filled with the cast-off objects she called playthings.

Annika studied Buck as he watched Baby cross the room and was reminded of the tender way the big man had dealt with the child the night before. She found herself wondering exactly what manner of man Buck Scott really was.

He collected the empty bowls and set them in the wash-tub, then walked to the fireplace and picked up the kettle of simmering water. When he passed by the table, all he saw was Annika Storm staring despondently at her bowl of rapidly cooling mush.

O
UTSIDE,
the storm continued to rage through Blue Creek Valley. Inside, Buck and Annika held to a tenuous truce while the hours slowly passed. With uneasy moves they avoided each other as they walked about the small cabin like dancers performing an unfamiliar reel. While he washed up the breakfast dishes, Annika straightened the pelts she’d tossed onto the bed and then crawled beneath them for warmth. He studiously avoided her and began to shave off his three months’ growth of beard.

While Baby crawled beneath the pelts beside her and pestered Annika to play with a wooden doll that was as poorly dressed as Baby herself, Annika couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at Buck Scott, curious what he would look like when he finished his shave.

Unwilling to let him catch her staring curiously, Annika turned her attention to the child at her side. The little girl did look enough like Buck Scott to be his own child. Their compelling blue eyes continually demanded attention. Evenly drawn golden brows emphasized Baby’s thoughtful expression, one that was very much like Buck’s.

Annika reached down for the sorry little doll that the child offered to let her hold. As if it were made of the finest porcelain, she cradled the wooden baby in her arms and smoothed the frayed piece of red flannel that served as its blanket.

“Me baby,” Baby said.

“It’s very pretty,” Annika told her, thinking of her own collection of dolls back in Boston. Her father used to bring her one every time he traveled on business. He still surprised her with one on occasion. As she handed the crude doll back to Baby, she wished she had one to give her—or all of them, for that matter.

Minutes passed as she and Baby spoke softly, trading the doll back and forth, and when Annika glanced at Buck, she noticed with disappointment that he was once again seated at the table at such an angle that she could not see his face. His long curly hair hid his clean-shaven face while he repaired a pair of snowshoes by weaving thin branches of white ash onto a bear paw-shaped frame and tying them off with strips of rawhide. Although he must have noticed, he had made no mention of her sitting on his bed. Since she hesitated to call attention to herself, she continued to ignore him by keeping Baby amused.

Lack of a good night’s sleep coupled with the thick mattress and warmth of the pelts that formed a soft cocoon around her made Annika drowsy. She fought to keep her eyes open as Baby spoke gibberish to her doll, wrapped and unwrapped it, and then inspected her new shoes and socks. Finally, too sleepy to care what Buck Scott thought, Annika gave up and fell sound asleep.

Even with the low moan of the wind and the soft crackle of the fire, Buck soon became aware of the woman’s slow, rhythmic breathing. Since she had slept little the night before, he did not begrudge her a few moments of peaceful slumber. As he turned around to watch her, he was thankful that he could finally do so without her furious blue eyes boring into him.

She was half sitting, half reclining, propped against the pillow that rested against the log headboard. A silken skein of her glorious blond hair had worked itself loose from the bun she had knotted atop her head. It unfurled over one shoulder and lay shining with the glow of firelight caught in its strands. He was half tempted to cross the room just so he could reach out and lift the curl, measure its texture and worth much as he would a prime pelt. Then he looked down at his callused hand and balled it into a fist against his thigh.