Paradise Falls (24 page)

She hoped she would never have to learn the answer.

F
iona shook snow from her hair as she climbed the steps to the farmhouse. Inside the kitchen, she was assaulted by the smells that had become so familiar to her. Bread baking. Wurst simmering in a pot. The air redolent with rich spices and seasonings.

Rose looked up from the stove and cast a disapproving glance at Fiona’s boots, dripping on the floor. Without a word Fiona removed the boots and set them on a rug before hanging her coat.

More than two weeks had passed since Gray’s return from Chicago, and though Rose continued to cook and clean, she had exchanged less than a dozen words with her oldest son.

Broderick spent all his time in the barn, hiding out from his wife’s seething anger. Gray had begun chopping trees before dawn, and then hauling them to town, returning in time for supper. Fiona often heard the rattle of the wagon as it passed her windows while she was just getting out of bed.

In order to overcome her grief, Fiona immersed herself in the classroom. She had paired each of her older students with a younger one, to assist in reading and sums. To her delight, everyone seemed to benefit from this, with the older ones taking pride in the accomplishments of their partners, and the younger ones working even harder to please their tutors.

Her greatest pride came from the way these diverse children had begun to accept one another. The friendship between Will and Edmer had spilled over to the others. Afton and Luther Dorf had begun forging a bond of trust, with Afton helping Luther with his words and accepting his help figuring sums.

Just as Broderick stepped into the kitchen they heard the rumble of Gray’s wagon.

“Bitter out there tonight,” Broderick muttered. He turned to Fiona. “You must be half-frozen after that trek across the hills.”

“I am, yes.” She held her hands over the open burner to warm them, and glanced up when Gray entered. He went through his ritual without a word, kicking off his boots, hanging his coat, rolling his sleeves and washing his hands.

“Supper’s ready.” Rose carried a platter to the table and the others gathered around.

Broderick had just uttered the blessing when they heard the jingle of harness.

Rose clapped a hand to her mouth. “The train. I thought I heard it earlier. Fleming’s come home. This must be Fleming.” She shoved back her chair and rushed across the room while the others got to their feet and watched.

When she yanked the door open, Gerhardt Shultz was standing on the porch.

In her disappointment it took Rose a moment to remember her manners. “Come in, Gerhardt.”

He stepped in and stared hard at the floor. “I’ve come... with news.”

“Of Fleming?” Rose turned to her husband with a look of triumph. “I told you. Hurry, Gerhardt. What is it?”

“There’s been an accident in Chicago.” The stationmaster cleared his throat.

“Fleming’s been hurt.” She caught the end of her apron and twisted it around her hand. “What happened?”

“Now, now.” Gerhardt held up a hand. “We don’t know if it was Fleming. I just thought you ought to know that someone, a young man, was hit by a train in Chicago.”

“A train? But how? Oh, my poor darling.” Rose clapped a hand to her mouth. “How bad is it?”

The man turned to Gray and Broderick, avoiding the look in Rose’s eyes. “The engineer said there wasn’t a thing he could do. He saw several men weaving in and out along the tracks. He blew the whistle, and one man deliberately dropped down until he was lying right in the path of the train. Like he was daring the train to hit him.”

“No. No. No.” Rose spoke the word like a litany of denial. “It wasn’t Fleming. I would know if he had died. I would feel it here.” She pressed a hand to her heart and closed her eyes, listening to the steady, throbbing beat. “It wasn’t Fleming, Gerhardt. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

The stationmaster hung his head. “I hope you’re right, Rose. The authorities will do their best to identify the young man. They went through his clothes, but found nothing.”

Rose’s head came up sharply. “Then why did you bother to bring us this news?”

The stationmaster shrugged in discomfort. “Someone said that Fleming had been seen drinking whiskey while playing the piano in a beer garden nearby.”

“A beer garden?” Rose huffed out a breath. “Fleming found work playing music in a gentleman’s club.”

“I only know what I’m told, Rose. A young man reported that Fleming often challenged his friends to lie down on the tracks, and one or two had done so on other occasions. But this night they were too drunk to know whether Fleming had actually joined them, or if he’d had time to jump to safety. Someone saw a man running away just before the train struck, but he didn’t come back to volunteer any information.”

“If Fleming’s friends had been in peril, you know as well as I, Gerhardt, that he would have been the first to come to their aid.”

The stationmaster looked hard at the floor. “Yes, well... as soon as I know more, I’ll come by with the news.”

“Thank you, Gerhardt.” Broderick offered his hand and the stationmaster awkwardly accepted it before turning away.

When the door closed behind him, the others stood in silence, listening to the jingle of harness as the horse and wagon departed.

“It wasn’t Fleming. It wasn’t.” Rose stood twisting her apron around and around her hand. “They’ve made a terrible mistake. I would know if my own son was dead.” She looked at her husband. “I would.”

Broderick lay a hand on her shoulder, his voice gruff with feeling. “You aren’t the only one who’s worried sick, Rose. He’s my son, too. And Grayson’s only brother.”

“Grayson!” She stepped away from her husband’s touch, her eyes narrowed on her older son. “I suppose you’re satisfied now.”

“Rose.” Broderick reached out for her. “Stop this.”

“Why? Why should I stop?” She drew back, her face twisted with pain and rage. “It isn’t fair. Fleming is my whole life. My beautiful, talented son. Everyone knows that it’s so. And now his reputation is being destroyed by these vicious, evil rumors of beer gardens and drinking whiskey. Why?” Tears spilled over, streaming from her eyes. “Why would anyone say such a thing about Fleming? Oh, why did he leave me? He never should have gone away.” She jabbed a finger in Gray’s chest, then doubted her fists and began pummeling him. “Why did it have to be Fleming? Why? Why? Why couldn’t it have been you?”

In the stunned silence that followed her outburst, Gray grabbed her wrists, stilling her movements. His eyes were as dark as thunder.

Like one who’d been clubbed, Broderick stumbled across the room and slumped into a chair, staring at his wife with a look of horror and revulsion, unable to believe the words that had come from her lips.

Fiona pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

Without a word Gray released his mother and walked to the backdoor where he retrieved his coat and boots. He walked out the door without looking back.

As the door slammed behind him, Fiona turned away and fled to her room to hide the bitter tears that were scalding her eyes.

* * *

Just before dawn Broderick was sipping his tea in silence, while Rose sat across from him at the table, looking pale and drawn.

Fiona hadn’t managed any sleep. She’d huddled in her bed, listening in vain for the sound of Gray’s footsteps on the porch.

Where had he gone? Was he out there somewhere in the bitter cold, too proud and too battered to return to the shelter of his home? And what of his poor shattered heart? For surely his heart must have been slashed to pieces by the hateful words flung in anger by his mother. What son could endure such pain from the one who’d given him life?

“Tea, Miss Downey?”

She glanced over at Broderick, who looked suddenly old and drawn. “Thank you, no. I couldn’t manage a drop.”

She laced her boots and was busy pulling on her coat when she heard a horse’s hooves. Without realizing it she clutched a hand to her heart, whispering a prayer that it would be Gray. As if in answer, he stomped up the porch and stepped into the kitchen.

For one long moment he looked at her, before looking away. But in that brief second she saw, not defeat, but something very like pride and fierce determination.

Broderick scraped back his chair and stood, laying a hand on his son’s sleeve. “I’ve been worried.”

“No need.” Gray carefully removed his boots and hung his coat. “I’ll stay only long enough to pack my things.”

“Your things?” Rose shot him a challenging look. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He ignored her, choosing instead to address his words to his father. “It’s time I made my own way. I’ve bought Herman Vogel’s farm. I made him an offer last night, and he accepted. He said as soon as he can make arrangements, he’ll leave to join his daughter. In the meantime, I’ll move in and give him a hand with whatever he needs.”

Broderick nodded. “You chose well. He has a fine, sturdy house. Rich soil. It’s a good farm. All it needs is someone to work it.”

“And what about this farm?” Rose was on her feet now, slamming down her cup for emphasis. “How are we supposed to survive with Fleming missing and no one but a crippled old man left to work the land?”

Gray saw his father wince at his mother’s cruel choice of words. “Don’t worry, Papa. With my farm adjoining yours, I’ll be able to plow and harvest your fields along with my own. You know I would never desert you.”

“I know, son. This is the right thing to do. You deserve a place of your own. A chance to follow your own dream.” Broderick surprised them both by drawing an arm around Gray’s neck and drawing him close to mutter thickly, “You have my blessing.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Gray kissed his father’s cheek before walking out of the room and up the stairs.

When Fiona left for the schoolhouse, Rose was slamming pots and pans around the kitchen, while Broderick stood by the window, staring off into the distance.

A short time later, as Fiona drew near the school, she saw a horse and wagon heading across the field toward the Vogel farm. Running alongside was Chester, the sound of his baying shattering the morning silence.

She knew that she ought to feel happy for Gray. He would finally be free of his mother’s constant harping. Free of the hateful comparison between himself and his brother. Free, finally, to build something all his own.

It was pure selfishness on her part, she knew, but the joy she ought to feel for him was marred by the knowledge that she would no longer be able to see him, sleepy-eyed, brooding, first thing in the morning, or to watch him, sleeves rolled and shirt straining across his shoulders as he washed before supper each night.

How would she bear not hearing his voice? Not seeing those big, work-roughened hands wrapped around a cup of tea after a day in the fields?

She wanted to be happy for him, and was, she told herself firmly. But as she began another round of morning chores, her poor, battered heart refused to cooperate.

Q
uiet as a tomb.

Fiona shivered at the thought. Grief seemed to surround the Haydn house like a shroud. If she’d found the loneliness difficult before, it was now oppressive. Without Gray to act as buffer, his parents rarely spoke, except when it was absolutely necessary.

At first she’d tried to break the uncomfortable silence at the supper table with talk of her day. She’d shared little stories of her students, of their misadventures and silly pranks. Gradually she realized that no one was listening. Not Broderick, who ate quickly and silently, before fleeing to the parlor, where he sat in front of the fire smoking his pipe and staring morosely into the flames. Not Rose, who more often than not shoved her plate aside and busied herself at the stove until the others were driven away, leaving her alone with her gloom.

Though both their sons had left them, their ghosts remained, separating these two lonely people into prison cells from which there seemed no escape.

As Fiona made her way through the parlor to her room, Broderick looked up and removed the pipe from his mouth. “Days are getting longer.”

She glanced at the lace-covered window, surprised to see the sun just setting. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’ll be spring soon.”

“Spring.” She spoke the word on a sigh.

“Sick of winter, are you?”

She nodded. “It seems to last much longer here in Paradise Falls.”

“In all of Northern Michigan.” He stretched out his long legs toward the fire and crossed one foot over the other. “Got time to sit a spell?”

“I guess I could.” She settled herself in the big overstuffed chair beside his, grateful for the warmth here in the parlor.

“What was winter like in Bennett.”

“It could be cold and snowy, but not as much as here. I’ve never seen this much snow before. Mountains of it.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Good for snowshoes. This was a mild winter compared to some.”

“Mild?” She looked over to see if he was serious.

“My father used to say, beware a mild winter. It pays a call in springtime with a vengeance.” He blew out a. puff of smoke and watched it curl toward the ceiling. Then he looked at the pipe in his hand, studying the intricate carving on the bowl. His tone grew thoughtful. “Grayson was named for my father. He’s a lot like him—good with his hands. An artist, I suppose, in his own way. Keeps his thoughts to himself. Strong as a mule, and just as stubborn. Loyal—if he gives his word, he’ll never take it back.” He paused a beat, speaking more to himself than to her. “I miss him.” He looked up, and seemed surprised to have revealed so much. “I sense that you do, too.” Fiona swallowed. “I do. Yes.”

“Well.” He set the stem of the pipe between his teeth and turned to stare at the fire, lost in thought.

He never even seemed to notice when Fiona left him alone to go to her room. Once inside she turned down the bed linens and drew the draperies against the cold night air that whistled past the panes. She undressed and slipped into her nightgown before removing the pins from her hair. As she ran a brush through the thick curls she thought about Broderick’s question. She’d answered him simply enough, but it hadn’t nearly conveyed her true feelings. There were times when she ached to simply see Gray’s face. To feel those dark eyes skimming over her, sending her heart into that quick dance it always took whenever he looked at her. She longed to reach out and touch that lock of hair that constantly spilled over his forehead in the most appealing way, to hear his voice—low, gruff, terse. To watch the softness that came into his eyes, into his voice, when he cupped Chester’s head between those big hands.