Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) (15 page)

Tierney was learning so much. It had been a whole new experience to take the tender young cucumbers, slice a quart of them, add a cup of vinegar, a cup of water, a cup of sugar, and a tablespoon of salt, and set them aside, to “marinate,” as Lydia said. The succulent treat was tantalizing to starved taste buds.

“Soon as the sweet onions are big enough,” Lydia had said, directing Tierney in the process, “we’ll slice one or two and add them. That’s really special. When we eat these tomorrow,” she concluded with satisfaction, “we’ll have a quick pickle. More of a relish, I guess. Anyway, they’ll be fine, and they’ll satisfy our hunger for fresh stuff. My mouth fairly waters to think about it.”

Finishing up her pancakes, Lydia suggested, “If you’ll mix up the bread before you go, my dear, it’ll probably be risen when Kay gets here, and I’ll have her do the punching down. I can get it in the pans and bake it, though you may be home by then. I know you love a slice of good, hot bread.”

Lydia spoke fondly, as to a beloved daughter of the family. “If you’ll buy some Roger’s Golden Syrup—we’re completely out, I see—you can have a treat fit for a king: syrup and hot, crusty bread. It’s as good, maybe even better, than the quick cucumber pickles.”

Tierney found her mouth watering. She had been in Bliss long enough to know that meals could be a horror or a celebration. “Especially in winter,” Lydia had told her. “Shut in as we are, mealtimes are high points, or they are if you have sufficient food. I guess even the oatmeal eaters look forward to mealtime . . . anything to break the monotony of a long, dark day. The family gathers together, sits up to the table, and solemnly—and often silently, especially if they’re specially hungry, maybe half-starved for certain things in their diet and they don’t recognize
it—and it’s almost a ceremony. Nobody turns up their noses at meals, in the bush and, I assume, on the prairie. I’ve never heard a parent have to tell a child ‘Clean up your plate!’ It’s done willingly, even happily, I suppose, if it’s all you have.”

“Well, I certainly have enjoyed my meals since I came to Bliss.” Tierney stated a fact; the food on the Bloom table was bountiful, though simple and somewhat limited as to variety. And with the garden coming on, the future—for mealtime—looked bright.

Tierney’s thoughts turned again to the proposed trip to the store, and though she loved the satisfying feeling of doing the shopping, she felt more than a little nervous about making a trip by herself. What if she met another rig on the narrow road? What if the horse shied? What if she got in a tight corner and couldn’t turn the buggy when she was ready to come home? What if the horse wouldn’t obey her commands?

Lydia seemed to recognize Tierney’s sense of unease.

“I think,” she said now, “it might be a good idea to have Quinn go along. After all, you need him for the heavy things—we should get a couple bags of flour, and those are one hundred pounds each. And he needs you along to pick out the assortment of staples and so on that I’ve got listed. Herbert never was any good at that sort of thing; I doubt if Quinn Archer is either. How those poor bachelors—Herkimer, Allan, Robbie, and others—manage, I don’t know.” Lydia shook her gray head over the undeniable ineptness of men to shop properly.

And so it was decided. Though Quinn was hard at work at a job Herbert had lined up for him, Herbert was too fond a husband to deny his wife her requests.

“Ahem!” Herbert said, having received Lydia’s request through Tierney, and Quinn’s busy hands quieted as he turned from the roll of fencing wire he was untangling, “the missus needs you to take Tierney to town. I don’t suppose,” he added, twinkling, “you’ll mind a little break. And I don’t suppose you’ll object to the company. Eh? Eh?”

“Not at all,” Quinn Archer said politely and went to his shack to clean up a little.

With list and money carefully stowed in her handbag, Tierney climbed—an old hand at it by now—up into the buggy, always unsteady for a moment while the springs righted themselves. The seat, less than two feet wide, accommodated her trim hips and the almost equally narrow build of the hired man. For Quinn Archer, a manly figure, was broad of shoulder and slim of hips, with capable hands, and with a fine face under a neat head of hair.

“Now then,” Lydia said fussily, tucking a portion of Tierney’s serge skirt up and away from the wheel, “you have the list . . . the money? All’s well, then. Remember, if you see something you know we need or are out of, and I haven’t thought to put it on the list, get it. Within reason, that is.” And Lydia smiled, calling her last few words after the buggy as Quinn slapped the reins on the horse’s broad bay back, chirruping a signal that the horse well understood and obeyed.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Tierney offered, looking around as they rode along, her tone hushed, and her words inadequate of course, for she hadn’t the ability to express the effect the bush had on her. Not only the green shroud but the blossoms it harbored and the fragrance it exuded. Not only the sky but the clouds that graced it, moving lazily to a rhythm of their own. Not only the countryside but the rough fence posts that bordered the fields, with meadowlarks perched on them here and there, the vivid green sprouts of grain laced across the black soil of the fields like stitches in a crazy quilt, the many sloughs that rippled and sparkled in the morning sun and frisky breeze.

“At home,” she explained, “we’d say it was all too muckle—much—to take in, to experience. Already,” she added softly, “I love it.”

“It’s easy to do,” Quinn agreed, settling himself more comfortably. “Especially at this time of year.”

“Lydia says it’s just as beautiful, in another way, at every season.”

“Yes, but it depends on your circumstances, whether you can bring yourself to appreciate it or not. If you’re freezing, for instance, with the cold whipping in under the door and around the windows, and you have to go out in the storm to chop wood, or milk cows, or feed chickens, you might have trouble celebrating the beauty of the snow. If your back is tired and your neck sunburned, you might not see the beauty of a big garden, at least at the moment you’re hoeing it.”

“I know,” Tierney admitted. “I haven’t gone through all the seasons yet, at least not here. I lived through a winter on the prairie, though. And winter on the prairie is worse than here, I ken.”

“We’re protected some, of course, by the very bush that frustrates us when it comes to clearing our land. But I haven’t lived through a Bliss winter, either. I’m not sure I’m looking forward to it. Still, I’ve chosen this area and plan to stick it out. One of these days I’ll have my own place; it’ll be home.”

“Our nearest neighbor, on the prairie, was aboot eight miles away. We dinna see anyone for days, maybe weeks, at a time.”

“Well, then,” Quinn said, quirking Tierney a small smile, “when you get ready to settle down—‘doon’ to you—it’ll be here in the bush, right?”

Tierney was quickly serious, her face gone still. “I dinna ken,” she answered quietly. “I don’t know. It would be hard, loving Bliss as I do, to leave. But—who knows where God will lead, or how He’ll work things oot.”

“Yes, who knows,” Quinn agreed. “It’s like that hymn said Sunday, remember—?”

“Lead on, O King Eternal,” Tierney quoted instantly,

“We follow—not with fears!

For gladness breaks like morning

Wher-e’er Thy face appears . . .”

“Aye,” she said, “I’m glad you reminded me of that. If I were a singer, like that bird over there warblin’ his heart out, I’d sing it for ye. But it’s true . . .”

Tierney’s thoughts were interrupted as a buggy appeared on a side road. The driver, a woman, was engrossed in handling the reins and barely had time to give them a nod before she, the horse and buggy, and two small boys made the turn onto the road ahead of Tierney and Quinn.

“Who lives doon that road?” Tierney asked. “I dinna remember seein’ her at church, do you?”

“No; and I think I’d remember. Wouldn’t you?”

And she would have. For the woman’s hair, spilling out a little from beneath a small hat, was thick and fair, her face was distinctively fine featured, well-molded in sharp but quite lovely lines, her form was slim and her movements graceful.

And the two little boys, as fair as their mother, as fine featured. Tierney could see them clearly over the ears of the horse. One was seated beside the woman, nothing but his blond thatch showing over the buggy back, and the other, bigger and older, was sitting in the box at the rear of the buggy, looking back, his feet dangling, his cap pushed on the back of his head, his eyes studying the Bloom buggy and Quinn and Tierney in particular.

Quinn raised his hand in a salute of sorts, and the boy quickly grinned and waved, saying something to his mother and to the other, smaller boy. That child turned himself around on the seat, climbed up onto his knees, and leaned on the back of the buggy seat, watching solemnly.

Even without catching a glimpse of the thin blue-veined hands on the reins, Tierney had no doubt about who was driving the buggy, two small boys accompanying her and the family dog trotting alongside.

Alice Hoy.

Pulling up in front of the general store and leaping out with characteristic vigor, Tierney turned to see Alice Hoy working her way off the buggy seat, between the wheels, stretching a foot to the iron step, and almost staggering when she made contact with the ground.

“Quinn,” Tierney said quickly as Alice reached a hand that could be seen—even at this distance—to tremble, toward the small boy standing in the buggy and holding out his arms to be lifted from the rig. “Quinn, could you help? I think that woman needs help getting that child down.”

“Of course,” Quinn answered quickly, after a glance in the direction of the other buggy, suiting action to words.

Quinn’s long legs took him to the Hoy rig in a matter of four or five strides.

“Here, let me help. C’mon, young ’un,” he said jovially and swung the tot up and over the wheels to the ground, where he immediately clutched his mother’s skirt with one hand, the thumb of the other going into his mouth and his big eyes staring up at the stranger.

“Thank you,” the woman said, a little breathlessly. “That was very . . . kind of you.”

“Glad to help,” Quinn said, only then removing his hat and giving his quaint and gentlemanly half-bow.

“Name’s Quinn Archer,” he said.

“I’m Alice Hoy,” the woman said, two bright pink spots on her cheeks adding considerable attraction to her face, unhealthy though they were.

Now
, Tierney thought,
if her eyes would sparkle, she’d be quite a beauty.
And she felt her heart pang even as she thought it.

But there was no sparkle in the eyes. The woman turned toward Tierney, waiting at the side of the Bloom buggy. “Your wife?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Quinn said, “though she’ll make someone a good one someday. This is,” and he included Tierney in his glance, and she could do nothing but move closer, smiling a tentative greeting, “Tierney Caulder—”

If Tierney had any doubts about the identity of the thin young woman, they were dispelled when Alice Hoy acknowledged the introduction with, “Robbie Dunbar’s friend from Scotland.”

“Reet . . . right,” Tierney murmured and wondered why it hurt to have that dear name casually spoken on the lips of this woman.

“These are my boys,” Alice Hoy said. “Barnabas—Barney, and Billy. Say hello, boys.”

“Hello”—brightly from the older boy Barney.

“Hewwo”—shyly from the little, half-hidden boy, not much more than a baby.

Together the three adults and two children moved toward the store. Alice hesitated at the step to the porch, and Quinn’s keen eye noticed, and his strong arm came out to help.

“Thank you,” she said again simply, her light blue eyes glancing up appreciatively, though perhaps with a little embarrassment. “I’m just fine, really. I haven’t been very well since the death of my husband, but I’m sure I’ll gain in strength any day now.”

It was a gallant, optimistic thing to say. Quinn’s eyes filled with sympathy.

While Tierney presented Lydia’s list to the man behind the counter, eventually taking a few turns around the store and the fascinating array of goods, Quinn loaded the sacks of flour, keeping an eye on the frail form of Alice Hoy the entire time. Medlin Stover, new proprietor of the Bliss store, and postmaster, talked all the time, getting acquainted with his customers, both Alice and Tierney, and offering the boys each a lemon drop.

“Mr. Stover,” Alice said finally, delicately, “would you be kind enough to check and see if I have any mail . . . especially packages?”

“Well, ma’am, I know right well you do,” the garrulous shopkeeper boomed, and Alice winced.

“I been keepin’ them for you for several days now,” he continued. “Faithful as you’ve been to send for ’em, I knew they was mighty important.”

Medlin was pawing through numerous items just behind the small glass partition sectioning off the post office from the store. “Yep, here they are!” And he produced and held up three identical packages. “The first one came a few days ago, then this ’un, then the last one. Looks like they are all in good shape. Nothin’ broken, I’m proud to say.”