Though My Heart Is Torn: The Cadence of Grace, Book 2 (4 page)

Mr. O’Riley knocked. Cassie nearly jumped.

Her pa paused, his hand hovering against the knob. His shoulders rose and fell in a single sigh. He opened the door and tipped his head. “Evenin’.”

Mr. O’Riley’s boots thudded into the fire-lit room. His hair was tidy, combed off to one side. “Evenin’,” he nodded cordially. His mossy eyes flickered over the dark space, landing on each member of the Allan family.

Cassie stepped back, stomach churning.

Her pa peered over his shoulder at his three sons. “Jack. Samuel. Eli. Outside.” Without complaint, they rose in a chorus of shuffling and whispers.

Her pa glanced back at his guest but nudged Eli in passing. “Take Libby with you.”

Libby’s eyebrows fell. “Do I have to—”

“Follow your brothers,” he demanded, his gaze suddenly finding Cassie. Anger sparked in his eyes for the briefest of moments. Though he tempered it well, she could see his frustration rising. This was taking
its toll on him. Made clearer in the lines of his face, the hunch of his shoulders. She glanced away before guilt could taint her conscience.

Cassie patted Libby’s hand, and the girl stepped toward the door. Gideon’s father moved aside, and she timidly squeezed past him. One by one, each of her siblings disappeared into the black night. As much as she longed to follow them, Cassie was too eager to hear what news Mr. O’Riley may have brought. She might have sat in the barn loft, watching the moon as the kittens frolicked in her lap, but as much as she would like it to, that wouldn’t whisk her back to her childhood. No, she was a child no longer, and she was about to pay the consequences for her actions.

Her heart beat away the seconds. Her pa closed the door.

He waved toward the fire and the empty chairs. “Have a seat.”

Nodding once, Mr. O’Riley crossed the floor and sat without a sound. Cassie’s parents locked gazes, and her ma hurried toward the unexpected guest. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Or some cider?”

He rubbed his palms together. “No thank you, ma’am.”

Her ma sat quietly, stained apron piled on her knees. She patted the chair beside her, and hesitantly Cassie sat. Her pa tugged a chair away from the table and sat at the head. He ran weathered hands over his face. Cassie shifted in her seat. He’d been so angry with her. And for good reason. Yet even through it all, she’d known the love of her father.

“I spoke briefly to Joel Sawyer several days ago.” Mr. O’Riley glanced at each face around the table. “And he sent word to Gideon just as you asked.”

Her pa nodded slowly and loosened his top button, his neck flushed and ruddy. He palmed the table, clearly hesitant. “I just wish we’d seen. Just wish we’d known.” His gaze, filled with disappointment, met hers. A father’s broken heart glistened in his eyes.

Cassie touched her locket, twisting it between trembling fingers.

Lonnie sat on the edge of the blanket, a pair of books tucked in her skirt. Jacob slept on his tummy beneath the broad maple where green leaves played with shades of orange and gold. His pudgy feet poked out from beneath the quilt, and his puckered lips and drooping cheeks told her he would not be waking anytime soon. Her finger skimmed the page of her book, then she flipped back several more.

Gideon sat beside her, their arms nearly touching as he tuned the eight strings of his mandolin. He shifted one leg out and pulled the other toward his chest. He played a nameless tune, a melody that changed with his mood. Though it always retained a beautiful sameness that she had come to love.

“What is that one called?”

“Called?” His hand slid up the fret board, fingers still plucking slowly.

“You’ve always played that song.”

His eyebrows pinched together, and he glanced down at the instrument pressed to his chest. “I dunno.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I’d say it’s the other part of you.” She nodded toward his mandolin. “The sound of that song is as much a piece of you as your voice.”

He ducked his head, smile deepening. Green eyes glanced back up to her. “Wanna know a secret?”

She wrapped her hands around her ankles, watching him.

“I never played this song before you.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “It’s yours and yours alone.” When she glanced away, he let out a laugh. “You’re blushing, Lonnie O’Riley.”

She slapped his leg with the back of her hand. “Well, when you tell a girl something like that, what do you think is supposed to happen?” She pressed her palms to her warm cheeks.

His chuckle deepened, and he tossed back his head. “I need to write you more songs, I see.”

After closing her book, she hit it against his arm. The other slipped from her lap.

“What is it that you’re doing over there, exactly?”

She held the book, spine out.
“The Art of Soap Making.”

“Don’t you already know?”

She tipped her head to the side and nodded, then smoothed her fingers over the tattered binding. “Elsie lent it to me a few weeks ago. There is so much I didn’t know. Different ways.” She cleared her throat as if she were a teacher in a schoolroom. “See this here?” She held up the page she had been reading. “It talks about makin’ soap out of goat’s milk. My aunt Sarah had planned on teaching me but never got the chance.”

“Ma used to have that on hand now and again.”

Lonnie nodded. “Yes. I want to try it next.”

“Sounds like you’re gonna need a goat.”

“What do I need a goat for? I have you—”

He snatched her behind the waist and, setting his mandolin aside, pulled her onto his lap. “Now, now. Here I write you a song and all you can do is make fun of me.” He kissed her. Jacob stirred, rubbing his little nose against the blanket before settling his head to the other side.

Lonnie wrapped an arm around Gideon’s shoulder and settled her forehead in the crook of his neck.

She heard his whispered “I don’t deserve you.” She started to speak, but when his sigh likened to contentment, filling her heart to overflowing, she simply kissed his temple. They sat that way until Jacob stirred again, nearly rolling off the blanket. Leaves clung to the folds of his small wool sweater.

Lonnie rose and plucked him up. She lifted her gaze to the distance. “Did you hear something?”

Gideon glanced up the well-worn path. “No”—he blinked—“wait, I do now.”

A harness jingled.

Rising on her tiptoes, Lonnie lifted her chin. “Think it’s Jebediah?”

Before Gideon could respond, Sugar’s brown head bobbed into view. Jebediah waved his walking stick overhead in greeting.

“Any news?” Lonnie asked.

Jacob squirmed in her arms.

“Plenty!” Jebediah called. Mule and cart drew closer. “Enough to keep you busy all evenin’.”

Gideon rose, brushed dust from his pants, and followed Lonnie toward the path. The older man dug in the top sack. Paper crinkled as he lifted a thick bundle, puckered with a knot of gray string.

“How was your trip?” Lonnie asked.

A tug on the knot and a dozen envelopes filled his hand. He offered
the stack to Lonnie. “Good. Real good.” He reached for Jacob, kissing the boy’s forehead. Jacob tugged on Jebediah’s beard as they walked on. “The nights were cold. Colder than I would expect for September.”

Lonnie clutched the mass of letters to her chest, shuffling through them as she listened to Jebediah. Her shoulder bumped Gideon’s, and he caught a few envelopes that slipped from her grasp.

“So what do we have?” Jebediah asked.

She straightened the pile. “Several for Elsie, one for Gideon.” Lonnie held out a crisp envelope. “And two”—she squinted as she read the script on the final letter—“make that
three
for me.” Her voice fell at the end, and she rubbed her thumb over a man’s scratchy, tangled scrawl.

Lonnie tiptoed up the stairs, Gideon on her heels. She nudged the squeaky door open, holding it so Gideon could duck inside. A sleeping Jacob was pressed to his chest. He laid the boy gently in his cradle, and Lonnie tucked his quilt around him. Used and well loved, the quilt had grown thin and faded from frequent washes and hours spent drying beneath the summer sun.

The sun glinted orange beyond the treetops, forcing Lonnie to light the lamp. She crawled onto the bed. Gideon shoved up the arms of his plaid shirt before following her lead. They lay on their stomachs, pillows tucked between elbows. Two pairs of boots crossed, ankle over ankle, and the dirt-caked soles bumped against the brass footboard.

“Elsie’d have a fit if she saw us like this,” Gideon whispered with a wink.

Lonnie lifted a finger to her sly smile.

Without ceremony, she passed Gideon his letter and broke the seal on her own. “We’ll read our own first, then we can switch.” She nearly buried her nose in the page.

Gideon ripped the end off the envelope, all but tearing his letter. He shook the envelope, and a handful of pages fell free. Lonnie peeked over his hand and saw his ma’s writing.

She turned back to her own letter, but when Gideon paused and
held his pages out, sliding a callused finger next to a word, Lonnie read it for him.
“Hopefully.”

“Thank you.” Gideon continued reading but within a few heartbeats held his letter out again.

Lonnie scrunched up her nose and stared at the crooked scrawl.
“Difficult.”

“Difficult,” Gideon repeated, then kissed her shoulder. More than once, either he or Lonnie laughed only to be quieted by the other. One by one, pages fell like autumn leaves to the floor.

“And this one?” Gideon pointed to another line.

“Certain,”
Lonnie read for him. She pressed her thumb to her lips.

“What’s the matter?”

She set down the last page. “I miss them. My ma. My brothers and sisters. They’re all growing up. And this is all I have of them.” She folded the paper. “It’s over so soon.”

“Yes, but”—Gideon reached over and tapped a rain-stained envelope—“you have another.”

“I do.” She accepted the wrinkled envelope. The dry, discolored paper crinkled between her fingertips. The light flickered, the room so quiet she could hear the sizzle of the oil lamp. Slowly, Lonnie unfolded the paper. She felt Gideon, his own letter discarded, watching her scan the one and only page. Scratchy, uneven writing rambled along the top of the yellowed paper. Lonnie’s eyebrows pulled together, and her lips sped along silently. She sat up; her hand flew to her mouth.

The bed creaked when Gideon sat up. “What is it?”

She thrust the letter into his hand. “It’s from my pa. I’ve never seen him write a letter a day in his life.”

Gideon skimmed the words.

“It’s Ma.” Shifting to the side, Lonnie gripped the quilt. “She’s ill. Who knows how old this is?” She flipped the letter over as if the answer were written on the back. “He doesn’t even say what’s wrong with her. It could already be too late.”

Despite everything that had happened over the years—the hurt and the heartache—Lonnie’s heart flooded with grief and sorrow for her ma.

Lonnie took the letter. “He said she doesn’t have much time. What could that mean?” She rose, her mind and heart racing as one. She saw her ma, standing at the stove, red hair coiled into a wiry bun. The same way she’d always been—sad eyes, hopeful words. A woman never fully loved. Lonnie’s heart broke anew for her mother even as she thought of her siblings all but fending for themselves. “He said that I should come as soon as I can.” The words shook on her lips.

Lonnie handed Gideon the letter again, eager to be rid of it. It took him a minute to read it. He set it on the faded quilt. Her pa’s misspelled words leaped off the paper:
Your ma ain’t got much time. I feer the worst. Better get yourself home. Don’t doddle, Lonnie. She’s in a bad way
.

“It may already be too late.”

“We’ll leave as soon as we can.” Gideon squeezed her arm.

She stood motionless, the weight of it all crashing about her shoulders. Gideon knelt, pulled the dusty pack from beneath the bed, and lifted it onto the heap of rumpled bedding.

“Lonnie.” Her name on his lips pulled her back. “We’ll leave at first light. You start packing our things; I’ll go ask Jeb if we can take the mule.”