Be Still My Soul: The Cadence of Grace, Book 1 (36 page)

“It’s a cold one.”

Owen smiled. “Sure is.” He extended a chapped hand. “We ain’t met proper, I suppose.”

They shook hands. “Suppose not.”

“It’s cold as the dickens, but Pa’ll have my hide if I don’t help you, so let’s get to it.” Owen stepped into the shed and, without ceremony, Gideon followed. The air inside was as cold as the yard, but it smelled like sweet apples and sawdust.

Owen hissed through his teeth, “It’s freezin’!” A shudder rumbled through his shoulders. “If I remember right, we have some shingles around here somewhere.” He lifted the corner of a stained canvas, and a waterfall of dried apple leaves tumbled to the ground. A stack of crates filled with tools poked out from beneath, and Owen moved to raise the other corner of the stiff, sleeping canvas.

“Here they are.” He tossed the canvas back, and together they rolled it up. “Pa split these last year, but we never got much further. A couple of the hands came down with somethin’—I can’t remember what it was. Anyway, they couldn’t work for a couple of weeks and it set us back. Long story short”—he picked up a handful of shingles—“here they are.”

Gideon lifted a smooth shingle and turned it in his hand. “I suppose we ought to get on up there and strip off the old ones.”

Walking across the slick roof proved to be difficult. Being a few years older and the hired hand, Gideon felt responsible to see that he took on the more dangerous position. Still, Owen’s skill with a hammer was impressive, and the younger man kept up an equal pace. They spent the morning working side by side, peeling off shingles and laughing about stories from years past.

Owen chuckled. “Should have seen the look on Pa’s face.”

“I hope he fired him.” Gideon tossed a shingle to the ground.

“Oh, you bet he did.” Owen tugged on his hammer and freed a rusted nail. His laughter faded, and he wiped his nose with a gloved finger. His face sobered when he sat back on his heels. “Say, Gid, what brings you out this way? If you’ve got a wife and son, why don’t you get a job near them? Why come so far?”

Gideon tugged on a shingle, and when it snapped in two, he tossed the pieces to the ground. “I would if I could.” He set his hammer down long enough to scoot sideways, and brittle splinters scratched at his pants. “She wants nothin’ to do with me.”

Owen dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

Gideon held up a hand. “Don’t be.” He snapped another shingle loose. “I wish it weren’t this way. But it is. I’ll send her all I earn.”
Then maybe she’ll know how much I love her
.

The dinner bell rattled, and Mrs. Jemson hollered through the fog. “Soup’s on!”

They needed no further encouragement to climb down, and with noses inches away from steaming bowls, they made little conversation. Mrs. Jemson slid a plate of hot cornbread in front of Gideon, and he glanced up. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Looks like you boys are getting a lot done out there today. Tal will be glad when that job’s done.”

“I think we will too.” Owen dunked his bread into the thick broth. “It’s too cold out there today to be up on a roof. That job should have waited until spring. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

“Mine.” Gideon smiled as he chewed. “I was just trying to convince your pa to give me work.”

“Well, thanks for dragging me along.” Owen licked a drop of honey off his finger and shoved the last bite of cornbread in his mouth. When spoons scraped empty bowls, he scooted his chair back. “Ready?” he asked, his mouth still half full.

Tossing down his napkin, Gideon stood. “Why not. Let’s get this done and over with.”

They worked until the mist cleared and a burning sunset glittered through a wall of leafless trees. It reminded Gideon of a familiar lace hem. His fingers moved together involuntarily as if remembering the feel of the fabric in his hands. His chest burned with a yearning that would never be satisfied.

The supper bell drove them indoors. Chilled through and ravenous, he ate what Mrs. Jemson placed in front of him, then said good night, wanting to use the last of the light to make his way to the bunkhouse.

He sat on his bed and stared at nothing. He made marks on the
grungy floor with the heel of his boot. After pulling his mandolin from its sack, he tuned the strings and indulged in a few strums—a song not quite forming—before setting the still vibrating instrument aside. Bending over, he yanked his laces free, and two boots banged against the wall as he kicked them loose.

With a grunt, he lay down and pulled his feet onto the bed. He tugged a worn quilt over his body and shivered. He stared at the bunk overhead, and he thought about lighting his pipe but didn’t have a match.

The room dimmed as day gave up its last breath. The silent sigh drew his eyes to the window.

Grateful for the darkness, Gideon let his mind wander home. Images of the people he loved danced in his mind. Taunting him. He wished he could reach out and hold them. But he could no more will them into reality than he could brace his back beneath a setting sun.

When the pain proved too sharp, he closed his eyes and begged for the mercy of sleep.

Lonnie slid the bedroom window open and peered into the damp yard. A surprise rain had washed away most of the snow, leaving the musty scent of blackened oaks and matted leaves behind. The cold stung her cheeks, and as the frigid air filled her lungs, she scanned the yard, finding it as empty as the day before. The snap of pine splitting in two no longer echoed from the chopping block, and the familiar creak of the barn door never brought Gideon into view.

She leaned against the cold window frame and pressed her temple to the trim. Her cried-out eyes did not have to search hard to find the
small cross at the edge of the clearing. She swallowed and looked away.

When Jacob stirred, she bounced him gently. His tiny nose had turned rosy, and Lonnie stepped away from the window. As she paced the floor, urging him to sleep, she looked into the face of her son.

And thought of his father.

Where is he?
Her heart lurched, unbridled.
Lord, keep him safe
.

The image of Gideon’s battered face held fast in her mind, but it was her words that struck her afresh. Tired of replaying the horrid events, she rubbed her eyes and willed herself to think of something else—anything else. Jacob let out a soft sigh and nestled in the crook of her arm. It was hopeless. Just looking into his tiny face made her think of the man she had loved.
Still
loved. Her heart broke afresh as it did every time, and Lonnie reminded herself that this was the best way for her son.

She stopped her pacing and sank into the rocking chair with all the heaviness she felt in her being. Even if she wanted to find Gideon, she had no idea where he was. With Jacob so weak and still nursing, she could not take him with her, nor could she leave him behind. And where would she go? Where would she begin? Lonnie tightened her arms around her son. She could scour the mountainside, but he might not have even stayed in Virginia. The thought sent a fresh burst of fear through her.

She pushed the rocker forward and then tugged the curtains farther back. The room brightened.

Once again, Lonnie prayed for Gideon’s safety. She prayed that he would one day find peace with God. She looked out the window. He was somewhere out there. Yet “somewhere out there” didn’t feel like enough. Not when she had a lifetime to share.

K
eep it up, boys. We only got a little bit of daylight left!” Tal looked down through the branches of a Jonathan tree and nodded at the setting sun. “Let’s get this row finished.”

Gideon gathered up another armful of branches and carried the awkward load to the wagon. Yanking off his leather gloves, he let his hands cool and studied the work still to be done. He wondered how many hours it would take to prune sixteen acres. After weeks of work, he wondered how many more it would take for the ache in his chest to yield.

Owen brushed past him, his arms full. “Hey, it ain’t break time.”

Gideon slid his gloves back on. “At a dollar and a quarter a week, I’m entitled to a break now and then.”

After tossing an armload of branches into the wagon, Owen stooped to pick up stray twigs. “I ain’t gettin’ paid at all, so don’t tell me you need a break.”

Gideon knelt and snagged a branch at his feet. “Are you sayin’ that this orchard—all these fields—won’t be yours someday?”

Owen chuckled and punched Gideon’s shoulder. Tal jumped down from his ladder and tossed his saw into the wagon. “That’s it.” He
stooped to help clear the ground of trimmings. “Good work, boys. Couple more days of this and we’ll be finished.”

After folding up the ladder, Gideon lifted it into the wagon, then climbed up. He’d pruned enough branches to last a lifetime. He wondered how Tal and Owen did it year after year.

The wagon lurched forward, and Gideon clutched the side to steady himself. “Sure is a lot of work.”

The mules leaned into the weight of their load as the wagon arched over a small hill. Tal glanced back. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. Wait until you see the apple harvest. It’s a beautiful sight.” He inhaled the evening air as if it were already late summer. “The sweet scent of apples warming in the sun. Plucking ripe fruit from their stems. Sliced apples over hotcakes. Cider and pie. There ain’t nothing better than harvest time.”

Gideon shrugged.

The side of Tal’s mouth cocked up in a grin. “It suits
you
well enough. I ain’t had many men work as hard as you, and if I’m not mistaken, I’d say apple farming may be in your future.”

“Not me.” Gideon leaned against the back of the wagon seat and crossed his feet one over the other.

“Why not?” Owen slapped his glove against Gideon’s shoe. “You could get yourself a couple of acres and start a real nice farm. Settle down, raise a family—”

Tal shot him a look.

Owen pursed his lips and fell silent. When Tal cleared his throat, Owen spoke up. “Gid, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Gideon picked up a twig and slid it between his lips, elbows on knees. “Don’t worry about it.”

They traveled the rest of the ride in silence.

The wagon slowed in front of the shed, and Gideon hopped out before it stopped. Tal called after him, but he just waved. He wasn’t as hungry as he had thought. The ground was a quilt of mud and snow patches, and he trudged through the muck toward the bunkhouse.

He lit a fire and sat on the ground near the small stove. The fire crackled and popped. The wind that sneaked beneath the door blew dried leaves around the dusty floor.
Settle down. Raise a family
.

There was a time when that was the last thing he’d wanted. But he had taken his blessings for granted. When he felt warm enough, Gideon pushed himself to a stand and settled down at the rickety table. He fiddled with the piece of paper Mrs. Jemson had given him. He asked for it so he could send word to Lonnie. But it had been a foolish idea. He stared at the white page. He had nothing to write.

“Knock, knock.” Tal’s baritone filtered through the bunkhouse door.

“Come in.”

Tal stepped in, pulled his hat off, and glanced around the single room. “You’ve tidied things a bit.” He nodded a clear approval. “Place looks good.”

“Thanks,” Gideon said, his mind in another place.

As if Tal noticed, he pulled out a chair and sat across from him. He rested his hand on the table and tapped his thumb as if unsure where to begin. “Somethin’s eatin’ you up, ain’t it, son?”

Gideon drew in a slow, measured breath. He realized there was no sense in pretending, so he simply nodded.

“My guess is that it has to do with that wife and son of yours.”

He nodded again. Then, like a dagger, Lonnie’s words pierced his heart.
Get out!
He remembered the pain in her eyes and hung his head.
I never want to see you again!
Could he blame her?

“Well, I’ve got something to say to you. I don’t talk about this hardly with anyone.” Tal settled deeper into his chair. “But there’s a time and place for everything. And if someone can learn from my mistakes, then I’d be grateful.”

Gideon lifted his head.

Tal turned his face to the window, and his eyes seemed distant. Gideon understood the sight—remembrance. “Not long after Owen was born, I did somethin’ stupid.” He glanced at Gideon, his face somber. “Really stupid. And I almost lost everything.”

Gideon ran fingertips over his mouth, his unshaven jaw scratchy.

“But I did what needed to be done. I humbled myself. And my wife, God bless her, was more woman than I deserved.” He leaned back in his chair, a smile lifting his mustache. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did.” He tapped a fist in the center of the table. “Don’t let this one get away.”

“I don’t want to, sir.” Gideon’s throat was so tight the words were barely a whisper.

“Then what’re ya sittin’ around here for?” His smile bloomed into a full grin.

When Gideon didn’t know what to say, Tal rose, squeezed his shoulder, and reached for his hat. “Hate to lose you, son. You’re one of the best workers I’ve had.” He stepped into the gray light of dusk. “But think on it.” The door closed softly.