My Hope Is Found: The Cadence of Grace, Book 3 (23 page)

With half his sandwich left, Toby leaned against a tree and crossed one ankle over the other. “This is good, Elsie.” He took another bite and chewed in silence. “Thank you.”

Elsie flashed them a smile as she strode away.

Gideon started on his second half, his fingers stiffening in the cold.

“Why an orchard?” Toby asked.

Gideon pretended not to hear him. After a few moments of being watched, Gideon sensed the man would wait for the answer. Fine, then. “It’s something I’ve thought of doing for a while now.”

The Mason jar flashed in the sun when Toby downed the last of his tea. He set the jar on his knee. Waiting.

What was this? “You know, on second thought, it’s not really your concern.”

“Fine. Fair enough.”

Fair enough. It was none of Toby’s business. None of his business what Gideon did with his life. His family. Gideon picked up a massive root and hurled it toward the pile. An orchard? Because it’s all he had. For Lonnie and Jacob. All he had to give them.

To leave to them. For everything he read in Judge Monroe’s words suggested that his chance to be with them was slimmer than either of them had imagined. Because Cassie was gone. And the judge was having a mighty hard time finding her.

In his side vision, Gideon saw Toby stand.

This was killing him. Slowly, surely, killing him. An orchard? Because he needed to know that they would be all right. That they would be cared for. Even when he could not. Everything rising back up inside him, Gideon tamped it down, forcing his anger to scatter. He couldn’t go there again.

Gideon motioned to Toby’s face, the flesh flanking his nose badly bruised. “I’m sorry I did that.”

Toby nodded an acceptance. “And I apologize as well. I’m equally at fault.”

It wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Rising, Toby grabbed a shovel and got back to work.

The children’s spirited laughter filled the air. A sound as old as time.

Sitting on the steps, Lonnie watched Addie play with Jacob in the yard. Lonnie slid to the side when Gideon walked over with a box of tools. Jebediah was just a few steps behind.

She remembered Elsie’s words as Gideon set the box beside her.

“He was worth loving.”

Yes, he was. But in moments like this, everything she knew and loved about him seemed buried under the weight of his actions. She knew what a broken heart felt like—and the sadness she felt this morning was born of the same seed.

“Am I in your way?” she asked softly.

“No. Not at all.”

Eyes down, Gideon shuffled through the box, then moved to the banister and fingered the broken wood. He softly shook his head. Lonnie watched him crouch down and study the damage, wondering if he was recalling all he’d done.

Finally, he looked at her. “I’m so sorry, Lonnie. I shouldn’t have done this. I have no excuses.”

No. He didn’t.

He moved back to the box and pulled out a saw. Addie picked up Jacob and carried him over to the little wagon that sat on the side of the barn. Saw in hand, Gideon worked it slowly against the broken banister. Jebediah went into the house, leaving the door ajar.

“You have every right to be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you. Not anymore,” she said.

He looked at her.

“I’m sad for you.”

The saw idle in his hands, he rolled his shoulder. Finally, he nodded. The splintered wood shook as he cut it free. The broken piece fell at his boots, and he picked it up. She wondered what he saw. If he saw the pain he’d inflicted on Toby.

A muscle flexed in his jaw.

Lonnie slid her hands into her apron pockets. He sat beside her, the piece of wood still in his hands.

“What are you going to do?” she finally asked.

“Carve a new piece.”

She smiled softly. “I know that, Gid. I mean about Toby.”

Thumb tracing along the fresh cut, Gideon stared at the broken spindle. Jebediah stepped back out, and they leaned away so he could plod down the stairs.

Turning the wood in his hands, Gideon watched the older man pick through the box of tools. “There’s something that I need to tell you.” Gideon’s words were near her ear. “I should get back to work, though.” Rising, he reached for his saw, then looked back at Lonnie. “We’ll talk. As soon as you have a quiet moment to spare.”

With no moon shining in through the inky black window, Lonnie sat on the edge of the sill. The room around her was dim save a single candle burning on the nightstand. Addie and Jacob were fast asleep; Jebediah and Elsie, long since turned in. Lonnie had thought about going to bed herself, but her nightgown lay idle in her lap.

For sleep was hard to find.

She’d tarried as long as she could, scrubbing her face at the washstand until her cheeks were pink. She unplaited her hair only to run a brush through it more times than necessary. She thought of Gideon. She thought of Toby. Her thoughts as tangled as a web, she finally sat, knowing that there would be no unraveling them tonight.

A glance into the dark night, and she could picture Gideon in the barn. Was he cold? Was he comfortable? She longed to sit and talk as they once had. But those days were gone. Lonnie fiddled with the sleeve of her nightgown, finally setting it aside, her thoughts anywhere but in this room.

With a sigh, she let her head rest against the window. The glass against her back was so cold, Lonnie found herself rising. She moved toward the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, she tugged off the top blanket, folded it
quickly, and stepped from the bedroom. The hallway was dark. Not wanting to disturb Jebediah or Elsie, she tiptoed down the stairs in a series of creaks and groans from the floorboards.

Nearly breathless, she grabbed the lantern from the kitchen and lit it. She almost stopped to think about what she was doing, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to. What she wanted was to see Gideon. And for too many months, she’d been denied that. The thought of him so near all but pushed her toward the door. Her shawl was on its peg, and she threw it over her shoulders before slipping out into the night, the air grabbing her in its icy hands. She shivered.

With quick feet, she hurried to the barn, not liking the dark or how alone it made her feel. Her unbound hair whipped as she nearly ran across the yard. Her hand found the barn-door latch, and she hesitated briefly. What was she doing? Barging in on Gideon like this. Unexpected. A part of her felt it was wrong, but with the blanket pressed to her chest and an unnamed desire thudding beneath it, she pulled the door open.

A soft glow met her, and she spotted Gideon immediately. Sitting cross legged on a blanket, he held a book in his lap. His head shot up when the door opened. Chest heaving, Lonnie blushed beneath the shift in his face. A surprise—an intensity that nearly took her breath away.

“Lonnie.”

“I-I brought you a blanket.”

“Thank you.” His book closed and he rose. He still wore his boots, but his wrinkled shirt hung in untucked folds around his waist.

Standing in the entryway, she was unsure of what to do. “I … I …” She glanced around nervously. “H-here.” The blanket unfolded when she thrust it toward him.

Kneeling, Gideon gathered it up. His green eyes glanced up at her, an impish grin on his face. “Developed a stutter, have we?”

Lonnie pursed her lips. Heat rose from her toes to her ears. He stood to his full height, shadowing her. The lantern all but shook in her hand. Her other caught the tangles her hair had become, collecting them best she could.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

She could tell he meant it.

“I should never have done that to Toby. It was uncalled for. I truly am sorry. I won’t do it again. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

Raising the blanket ever so slightly, he gave her a soft nod. His voice was tender. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s a cold night.”

He nodded, still standing close. Much too close.

Her heart was jumping in her chest, demanding her attention. Lonnie pressed a palm there. Gideon took the lantern from her and turned it off, his own burning brightly from the near stall. Feeling more a fool with each passing moment, she glanced around. The animals were bedded down or eying her sleepily. The air felt still, quiet. “You’re reading,” she said dumbly.

He smiled. “I do that from time to time.”

Straw crinkled underfoot as she stepped forward. In one blink, she took in his makeshift home. The narrow stall. The fresh, golden straw. A plaid blanket spread over his bedroll, his things scattered around. He knelt, picked up the book, and set it on his jacket.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it.

“Don’t start stuttering again. It’s just to sit.” His grin disarmed her. “See.” He reached for a crate. “I’ll sit here.” He straddled it. “Like this. And
you”—he gestured toward the soft plaid folds—“can sit there.” With a broad hand, he motioned to the space between. “Perfectly innocent.”

It was impossible to fight her smile, so she didn’t. It felt good. This being here. With him. Smoothing her dress beneath her, she sat and pulled her feet in. Her palm slid up the buttons of her boots to the top of her ankles. She pressed her other hand into the humble cot. Smoothing the wool, she was glad he was somewhat comfortable here in the barn.

The side of his mouth quirked up. “Are you asking me to sit by you, Lonnie?” He made a
tsk
sound, then winked.

Picking up his book, she fought the urge to throw it at him. “You hush.” Her smile deepened. “Or I’m gonna leave.” But she didn’t want to. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Straightening, his expression sobered. But his eyes were bright. “I’ll be good.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.

The book in hand, she read the title page. “James Fenimore Cooper.” Her eyes flicked to his face. “I confess, I’m surprised.”

He chuckled. “I
can
read, Lonnie. I just choose not to—almost all the time.” He nodded toward the book in her hand. “Mrs. Jemson gave it to me. It helps pass the time. I have no idea what he’s talking about, though. Probably because I skip the big words.” He grinned, and she could tell he was teasing.

Lonnie drew in a deep breath, holding it. Savoring the warmth she felt sitting here with Gideon. Her shawl slipped from her shoulder, and she pulled it back into place. “Maybe I will borrow it when you’re done.”
Do you really want to talk books, Lonnie?
No. She didn’t. But it felt so safe. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She studied the page he’d been reading, but the words didn’t register. Not with him watching her. Or his pillow nestled against her hip. It struck
her hard that she shouldn’t be here. Not alone with him. Not when she felt afresh just how much she cared for him, leaving nothing but memories in its wake. Memories she’d locked away.

And for good reason.

Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Her nerves suddenly akilter, she ran her fingers through her hair, thinking that if she focused on unraveling the tangles, her heart wouldn’t pound so.

From the corner of her eye, she watched his heel bounce, slowly at first. Then quicker. Lonnie glanced up. His face had grown so serious, she felt her jaw drop a little. He ran his palms down his thighs. Something had shifted. Was he nervous? Senses heightened, she adjusted her ankles, still crossed. She really shouldn’t be here. The guilt that had pricked her conscience pounded now. He was too close, and his company felt too right.

“I should go,” she blurted. She rose and his gaze followed.

When she stepped from the stall, he made no move to stop her. He sat on his crate. Keeping his distance. Finally, he looked at her. A yearning had flooded his eyes, all humor gone. “Good night, Lonnie.” His tone was reined in. Fighting something. His pain hit her, and Lonnie realized her mistake. She shouldn’t have come here.

Guilt pierced her, and Lonnie stepped closer to the door. She grabbed her lantern, realizing it was out. Hesitating, she nearly stepped into the dark, but Gideon voiced her name. She halted, her chin to her chest.

“I have a match,” he said, his tone a brick wall in front of his heart.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He rose, shuffled among his things, and stepped toward her. “Here.” He took the lantern and set it on the ground between them. Kneeling, he struck a match and, with a turn of the knob, lit the wick. He stood and passed her the lantern. She gripped the handle, but he didn’t release it. They stood there, fingers touching, neither of them moving. Her heart raced.

Braving a glance up, she watched his eyes rove her face.

“I should go,” she said again. But before she could move, his hand found the base of her neck. His grip was gentle, and he leaned forward. His lips nearly brushed hers, and Lonnie tensed. He froze. Their foreheads touched. His eyes squinted closed so tight she sensed the battle within him. He turned his head to the side and let out a breath. Releasing her, he moved back.

“Sorry.” His throat worked. Turning, he stepped away from her. “I’m so sorry.” His voice was so distant, she sensed he wasn’t speaking to her.