“Well…” Linda blinked and thought about her alternative. It was two miles back to town where she could hear Mr. Morgan butcher the word “exemplary” again, at least until the newspaper came out and he learned another new word. Or she could hang around the jail and make everyone uncomfortable. Even the prisoners were discomforted by a young lady in the room. It didn’t allow them to spit and swear, or so her father informed her. Or she could go back to the schoolhouse and see about trying to put the nails back in that old rickety bookcase. She’d have to empty it entirely first.

  Or she could go home. Sarah wouldn’t have started dinner. She’d whine and beg until Linda took over.

  Which left really the only true alternative. Besides, she liked teaching. It was canning that she wasn’t overly fond of. Hours spent in a hot kitchen, with hot things boiling away on the hot stove.

  Finding a book and curling up in the cool shade of a tree suddenly seemed awfully appealing.

  But then Rachel would never learn. And who would ever teach her if not you? Her father? It’s not likely he knows the first thing about preserves.

  Linda sighed. “Alright child, how about I teach you all about preserves. What do you say to that?”

  Rachel’s round little face lit up like a bonfire on Christmas Eve. “Yes, ma’am! Thank you, ma’am!”

  Rachel stepped aside to allow Linda entry into the house, practically dancing as she led the way into the kitchen.

  It really was just that easy to get a smile out of her? Chagrined at her own hesitations, her own need to make excuses Linda followed, shamefaced and convicted. She too hadn’t been doing right by the child, only looking to do what was ‘enough’ without offering more. She truly had been ready to leave the berries on the porch and let that poor child deal with them alone. What kind of person was she?

  “Rachel,” Linda said, catching the handle of the basket before it overturned and spilled everywhere. “While we are in school, it is permissible and even expected for you to call me ma’am. While school is on break and we are alone, then you may call me Miss Addams. Is that alright with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Rachel said excitedly. Linda stood and blinked, trying to figure out if the girl was teasing her or not. It was hard to tell, as Rachel headed for the kitchen only the weight of the basket bumping on her knees kept the child from skipping down the hallway.

  She shook her head. She was in for a day, wasn’t she!

  A man living alone with a small girl… Linda prepared for the worst. Dirty dishes, unscrubbed floors, filth and neglect…

  Of everything she expected, there was none. The kitchen stood immaculate and pristine, as though it had never been used. The oven was cold, but there was a large stack of cut wood right beside it, ready for use. Baskets hung from the ceiling, one filled with fresh eggs, others with freshly pulled vegetables, though most things still needed another month or even two to ripen. It was a kitchen any mother or wife would be proud of.

  “My goodness,” Linda said, running her hands along one of the long counters. “This is a lovely room. Do you keep it clean?”

  Rachel nodded with the full body involvement that only the young can do. “Yes, ma’am, Poppa chops the wood and does the heavy stuff, but I cook, and I wash up too.”

  “That’s a lot for a child to take on, all by herself.” Linda’s thoughts went back to her poor little sister and her dreadful mission to cook a single meal.

  “I don’t mind.” Rachel said, hefting the basket carefully on the table. “It’s just Poppa and I, so it’s easy enough.”

  “Poppa and me,” Linda corrected.

  “Yes ma’am, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Well, why don’t we see what you have for the making of preserves, shall we?”

  A thorough search unearthed cook pots and utensils, but nothing in the way of jars or sealing wax.

  “I’ve seen some jars in the root cellar.” Rachel said, thoughtfully. “I think they were here when we moved in. Maybe that’s what you’re looking for? I think Poppa put them in a big box to get them out of the way.”

  “Might well be…” Linda thought and quailed at the thought of crawling under the house. But to her surprise, the ‘root cellar’ was set away from the house, a man-made cave dug into a hillock and fronted with a heavy wooden door. Instead of spiders and snakes and all sorts of things Amanda would try to make into a pet, it was clean and cool.

  There were open crates with potatoes and beets and dried beef, carefully wrapped in waxed papers. Rachel walked to the end of the cave and tugged at a large wooden box with the name CALVERT written on the side.

  There was a spider or two that scuttled off the crate and took refuge in the shadows. Linda was able to swallow her revulsion and hoped that the child hadn’t seen her wanting to scream. There was a metal crowbar laying nearby, left there expressly for opening crates, no doubt. Thankfully the box in question was one of the open ones. Sure enough, a few dozen glass jars lurked within, grey with dust.

  “Ah ha!” Linda cried when she found a cloth bundle that held lids and a large chunk of wax. “Well, this is indeed fortunate. How did you know this was here?”

  “I used to come here a lot,” the girl admitted, suddenly shy. “When I was sad, I mean. It was a… secret place.”

  Linda smiled and clasped the girl’s shoulder. “I had a secret place too,” she admitted.

  “Really?” Rachel brightened, “Where?”

  Linda looked back at the door and leaned way over. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again, looking around. She whispered. “I can’t tell you, it’s a secret!”

  Rachel had a charming laugh, full of light, and easy. It occurred to Linda that she hadn’t heard the child laugh too often. As she thought about it, she had to admit she’d never heard her laugh. That was a laugh she would remember, she smiled now just at the girl’s mirth.

  “That’s mean!” Rachel said through the giggles.

  “Well, I tell you what, you come by my house one of these days, and I will show you were my secret place is.” She bopped the girl’s nose with her finger. “Deal?”

  “Deal!” Rachel grinned.

  Chapter 8

  They spent the next hour pulling the jars out and washing them. Linda was reluctant to drag the crate into the house in case the spiders had relatives living with them, but they turned out to have been alone.

  “Alright!” Linda said, clapping her hands together at the sight of a dozen little glass jars all lined up, sparkling clean in the bright sun that poured through the kitchen window. “Let’s make a big mess, shall we?”

  “Yeah!” Rachel nodded, though she looked a little doubtfully at the jars.

  “Fire up the stove!” Linda ordered, “and let’s get the sugar… and oh, I brought you a secret ingredient.”

  Rachel looked at her blankly. “A secret?”

  Linda reached into her pocket and produced a little yellow fruit. “I read once that to add a little lemon juice makes the preserves hold their color, keeping them a pretty red. Last summer I found that this works, but I haven’t told anyone how I did it. My sisters have been driving me crazy to tell them what I did differently. I just about had Sarah convinced it was magic.”

  Rachel took the fruit from her, giggling. “I never had one before. I’ve had oranges though. At Christmas.”

  “They’re kind of like that, aren’t they? In how they feel. But they taste very different. Very tart. I’ll give you a taste when we cut it up.”

  Linda watched as the girl started the fire. She was well-practiced. She helped her with the wood, “the fire cannot be too hot, nor too cool, you need a consistent heat…” and the lemon squeezing “…not too much, this is just something you learn as you go, you’ll use too much or too little until you’re comfortable, but always err on the side of excess…”

  To her surprise, Linda found herself having fun. As often as she’d put up preserves, she hadn’t had fun at it like this since…

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked, her face an image of worry.

  Linda smiled at her, hoping she was reassuring the child. “Nothing my dear. I used to do this with my mother, and I suddenly missed her dreadfully.”

  Rachel looked at the pot on the stove and spoke quietly. “I didn’t ever do anything like this with my mother. I don’t remember her too very well at all. I guess more than missing her, I really miss having had one.”

  It was a heartbreaking statement. The little girl’s smile melted away from her face. In that instant, she became the closed off, sad little girl she’d had in her classroom. Thoughtful, Linda murmured, “Stir the pot, Rachel,” and wondered how one went about fixing a sadness like this.

  Rachel dug in and stirred the thickening sauce.

  “You’ve not had an easy go of it,” Linda said, hoping to prompt the girl into talking again.

  “Poppa’s been wonderful, and he and I get along really well, but sometimes…” Rachel shrugged and focused on the work. Linda looked after her for a long moment and felt her eyes begin to tear. She reached for more wood to keep the fire going and to mask her face should any fall.

  After a while, the strawberries looked just about perfect. “Now, take the spoon and skim off the top and we’ll pour it into the jars.”

  They finished and looked around. Eight glass jars sealed with wax stood proudly on the table. They looked perfect.

  The kitchen, on the other hand, was a ruin.

  Spatters of jam stained the counters and sink. The pot they’d used for cooking was still sticky and full of the dregs, while empty jars vied for space with used utensils, the large pot they’d used for the hot water batch, and a bowl of strawberries deemed too spoiled to use. A small cascade of spilled sugar dusted the table like winter snow, and strawberry tops were scattered everywhere, needing to be swept up and thrown out with the rest of the debris.

  “Oh my,” Rachel grinned mischievously, “we really did make a mess.”

  “Yes, I guess we did at that.” Linda sighed. This truly was not her favorite part of the job.

  The door slammed shut.

  “Rachel!” Tom Calvert called from the front room. “I hope dinner is ready, I didn’t get a chance to eat anything for lunch, so…” He trailed off when he saw that he had a guest. His face registered displeasure when he noted who the stranger in his kitchen was.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Linda cringed.

  He’s definitely still mad.

  “Mr. Calvert,” Linda stepped into a small curtsy. “I brought over some strawberries as… as an apology. Rachel said she had never put up preserves before, so I…”

  “I have never put up preserves either,” he said through clenched jaws. “I can’t very well teach her something I don’t know, can I?”

  “Certainly not…” Linda was flustered and confused, “but I just…”

  “Rachel, is dinner ready?” he demanded of the girl, but never took his eyes off Linda. There was no warmth in that gaze. Linda felt a sudden chill.

  “No, Poppa,” Rachel said in a small voice, “but the stove is hot, I can…”

  “Miss Addams,” Tom said, his tone colder than a January snow. “May I speak to you on the porch, please?”

  “I… certainly, sir.” Linda nodded and wiped her hands on her dress. She kissed Rachel’s forehead and strode straight-backed to the living room. She retrieved her bonnet and tied it before going out.

  I will not rush around like a frightened ninny just because Mr. Thomas Calvert is snapping out orders.

  When she stepped onto the porch, he grabbed her arm. Then looked at his hand as though he was surprised to find it there. He let go rapidly. Linda’s arm tingled where he’d laid his hand on her. Not that it hurt. In fact, she’d held a certain awareness that his hand had been there. Like an echo of an imprint upon the skin.

  She glanced down, wondering what would cause such a thing.

  “Miss Addams, I was under the misunderstanding that I had justified my life to you and your father adequately. Now, here I find you, attempting to feed my daughter, and pointing out other areas where my parenting has left gaping holes.”

  “Mr. Calvert, I…”

  “If you intend to rectify all the mistakes I’ve made with her, then you’ll have a lifelong work ahead of you, but I suggest getting a judge to order such an action.” He spoke louder to talk over Linda’s indignant sputtering, “Until that time, Miss Addams, you are on my land, in my house, and that,” he gestured to the kitchen, “is my daughter. Now I suggest you scurry if you plan to get into town before sunset!”

  “But…”

  “Good day, Miss Addams.” And Thomas Calvert shut the door in her face.

  “Well! Of all the… how dare… AH!” Linda cried out in wordless frustration and stomped her foot.

  And Linda Addams turned and did exactly what she was told to do.

  She went home.

  And that was the worst part of all.

  Chapter 9

  Thomas closed the door. He was proud of that. His instinct was to slam it shut, but he’d managed to close it quietly. For the most part. It might have shut a little more harshly than it would have otherwise, but it wasn’t a slam.

  He walked back to the kitchen and stopped at the door. Rachel was furiously going through every part of the kitchen, pulling out flour and eggs and lard, piling them on the table next to the sticky mess of jars. She was a deranged butterfly, moving from one task to the next, scrambling to get each job done. One moment she was sweeping the mass of dirty dishes into the sink, the next she had the door open to the oven and was trying to grab more wood and cram it into the open maw. Tears streamed down her face.

  Have I done this?

  “Rachel?”

  He’d startled her. She turned, and the misery in her eyes tore at his heart and stopped his breath. My God, she’s shaking!

  “I’m sorry, Poppa, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize it was so late and I didn’t have anything ready for you and me…” The tears that had drawn a line down her cheeks became a torrent, and her fragile features collapsed into a rictus of abject misery.

  He didn’t have to think about it. Thomas swept her up in his arms and slammed the oven door shut before the smoke could fill the kitchen. He dropped to one knee and held his little girl against him, the dirt and sweat and little scrapes from a day riding the fence all but forgotten. He buried his head in his daughter’s hair and made little reassuring sounds in her ear.

  The child was inconsolable. Her small hands grabbed his shirt and bawled into his chest, sniffling, weeping, smearing him with jam and flour and ash. She made sounds that had no meaning, but the one that did tore through him, and he felt his soul begin to bleed.

  “Mommy….” It was the only comprehensible thing she could work out as the sobbing wracked her body and clung tighter and tighter. Thomas held his child, trying to protect her, save her from the monsters of memory and confusion and trauma and knowing that he couldn’t. He couldn’t protect her from the past, from the world, from her legacy.

  He found himself weeping as he held her, crying because she was too small to bear the stress she felt, and he needed to help her, to ease the pain in any way he could.

  He scooped her up and carried her to a chair, setting her on his lap, covering her with his arms and resting his chin over her head. “Shhhh,” he whispered and began to rock back and forth on the chair. “it’s ok, honey, it’s ok…”

  Desperate, he cleared his throat and softly sang,

  “Sleep my child and peace attend thee

  All through the night

  Guardian angels God will send thee

  All through the night

  Soft, the drowsy hours are creeping

  Hill and vale in slumber sleeping

  I my loving vigil keeping

  All through the night.”

  Rachel pulled back and looked at him. Her face was a raw, red mess. “I remember that song,” she said softly, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “I sang it to you when you were a fussy little baby,” Thomas said, smiling at the memory. “You were fussy a lot, so you probably heard it many times over.” He bounced her once on his knee and said, “Did you know, that my mother used to sing me that song too, when I was sick or didn’t want to go to bed?”

  “Really?” Rachel looked impressed. “Wow, that’s an old song!”

  Thomas gave her an evil look, and she giggled a little, the tears already drying, his own little girl coming back to him. He was forgiven for being harsh, and he didn’t deserve it. What kind of monster came into the kitchen like that, scaring a child so that she’d scramble in all directions just to make a meal? He rested his cheek on her hair, and closed his eyes, praying for another chance to do things right.

  “Poppa?” Rachel pulled his collar, smoothing it in place. “I don’t remember, did momma ever sing to me?”

  Thomas lifted his head and kissed her forehead. “Her singing is what made babies cry,” he said with a grin. “Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  She giggled a little as she thought about it, then sobered, her eyes become somber, and threatening to spill over with tears again. “I’m sorry Poppa, I didn’t have dinner ready. You have to eat, you’ve been working all day…”

  “Do you know what I want for dinner?” he asked her, setting her back so that he could look her in the eye. “The one thing I have been drooling over all day, thinking about it while old Gus and I were out riding the fence?”

  Rachel shook her head no.

  “Well, for a while there, I thought of eating Gus, but he’d be such a stringy horse and wouldn’t be at all tender.” Rachel smiled, she knew her Poppa loved that stubborn old grey horse. “Then I thought that I might eat my own head, see how that went.”

  “You’re silly,” she admonished him, tapping her finger on his nose. It was so much like the way he would bop her nose back before she got too grown up to play like that, it went a long way to warming his heart.

  “But, when it came down to it, and I was on the way back here, and old Gus got wind of the barn and his comfortable grain, why I got wind of something too, and I knew right then what I wanted for dinner, more than eating Gus, more than anything!”

 

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