A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(29)
“Yes. And only hours away from losing my head.”
“How horrible.”
He rubbed his blistered fingers against the grimy skin of his neck. The thought of how close he’d come to dying sobered him. He ought to be thankful God had spared his life, even if the current conditions were less than ideal.
He was alive. Couldn’t he make the best of the rudimentary living situation for a short time?
The cool evening air, the endless canopy of stars overhead, the strong earthy scent of freshly plowed soil infused his weary body and breathed fresh energy into him. The gentle strength of the woman standing before him spread into him too.
The unasked questions radiated from her eyes, but there was also something else. Deeply ingrained reservations about the roles between men and women? Perhaps fear of retribution? Whatever it was, he knew she wouldn’t pry into his life.
She wouldn’t ask him about his past, or why he couldn’t do the simple things that most people knew how to do. No matter how much she might want to question him, she wouldn’t.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for my bumbling efforts today,” he said softly. “I may not be the best help, but I assure you I’ll work my hardest.”
Through the increasing dusk she gave him a tentative smile. “That’s all I could ask for.”
Her words were meant to reassure him. But suddenly all he could think about was how she deserved to know the truth, even if she wouldn’t ask.
Chapter
6
Someone had been tampering with the land along Mill Creek.
Annalisa let the quail carcass slip off her shoulder and fall to the ground with a thud. She bent to examine the stones along the water’s edge.
Ja, someone had been there. Several of the large ones that she and Gretchen liked to sit on had been moved.
“Take off shoes?” Gretchen asked, pointing to the recently thawed water near the bank.
“Nein, liebchen.” Annalisa’s voice was sharp, causing Gretchen to cease from tugging off her boot. “It’s much too cold.” In fact, in some places—particularly around the center island—drifts of snow and ice still lingered.
But it wouldn’t be long before all the ice was gone. With the thaw, the logs from the lumber camps farther inland would soon cover the river, from bank to bank. The river drivers, with their spiked caulk boots, would be hard at work, doing the dangerous job of pushing the logs along, breaking up jams, and steering the logs with the current until they reached the sawmills in Forestville on Lake Huron. From there, the cut boards and shingles would be loaded onto steamboats, eventually to be delivered to southern ports in Detroit.
Annalisa studied a boot print, fresh in the mud, tracing it with her fingers. Was it Ward’s?
She followed the man-sized footprints to the water’s edge, where they disappeared among tangled branches and dead leaves that had become snagged among larger branches and rocks. The damp, moldy scent of the ground mingled with the muddy odor of the swollen creek, which overflowed its banks and poured over the natural fall with the steady rushing and crashing she usually found so soothing.
But not today.
A frigid gust of wind slipped under her thin coat and climbed up her back, pushing her to her full height. She glanced around, clutching her rifle in fingers stiff with cold, readying it, aiming it at the unseen enemy.
But the shrubs didn’t move, except to sway with the spring breeze and bend under the drizzle of icy rain. The dismal layers of clouds overhead reminded her of winter, and she’d been hoping all morning they wouldn’t have a spring snowstorm. Even though Carl had plowed all week, he’d made slow progress, and snow would slow him down even more and delay the planting of the spring wheat.
“Another quail, Mama?” Gretchen eyed the overgrown brush, where Annalisa had trained her rifle.
“Nein. We have all we need today.” Annalisa scanned the waterfront, taking in the few large oaks and willows that Jacob Buel hadn’t cleared when he’d first purchased the land years ago. Like many in the lumber industry, he’d cut down the profitable white pine. Once he’d gotten what he needed, he parceled out the land and sold it to the immigrants for farming.
The tangle of brush and sticks and windfall lay in piles among the stumps still waiting for the burning that would eventually free her forty acres for full-scale farming.
“Shoot squirrel?” Gretchen asked, watching Annalisa’s face. Her eyes were wide and questioning as if sensing Annalisa’s unease.
Annalisa gave the gray, leafless foliage a last scouring. Whoever had been there earlier was either good at hiding or long gone.
She lowered her rifle, picked up the quail by the legs, and slung it across her shoulder. After the long winter the quail wasn’t as plump as the one she’d shot in the fall, but it would fill their bellies nevertheless.
“Time for us to head back.” She tucked the rifle under her arm and held out a hand to Gretchen. Carl would be ready for his midday meal soon. And if she hoped to have the quail ready for his supper, she would need to make fast work of the plucking and dressing.
A movement on the strip of land in the middle of the creek caught her attention and stopped her. She narrowed her eyes and examined the island from its wider western end to the eastern tip. It was covered with an overgrowth of brush and several tall beech trees.