Stony River (11 page)

“Spruce Creek.” He drove out of the yard as if eager to get away.

Sevana took down the cookbook and started a batch of bread, doing her best to interpret the cryptic recipe. As she punched at the sticky whole-wheat dough, which the instructions stated would soon be magicked into a ball both smooth and elastic, she went back over the morning’s conversation, debating if she should have agreed to stay. But overriding these doubts was the fact that Fenn wanted her there by his own admission. And for whatever the reason he’d said it, his words were enough to satisfy her at present. She eventually despaired of the unmanageable dough, and set it in its untransformed state to rise.

When the flat, heavy loaves came out of the oven, Sevana covered them with floursacking (to get them out of sight as much as anything), and went out into the sunshine calling to her through the open door. She was about to visit the river again when she remembered Avalanche Creek, and went straight across the lane in search of it.

It wasn’t hard to find. After a short walk through a colonial stand of cedar giants, she came to a brook gabbling in a bed of many-sized rocks. She walked upstream along it. The creek had different moods—sparkling in the sunlight here, lying dark and quiet in the shade of the cedars there. She came to a broad rock in the middle of the stream, and jumped out with one leap to sit on its flat surface, almost level with the water—a grand, front-row seat on the creek.

As the transparent water sparkled in and out of the shadows, Sevana played her hand in the current and thought how she might have already been gone now, on her way to Cragmont. She had to admit she was glad she didn’t have to leave this place yet, when she was just beginning to discover it. Her thoughts found their way back up the mountain to the handbuilt cabin under the shaggy spruce trees…to the fleecy lambs capering in their spring-green pastures…and to the shepherd, whose deep eyes were an enigma, harboring secrets of both darkness and light. And she wondered if when she climbed the trail again, what she had found at its end would prove real—for it all seemed very like a dream.

No, she wasn’t ready to give up on this place yet; there was too much to catch and stir her interest. And she wasn’t ready to give up on Fenn, either. Beneath it all she loved him, and the truth of that was as solid as the quartzite boulder serving as her creekfront chair. As long as she was there, she resolved to try harder to overlook his animosity, and not be so quick to abandon the possibility that she might still find him to be the brother she remembered him to be.

When she arrived home, Fenn was already back and hammering up on the roof of the house. She climbed the ladder to see the row of cedar shakes he was nailing down. The aromatic cedarwood tickled her nose. “Why are you putting on a new roof?” she asked, resting her arms on the top rung.

“Old one leaks.”

That statement was meant to end the conversation conclusively, but it didn’t. Sevana still had more questions. “Were these buildings here when you bought the place?”

“They were.”

“How did you ever find this place, Fenn?”

“Just luck, I guess.” Another shake was laid, the nail in place, and he was reaching for his hammer.

“But what brought you to this certain valley?”

He gave her an ill-humored stare. “I was looking for some peace and quiet.” He began to hammer noisily.

“I’d like to help out around here, too, if there’s anything I can do,” she offered when the nail was in.

He glanced up in surprise, but answered readily enough: “If you did the laundry, I could get by without going to town a while longer.” And while Sevana thought going to town sounded like a good idea—even necessary, where groceries were concerned—Fenn apparently did not.

“I’d be glad to,” she said, for she was truly willing to undertake anything that would be a help to him.

Fenn laid aside his hammer at once to carry out the plan. He followed her down the ladder to build a fire in the kitchen stove and haul water, filling a large tub on its top. Then he dropped a heavy dufflebag in the middle of the floor and went out again, leaving her no idea how best to proceed.

While Fenn was up on the roof pounding down another row of shakes, Sevana was inside with a steaming washtub, wrestling with a task that was seeming all the time greater and more difficult. But she was not totally forsaken in her perplexity, for Fenn—taking more than usual interest in the project since it was saving him considerable trouble—came in after a while to haul more water and offer helpful advice. “What the hell, Sevana, do you know what you are doing?” he exclaimed, viewing the heaps of wrungout clothes and the steady streams of water running off the edge of the counter into puddles expanding by the minute on the floor.

“No, of course not,” she replied, a little put out because she was finding it so confusing. She pushed her damp hair back from her hot face. “I’ve never done this before.”

Fenn, who had done the wash at least a few times in his life on the homestead, knew enough to set her straight. Then he strung a rope across the back porch for a clothesline and returned to the roof.

When Sevana was done draping the sodden clothes over the line, she doubted they were much cleaner, but hoped the sun and fresh air would have some effect on them. She looked up the ladder to announce she was done.

“Thanks, Sevana,” said Fenn. “Leave the water; I’ll take care of it later.”

Sevana felt like the whole world was bright at the kind word from him. But she didn’t know what to do next until she noticed Trapper picketed near the spring. “Fenn,” she called up to him, “could I take Trapper for a ride, just to the turnaround and back?”

He regarded her hopeful, upturned countenance for a moment before he assented with obvious reluctance. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. “No loud noise or sudden movement; he startles easily.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, and went to get the bridle from the barn.

At first she held the horse to a walk; but when she saw he was going to cooperate, she let him break into an easy run. Up to the turnaround she swiftly flew, and returned with joy shining in her face. “Oh Fenn,” she exclaimed, finding him splitting shakes down on the ground, “Trapper behaved perfectly, and I know he liked it! You wouldn’t care if I rode him now and then, would you?”

“Go ahead,” he said impatiently, holding the edge of the broad knife poised on the cedar bolt. “But be careful with him. If you ever lost him, there’d be hell to pay.” He gave the knife a sharp whack with a wooden mallet and a shake went flying off, almost hitting her as she jumped back just in time.

Sevana put Trapper on his picket and curried him. But the sight of the overgrown garden space behind the house gave her an idea, and soon she was back with another proposal. “Are you going to plant a garden this year?” she asked, standing this time at a safe distance from the scattering of shakes around him.

“Nah—last year it was more trouble than it was worth.” Already anticipating her next question, he said, “But go ahead, if you want to.”

“I’d like to try. I’ve never had a garden before. Do you have any seeds?”

“There’s a few under the stairs.”

Sevana went inside to look. The first box she pulled out was filled with papers. They appeared to be financial records—bank statements and pay receipts. She dug down to see if anything else was underneath. One paper stood out to her. It was a bank notice printed in capital letters: FURTHER FAILURE TO MAKE PAYMENTS ON TIME WILL RESULT IN FORECLOSURE. There was also a sizable balance and a late fee. The date was December, only five months ago.

Even while Sevana was pushing in that box and pulling out another, she was considering the meaning of that notice. Fenn was having trouble paying off the homestead. Almost as quickly she recalled his words:
How could I refuse, seeing he pays so generously for the favor?

She clapped a hand over her mouth. So that was it! Fenn had insisted she stay—had consented to it in the first place—only because he was having a hard time paying off his place. She should have known he didn’t want her. His manner had been plain enough. She had only believed his words because she wanted so badly for them to be true.

Her thoughts spinning, she went out with the three packages of vegetable seeds she’d found in the other catch-all box, and fell to spading the plot. She should go, she admitted, now that she knew the truth. But if she did, Fenn wouldn’t get the money he was counting on. No, she finally decided, raking the dirt smooth even while her brow remained furrowed, if she could help him in this way, she would. What did it matter if there was nothing in it for her? She shouldn’t have placed so much hope in him in the first place. The summer would soon be over, and then she could go on to the things that gave her life its true meaning.

The garden planted, she climbed the ladder and waited for Fenn to finish pounding in a nail. “Would you mind if I put in a small flowerbed, too?” She was proud of how casually she spoke, as if she had not just discovered his secret.

“Do what you like,” he said in exasperation, around the nail in his mouth.

“You’d have to get flower seeds from town,” she informed him doubtfully.

He began hammering without reply.

Sevana didn’t know what to make of his silence, but decided to take it in good faith. She dug up a strip of weeds and grass on either side of the front steps and lined the bare dirt with the stones she’d turned up. When the beds were ready to plant, she put away her tools. “Shall I make dinner?” she asked, when Fenn came down to get another armload of shakes.

“I’ll do it.” He said it so promptly, he appeared to be harboring a suspicion that if she cooked dinner, they would have fried potatoes and sausage again. He hung the hammer on a rung of the ladder and went in the house to fry the plump cutthroats he’d caught that morning.

They ate the tender pink-fleshed trout with boiled potatoes and slices of the squashed-down bread which didn’t taste nearly as bad as it looked. Maybe she was just hungry, but Sevana thought it was one of the best meals she’d had in a long while.

After dinner, she took advantage of the still-hot stove to make molasses cookies for Fenn’s lunches. They came out of the oven large and misshapen—not to mention the burned ones she spirited out behind the house for the tree squirrels—but Fenn offered no criticism as he devoured four in unhesitant succession when he came in barefoot and damp-haired from his shower at the sauna house.

While he sat reading on the front porch, Sevana alit on the other end of the bench, her toe tapping with the import of an idea. “Fenn,” she said, discerning he was in a reasonably good mood, “Joel said there are cougars that shadow you through the woods here.”

“Not just here
…
they’ll do that anywhere.”

“Have you ever been followed by one?”

“Sure, lots of times. You walk through the snow and go back later, half the time you’ll see cougar prints in your tracks. They’re cats, you know—curious by nature.”

She drew a deep breath. “I’d like to shoot your gun again.”

He looked as if he hadn’t heard her right. “You want to?”

“Yes. I want to give it another try.” She was already twisting her hair up out of the way.

“You won’t be satisfied until you’ve shot your foot off, will you?” he grumbled. But he got the gun and locked Trapper in the barn.

The target was still there. Sevana cocked the gun in her slim hands and ran through the sequence again in her mind. She was desperately afraid, but refused to give into it. This time she braced herself with a forward foot, and before she could talk herself out of it, she fired. After the explosion, her ears were ringing but she was still on her feet, and bits of hay lay scattered on the ground. She even felt an inkling of a thrill over the powerful feel of the gun.

After that, she wasn’t quite so scared. She fired off the remaining rounds, concentrating more on her aim. Finally even Fenn got interested and went to see how she was doing. She was amazed when the red kerchief he pulled out of the straw had a hole in it.

“You win,” he begrudged her. “If it makes you feel safer, you can carry it. But only on walks, not when you’re riding Trapper.”

“Agreed,” she said. “And I’m sorry about your handkerchief.”

Wanting to do something in return for his favor to her, she sat on the bench and tried to repair the damage to the work scarf. She was no more acquainted with a needle than a kitchen spoon, but she sewed valiantly around the edges of the hole with tiny stitches, and succeeded well enough to keep it from fraying. That gave her an idea. She got a pair of Fenn’s trousers from the clothesline and brought them for his inspection. “I could hem these for you,” she offered.

“I’ll just cut off the strings,” he said, reaching for his pocketknife.

“But they’ll just ravel again,” she pointed out. “If I hem them now, it’ll save you trouble later.”

“The guys wouldn’t let me live it down.” But on further consideration, he seemed to like the idea. “Sure, why not?”

She threaded the needle again and began turning up the raw edges of the heavy canvas. “Fenn, why do you cut off your pants so short in the first place?” she blurted, before she could change her mind. “Is it the style out here?”

“What—you think I’m
trend-dressing
?” Fenn was visibly stunned. “I swear, Sevana, you are the most
naïve…
All loggers cut off their pants. Otherwise they get hung up on sticks and staubs in the woods. And believe me, when you’re falling 150-foot trees, you don’t want anything hanging you up.”