Wild Rose. Ruth Morren Axtell
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had begun calling her Geneva to himself. He liked the sound of it. It suited her.
Jake ran around Caleb, and Caleb turned, afraid the dog would step on his new plants, but Jake didn’t even touch the edge of the soil. Caleb glanced up at his mistress, realizing, despite appearances, how well trained the dog must be.
Geneva was carrying a basket in one hand. When she stopped, still a little distance from him, Caleb pushed his hat back. “Good morning. Come to inspect your little ones?”
She looked surprised at his remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He made a motion with his head toward the row of plants. “You’ve got a stake in these crops. I expect you want to see how they’re doing.”
She flushed. “’Course not. They’re yours.”
After a short silence, he said, “I wish there was something I could do for you in return. You’ve helped me immeasurably. If you hadn’t come over that first day, I’d have nothing but a big weed field by now and a sore back.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t do nothin’ special.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he answered. Their gazes met, and he realized she was the only villager who hadn’t once looked at him as if he were guilty. “Thank you.”
She gripped the handle of her basket with her two hands, clearly uncomfortable with his gratitude. He knew he’d offend her if he offered her money in payment for her help. “What have you got there?” he asked to distract her.
“This?” She looked down at the basket before holding it out to him. “Brought you some strawberries. They’re wild, my crop’s not ripe yet. But these are better anyway. Sweeter.”
To ease her obvious embarrassment, Caleb stood and took the basket from her. Inside, nestled in some hay, sat a dish full of the reddest, tiniest strawberries he’d ever seen. He popped one into his mouth, smiling at the burst of sweetness and juice. “These are good. Where did you pick them?”
She motioned off to a field up the road. “Up there by the edge of the woods. I’ll show you, if you like.”
“They probably make good jam,” he added, still hoping to put her at ease.
She nodded and looked toward the ocean. “I just picked ’em this morning. Thought I’d bring you some.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “You wouldn’t be taking pity on me now, would you, after what I told you yesterday?”
Her reddened cheeks made her look so guilty, Caleb felt sorry immediately. Clearly she wasn’t used to offering a person comfort.
Her denial came swiftly, cutting off any chance Caleb had of making amends. “Ain’t none of my business why you’re here or what your lady done to you.” She stuck her hands in her back pockets and looked down at the toes of her boots.
“Forget about all that. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.” Caleb set the basket down on the ground, then straightened, rubbing his two hands together, deciding it was better for both of them if he changed the subject. “I’d like to repay you for all the help you’ve given me with the planting. You seem bound and determined not to let me help you with any physical labor. Isn’t there anything I can do for you, in return for all you’ve done for me?” He laughed ruefully and gestured toward the basket. “Including these beautiful berries you picked for my breakfast?”
“You don’t have to do nothing for me.”
“I know that. But neither do I want to be in your debt. I’ll never feel I can ask you another favor, not even to show me exactly where you picked these berries—”
“You could teach me to read,” she blurted out before he could finish persuading her.
“What?” She’d said it so fast, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
She continued looking stubbornly at her feet. “You heard me.”
Caleb hid his surprise and said in a neutral voice, “I thought I heard you say I could teach you to read.”
“That’s right.” She began tapping one foot, as if at any moment she’d be off.
“I’m not sure whether I could teach anyone to read or write,” he said carefully.
She finally looked at him, jutting out her chin. “What’s the matter? It’s not too difficult, is it?”
Her tone was belligerent, but that didn’t fool Caleb. He realized what treacherous ground he was treading on. “No, it’s not too difficult. It’s just that you have to be specially trained to teach someone to read.”
Her focus returned to her feet. The toe of the boot that had been tapping now began to dig into the dirt. “You think I’m too stupid to learn.”
Caleb held back a sigh. Whatever he said would probably be wrong. “I think you’re very intelligent.”
At that she looked at him.
“I’m the one who’s probably too stupid to teach you. It’s like planting. Did you think it would be so easy to teach an ignorant seaman to plant a garden?”
She considered, then shook her head. “But I did, didn’t I?”
Poor example, he said to himself. To her he said, “Yes, you did, and you did a fine job. Except for neglecting to warn me about those cutworms.” He let out a breath at seeing her reluctant smile, a smile that transformed her from dour farmer to fresh-faced lass.
Against his will, knowing it would probably end badly, he said with a sigh, “If you’re willing to risk it with me, I shall try to teach you. Only, I don’t guarantee anything. You must promise me that if I can’t teach you, it doesn’t mean you can’t learn, just that I’m not a very good teacher. Is that agreed?”
She nodded.
“I only have a few books and they wouldn’t be suitable—technical things on sailing.”
“That’s all right,” she interrupted. “I have a book.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It was my ma’s.”
He wondered what kind of woman her mother had been. He’d heard about her father from the villagers, but he hadn’t heard much about the maternal influence in her life. Whatever it had been had made an impact, judging by the reverent tone of voice she used when she mentioned her mother’s book.
“Good enough,” he agreed. “It’s settled.” He held out his hand.
After a second’s hesitation, she brought forth her own hand. He felt the long, slim fingers wrap around the edge of his palm, and he remembered once again their soft touch upon her pet.
“Bring the book this afternoon and we’ll start with our first lesson.”
Geneva took the cloth off the rough-hewn chest and lifted the lid. The pungent smell of cedar brought back a sharp reminder of her mother. Geneva had knelt at her feet whenever her ma had opened the chest. Geneva’s pa had made the chest for his bride, and in it she’d kept the few items of her former life. Over the years, her mother had added the quilts she’d made. Geneva lifted those out first, remembering her mother’s hands as she’d sat in her rocker and sewed the squares together. Bits of pale yellow and lavender and moss green formed a pattern of flowers against a white muslin background.
Next came a couple of woolen sweaters her ma had knitted for herself and her husband. Geneva often wore them in winter now. There at the bottom of the chest lay her mother’s few personal possessions—some old dresses, the cloth worn thin from so many washings. Geneva had never been able to bring herself to cut them up for rags.
Geneva’s hand smoothed the brown wool skirt of her mother’s best dress, the dress she’d been married