A Season of the Heart. Dorothy Clark
Читать онлайн книгу.
gave her pause. She frowned, closed her eyes and directed her thoughts away from the unflattering comparison. Her parents would simply have to entertain her beaux—there was no one else who would be...compatible. She would keep her word and help Willa, but she must finish the tasks quickly. It would not do for her beaux to come and find her working like one of their servants. That would not do at all.
How long would it take to make the children’s costumes? She was certainly not skilled at sewing, and Willa had the baby and Joshua and Sally, as well as her husband and home to care for. A smile curved her lips. Sally was a sweet little girl. And she would make a beautiful angel with her fair skin and her golden curls. The white lace tablecloth would make her a lovely flowing gown. But what of a halo? Or— Her old gowns! Perhaps she wouldn’t have to ask her mother for leftover dress trimmings after all.
She threw the covers aside, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers and hurried across the bedroom to open the large chest that held some of her old dresses. There was a yellow watered silk with a narrow band of gold braid that tied around the waist....
Firelight flickered on the various fabrics as she dropped to her knees and looked through the piles. Rose...green...silver—she’d always liked that dress—blue...copper...yellow. Ah! There it was. She slipped the yellow dress out of the pile and sat back on her heels to free the band of gold braid. It was stiff enough to hold a circular shape. A perfect halo. Wait until she showed Willa. A tiny twinge of excitement wiggled through her. She smiled and set the gold braid aside, put the dress back in the trunk.
Some of us don’t have the luxury of sitting around idle.
The words grated. She shoved her curls back over her shoulders and tossed her head. She’d show Daniel Braynard. He’d have to swallow those words when he saw the work she did with Willa on the costumes and the decorations—and she hoped he choked on them!
She leaned forward onto her knees and plowed through the pile of dresses again. The lace-edged net of the overskirt on the silver gown would make lovely wings. She yanked the gown from the pile, dropped it on the floor beside her and dove back into her search. There had to be other things she could find that would be helpful in making the costumes. She’d show Daniel! She’d make the best costumes Pinewood had ever seen!
* * *
Silence reigned, the only sounds the soft, muted thud of the Belgian’s hoofs and the whisper of the pung’s runners over the deep snow. It was as if the forest were holding its breath. Daniel smiled at the whimsical thought, looked up at the snowflakes shimmering in the moonlight that lit the forest track and wished he had a wife beside him to witness the beauty.
Ellen.
His imagination placed her beside him, their shoulders touching, their laps covered by a thick, warm blanket. He frowned and glanced at the folded, snow-covered horse blanket on the seat to disperse the yearning. That dream had died years ago. There would be no wife, only grim reality. He would not subject any woman to the sort of life his mother had known—most certainly not the spoiled Ellen Hall with her fancy gowns and fur-trimmed bonnet and cloak.
“Hup, Big Boy, hup!” He snapped his wrists and rippled the lines, and the huge Belgian dragged the pung off the track into a small clearing, his great muscles rippling as he plodded through the knee-high snow. He reined the gelding to the right, around the edge of the clearing to a spot a short way beyond a small thickly branched hemlock. “That’s far enough. Whoa, Big Boy.”
The Belgian stopped, tossed his head and snorted. Hot breath puffed from his nostrils, forming small gray clouds. He pawed the snow with his right front hoof and snorted again.
“I know. You don’t like having to work tonight. But orders are orders. And it’s to help Willa.” He grabbed the horse blanket beside him, jumped from his seat, then tossed it up over Big Boy’s back and tugged it into place. The buckle on the hold strap glinted against the gelding’s massive chest. “There you are, fellow.” He patted the thick neck and went back for the feedbag. “This will keep you content while I work.” He slipped the bag on, adjusted it and left Big Boy munching on his oats and bran while he lifted his ax out of the pung and trudged through the snow toward the hemlock.
The moonlight gleamed on the snow-covered ground and reflected off of the snow-burdened branches of the trees that circled the small clearing, protecting it from the worst of the winter storm. Wind rose, tossed the tops of the towering pines and whistled softly through their lower limbs, its power diminished by the thickness of the forest.
At least he could see. He smacked the hemlock’s branches with the flat side of the blade to knock off the snow and grimaced at the shower of white that rained down on him as the limbs flew up to their normal position. He yanked off a glove and swiped the cold, moist flakes from his face and neck. The things he did in the name of friendship! No. It was more than that. He tugged his glove back on, took hold of the ax and lopped off the lower limbs. Willa and Callie and Sadie and Ellen had pestered him mercilessly when they were kids, but he’d grown to love them like sisters. All except Ellen. What he had felt for her had nothing to do with brotherly affection. Would that it had.
He scowled, dragged the branches he’d cut off to the pung, tossed them into the box and returned to the tree. His first hefty swing buried the blade deep into the exposed trunk. He yanked it free and swung again, the power of his strong shoulders behind the stroke. Thunk! A chip flew from the trunk and buried itself in the snow. More chips followed in rapid succession. There was a creaking, cracking, splintering sound.
He leaped aside, watched the small tree wobble, then fall with a soft thud across the track made by the pung. Perfect! He hurried to the downed tree and lopped off the smaller top branches with one stroke each. In five minutes he had denuded the top of the tree. He buried the blade of his ax in the bared trunk and used both arms to scoop up the small branches. Snow packed in between his gloves and the sleeves of his jacket, chilled his flesh. He pulled off his gloves, shook the snow out of his sleeves, then tugged his gloves back on and picked up the ax.
Willa and Sadie were going to pay for this. It would cost Sadie a batch of those good molasses cookies she made, and Willa would have to let him take Joshua and Sally skating on his next weekend in town. It was as close as he’d ever get to being a father. He pressed his lips together against the pain of the thought and went back to work.
The snow came faster. It piled on his shoulders, hat and collar of his jacket, found the bare spot between them and melted against his neck. He ignored the shivers it caused and looked around for a small pine. None offered.
He trudged through the snow to the smallest pine standing on the edge of the clearing, eyed the snow-laden branches and frowned. He’d really get a snow shower this time.
The quick, sharp blows of his ax shook the tree. Snow cascaded from the upper branches, fell in large clumps that plopped against the ground and broke into pieces against his head and shoulders. That was two batches of cookies for Sadie! And an added afternoon of sledding with Willa’s children. No penalty for Ellen, though he knew the one he’d like to claim. He’d like to send her back to Buffalo! As much as she hated the cold weather, how had Willa talked her into going out to Butternut Hill to ask Manning Townsend to donate boughs, anyway? He swung again and the large limb split from the trunk and fell at his feet. He dragged it out of the way and took his frustration out on the next one. Snow showered down on him as he chopped it off.
He dragged it over beside the other one. It was dangerous to fell a tree this large alone using only one notch. When the trunk got thin enough, the tree could twist and fall in the wrong spot. He frowned and swept his gaze over the area at the tree’s base. The snow was too deep and the branches of the trees too tangled together for him to get behind it to make a second notch. He eyed the branches on the back side of the tree. They were half-buried by the snow. It was possible they would hold the tree from twisting or kicking out and toppling before he could get out of the way.
“I’m going to need Your help with this one, Lord. Please let the trunk hold until I can get free.” He shot a look toward the sky, took a firm grip on his ax and swung it again and again, watching the trunk as the chips flew off into