The Husband Hunt. Karen Kirst
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he grimaced. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. It was just that the notion of a union between the two of them was so absurd as to be laughable. He and Sophie were like oil and water, dry forest and lightning. They just didn’t mix. Not romantically, anyway.
The barn door creaked and he turned, expecting to see his pa. But there, framed in the predawn darkness, stood Sophie, a cloth-covered bucket in her arms.
“Hey. Is everything all right?” Laying the cloth on the shelf, he went to her, hoping against hope this early morning visit and the shadows beneath her eyes didn’t mean what he thought it might.
One slender shoulder lifted. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I might as well bring over the sausages I promised you.”
Nathan exhaled. He accepted the bucket she held out, tucking it against his middle while he did a careful study of her. Aside from the troubled light in her eyes, she looked much the same as usual. Her long hair had been freshly brushed and plaited, the sleek, honeyed strands pulled back from her face, emphasizing her cheekbones and the gentle curve of her jaw.
“Thanks for these.” He cocked his head. “Walk with me to the springhouse?”
“Yeah.” Noticing the crocks, she walked over and slipped her hands around one. “How many are you storing?”
“Just two this time. I’m taking one to Ma and the rest will go to Clawson’s. That’s heavy,” he said when she started to lift it. “Why don’t you take the sausages and I’ll get the milk?”
Before Tobias got sick, a suggestion like that would’ve gotten him an earful. Sophie didn’t take kindly to insinuations that she was weak or incapable. The fact that she didn’t protest was proof of her preoccupation.
Using the moon’s light to guide them, they walked the dirt path to the stream and the stone springhouse that housed perishables. Trickling water intruded upon the hushed stillness of the fields and forest. Beside him, Sophie was silent.
I don’t know what to say to ease her anxiety, God. I don’t like seeing her like this. Please show me how to help her. How to reassure her.
Stooping beneath the low doorframe, he carefully placed the containers inside and pulled the door closed, letting the latch fall into place. When he straightened, he noticed her staring at the moonlight-kissed stones scattered in the streambed. Her lost expression tugged at his heart and made him want to wrap his arms around her and shelter her from heartache.
She’d been dealt too many blows in her life. If Tobias didn’t make it, would she break? The idea terrified him. Sophie was one of the strongest people he knew. He couldn’t imagine her any other way.
He stood close but didn’t hug her. Instead he reached out to graze the back of her hand and somehow found his fingers threading through hers. Her head came up, blue eyes flashing to his, dark and questioning. She didn’t pull away, though, and he decided it would be awkward to disengage now. Besides, her skin was cold, the bones fragile. Let his heat warm her.
Friends could hold hands and not have it mean anything, couldn’t they?
“What you did yesterday...” she said, her voice muted. “The henhouse, the chickens and eggs... It means a lot to me. To all of us. Thank you.”
“I did it because I wanted to, not because I felt I had to,” he pointed out. “I like helping you.”
As long as he was able, he’d eagerly meet any and all of the Tanners’ needs. Growing up, he’d witnessed his parents’ generosity toward others, giving selflessly of their time, energy and possessions. It was a lesson he’d taken to heart.
“I know.”
She surprised him by laying a hand against his chest. Her touch seared through the material, scorching his skin. His heart jerked.
“You’re a good man, Nathan. The best.” Then, as if deciding she’d said too much, she pulled free of his hold. “I should go.”
“Wait.” Sophie didn’t often dole out praise, so it meant a lot coming from her. He just couldn’t figure out why she’d sounded so resigned. So solemn. “Are you going to the social tonight?”
She grimaced. “I am. Mrs. Beecham cornered me last week and insisted on sitting with Granddad so that Will and I could go. There’s no arguing with that woman.”
“It’ll be good for you to get out and socialize.”
She looked dubious. “If you say so.”
“Think of all the delicious food you’ll have to choose from.”
Her mouth lifted in a pretty, albeit fleeting, smile. “Since I don’t dance, the food is the biggest draw for me, you know. And speaking of food, I have to get back before Granddad or Will wake to find me gone. They’ll be wanting their breakfast. I need to get to it.”
“See you later, then.”
Nodding, she gave a little wave and walked away, head bent and long braid bouncing against her back. He watched until the trees swallowed her up, thinking it might not be a bad idea to find himself a date for tonight. Nothing serious. Just harmless fun.
Because whatever it was sensitizing him to Sophie—loneliness, although he didn’t exactly feel lonely, the unrecognized need for female companionship, perhaps—had to be snuffed out before he did something stupid.
* * *
“You don’t expect me to eat a slice of that pie, do you?” Will bounced on his toes, eager to make his escape.
Sophie slid it onto the dessert table in between a towering stack cake and a buttermilk pie. “It doesn’t look half bad.” She eyed her creation critically.
While the crust wasn’t perfectly round and smooth, it did have an appealing golden hue like the other pies on the table. And the rhubarb filling had filled the cabin with a sweet, pleasant aroma. She’d followed her ma’s recipe carefully. Surely it would be edible. Maybe even good.
“I don’t understand why you decided to make one, anyway,” Will said doubtfully. “You don’t bake.”
She couldn’t understand it, either. Oh, yeah. April and her insults. And a desire to prove to those girls—and Nathan, too—that they were wrong about her. That she was more than just a rough-around-the-edges, act-before-she-thought-it-through tomboy.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she told him with false confidence.
“Hey, Will.” Redheaded, freckled Charlie Layton halted midstride and motioned him over. “We’re gettin’ ready to race. Want to join us?”
“Sure thing!” With a muttered farewell, he ran to join Charlie. The two friends jogged off in the direction of the trees edging the church property where a group of about twenty boys their age had gathered.
The social was already in full swing, many of the men clustered alongside the white clapboard church, no doubt comparing farming techniques or debating quicker, more improved trade routes with the larger towns of Maryville and Sevierville, while the women relaxed on quilts, chatting and laughing and tending to fussy infants. Children darted in and out of the mix, chasing each other in friendly games of tag. Courting couples strolled arm in arm in the distance, keen on a little privacy.
At six o’clock, the heat of the day lingered despite the puffed cotton clouds suspended in the cerulean sky. Not even a hint of a breeze stirred the air. Sophie’s neck was damp beneath her braid, and she pictured her ma’s honey-blond hair arranged in a sleek, efficient bun, a throwback to her childhood in a strict Knoxville orphanage. If Jeanine had lived, would she have taught Sophie how to arrange her hair the same way? She’d tried her hand at it, of course, but with disastrous results.
“Sophie?”
Kenny Thacker weaved through the tables to reach her.
“Hi, Kenny.” She smiled at the skinny, pleasant young man who,