The Heart of the Thicket

1. Do Not Look

CHAPTER ONE

DO NOT LOOK

In this provincial town so far away from anything, I am a commodity every bachelor desires. They do not care that I am a widow with a little girl to raise. I am a warm woman who comes with land attached. They would eagerly take me with far more baggage than grief and little Anne.

“Next.” Mr. Cavender’s kind blue eyes land on me and he brightens beyond the typical polite smile meant for those who frequent his business. “Oh, Missus Raleigh, it’s so rare to see you about town.”

Mr. Cavender is a good man who earns an honest living. Handsome enough and bearing a soft paunch to his middle that speaks to a comfortable life, he would be a good match for any woman seeking one.

He leans far over the counter and peeps down at Anne, who is admiring the many advertisements posted at her eye level, the colorful logos from the goods sold at the town general store catching her attention. “Anne, you have gotten so big.”

She tears her beautiful brown eyes, so much like her father’s, away from the brightly colored posters to beam up at Mr. Cavender. “I know it. That is why we are here. Right, Mama?”

Mr. Cavender returns his attention to me when I nod. “Yes. She needs new shoes to get her through winter. With such a fair summer and autumn, it is bound to be a cold one.”

“That is what all the old timers are saying. It will keep you and Anne cooped up if you lack sturdy footwear. Pop her shoe off for me to compare, and I’ll see what I have.”

I hope Mr. Cavender has something that will serve as a fitting replacement for a price I can meet. My own boots are falling into disrepair as well but I keep them hidden beneath my skirt as shame shivers through my body. The thought of my daughter or I looking so ragged is like the winds of winter blowing straight to my center.

The world is not designed for a woman and girl on their own. Living on meager savings, tilling and planting just enough for Anne and I to make it through winter, it cannot go on forever, not if I wish to give her any kind of life.And, more than anything, I want her to live well.

The time is rapidly approaching that I will need to seek the attention of a man like Mr. Cavender. I should get on with it, but without a body to bury, I fear moving on. Despite what is whispered in town, I know Henry did not abandon us. He did not pick up and leave. He would never do such a thing for a host of reasons that begins with my certainty that he loves Anne and I more than life itself, and ends with the fact that the land is his. He inherited it. There isn’t even a payment on it. The deed carries his name.

If he wanted to be rid of us, it makes no sense that he would leave us in such a fine home as the one he spent a season building and years upkeeping for all of us on his land.

“Here we go. Let’s see how these fit, Anne.” Mr. Cavender comes around the side of the counter and drops down on his knee in front of Anne. Very bright for the age of four, she puts her little hands on the counter to balance herself while he slides the new boot onto her foot. While lacing it up, he feels for her toes through the leather and smiles up at me as if to say, See how good I am with your daughter. I would make a fine new father for the girl.

“They’re a little large, but we could stuff a little something in the toes. That way they’ll still fit through next summer. What do you think, Missus Raleigh?”

“They are so shiny, Mama!” Lifting her freshly booted foot from Mr. Cavender’s knee, she stomps it onto the wooden floor, the heel making a solid thump.

My mother, a woman of means, wanted me to marry a man who could keep me in comfort. She would’ve seen me remain in New York, married to a New Yorker. She only had one definition of what a good life looked like. Having to ask the price of anything wouldhave seen her right into her grave.

“How much are they, Mr. Cavender?”

My mother, who never approved of my marriage to Henry, would have a hefty dose of I told you so for me now.

His eyes, which were already friendly, soften further into something more pitying. I am a struggling widow. He knows his kindness will pay off if he plays a long enough game. I watch as he completes some quick math in his head. How much he paid for the boots, how much he needs to sell them for to make a profit, how much loss he can afford to take in the grand scheme if it might buy him a wife. He always gives me a good deal these days.

“I got them at a good price. For you and dear Anne, Missus Raleigh, two dollars and a quarter should do it.”

I am being purchased a few dollars at a time whether I like it or not.

It is not quite what I was hoping to pay and I think he knows it, but it is what the same winter shoes would cost at the beginning of summer when everyone is seeking to buy lighter footwear. It is like he chose the cost that would remind me that I cannot manage my small family on my own but wouldn’t see me out the door with nothing. “That sounds more than fair, Mr. Cavender. Thank you.”

If I do not marry a new man by spring, I may have to post that desperate letter to my mother begging for funds. I struggle not to flinch at the thought for Mr. Cavender and everyone in this general store to see.

He helps Anne into the second new shoe and passes the tattered pair back to me. “With a little mending, they might be worth keeping.”

Hand me downs for my future children, ones I might have with him, or so he thinks.

“Right. Thank you.”

While Anne dances a jig to test out her new boots, I pull my purse from my apron pocket and dig out two silver dollars and change with the crushing realization that it is yet another cut from my dwindling savings. We need to have one of the stirrups repaired on Dolly’s saddle. I might teach myself to mend leather, but I do not know when I would find the time to complete such tasks. That is only if I possess the talent to learn in the first place.

If I do not find a solution soon, I will be forced to sell what little we have or maybe the land in pieces. I do not know which outcome is more frightening, subjecting Anne and myself to such humiliation or giving up on Henry ever arriving home alive again. Even knowing the only thing that would keep him from us would be death, to place a marker for him and remarry is inconceivable. Wrong in every way. It would be a betrayal.

Eyes on the wedding band I still wear, even over half a year after Henry vanished, I choose to keep as many potential doors open as possible. “Mr. Cavender, your kindness when we come to town means so much. You are a good man.” His smile brims with hope. “You know where to find us, have you ever any desire for a home-cooked meal.”

His eyes widen a bit, more from being shocked at the sudden offer rather than any impropriety on my part. My growing need for a husband and Mr. Cavender’s desire to meet that necessity are obvious to us both, and probably everyone in town.

“I would like that very much. I will be seeing you, Missus Raleigh.”

I get the feeling that Mr. Cavender will be calling on me sooner rather than later.

Taking Anne’s hand in mine, I leave but force myself to glance back at him with a shy smile on my way out. It is the demure, flirty variety of look that tells men when a lady is interested and, though I am not interested in finding new love, I am very interested in protecting Anne from destitution. If marrying a nice grocer in town is the way to do that, I will.

Even knowing the necessity, when I step into the dusty streets of town, my stomach drops with the realization of what I have done.A path rolls out beneath my feet. Mr. Cavender will ask me to call him Samuel. Before spring we will be married. We will hire hands to work Henry’s land, and Anne and I will move to town. Henry will become more and more distant until he is such a faraway speck that I will sometimes go months without thinking his name.

Anne jogs by a group of women who chatter in a circle. One’s eyes dart to me and they all fall silent. The weight of their collective gazes, filled with guilt and pity in equal measure, has me battling the desire to rush past them. Their pity I might accept, but they deserve to feel every ounce of guilt. I don’t have scriptures memorized the way Henry did, but even I know the good book condemns gossips.

Dropping my head in a congenial nod, I greet the women, determined not to allow their talk to get to me. “Good day. ”

They bob their heads and mumble similar greetings but, as I pass, I hear one of them mention the poor state of my boots.

“Mama, you walk so slow!”Anne runs back to tug on my hand and pulls me into far kinder thoughts, as she has a masterful tendency to do.

She can be so burdensome at times, slowing the work of harvesting and preserving with constant complaints of boredom. She distracts me from tilling and planting with stories she has made up about the chickens in the coop. She does not understand the work that must get done in order for us to eke out a living for ourselves. That is atop the fact that every moment I take for myself is interrupted and every quiet thought is made loud.

But she also gets me out of bed each morning. I am not certain I would be strong enough to keep managing without her. “I am coming along.”

“My feet are so stompy.” She releases my hand to march ahead toward the good-natured mare that we rode into town. The horse’s ears flick at Anne’s raucous approach. “Dolly!”She waves her hand an inch from Dolly’s face and I swear the mare rolls her eyes.

Having grown up around Dolly since birth, Anne stands at the horse’s side where the mare can see her best and not be spooked. Dolly watches me rather than the girl, though, always nervous by such a tiny person in her presence no matter how many years go by.

Scooping Anne up, I put her in the front of the saddle and untie Dolly from the post outside the general store before climbing up behind Anne and nudging the mare into a trot.

“They are fine stompy boots, Anne.”

Without thinking of where she is, Anne starts knocking her little, booted feet against Dolly’s side. Dolly’s ears press down with irritation, and I place my own calves between Anne’s feet and the horse. “That is enough kicking. Dolly is doing us a favor. You would not give someone a ride if they kicked you, would you?”

Anne’s brows knit together in thought before she turns to me, eyes full of mischief. “I would!”

Sometimes it is useless to argue with Anne when she gets like this. Only a nap will soothe this beast. Still, like it might be my job to remarry, it is also my job to try and tame her. “Come now, Anne. Think on it.”

It is a long moment before she shakes her head and sighs, defeated. “No.”

Tears prick my eyes. She is growing up and Henry is missing it.

There is no time for grief. She is waiting for her praise. “Right. Dolly will stop if we are not polite. It would be a long walk home.”

Lesson learned, Anne presses her skinny back into my chest and the lace of her bonnet tickles my chin. Dolly picks up a more exuberant pace now that we have settled better into our seats.

“Perhaps we can give Dolly a rest near those walnut trees we passed on our way here. We can collect some to take home.”

Anne shifts against my chest in a way that tells me she is grinning, even when I cannot see her perfect little face. “I would like that. We could candy them.”

With the last of the sugar .

Anne grows quiet as she watches the town give way to fields, and then as they stop at the forested path that leads us home. After a time, she begins humming tunes. Her distraction allows my mind to drift back to Henry and how I must leave him in the past to best do for her future.

Kissing the top of Anne’s head, my aching heart is comforted with the knowledge that I would do anything for her, even if it means remarrying when I do not want to. A vow to a new man can be the final nail in a hopeful coffin. Henry is probably dead. That will be as true before any altar as it is now. Still, the thought of remarrying feels like digging Henry’s grave and putting him in it myself.

With town falling behind the hills, we pass the stone cairn on the trail that marks our property line. Deeper in our acreage, Henry cleared many swaths in the forests and hills for us to farm, and he plowed, planted, and harvested from them with a few hired hands. Now all the fields lie dormant, save for the vines and trees that are always popping up, trying to retake the land. I don’t know whether I should dig them up or not.Henry would, but that’s because Henry would mean to plant there. It feels like giving up on him ever returning to allow the fields he cleared to return to the woods, but the woods are relentless in their desire to take the land back from those who seek to tame it.

The forests where I grew up in the northern parts of the country were made of beech and grew slowly. The trees here grow deep roots that twine through stone and clay while also shooting up new saplings at a rapid rate. They grow in great abundance and variety. The vines that reach up their trunks and wrap in the tallest branches grab onto the tree beside and beside, connecting the woods through seemingly endless life.

Now, with the rapid approach of autumn, the leaves are beginning to turn and the forest is shifting to something quieter. They are no longer filled with clouds of tiny insects, buzzing bees, or chattering rodents that live in, around, and beneath the oaks and hawthorns of these hills. Despite the impending struggle that always comes with the shift toward winter, it is a relief. Henry vanished in midwinter and the cold stillness of it suited my grief. To have the world so full of living things, growing so fast through spring and summer, has been but another stark contrast to how my heart has felt paused. At least it has felt still and cold when Anne allows it.

Anne is like springtime in these woods, and that her beloved daddy has disappeared is something still beyond her comprehension. At first, she asked, ‘Where is he? Will he be back to read by the fire? He promised to watch me dance tonight.’

I put off answering her in any real way for so long that she stopped asking about Henry, and I never told her that he was dead. The words never felt true when I practiced them after she had fallen asleep beside me at night. I thought I should wait to say it until I was sure. Until I could be convincing.

Now it feels too late to say it, and I am not certain she would know what it meant even if I told her. She has not asked after him in weeks. I half-hope she has forgotten him. It might save her some grief, at least for now, if that is the case.

“Mama, do you see those lights? ”

Shaken from my reverie, I follow Anne’s small finger toward the woods and see nothing. “What lights?”

“Those. There. They are like…” Lacking the vocabulary to describe what she sees, Anne makes a circle with her fingers. “Like that of light. They are blue and yellow.” She shakes her finger at them to emphasize where she means. “Right there!”

Following the line of her finger with care, I see nothing but the trees and the fading light of day. It could be her wild imagination. She often tells me fantastical tales, but not like this. This is nothing like last week when she told me a rabbit bounced into the house, knocked over her water glass, and made a mess of everything. There is no mischief or dishonesty about her now. She is asking me about floating circles of light the way she would ask about a peculiar looking bird or a deer in a meadow. To her, at the very least, they are there. Dread builds in my body. It is the same feeling I get when Anne is balancing on something that would be all too easy to topple off of. Pulsing deep in my bones is the need to get her far away from a danger I cannot see but can sense.

Beneath me, Dolly’s ears flatten against her head and her tail swishes. The mare trembles like she has spotted a snake.

“They are leaving. We should follow them, Mama.”

Is it often said by the superstitious folk of Tennessee to follow nothing in the woods, save for the path. I will heed their advice.

“No.” The word barks out of me before I can think to temper it and I spur Dolly forward on the path. More than happy to pick up her pace, she leans toward the far side of the road, away from the woods and the lights, and picks up a steady trot, her ears twitching. Anne’s eyes follow the lights I cannot see, and I grab her head and turn it forward. “Do not look.”

Anne, typically obedient, attempts to turn her head back toward the lights. “Stop, Mama, I want to?—”

“Hush. Look straight ahead.” Anne does, with reluctance. It is not often I resort to shouting and I am grateful for it now. She listens when I do.

The farther we get from the lights, the less fear pounds through my body. Dolly relaxes beneath us and steadies in her gait. Perhaps I overreacted to a child’s wild imaginings. Maybe I should apologize to Anne for being so harsh.

No.

Foul feelings the likes of that do not come from nothing. I am not the superstitious type but whatever was in the woods today, be it specter or cougar, was not to be trifled with. “Never follow such lights. Do you understand me, Anne? When in the woods, we stay on the path.”

“What about the walnuts?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Dismayed, Anne crosses her arms and growls. I am sorry to have ruined her fun. Guilt weighs down my already burdened back to break a promise to her, but I cannot bring myself to regret putting her safety first, even in scenarios likely imagined.

Exiting the woods into the land Henry worked so hard to clear, our cabin is in sight when Anne speaks again. “They were so pretty, Mama.”

With her bringing up the lights once more, the urge to protect her from something dangerous returns. “Bears are pretty. We should not pet them. ”

Anne is solemn for a moment before nodding. “Like coyotes.”

Remembering how she had wanted to keep a coyote pup she saw last spring, I am reassured that she understands, but also dismayed. If she can recall the coyote pup, she remembers her daddy, too. “That is exactly right, smart girl. Like coyotes.”