Chapter 11
The next morning, Ivy awakened slowly, her mind still swirling with star-studded green and violet light.
For a disoriented moment, she couldn't separate the dream from the memory—great rippling curtains of color unfurling across the Montana sky, so vivid and immense as if she’d stood at the edge of Heaven itself.
The Northern Lights. Now, the memory felt both vivid and fragile, like a soap bubble she was afraid to touch lest it burst.
She lay still, listening. Pale light pressed against her curtains, brighter than her usual waking hour. She could tell by the angle and warmth of the glow that she'd slept well past her ordinary rising time.
From somewhere beyond the back door came the thump of boots on the porch steps—Torin returning from the stable.
He’s usually done by now, so he must have slept in, too.
The thought carried an unexpected intimacy, as if their shared late rising after their shared late night was a secret between them—a small, invisible thread connecting his morning to hers.
He's your employer, Ivy reminded herself firmly, pulling the quilt to her chin. Fix your mind on other things.
She thought of Katie’s letter. Ivy hadn't realized until she held the envelope in her hands how fiercely she'd missed her sister.
The closeness and vibrancy of her friendship with Cora had overshadowed the more tenuous bond with Katie—the three-year gap in their ages, their different temperaments, Ivy's impatience with her sister's timid nature.
She'd always wished Katie were bolder, more willing to stand up to their father and mother.
But distance had a way of reshaping memories.
Now that she was half a continent away, Ivy could appreciate the qualities Katie possessed, instead of dwelling on the ones she lacked.
Perhaps her sister's gentleness wasn't weakness but a different kind of strength—one that endured without breaking, that bent with the wind instead of snapping.
She missed Katie's laugh, low and musical. She missed their evenings together—Katie at the piano, Ivy at her harp, weaving melodies back and forth in the parlor while the low fire hissed, creating something beautiful in the cold, loveless house.
She missed the secret language of sisters, how Katie would catch her eye across the supper table. In that glance, they could exchange an entire conversation.
Ivy reached to the top of the chest of drawers and picked up Katie's letter, which she'd read three times already. Unfolding the page, she read again in the strengthening morning light.
The house is so quiet without you. Papa hasn't mentioned your name since you left. Mama asked for you once, and he told her you'd gone to visit a friend. I didn't correct him because, in a way, that's the truth. You are visiting a friend, just one half a continent away.
Our father has broken down and hired a servant girl, probably for a pittance.
The poor, downtrodden thing, Billie is her name, flits about like a waif.
While her cooking and baking aren't up to your standards, the quality of the food is sufficient for Papa.
Even with the hard work, from eating regular meals, Billie has put on some weight from eating regular meals, and her skin isn't so sallow.
I even caught her humming the other day, and, with a shy duck of her head, she confessed to loving to hear me play.
So wherever she came from must have been far worse than this household.
I like having a new audience, but I'd much prefer my sister's presence.
I miss you, Ivy. I miss you terribly.
Please write and tell me all about your new life. I hope and pray you are happy.
With love,
Katie.
Ivy's eyes filmed with tears, along with feeling guilt for having left her sister. The words blurred. I never realized how much I meant to Katie.
I miss you, too, dear sister. More than I knew I would.
She pressed the letter to her chest and stared at the ceiling, where a knot in the log beam looked, if she squinted, like a sleeping cat.
Ivy promised herself she would write today during Jewel's nap—a long letter, not the hurried note after she’d first arrived to inform Katie she was safe and welcomed.
She would describe the Northern Lights, though she already knew words would fail to capture the magnitude of what she'd witnessed.
She would try, for Katie's sake, to paint them with language—the colors, the movement, the silence of it all—knowing her sister would never see the sight.
The thought made the experience feel both more precious and more melancholy.
She would tell Katie about Jewel, too—as much as discretion allowed.
About the felt letters and the counting and the walks through the strand of forest. About the small, fierce girl who hugged a cloth J to her chest, charmed a cat into being dragged around like a ragdoll, and proudly counted out her numbers.
Katie would love Jewel. The thought arrived with a pang. And Jewel would love Katie.
Her bladder urging her to move, Ivy set the letter aside. She dressed quickly in a practical day dress, braided her hair into its usual coil, and hurried outside to the privy.
The morning air held a crispness that nipped at her cheeks but carried beneath it the faintest undertone of something warmer—a promise that the relentless cold was beginning to lose its grip. She could smell pine and wet earth and, faintly, a hint of green in the tiny buds on the trees.
Back inside, she entered the kitchen to find Torin at the stove, stirring oatmeal. His hair was tied back with its usual leather thong, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle from years of chopping wood and hauling water.
At the sight of him, Ivy felt an unwelcome flutter in her stomach, along with memories of the overlook, the sky, the low timbre of his voice, the touch of his finger on her lips.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, moving to wash her hands in the basin.
The warm water from the kettle felt wonderful on her chilled fingers.
“Good morning.” He poured some coffee into a waiting mug.
The greeting was perfectly cordial. The same three words he'd said every morning for the past few days. And yet, Ivy sensed something—a slight stiffening of his shoulders—an almost imperceptible retreat in his tone.
Of course, he’s retreating. Disappointed, she dried her hands on the cloth that hung from a peg beside the sink.
He half-turned and handed her the mug.
Ivy wrapped her fingers around the warm enamel. What did you expect? That one evening under the stars would change everything?
She took a sip and willed the small sting of hurt to dissolve. As she watched him ladle oatmeal into three bowls without meeting her eyes, the feeling lingered. “Did you sleep well?” she ventured, moving to sit at the table.
“Well enough.” He set a bowl and spoon in front of her, followed by a napkin, the honey pot, and a small pitcher of milk. “Jewel's still asleep. I’ll bet Hank kept her up late.”
“Or maybe she kept him up,” Ivy said lightly. “After all, she had six letters and twenty numbers and three songs to show off.”
“True,” he said, with just a shadow of a smile.
It’s like we’re back to day one.
Fine, she told herself, drizzling a spoonful of honey into her oatmeal. He's entitled to his distance. And you have a letter to write, lessons to plan, and a child to teach. That is enough.
But the words—that is enough—had begun to feel like a prayer she was losing faith in.
The distance from Ivy that Torin imposed in the morning stayed with him through the day—present, persistent, and impossible to ignore, no matter how many tasks he threw himself into.
He knew he was being unfair. Ivy hadn't done anything wrong.
Torin finally resorted to chopping firewood, even though he already had plenty, just to tire himself out. But his thoughts refused to be distracted.
When the aurora had blazed overhead and Ivy had tilted her face to the sky, her eyes reflecting green fire, her lips parted in wordless awe, something had cracked open inside him. Not desire, exactly—though that, too, simmered inside him, a constant low hum he'd grown accustomed to ignoring.
But something deeper. Something that felt dangerously like belonging. As if this particular woman with her patient hands and quick mind and generous laugh had been fashioned to fit the empty spaces in his life.
He'd wanted to take her hand. The urge had been so strong, so visceral, that he'd had to press his palms flat against the cold rock to keep them still.
The memory made him attack the firewood with more force than necessary, sending the axe biting deep into the round of pine, making chips fly. You felt the same way about Mary Beth, and look how that ended.
But the comparison rang hollow, and he knew it. What he'd felt for Mary Beth had been the infatuation of a young man dazzled by ethereal beauty and social standing—a surface attraction that crumbled at the first life test.
The attraction he felt for Ivy was built on something altogether more substantial— on watching her teach his daughter with tireless creativity, on seeing her crouch to help Jewel gather snowdrops without a thought for her dress, on hearing the music she coaxed from her harp in the quiet evenings that had become the best part of his day.
On the way she'd looked at his imperfect, wonderful daughter and seen not a deficiency but a child worth fighting for.
That's what makes her so dangerous. Not her pretty face, but her good heart.
He brought the axe down hard. The wood split cleanly, the two halves falling away from each other. He picked them up and added them to the growing pile.
She's Jewel's governess. She depends on you for her livelihood. Any feelings you harbor are irrelevant, inappropriate, and unwelcome. You are not the kind of man who takes advantage of a woman's dependence.
He stacked the split wood methodically—small pieces on the left for the stoves, larger ones on the right for the fireplaces—and carried an armload inside, passing through the kitchen where Ivy sat with Jewel at the table.
His daughter was tracing the shape of the blue felt letter H with her finger, her tongue protruding in concentration. “Bue. Aych. Huh,” she murmured.
A piece of chalk in her hand, Ivy bent over the table to straighten a remnant of flowered fabric. Chuckling, she looked up at him.
He couldn’t help exchanging a shared smile at his daughter’s mastery of H, before bending to fill the woodbox. When he straightened, he could see an I, judging by the straight lines she was marking with chalk. I for Ivy.
He pulled off his leather gloves and tossed them on the counter. Taking longer than necessary to wash and dry his hands, Torin stole glances at the two of them bent over their work.
On the table beside Ivy's sewing things lay a sheet of writing paper, half covered with her neat copperplate. The letter to her sister.
Jewel looked up. "Pa-pa, watch." She held up the felt letter and traced the sides with her finger. “Aych.” Then, with evident pride, she said, “Aych for Han.”
“H for Hank," Torin agreed, managing a smile that he hoped looked more natural than it felt. "Very good, Sweetheart. Hank is going to be so proud when you show him.”
His daughter beamed and returned to her slate, where a row of wobbly Hs marched across the surface.
Ivy's gaze caught his for just a moment—warm, questioning, perhaps a little cautious. He could read the unspoken inquiry in her eyes: Are we all right? Did last night change something between us?
He looked away first. Lest he say the words aloud. I’m broken. You deserve a better man.
After their noon meal, he went to the stable, ostensibly to muck out the stalls but really to put distance between himself and the woman in his kitchen. While he worked—the rhythmic scrape of the shovel, the warm, animal smell of the cow and calf—he tried to sort through the tangle of his thoughts.
What are my choices?
He could continue as he was—employer and employee, with a careful, professional distance maintained at all times. This was the safe option, the sensible one. It protected Ivy's reputation, preserved Jewel's stability, and kept his own treacherous heart under lock and key.
Or.
He could acknowledge what was happening between them—the looks, the silences, the way the air seemed to change when they were in the same room—and face the consequences.
And what would those consequences be? If Ivy didn't return his feelings, their working relationship would become awkward, possibly untenable. She might leave. Jewel would be devastated.
If she did return his feelings.... That led to territories he wasn't prepared to map. Marriage? He was divorced, disgraced, disinherited. What did he have to offer?
Everything, whispered a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hank's. You have everything that matters.
He shoved the voice aside and finished the stalls with the grim efficiency of a man trying to outwork his feelings.
When he returned to the house, Ivy was in the parlor, writing her letter by the window while Jewel napped. When he entered, she looked up. For a moment—just a moment—the afternoon light caught the gold and green flecks in her hazel eyes. The breath went out of him.
“I'm writing to my sister, Katie,” she said softly, as if offering an olive branch of normalcy. “Trying to describe the Northern Lights.” She shook her head ruefully. “Words seem so inadequate.”
“They are.” He paused in the doorway, knowing he should walk on, knowing he wouldn't. “But words are all we have when the people we love are far away.” When he’d first reached Sweetwater Springs, he’d written to his family members to let them know he and Jewel had arrived safely and so they’d know where to reach him.
But only his youngest brother, Gareth, had corresponded. The boy mentioned writing in secret because their father had forbidden any contact. How Gareth disagreed with the decree and wanted Torin to know that. How he’d write again when he was grown and could do what he wanted.
Something flickered in Ivy’s expression—surprise at his openness, perhaps, or recognition that his words contained more than their surface meaning. She held his gaze for a beat longer than was strictly comfortable.
The silence that followed was charged with everything they weren't saying.
Torin broke it by clearing his throat and stepping back. “I should check the fires.”
“Yes,” Ivy agreed, returning her gaze to her letter. “You should.”
He retreated down the hall, his heart knocking against his ribs, and spent the rest of the afternoon finding reasons to be in whatever room she wasn't.