Chapter 8
POV: Callum
After lunch, I started on the lean-to, very aware of Sorsha, who got in my way more often than not. But I liked that she did. She was so eager to help, running between petting Mabel and bunching up straw in her excitement.
It pained me that something so small could make her so happy.
As I was heading out of the kitchen, I saw her pull the remaining pennies from her pocket and leave them on the table.
I knew without a doubt something had happened at the General Store, and given Garth’s daughter, Edith’s personality, I was certain she had given Sorsha a hard time. That, I could fix.
I ordered things from Garth on a weekly basis—coal, lubricant, the main necessities—but I could just as easily procure them somewhere else.
A trip to Mount Pinnacle seemed like a good idea. There were a few jewelers who sold rings that I wanted to look at, maybe buy a matching set. I could fashion them myself, but I wanted gold, and I’d never worked with a metal that soft.
It would also give Sorsha the chance to get out of Bridgeford and see something new. I’d fix the cart and take a couple of days, and we could stay overnight at Wayfarers Inn.
“Hold these,” I instructed, handing her a basket full of nails.
“Okay,” she said, bouncing to my side.
Hammering the planks together, I pulled the frame upright and fastened brackets to the wall so there’d be no chance of it toppling.
With a critical eye, I drove in a few more nails as a failsafe, while Sorsha looked on with open admiration.
“This is for you, Mabel,” she squeaked, then busied herself transferring hay into the trough.
“How would you like to take a trip?” I asked.
She turned in surprise, bits of hay clinging to her clothes and hair. “A trip?”
“Yes. I want to go to Mount Pinnacle. I’ll repair the cart, and we can take Mabel along.”
The smile that bloomed a second later was so beautiful it took my breath away.
“I would love that, but…” Her expression fell with worry.
“What?”
“Do you have my papers?”
“I do—and I have a marriage certificate.”
She twirled and clapped her hands in excitement, nearly tripping over her own feet, but I caught her before she could fall, pulling her close. Swallowing, I steadied her, then forced myself to let go.
She clutched her dress tightly, looking as awkward as I felt.
“Sorry—and thank you. When can we go?”
“Hmm. Tomorrow. I need to reinforce the cart’s wheels first, but I’ll do that now, and if need be, after dinner.”
She nodded. “I can help with the cooking. You just need to give me instructions.”
“You can shell the peas and chop the carrots. I’ll show you how to do the meat once I’ve cleaned up.”
She ran off without sparing me a second glance, and I hurried to finish, led Mabel into the lean-to, and started on the cart. It really only needed a little maintenance and took less time than I thought.
I gave myself a quick wash before heading to the kitchen to see how Sorsha had managed.
What had they eaten at her house? Surely, they must have cooked?
I stopped dead when I saw Sorsha wielding a knife, chopping carrots so fast I was afraid she’d slice a finger off.
“Careful,” I said softly, not wanting to startle her while she had the knife in hand.
She looked up and grinned. “I chop really fast,” she said proudly. “But shelling peas is a pain.”
I nodded. “I can see that, but please be careful. My knives are sharpened regularly.”
“I figured.” She stood for a moment, thoughtful, then asked, “Do you have a sharp pair of scissors?”
“Why?” I asked, suspicious.
She pulled a plain twig from her hair, the bark stripped clean, and her tresses tumbled down in a tangled spill of ripened corn reaching her waist. The sight held me still—wild, unruly, yet striking in a way that made it hard to look away.
She gathered the mass over her shoulder and ran her hand down it until only a couple of inches peeked out below her fist.
“It needs a cut.”
I grabbed the scissors hanging on a hook behind the door and handed them to her.
“Finally.” She smiled, then cut her hair above her fist—not below, as I had assumed.
“Wait…” I said, but it was already too late.
She’d cut off a good five inches if not more.
With a smile, she ran outside, opened her hand, and let the strands fly into the sunset. Stretching her arms toward the sky, she spun in a quick twirl, her silhouette stark against the fading light, her freshly cut hair catching in the breeze.
My breath caught at her wild beauty, her joy in the little things I took for granted. I found myself wanting to fold her into my arms and taste the sweetness of her dewy lips. Biting back a groan, I busied myself with the meat, forcing my thoughts into order.
A moment later, she came bouncing back, her smile infectious. She wrapped her hair, twisted it, and secured it again with that plain twig. I could make her a hairpin, but I wasn’t sure if steel was the right way to go.
I cleared my throat. “Can you chop an onion for me?” I asked.
“Of course.”
She wasn’t nearly as quick this time, stopping often to swipe at her eyes with her sleeve. I handed her a napkin.
“Onions are the worst…” she muttered, then looked up at me through watery eyes. “Why aren’t you crying?”
I grinned. “Years at the forge must’ve singed my tear ducts.”
“In that case, you can chop onions in the future,” she said, hands on her hips.
It made me happy that, despite a difficult life, nothing had broken her spirit. She was the type of woman whose backbone was filled with starch—unyielding, sturdy, and exactly made for me.
“What are we making?” she asked.
“Meatballs. You’re making them, and I’ll give you instructions.”
Her brows rose for a second, then she squared her shoulders and gave me a look that said, Bring it on.