Chapter Thirteen
By breakfast the following morning, the lingering coolness had already begun surrendering to the Texas heat. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows, turning the pine floorboards golden and casting long shadows across the table.
Henry sat at the table across from Lola who was reading quietly to herself, a bowl of oatmeal abandoned on the table in front of her.
Nora moved about the kitchen with the same efficiency she always displayed, serving breakfast, refilling coffee cups, and seeing to Lola’s needs before her own. Yet something had changed.
The easy warmth she’d shown over the past several days seemed more guarded now and her movements around him were hesitant. Cautious, even.
Henry suspected he knew why. Since their conversation after church a few days before, and then the telling-off he had given her later that same evening, hung over them.
At the time, he’d convinced himself he was protecting Lola.
Now, with a little distance, the excuse felt less convincing and the truth was harder to ignore.
It was true he did not hold faith in the same esteem he had once done.
He had given up on God and prayers the day he had returned home from war to find his family were gone.
He knew he wanted to protect Lola from the same pain and disappointment he had felt when God had forsaken him.
Yet, despite feeling this way, he also could not ignore the way Lola had responded to the Bible story, or how she had been unable to stop talking his ear off about how wonderful their visit to church had been.
Henry exhaled, reaching for his mug and draining the last of his coffee, which was now lukewarm.
He was frustrated. Not only at Nora, but at himself.
Annoyed by the fact that since marrying her, guilt had become an unwelcome companion in his life.
Not that he intended to admit it, certainly not aloud.
A short while later, Nora began gathering the dishes as she turned to Lola. “Go get your things,” she said. “Or you’ll be late.”
Without argument, Lola closed her book and pushed her chair out before hurrying out of the room. Her sudden exit left Henry and Nora alone and the tension between them seemed to tighten like the strings of a fiddle.
“I can take Lola to school this morning,” Nora offered suddenly. “I am sure you have enough work waiting for you.”
Henry set down his cup. “I have business in town anyway.”
Nora paused.
“The plow blade needs replacing. I’ve been meaning to take it to the blacksmith.” That part, at least, was true. The repaired blade had been sitting beside the barn for several days waiting to be returned.
“If you’re sure.”
The conversation ended there. Yet, as Henry escorted Lola outside a few minutes later, he found himself wondering why he’d been so determined to make the trip personally.
The plow blade genuinely needed returning.
Still, if he was being entirely honest with himself, the errand’s timing had less to do with farm equipment than he cared to admit.
The truth was that the awkwardness between him and Nora was making life at the ranch difficult and he wasn’t sure how to fix it. He knew James would tell him to apologize, but he wasn’t particularly skilled at apologies. Besides, he wasn’t certain he had anything to say he was sorry for.
***
Weatherford bustled beneath the late morning sun.
The streets were alive with activity as Henry rode through town.
Wagons rolled along dusty roads carrying supplies and produce.
Merchants swept storefronts while customers drifted in and out of businesses seeking everything from nails to fabric.
As the wagon bumped along the main street, Henry did his best to push away the thoughts of Nora and focus on the task at hand.
The blacksmith shop sat near the far end of Main Street, its wide doors standing open to the heat of the day.
Long before Henry reached it, he could hear the steady ring of metal against metal.
Clang, clang, clang. The sound echoed down the street, accompanied by the hiss of water striking hot iron.
Inside, the air was considerably warmer than outdoors. The forge glowed orange in the dim interior, casting flickering light across racks of horseshoes, wagon parts, and farming tools. The smell of coal smoke mingled with sweat and hot metal.
Jacob Miller looked up from the anvil as Henry entered. The blacksmith was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with soot permanently embedded in the creases of his hands. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing powerful forearms built from years of swinging a hammer. “Morning, Henry.”
“Morning.” Henry set the repaired plow blade on a nearby workbench as Jacob moved to inspect it.
A younger apprentice hurried past carrying a bucket of water while another worked at a grinding wheel near the back of the shop.
Jacob set the blade aside. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days,” he said. “How’s the ranch?”
“Still standing.”
“That’s about the best any of us can hope for these days.”
Henry nodded as the forge crackled.
Jacob wiped his hands on a leather apron. “We need rain.”
“We needed rain a month ago.”
“True enough.”
The blacksmith glanced toward the open doorway. “The sky looked promising yesterday evening.”
“It lied.”
Jacob barked a laugh. “That’s Texas weather for you.” The blacksmith pointed toward the street. “Heard some folks further west got a decent storm.”
“Hopefully it keeps moving.”
“If it doesn’t, half the county will be praying for it by Sunday.”
Henry’s expression darkened slightly at the mention of praying and Jacob seemed to notice. Like most people in Weatherford, he knew Henry’s history. Unlike most people, he possessed enough sense not to comment on it.
Henry reached for his hat. “Good day, Jacob.”
“Tell your new wife I said welcome to Weatherford.”
Henry paused as he settled his hat firmly onto his head and headed toward the door. Outside, the morning heat was already building. Dust swirled along the street as a wagon passed, and somewhere nearby a dog barked lazily from beneath a storefront porch.
He climbed up onto the wagon and headed for home, however as he drove down the main street he passed a small storefront he rarely noticed. The sign above the door read WEATHERFORD BOOKS & STATIONERY
A thought had surfaced unexpectedly and it was one he immediately attempted to dismiss.
Nora had written in the letters that she enjoyed books.
Quite a lot, judging by the number of times she mentioned them.
There was one author in particular. Charles Dickens.
The name returned to him with surprising clarity.
He frowned. The sensible course would have been to continue home.
Henry had work waiting for him at the ranch.
Fence repairs remained unfinished, and there were a dozen other tasks competing for his attention.
Yet, as he guided the wagon past the small bookshop, he shifted uneasily on the wagon seat.
The truth was, they had disagreed and they would likely disagree again.
Church, faith, and God himself were subjects neither of them seemed capable of discussing without stumbling into dangerous territory.
Henry had no desire to argue with her. Nor did he have any intention of changing his mind.
Yet, as much as their differences irritated him, he couldn’t ignore another truth.
She had done nothing but try since arriving at the ranch.
She worked harder than he expected and treated Lola with patience and kindness.
Nora had somehow managed to bring warmth back into a house that had felt empty for years.
The least he could do was make an effort in return.
Marriage was still a strange thing to him. It was a responsibility he had never intended to take on. Yet, now that it existed, he could not simply ignore it.
His gaze settled on the bookshop window. He could not offer her agreement or offer the certainty she seemed to possess. But perhaps he could offer something else. A small acknowledgment that her interests mattered. That, despite their disagreement, he respected her.
Before he could reconsider, Henry pulled the wagon to a stop. The horse flicked an ear in mild confusion. “Don’t start,” Henry muttered. The horse wisely declined to comment.
A moment later Henry climbed down and headed toward the bookshop door.
The shop smelled of paper, leather bindings, and dust warmed by sunlight.
Rows of books lined shelves stretching nearly to the ceiling.
Several tables displayed recent arrivals from Eastern publishers, while maps, writing supplies, and stationery occupied one corner.
The room was pleasantly quiet and a sharp contrast to the busy street outside.
An elderly gentleman looked up from behind the counter. He wore round spectacles perched low upon his nose and appeared delighted to see a customer. “Good morning.”
Henry nodded. “Morning.”
The bookseller studied him for a moment, clearly recognizing that Henry did not look like a regular visitor. “What may I help you find?”
Henry immediately regretted entering. The entire idea now seemed foolish, yet leaving would somehow feel worse. He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a book.”
The bookseller smiled. “An excellent place to begin.”
Henry ignored that. The man waited patiently. “Charles Dickens.”
The bookseller brightened. “Very popular.”
He moved toward a nearby shelf. “Do you have a particular title in mind?”
Unfortunately, Henry had not thought that far ahead. The letters had mentioned several and, after a moment, one surfaced. “David Copperfield.”
The bookseller nodded approvingly. “An excellent choice.”
A handsome volume appeared in his hands moments later. The leather binding was simple but sturdy. It was the sort of book intended to be read more than once.
He opened it briefly and then closed it again.