Chapter Thirteen #2
The words meant very little to him. Still, he remembered the way Nora had written about it. The enthusiasm in her letters and the affection she seemed to hold for the story.
Without further consideration, he purchased it. The bookseller wrapped the volume carefully in brown paper and tied it with string.
***
And as Henry rode through the gate and toward the house, he found himself hoping, though he would never have admitted it, that she might understand what he was trying to say with the book.
He parked the wagon by the barn and made his way to the house.
As he stepped onto the porch, the wrapped parcel was tucked beneath one arm.
He hesitated, wondering if the gesture was a mistake but before he could change his mind, the front door opened and Nora stepped out carrying a basket of folded laundry on her hip. She paused when she saw him.
“You’re back.”
Henry nodded, the words he’d rehearsed during the ride promptly abandoned him. And for a moment, he simply stood there. Nora waited politely. Finally, Henry held out the package. “This is for you.”
Her eyes widened. “For me?”
“Yes.” The single syllable emerged more gruffly than intended.
She set the laundry basket down and accepted the parcel. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to open it,” he said. “That is generally how gifts work.”
Nora carefully untied the string and unfolded the brown paper and a moment later she stared down at the book.
For an instant, Henry expected recognition, delight…
something. Instead, she simply blinked, looking at the book blankly.
It was almost as though she were reading it for the first time. A strange sensation stirred inside him.
“Do you like it?” he asked
She hesitated a moment and then her expression brightened. But it wasn’t right, it felt forced. “Thank you.” Nora glanced down at the cover and her smile remained fixed in place. “That’s very thoughtful.”
The compliment should have satisfied him, but it did not. Nora turned the book over in her hands. “What a lovely book. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by him.”
The silence that followed seemed unusually loud. Henry stared. “You haven’t?”
The smile vanished from her face. “What?”
“The author.” He pointed toward the cover. “Charles Dickens. You wrote in your letters that he was one of your favorites.”
“Oh,” she said, a faint flush rose in her cheeks. “Of course.” She laughed lightly and the sound carried an edge he hadn’t heard before. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Henry continued watching her, his chest tight with unease. “You said David Copperfield was your favorite.”
Nora’s fingers tightened slightly around the book. “It is.” The answer came quickly. Nora smiled again, a little brighter than necessary. “I was simply distracted.”
He continued to look at her, but she would not meet his eye. “Well,” she said, looking down at the cover again. “It’s a wonderful book.” The statement felt oddly rehearsed. As though she had suddenly remembered she was supposed to enjoy it.
Henry’s stomach tightened. What exactly was he accusing her of? Forgetting an author’s name? Plenty of people did that. It meant nothing, it had to mean nothing. Yet the feeling remained.
Nora stepped backward, clutching the book to her chest. “Thank you, Henry. That was very kind.” Before he could respond, she picked up the basket of laundry. “I should finish these.”
Then she disappeared down the hallway and the porch fell quiet.
Henry remained where he was, staring after her.
She’d looked at the book as though she’d never seen it before.
And perhaps she hadn’t. Maybe she had pretended to like novels in order to impress him, or seem sophisticated.
He imagined it was not unusual for those applying for a mail-order bride or groom position to employ some poetic license in order to appear more appealing. Yes, he thought. That must be why.
And yet, something about it still didn’t sit right. Before he could examine it further, a sharp cry rang out from outside.
“Uncle Henry!”
Every other thought vanished instantly and he was already moving. The cry had come from near the corral.
Henry rounded the corner of the house and immediately spotted Lola sitting in the dirt. Her pony stood nearby looking entirely innocent, which usually meant it was guilty. Tears glistened in Lola’s eyes.
Henry crouched beside her. “What happened?”
“I was trying to race Buttercup.”
Henry sighed. “And?”
“I lost.”
Despite the situation, a smile threatened, but he managed to suppress it. “Let’s have a look.”
The scrape covered most of one knee, it was nothing serious, but painful enough. Particularly for a six-year-old.
Lola watched him carefully. “Is it bad?”
“No.”
Lola winced. “It feels bad.”
“Most scrapes do.”
He helped her stand. “Come on.”
Together, they headed toward the house. Inside, Henry cleaned the wound at the kitchen table. Lola squeezed her eyes shut when the water touched the scrape. Yet she didn’t complain or pull away. She simply gripped the edge of the chair and endured it.
“You’re being very brave.”
One eye popped open. “Really?”
“Really.”
A few moments later, the scrape was cleaned and covered with a fresh bandage.
“There.” Henry sat back. “Good as new.”
Lola examined the bandage with great seriousness and then nodded.
She slid from her chair and for a moment Henry thought she was leaving.
Instead, she hesitated and then stepped forward.
Before he could react, two small arms wrapped around his neck, before she released him and ran toward the door before he could respond.
A moment later, she was gone and the screen door slammed behind her.
Silence settled over the kitchen as Henry remained seated, one hand resting on the table and the other hanging motionless at his side.
The sensation lingered, the brief pressure of small arms and the warmth of unexpected affection.
The simple trust contained in that tiny gesture.
His throat tightened unexpectedly. For two years, he’d worried constantly that he was failing her, failing his sister and the responsibility he’d been given.
He knew how to mend fences and care for cattle.
How to survive difficult seasons. But raising a little girl?
That was another matter entirely. Yet somehow, despite all his mistakes and shortcomings, Lola had hugged him Not because she had to, because she wanted to.
That realization settled slowly into his chest. It was warm, precious and dangerously hopeful.
Outside, he heard her laughing again and the sound drifted through the open window on the afternoon breeze. And for a long moment, Henry simply sat there listening.