Wild Rose. Ruth Axtell Morren
herself, Geneva gave an abrupt nod and turned to begin her trek back to the gate.
She’d spent too many years protecting her own hide to know how to reach out to anyone. The captain would have to learn to sink or swim on his own. She’d help him with his garden. That was all. She owed him that much.
Caleb sat on the veranda, staring out at the silvery sea, the hot coffee cup enveloped by his hands. He couldn’t see the horizon this morning. It was obscured by the milky white fog that lay offshore and high overhead.
The sun was already visible, its strong yellow orb promising to burn through the white film shrouding but not obliterating it. He listened to the movement of sea against rock, its sucking, rushing sound ceaseless.
He’d been listening to it off and on all night.
Finally the nausea he had felt since rising began to ebb. He took a cautious sip of coffee, feeling as if he were just finding his sea legs.
In truth, he knew his physical condition was the result of more than rising too early and sleeping too little over several days.
He ventured another sip of the scalding coffee, needing something—anything—to wash out the vile taste in his mouth.
Lost in thought again, the knock didn’t penetrate his consciousness the first time. It was only at the second knock that it intruded like something at the periphery of his vision gradually taking shape.
He got up slowly at the third knock, his head shifting like sand, his body weak and wobbly like one who hasn’t eaten in a few days.
Caleb walked back inside, following the echo of the now silent knock. His footsteps reverberated against the polished wood floor as he walked through the wide living room, into the dining room, and finally reached the kitchen. He approached the door leading out into the shed and opened it a crack.
The tall woman wearing men’s attire—denim overalls and a straw hat—was just turning to leave.
He opened the door wider. “Good morning,” he said, immediately clearing his throat as he heard the raspy sound of the syllables emanating from it.
She nodded by way of greeting. “Brought you some loam.”
He frowned. “Loom?” He repeated the word the way she’d pronounced it.
“Topsoil. And dry manure,” she added.
“Oh.” Was this supposed to mean something to him?
The way she waited, just staring at him, made him conscious of his appearance. His fingers touched the collar of his shirt, and he realized the top buttons were undone.
She shifted in her boots. “I’ll bring the seedlings ’round as soon as we work in the loam. Thought you’d want to get started early with the planting.”
He finally nodded in understanding, remembering her offer of seedlings. Somehow it had slipped his mind amidst the backbreaking labor of the last two days.
“And so I do.” He yawned. “Excuse me. I didn’t get to sleep until late.” When she said nothing, he asked, “What time is it anyway?”
He saw her blink at his question. She was younger than he’d imagined. In her men’s getup and her clipped sentences, she had seemed ageless to him.
Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled out his watch. “Eight o’clock. It feels more like daybreak.” He looked at her questioningly. “Don’t you have your own work to do? I don’t want to keep you from it.”
She shook her head. “Already weeded and watered this mornin’.”
He nodded. “Of course.” If her speech was anything to go by, she wasn’t a person to waste time. “I suppose if I am to accept your generous gift, I should at least know your name. You seem to know mine.”
All he understood of the mumbled words was “Neeva Patterson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Patterson.” He took a last swallow of coffee. “Well, let’s be at it, then.”
He followed her out into the yard. The morning was still cool and he shivered slightly in his thin shirt. She marched ahead of him, straight toward the garden patch. Once there, she looked it over like a general reviewing his troops.
She turned to him. “What made you decide to turn your hand to gardening?”
“Sheer boredom.”
As if finding no response to that, she pointed to the wheelbarrow. “We’ve got to spread this over the garden and then use the fork to dig it in deep. I’ll empty it out and go bring some more. You’ll need to cover the garden good.”
As she reached for the handles of the barrow, Caleb came alive, realizing she’d meant what she’d said the other day about helping him. He got to the handles first and flipped the contraption over.
Then he turned toward the barn. “I’ll go get the shovel and fork,” he said over his shoulder.
It was after noon before Geneva judged the soil ready for planting. She stood back from where she had been working the manure into the soil with her fork. “Reckon we can rake it smooth now.”
The captain stopped his work at once, and she wondered whether he was as glad of the respite as she.
She hadn’t liked his pallor this morning. She’d kept telling herself it came only from lack of sleep, but being out in the sunshine hadn’t improved it. Now his paleness was overlaid with a sheen of perspiration.
The noonday sun burned down on their backs. They’d spent the morning carting manure and compost from her yard and forking it into his newly tilled garden. The captain hadn’t even stopped to drink a dipper of water. The back of his shirt was wet, and every so often he’d stop to swat at the blackflies that hovered around him in a cloud and remove his hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief, or just straighten up, as if his back pained him.
He worked steadily, almost as if he was trying to prove something, but she couldn’t fathom what a gentleman like himself wanted to prove by bending over a garden patch.
Whatever the reason, she admired him for it. He had grit. Not like her pa, who’d bullied her ma all the time she was alive, but when she was gone, he’d just given up. Not all at once, but gradually, taking to the bottle until he was no longer fit to carry out the logging work that was his livelihood. One day they’d carried his body home after he’d slipped from a log into the rushing river on a spring log drive….
Geneva shook away the memories and sneaked another peek at the captain. She bit her lip to keep from voicing her concern. She’d had long years of practice keeping silent. The captain had made it clear this morning that he was not interested in chitchat.
Her own throat felt parched and her belly empty. She leaned against her rake. “I think we oughtta quit for dinner.” Before he could refuse, she added, “We can plant the seeds this afternoon, but it’s not a good idea to plant the seedlings in full sun. Best thing is to set them tomorrow morning, early.”
He considered a moment, looking over the neatly tilled plot. Finally he gave a short nod, and Geneva breathed her relief.
She gave a doubtful look at the seedlings. “I don’t like setting everything out all at once, but guess it can’t be helped, it being so late for your first planting.”
“What do you mean?”
“All your stem vegetables should be planted when there’s a moon, and all the root crops, ’cluding your taters, when it’s dark.”
He gave the little plants, which were already beginning to droop, an uninterested look. “I don’t think it’ll make much difference to these plants one way or another. They should be grateful just to be planted.” He gave one of the pots a kick.
Instead of showing outrage, Geneva smiled. The contrast between the sweat-stained man before her and the polished gentleman