Wild Rose. Ruth Morren Axtell
the fir trees.
Miss Patterson’s front yard was edged by a crumbling stone wall, which was almost buried in wild rose and blackberry vines. Beyond this barrier, the yard was neat, the grass short and green, with a profusion of flowers blossoming around the well and at a window box. The house itself was a small, weathered shingle-box, surely not containing more than one room.
The first thing that greeted Caleb was the loud bark of a dog. As soon as he’d stepped onto the path of crushed, bleached white clamshells that led to the front door, his neighbor’s large, black dog bounded toward him. He was a black Labrador with enough other traits to deny any purity in his lineage. An old wound crumpled one ear, and an ugly pink scar disfigured the fur of one of its haunches.
Stopping a mere foot or so from Caleb, the dog kept up his barking. Caleb stood still, speaking to the dog in soft tones. Each time Caleb attempted to take a step forward, the dog dodged in front of him, his black eyes trained on Caleb.
Geneva walked around the side of the house, an empty pail swinging from each hand, heading toward the well. She stopped short at seeing Captain Caleb. What was he doing here? And Jake!
Recovering, she rushed toward the dog. “Down, Jake. That’s enough! I said hush!” When the dog continued barking and running back and forth, Geneva turned to Caleb. “Don’t pay him no mind. He won’t hurt you.”
The captain looked dubious. “Are you sure he knows that?”
“He just acts fierce. You won’t hurt the captain, will you, boy?” She bent over and rubbed Jake’s neck, seeking to ease the tension she felt in his muscles.
Caleb took a few cautious steps toward Jake and held out his hand for the dog’s inspection. “Your mistress is right. I won’t hurt you.” Jake would have none of it, but continued his incessant barking.
“He don’t take easily to strangers,” she explained, wanting so much for Jake to take to the captain. Her fingers continued running down the dog’s black hair in long, soothing strokes. “He had some bad times ’fore I got him, and he’s still not over them—are you, Jake?” She bent her head over her pet.
She could feel the captain watching the rhythm of her fingers down the dog’s haunches and she struggled to maintain their steadiness.
“Did his owner neglect him?” he asked gently.
Relieved that his focus was on the dog, she answered with a short laugh. “He probably wishes he had. No, his owner liked to take a stick to him and beat him ’til he could hardly stand.” She gave him a sharp look. “The man liked to drink.”
He didn’t react to her pointed reference, but said, “You ran off the other day.”
With a final pat, she straightened and picked up her buckets. “I didn’t ‘run off.’” She threw the words over her shoulder as she walked toward the well. “You had company. Figured the best thing I could do was stay out of your way.”
She set the pails down on the wet slats and began pumping the handle. When she’d filled each, she took them up and headed back around the house.
“Here, let me.” The captain reached her, ignoring Jake’s immediate menacing bark, to grab one of the pails.
Surprised at the gesture, she didn’t let go of the handle, but gave it a tug toward herself, sloshing water over the side of the rim. Jake immediately stood beside them, giving the captain a low-throated growl.
“Hush, Jake.” Geneva took the bucket from the captain’s loosened fingers. “Don’t worry, Cap’n, I got it. I’m just taking it to the garden. It hasn’t rained in a few days. Soil’s getting dry.” She heard the sentences coming out one atop the other in an effort to overcome her confusion at his gentlemanly gesture. Why did he treat her like a lady? Didn’t he see she was more like a man than a woman?
When she realized he hadn’t followed her, she had to swallow a sense of disappointment. She began watering her plants and was startled again at the sound of a whistle behind her.
The captain stood staring at her garden, a bucket in his hand. “Everything looks twice as high as in my garden.”
She shrugged, hiding her pleasure. “Yours will catch up.”
“Where do you want the water?” He held up the bucket.
She blinked. “You don’t have to help me with this.”
“You’ve helped me. And I’m sure to need your help again.”
For a moment she looked at him, then finally turned away. “Suit yourself.”
He took the bucket down another row of plants, watching and listening as she explained which way she watered what, taking care not to wet the leaves of some plants, not worrying about sloshing others, and crouching low to inspect the underside of a leaf here and there, looking for hungry caterpillars.
“By the way,” he said when they’d each emptied their last bucketful, “you said something about seeds the other day. Do you still have any to spare?”
“You still want ’em?” she asked doubtfully.
The captain nodded. “You told me to plant something every week, didn’t you?”
“Yep. I just figured since then—” She shook her head, falling silent.
“You figured what?”
She could feel a flush covering her cheeks. “Nothin’—you having company and all.”
“Nate? He just stayed three nights.”
She turned away, saying with a shrug, “Thought you’d be heading back to Boston by now.”
Leaving him, she headed toward the lean-to attached to her house. She unlatched the door and entered its shadowy interior. Firewood lined most of the walls, floor to ceiling. The air was redolent with the spicy scent of drying spruce and balsam. She turned to the shelf holding gardening implements and took down a jar. From it she extracted a folded paper. Inside it were minute specks. She refolded the paper and handed it to the captain, who had followed her into the shed.
“You can bring me back what you don’t use.”
He nodded absently and took the paper. “What did you mean—you thought I would be returning to Boston the first chance I got?”
She continued uncorking jars and extracting folded packets of paper. “It’s where you’re from. Didn’t think you’d stick it out here if you didn’t have to.”
The captain thrust out his hand to stop the motion of her hand on a jar. “I chose to come here. I didn’t have to. Do you understand the difference?”
She raised startled eyes to him. For a second their gazes met and held. The sunlight sliced through the open doorway, cutting a path across her face, leaving her feeling exposed, yet helpless to look away. His eyes traveled across her face, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“I jus’ thought—I mean—I didn’t think anyone’d come here to live. Not from Boston, anyway. Ain’t none of my business, anyhow.”
His hand still held her wrist. She jerked it away, and he immediately let it go.
He looked at the seed papers in his other hand. “How do I tell what is what?”
Again he’d caught her off guard. “Uh, I jus’ know by looking at ’em.” She unfolded one and said, “This here’s lettuce. It’ll grow quick. You should get enough through the summer if you plant some now, and then again in a week or so.”
“I should write the names of each on the papers.”
She bit her lip. “Uh, sure. I don’t have a pencil with me.”
He took one from his breast pocket. “Here.”
She looked at the pencil distrustfully. “You