"You all right, Mrs. Graham?" It was the voice of a young woman. Emma felt an arm reach around her shoulders, a strong arm. "Want me to take you over to Mr. Graham? He's just yonder."
"No. Please." Suddenly Emma did not want him to see her like this. She needed to think, to catch her breath.
"Come with me, then, I'll bets alls you're wanting some vittles. Come with me, Mrs. Graham."
Emma allowed the young woman to half-carry her to a cabin. They passed the waver's shop, then a place with a large wheel in front that Emma assumed was a wheel maker's and The Hungry Boar Tavern. Finally, they turned to a cottage even smaller than the one she shared with Michael.
If the other cabins were rustic, this one was downright primitive. There were two chairs in the single room, and the young woman shooed what appeared to be a small bear cub off one of the chairs before easing Emma into the seat. The room was musty, and a layer of dirty grime seemed to cling to every surface.
"There you go Mrs. Graham."
Emma got a clear look at the woman now, as clear as was possible in the dark cabin. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and quite stout. There were very few stout people in Overton Falls, at least judging from what Emma had seen of the town. The business of day-to-day survival must have kept extra weight off most of the citizens.
Her dark hair was straight, parted in the middle and halfway down her back. Her dress was made from chamois, loose and stained.
"I'm Rebecca Larson, Mrs. Graham. My husband and me, we make all the pottery here in town."
"I've seen it." Emma sat up. "It's wonderful!"
Rebecca Larson shrugged her shoulders, a shy dismissive gesture. "We try, ma'am. He makes the pottery and I do all the painting. He's gone just now, tending to his brother in St. Louis. He'll be back in a piece. I'm here alone with our little boy."
Emma then noticed the little boy in the corner, sound asleep.
"He's all tuckered out, ma'am," Rebecca Larson explained, smiling fondly at her son. "Played all morning and now he'll sleep. Can I get you some of the stew in the kettle?"
The fragrance was marvelous, the smell of a luscious dish that had been simmering for hours.
"Oh, that would be great." Emma tried to keep the eagerness from her voice.
Rebecca Larson moved with surprising swiftness. After spooning some stew into a pottery bowl, she placed it on the small table, gestured for Emma to pull up her chair, and handed her a wooden spoon.
Emma was halfway through the dish before she realized that Rebecca had calmly seated herself on the floor, cross-legged as she watched her guest eat. No napkin had been offered.
She also could see the bowl itself better now, and was startled by the beauty of it. Although the shape was flat and unremarkable, the ornate designs were nothing short of fantastic. There were figures of dancers and animals and magnificent flowers, all twined around a star. Rebecca had used only one shade of paint, a subtle blue. Yet the dish seemed to explode with vibrant life.
"This dish"—Emma pointed with her wooden spoon—"it's beautiful. You painted it?"
Rebecca nodded. "Just the other day. It's my newest one."
Emma finished her meal in appreciative silence. The stew was delicious and Rebecca was clearly pleased when Emma mentioned it.
"Thank you, ma'am." It was difficult to tell, but she seemed to blush in the dim light of the cabin. The windows were shuttered, and the only illumination came from the glow of the fireplace.
After a second helping Emma was beginning to feel human.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Larson," she apologized. "But that was about the best stew I've ever had."
"The secret is to cook it a good long while." She took Emma's plate and motioned to the kettle.
"Oh, no thank you. I'm full." Emma took a deep, satisfying breath. "I really don't know what I would have done without your help."
"Aw. It ain't nothing." Rebecca Larson smiled, and Emma realized she was quite pretty. "I don't know what we would have done without your husband, Mrs. Graham."
"Really?" Emma leaned forward, wanting to hear more.
Rebecca thought she understood. "I don't suppose you know all that's been going on here, you being sick for so long and all."
"No. I'm afraid I have no idea."
For a few long moments, Rebecca did not speak. The sounds form the outside seemed distant, and Emma wrapped the blanket more firmly around her shoulders.
"You see, Mrs. Graham, me and Walter, we are plain people. We don't ask for nothing from nobody. We make pottery, good pottery. I can take you back yonder someday and see our work shed, if you want."
When Emma nodded in eagerness, Rebecca smiled a genuine smile. "You are a lot like him, Mrs. Graham."
"Like Walter?"
"No, ma'am. Like your husband."
"I am?"
"Yes, ma'am. It don’t' bother your husband none to be in here with us, or to let us walk into his workplace just like anyone else. Other people in town ain't like you. They want us to leave, They are happy enough to use our potter, because it's good and it's cheap and when Mr. Zoller sells it to them, they can almost forget where it came from."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Larson. I'm a little confused here. Why on earth wouldn't they want you to live in Overton Falls?"
"Your husband hasn't told you?"
Emma shook her head.
"Mrs. Graham, my Walter and me and our boy, Well, we're part Indian." Rebecca lowered her eyes.
It took a moment for Emma to realize that was it, the reason the good citizens of Overton Falls wanted them to leave.
"Why, I think that's just fine, Mrs. Lawson," Emma said softly. "You should be very proud of your heritage. It's noble and magnificent, and nothing to hide from the world."
Rebecca remained silent for a long while, and when she looked up at Emma, there were tears in her eyes. "You are a lot like him. He's trying to make it against the law for us to be driven out of town. The whole reason we had to move here in the first place is because of something called the Removal Act. Mr. Graham says that's why all these people from out east were allowed to take our reserve land. We had no place else to go. You are a whole lot like him, Mrs. Graham."
A strange warmth spread thorough Emma's midsection, a sense of wonder at what Michael was doing, a sense of pride at what he was attempting to do.
Another emotion began to rise, every bit as unfamiliar to her. She realized that after a few short hours he was beginning to fall in love with Michael.
"Mrs. Larson," Emma said. She suddenly felt breathless and giddy—she wanted to see Michael. She wanted to do something for him. "Mrs. Larson," she repeated, her voice a little more even. "May I have that stew recipe? I would love to make it for Michael."
Rebecca Larson stood up, her face a ray of happiness. "Of course you can, Mrs. Graham! It's simple enough. I can't write none, but I'll tell you it. Now the most important thing to remember is to cook it a long time."
Emma nodded.
"Add whatever vegetables you got in the house. But with possum meat, you got to cook it good and long so the gristle don't stick in your teeth."
"Possum?" Emma's voice cracked.
"Yes, ma'am. Sometimes I throw in a little squirrel just for the flavor. You can make the stew with just about any critter you got. Stick it in a big pot, skin and all and cover it with some water. Now when the broth begins to bubble…"
The cabin door flew open, bringing a thankfully clean gust of air.
"Em?" Michael stepped toward her. "Mrs. Zoller told me you were out, Em, and that she saw Mrs. Larson bring you over here."
His voice had a new tone to it, gentle and soft. He reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me take you home, Em. You look tired." His large arm wrapped about her shoulders as he pulled her to her feet. Yet she was still under his arm, in his embrace.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Larson, for taking care of my wife."
"It
pleasured me, Mr. Graham. Oh—would you like to take some of my stew home? Mrs. Graham took a real shine to my possum stew."
Emma felt Michael start, then recover. "She ate the… well. Why, thank you, Mrs. Larson. I'd be much obliged."
The sound of the stew being sloshed into a bucket was almost Emma's undoing. Michael sensed it and whisked her out of the door.
Now the people in the streets did not bother to hide their stares. The sight of Michael, a steaming wooden bucket in one hand and his pale wife in a horse blanket under the other arm, leaving the half-breed Larson's cabin was enough to cause a minor riot.
Emma snuggled closer to Michael. She glanced up at him. He wore a strange expression on his handsome face, rigid and set, his jaw so tight she could see a muscle working. His eyes were focused straight ahead.
"Are you angry?" It hurt to ask, but she had to know.
He maneuvered her around a cart, stopped her from stepping right into the path of a pair of horses, not answering until they were safely across the street.
"Angry?" She saw him swallow. "Nah, Em. I'm not angry." Michael seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "You just ate possum in the cabin of a half-breed. You took their hospitality when no one else will even acknowledge their existence."
Then he looked down at her. His eyes had a strange sheen, an inner glow, and Emma stopped breathing.
Suddenly he pressed his lips to her forehead, warm, dry lips that seemed to touch her very soul.
"Oh, Em," he whispered. "I'm so very proud of you."
And he smiled.
Four
SHE COULDN'T WAIT FOR HIM to return from his office.
After Michael made sure Emma was safely home, he went back to work, promising to be back well before supper.
"I hope you don't get tangled in rush-hour traffic," she called just as he opened the door to leave.
He gave her an enigmatic smile, adjusting the brim of his hat over his eyes. "Thank you, Em."
The smile faded as he turned, shaking his head in confusion.
Four hours later, Emma sat on the bench by the fire, standing up to peer through the window whenever she heard a noise outside. The brilliant afternoon faded to dusk, a brief gentle glow before darkness forced her to light an oil lamp.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, muffling some sounds, amplifying others.
At last the door opened. Michael's face was reddened from the biting cold and he blinked when he saw her rise to her feet and help him with his coat.
"You're still out of bed?"
She had missed him. In the short time he had been gone, she had missed him with an ache that was almost tangible. He had been mere yards from their house, but just seeing him again made her breathless.
"I tried to make some corn bread while you were gone." She placed his coat and hat on the peg.
"You did?"
Emma nodded. "I burned it, Michael." She pointed forlornly to the table, where a plate of blackened bread was still smoking.
His gaze followed, while she focused on his face. A corner of his mouth quirked, and she saw two indentations—dimples as he suppressed his laughter.
Dimples. She never would have expected him to have dimples. But for some reason the sight of them elated her. She knew, instinctively, that the dimples had not appeared in a very long time.
"Why, Em. It looks delicious."
Without meeting her eyes, he reached over and took a piece. It crumbled to ash. He was not deterred and placed it swiftly into his mouth. Emma had the distinct feeling had he thought for any length of time on the matter, he would have lost his fortitude.
His expression remained blank as he chewed.
"Mmmm." He nodded, making a valiant effort to swallow. She ran to the sink and poured him a mug of water. It had taken her a half hour to pump the water into a pottery pitcher. Already a sheet of ice had formed.
"Here, Michael."
He took the water gratefully.
"Well, how is it?"
After drinking the entire glass, he faced her, his countenance again, serious. The corners of his mouth were blackened from the crumbs.
"I believe it needs a pinch of salt," he said somberly.
Emma clapped her hands together and began to laugh, her eyes watering as she tried to catch her breath.
"Oh, Michael! IT was awful—I thought I had set the whole place on fire the way it filled with smoke!"
Instead of joining her hilarity, or even smiling, he simply stared. Slowly he reached out, his gesture tentative, and wiped a tear from her cheek.
"Em"—his voice was a rich caress—"I haven't heard you laugh for so long, for so very long."
The smile faded from her face. A feeling of regret washed over her as she watched his expression, so wary and guarded, yet so full of tenderness. She raised a hesitant hand and touched his shoulder, feeling the strength and warmth just beneath the fabric.
For a brief moment, he remained motionless, arms slightly raised by his sides.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. He stood so still he dud bit seem to be breathing. But he swallowed, and a shadowy darkness flickered in his eyes.
She kept his hand on his shoulder, savoring the muscles with her fingertips even as she watched his face. "Please forgive me."
At once he clamped his arms about her, his lips brushing against her temple. He held her with such feral need, his body enveloping hers with its size and strength, that she felt her feet lift from the floorboards. Michael alone supported her full weight.
She had never felt such shelter, such fierce protection.
"I'm home," she whispered to her own wonderment. "My God, Michael, I've come home."
He put her down and pulled back so he could see her, focusing on her face, reading her emotions. Then his mouth descended upon hers, his forearm bracing the back of her head as she tilted to meet him.
Yet something was wrong, something was terribly out of place.
She was suddenly afraid, not of Michael, but of her own emotions that threatened to engulf her. Would she be yanked from his arms as swiftly as she had arrived? Would this man who had so suddenly become the center of her world just disappear?
Gasping, she pulled back, her gaze unfocused.
"Em?" There was such fragile concern in his voice that she tried to stop trembling, but could not.
"I'm sorry, Michael," she explained. "I can't. I mean I'm not ready for this. I just can't."
She backed away, her arms crossed to prevent them from shaking, to hold on to something, anything.
At first he simply watched her. Then he glanced down and took a deep breath. "I understand, Em."
A thatch of hair tumbled over his forehead. Instinctively, she stepped forward to brush it from his eyes, but his own hand raked through the thick hair first. She again folded her arms, more tightly this time, closer to her body.
The fire crackled. He glanced briefly at the charred remains on the table.
"I'll go fetch some dinner," he said. Then he smiled gently, as if resigned. The dimples reappeared.
"Where can you get dinner?"
"The same place as usual." He looked away from her and the tension eased. The painful ache that seemed to resonate between them finally abated.
He pulled his coat and hat back on. "Mrs. Hawkins always makes enough to feed an army. I'll step on over to the judge's house and fetch us some supper."
"Doesn't she mind?"
"Nah. She's sort of adopted me. I'm about the age their son would have been if he'd lived."
The brittle smile fell from his face, and his faze rested on the crib beneath the table. A look of interminable bleakness passed through his eyes. So swiftly did it disappear that she knew no on else would have even noticed it.
"I'll be back in a few moments." He then ducked outside.
"Michael." Her voice was a small plea. "Oh, Michael."
The judge's wife was a fabulous cook. They dined on roast chicken, sage stuffing, mashed turnips, and apple
currant pie. Emma noticed the chicken had a more pronounced flavor than what she was used to and there was very little white meat.
As she wrapped the leftover pie with a cloth, a thought suddenly struck her.
"Michael, something's been bothering me."
He paused at the fireplace, where he was adding more wood, his expression urging her to continue.
"I saw a lot of children on the street today. Why aren't they in school?"
"Ah. The school." He passed his hand through his hair, and again Emma couldn't help but admire the unusual; blend of gray and black. "Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?"
"No, please," she said automatically, wondering if it was anything like the funny pipe Sunbeam's father was so fond of.
It was a long, thin clay pipe, the one she had noticed earlier by his law books. He dipped his fingers into the tobacco jar and placed a pinch into the bowl of the pipe, then lit it with a long stick of wood from the fire, pulling on it until the bowl burned amber.
"The school has been closed since late summer," he said, his words emerging with a puff of smoke.
"Why? Because of the weather?"
He shook his head. "No, Em. This is usually the only time of year the blab school has a full roster of students. The rest of the year most children are needed in the farms."
"Blab school," she repeated. One of her Pioneer Day lessons had been about the old-fashioned schools. He smiled.
"It's a one-room schoolhouse. They call it 'blab' school because children of all ages are there at the same time, talking and chattering their lessons."
"I've heard about them. But why is it closed?"
Michael raised his eyebrows which remained dark and free of gray, making his face seem impossibly youthful when he smiled. "It's gossip, Em. If you want the full details, I suggest you ask Mrs. Zoller over at the dry goods store. She'll be more than happy to give you a full story."
"Oh, tell me!"
Michael settled onto the bench and grinned, the pipe clamped between his white teeth. "It's not the sort of story a woman should hear."
"Then why does Mrs. Zoller know it?"