Wild Rose

Finally, making up her mind, she threw down the pump handle. “No, you stay here,” she told Jake. “Don’t need you scarin’ him before I can get a word out.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her trousers and headed for the dirt road. When she saw Jake at her heels, she stopped once again and shook a finger at him. “Now, do I have to chain you up, or are you going to obey?”

The dog whined, but after another stern look from Geneva, he stayed put. Her tone softened. “That’s a good fellow. I knew I could count on you.”

She walked down the sloping dirt road to the end of Ferguson Point, where a gate stood. The newly erected barrier, the lumber still raw and unpainted, matched the house beyond it. Together, house and gated fence stood out like intruders against the familiar landmarks of the Point. Geneva’s gaze swept the vista before her, never tiring of it. She’d always thought this the best location in all Haven’s End.

A large expanse of cleared land descended toward the sea. Below was a sheltered cove with dark, rocky cliffs curved around, protecting it from the open sea. Tall, ancient firs and spruce, their long, thin peaks looking black against the sky, grew down to the very edge of the cliffs, like multi-tiered sentinels standing guard against the sea.

Above the cove, where there had once been an old, abandoned house, now stood an imposing, new structure. Despite its freshness, there was something sad about it, Geneva thought as she observed the overgrown grass in the yard. It wouldn’t take long for the bright reddish-brown luster of the cedar shingles to take on the faded gray of her own shack. The curtainless windows stared back at her like empty eye sockets.

Shaking aside the morbid thought, Geneva opened the forbidding gate. Spying her target at the far side of the yard beyond the barn, she walked resolutely toward the new owner of Ferguson Point.

The captain squatted by the half-turned garden plot, a clod of dirt and grass held in one hand. He was studying this as if it held the answer to a mystery.

Already she regretted coming. What in the world was she going to say to him now? So she stood, not saying a word, until he raised his head. His initial glance was startled, but it quickly changed to one of suspicion.

He sat back on his heels, pushing his hat away from his eyes to observe her. The sun shone full on his face, and Geneva struggled to hide her shock. Was this the same gentleman who’d helped her last summer? It wasn’t just the absence of a smile, but the complete lack of welcome. His dark hair hung long and shaggy over his collar, his jaw shadowed with several days’ growth of beard. Sweat and dirt stained his shirt. Only the color of his eyes remained unchanged—the same hue of the ocean.

But now they were no longer crinkled at the corners with mirth, but narrowed in bitter distrust. They gave her no encouragement to proceed.

Well, she was in for it now. Best have her say and be done.

“Be lucky to get much of anything to grow here.” She kicked a clump of dirt with the toe of her boot.

After several seconds of silence in which Geneva wasn’t sure whether he was going to order her off his land or just plumb ignore her, he answered in a quiet voice, each word carefully modulated as if he was holding on to his patience with an effort. “Why is that?”

Geneva made an abrupt gesture with her hand. “Poor soil.” She jerked her head sideways. “Get half day’s shade from those trees.”

She watched him swallow as he digested her words. By the set of his unshaven jaw, she could tell he was having a hard time just being civil to her.

“Where do you propose I plant?”

She moved her chin forward. “Over yonder.”

The captain turned his head in the direction she indicated, his mouth a stern line.

“Why?”

“My pa used to tell o’ folks had a turnip patch there. Fine soil, full sun the whole day. Used to be a chicken yard right next to it. Lots o’ manure.” When he didn’t reply, she made another motion with her chin. “You’re late plantin’. Short growing season ’round here.”

He turned back to her, giving her a look that told her he welcomed her advice about as much as he would a skunk under a house.

“I’m certainly obliged to you for telling me at this late date that I should abandon one field for another that looks identical to it.” He threw aside the clump of turf he’d been holding and took a deep breath, as if continuing the conversation was an effort.

“I realize I’m nothing but a sailor who doesn’t know a spade from a hoe, but I didn’t have much choice about planting time.”

She’d been right—he didn’t know a thing about gardening. She kicked at the dirt again. “Awful shame. But ’twouldn’t take you long with two people. I’ve already planted my garden. Could come over here tomorrow morning and help you till up yonder.”

He let out a breath—whether in annoyance or amusement, she couldn’t tell. “Are you proposing to help me dig up a field of the toughest, most rock-ridden sod I’ve ever encountered in my life?”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If we prepare the soil good, I can give you some o’ my seedlings. Have more’n I can use, anyway. That’ll make up for lost time.”

He paused as if considering. “That would be very generous of you.”

She hurried on, afraid he’d change his mind. “You can still plant carrots, taters, squash, beans, greens.” She nodded. “It’ll do you for the winter.”

“In that case, you’ll probably have to show me how to put them up as well,” he replied, the first hint of a twinkle beginning to thaw the chill in his eyes. Geneva felt something inside her begin to melt, too, and felt a profound relief that the man she remembered had not disappeared entirely.

A second later his eyes resumed their coldness. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to plant.” He stood and, once again, she was conscious of his height.

He picked up a fork. “By the looks of it, I have a few days of hard labor ahead, so if you’ll excuse me…” Without waiting for her reply, he began to walk toward the field she’d indicated.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to help you with the tilling,” she muttered to his back.

He heard her and turned around. “I will not have a woman wielding a fork alongside of me.” He enunciated like a teacher to a stubborn pupil.

“Suit yourself. If you want to be a fool, ain’t no concern o’ mine.”

“No?” His voice reached her. “Seems to have concerned you the other day.”

So, he had heard. She could feel the blood heating her face up to the roots of her hair. She kicked at the tough grass. “Folks should mind their own business.”

“What they ought to do and what they do are frequently two different things.” He tipped his hat to her. “I want to thank you for your kind if unnecessary defense of me.”

Wrestling with something inside 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.