Wild Rose

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 who’d helped her on the wharf was too great.

He caught her smiling at him and frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She pinched her lips together. “I’m just glad those seedlings are hardy things.”

He looked at her for a second without reacting, then slowly he smiled. Her own lips relaxed in answer. Suddenly she felt like his partner in the garden.

“You’ve helped me more than I had any right to expect,” he said. “The least I can do is offer you some dinner.”

She stared at him, too startled by his invitation to answer.

“What’s the matter? Have I offended you?”

She shook her head. How could she explain it to him? To eat at someone’s table was truly to be accepted as his equal. He didn’t know what he was offering. Captain Caleb Phelps III, son of a Boston shipping magnate, dining with Salt Fish Ginny, pariah of Haven’s End? No, she’d spare him the humiliation. He was suffering enough at the hands of the villagers with his own troubles. She wouldn’t add to them.

With a heavy heart she said, “Much obliged, Cap’n, but I better be getting back. Got to feed Jake.”

“Jake?”

“My dog,” she added.

“Certainly. Well, perhaps another time.” He began picking up the tools, as if the invitation was already forgotten.

She hurried to help him, dumping the smaller items into the wheelbarrow. “I’ll just keep my things in your barn, if you don’t mind. That’ll save hauling everything back tomorrow.”

“You won’t need them yourself?”

She shook her head. “Not for a couple of days, anyhow.”

He pushed the wheelbarrow while she carried the long-handled implements toward the open barn door. He showed her a space inside where she could set the things, then went back to the garden for the remaining tools. Geneva took a turn about the barn while she waited for his return. She wanted to thank him again for the invitation.

She shook her head. No one in Haven’s End had ever invited her to eat. Even when her ma died, and then her pa, her nearest neighbor had brought a few covered dishes, but no one had invited her over.