With an early supper roasting in the oven, Aven climbed atop a stool and smoothed a rag along the mantel. A cobweb in the mounted antlers overhead needed swiping, but she’d need a ladder and didn’t know where to look for one. She climbed down from the stool and dusted the dark-red bricks of the hearth. The rug beneath her feet was charred in places, as if something had caught flame where it wasn’t supposed to. Aven swept lingering ashes into a pan, glad for the kerchief over her hair that caught most of the dust. Feeling a tickle on the end of her nose, she smudged it clean with her fingertips.
The great room befit its name—spanning from the snug kitchen to make up the rest of the first floor. Furniture stood here and there in clusters as though to hold all the lives this house was once filled with. So many hands for much work. And now? The farm seemed quiet and still, the men going about tasks she didn’t fully understand. There were no chickens about. No plow or livestock. Just the pair of mares. Though Ida kept a small kitchen garden, there was little more to tend to other than the orchards, and Aven had yet to see anyone other than Thor walk its rows.
The keeper of the trees . . . and now she knew . . . the maker of the liquor. From what Jorgan had later explained, Haakon saw it all delivered and paid for. Jorgan himself kept the farm running—doing improvements and maintenance so all other things went smoothly. A steady experience that kept everything else looked after, including his family.
Beyond that, the men conducted themselves with care and discretion. A tie of brotherhood she understood little about.
When the fireplace was tidied, Aven moved to the small chess table beside it. The playing pieces rested in odd places, a game unfinished. Rag in hand, she dusted around the board carefully, noting circular stains in the wood from beverage cups. Or mason jars.
Something told her that was Thor’s seat.
She swept beneath the table, gathering up pipe ash and two burnt matches. Ida was out at the clothesline, and smelling the aroma of baking bread, Aven went to check the loaves they’d kneaded together. She peeked in on the six pans in the large oven, the tops still pale in color. Aven closed the iron door and latched it since a few more minutes would do the trick.
In Norway, Farfar Øberg had taught her all he could about baking in the few years she’d lived above his shop. The grandfatherly man would have reminded her not to rush the bread with her constant peeking.
She smiled.
With the supper hour drawing near, Aven checked the roast she’d placed to simmer hours ago. It was tender to the touch, juices rich and bubbling. Earlier Ida had shown her the springhouse and the meats available. They’d stood together in the small stone hut wedged into the hillside. Cold water flowed down its center, and built up on stones were shelves that held crocks of butter, meats, and fancy cheeses. A side of beef. Links of sausages and strips of bacon. Not so much as a hint of wild game, and the speckled eggs Ida had taken from a crate were purchased from a neighbor. As was the milk.
Jorgan mentioned they lived richly. Aven was beginning to sense what he meant.
When the loaves were out and steaming on the table, Ida came in. With a spoon in hand, the housekeeper limped back onto the porch and clattered it around an iron triangle hanging from the eaves. The men came in hungry and none too happy about Ida’s insistence on washed hands and faces.
Aven took sides easily, nudging Haakon’s grubby hand away when he reached for a pinch of tender meat. “ ’Tis the least you could do for a hot meal, aye?”
Spoon still in hand, Ida chuckled. “I’m gonna like having you around.”
Out they went, washing at the pump while Ida filled plates with tender roast and garden vegetables. Haakon returned, wet from the shoulders up as though he had poor aim. Jorgan used a rag to dry his slick hands and forearms. Thor stepped in last. His damp hair was as dark as old leather. He pushed it back as he stepped to the stove, inching around Aven as if uncertain how to be in the same room as her.
Aven wished for something to say to him. Some way to say it. But after her blunder at breakfast and how it had harshened his mood, she stayed silent.
With the other men already served, Aven fetched a filled plate for Thor. When she offered over the meal, he seemed confused about the serving. But he dipped his head in a silent thank-you and took the plate in a hand that no longer trembled with need. Though his manner was gentle, she sensed he was as filled with hard drink as Jorgan had alluded to. So different from this morning, when he’d appeared almost desperate for it. As disheartening a trade-off as she knew.
“You best dish up.” Ida fetched two more plates.
Aven did just that and carried her own portion into the great room that was aglow with the warmth of a sinking sun. The men sat scattered around, busy forks glinting in the early-evening light.
So they didn’t eat at a table. Nor say grace. Might it have been different when Dorothe was here?
Haakon sat on the sofa, and with the opposite end empty, Aven moved that way. Ida sank into her rocking chair and it creaked when she pushed it in slow rhythm. As they ate, Haakon made small talk with both of them, stopping only to fetch a second helping in the kitchen.
Thor fetched another as well, piling up his plate twice as full as Aven had done. Gripping it with one hand, he headed outside. After watching him go, Aven turned her focus back to her meal. ’Twas strange, eating this way. As a young girl she’d grown accustomed to dining alone in her mother’s room. Then in later years, amid the rhythmic clatter of scraping benches and dented plates as hundreds of people dined in poor fashion at the workhouse on watery stirabout and stale bread. Never enough to dent the void in their bellies.
The workhouse walls but a recollection now, Aven ate slowly, guilt tapping her shoulder at this fortune. It was so much for one person. Flooding her memory were hollow eyes and faces, especially those of the orphans who had lined many narrow benches. But Aven could no sooner wing them some of this abundance than she could return herself.
She prayed, instead, as she ate—for those faces. The young ones she’d watched suffer and fade as she had once done until a boat builder had freed her from that place. Benn, with his Norwegian words that she hadn’t been able to understand. But she had understood the simple ring he’d slid onto her finger, and the knowledge that it was her freedom.
Ida’s voice broke her from the memories. “Don’t you think about touchin’ a thing when you’re done.” She rose from her rocking chair. “You saw to this fine meal and I’ll see to the rest.” Her steps, while sure, were uneven, one of her legs seeming to bear pain she didn’t voice. The kind woman took up Aven’s empty plate.
“You’re certain?”
“Out with ya. Enjoy some of this fine air. Lord knows you’ve been breathing dust all the day through.”
With a gentle summer breeze trickling in from the nearest window, the notion of an evening stroll was tempting enough not to argue. The men had asked that she stay near to the house, so Aven would do just that. She thanked Ida, fetched a lantern from a side table, and carried it out into the growing dusk.
From the massive cider barn came the gentle sounds of a man at work. A tool clanged. Something heavy shifted. Hinges creaked. Thor in his world, as Jorgan had put it. Ducking her head, Aven strode past. Spotting the shed Jorgan had indicated, she stepped that way, coaxed the door ajar, and slipped inside.
Kneeling in the cidery that was more sanctuary than any place he knew, Thor rolled a gallon jar of liquor away from the rest of the two-month-old batch. He uncorked the jug, tipped the mouth of it to a tumbler, and set the glass beside what was left of his supper. After a few bites of meat, he drank. The apple flavor rolled over his tongue with the perfect amount of tannin. Not too sweet and not too bitter. A kick on the back end that told him to sip slow with this batch. Even for him.
Meaning to work as he ate, Thor took another bite, then numbered the top of the jug with a charcoal pencil. His number system would look like chicken scratch to most folk, but Haakon knew all the coding—which customer it was to be delivered to. At the workbench Thor lifted his notes and read, then strode over to the shelving that ran the length of the back wall, pulled a quart of table cider down, and numbered the lid. He slid it into a crate and sprinkled sawdust around the sides.
Next on the list—the O’Mally family. If he wasn’t mistaken, their oldest girl was soon to marry, so Thor packed up as much as he thought they’d buy for the occasion. When another crate was filled, he checked his ledgers, eating some of Aven’s oddly seasoned meat as he did. Not that it wasn’t tasty. Just different.
Back at his work, it took him several trips to carry over the last eight quarts of his finest brew that was best served with ice when it was in season. Aged in old bourbon barrels that Jorgan had driven all the way to Lexington to procure, the cider fetched the highest price yet, and though the jars were nearly gone, requests always came in. Thor had to be choosy, so he numbered the tops for his best customers and made a note for Haakon to charge at least a dollar apiece. He also made a note for Jorgan to get more bourbon barrels.
Wanting to take extra care with this batch, Thor wrapped each one in newspaper before crating it. He shook out a page and clamped a jar over a printed address given by President Harrison, then rolled it up snug.
At a flash of white, Thor looked up to see the owl settling onto one of the rafters overhead. Jorgan and Haakon sometimes complained that it screeched. Thor had asked his brothers once to describe S-C-R-E-E-C-H-E-D and Haakon had said it was a sharp, painful sound. Thor always tried to imagine such a sensation whenever his visitor arrived.
Moonlight seeped in through a missing board high up in the wall, allowing the great bird to come and go as it pleased. Thor didn’t always notice the owl, so vast was the cidery. As boys, they used to ride on the rope swing hanging from the center rafter as high and wide as they wanted while Da worked.
Turning back to his supper, Thor broke off a portion of bread and chewed as he consulted his ledger. Another bite and he was glad Aven couldn’t see him wolfing down so much food. But perhaps her intentions hadn’t been to keep him hungry in the night. Likely, she was used to rationing. From the way the waistband of her skirt was folded and pinned, she’d learned to live on very little.
After tugging down his suspenders, Thor grabbed an empty crate. He set it on his workbench and loaded it with pints of table cider. The common drink had a lower alcohol content but settled well with almost any palate. It was also his least expensive variety, so even the poorest of his customers could secure a jar or two each month. Thor tapped each of the metal lids as he counted. If his sums were right, he needed to pack eighty quarts for the next distribution.
They made deliveries three times a month, and those days always made him uneasy. It was always possible that Haakon would run into trouble with that hot head of his. One of the reasons Thor made it a point to ride shotgun whenever he could. It was easier than unseating Haakon from the job; he had a canny way of bartering that always lined their pockets with a thick wad of bills. Something none of them were about to complain over.
Thor grabbed six more jars, then finished a crate and blanketed the pints with sawdust. Eyeing his chart, he marked off the recipient. He was just lifting another crate to the workbench when the door swung open.
Haakon rushed near. “We got trouble!” Grete loped beside him, nearly tripping Haakon. “Bolt the door. Come on.”
Thor did as told, then followed his brother to the house so quick, he wished he could call after Haakon as to what was wrong.
But when they stepped into the kitchen to find Ida’s sister standing there, little Georgie hiding in the folds of her skirt, he knew the trouble. Aunt Cora’s homespun dress was streaked with dirt as if having traveled in haste. Her skin, which was a shade lighter than Ida’s, was slashed across the cheek with an angry scrape. At the window Cora’s grown son and daughter weren’t faring much better. The front of Al’s shirt was soaked in sweat, and Tess checked a scrape on her brother’s neck.
So the warning was here. Confirmed in the way Haakon pulled Grete into the house and shoved her farther toward safety.
Thor turned just in time to see his brother ask how far off the Klansmen were.
“Nearly here,” Al said between panting breaths. “They’s right on our tails. At least a dozen of ’em. I didn’t think we’d make it.”
“They hurt you?” Jorgan asked.
Thor glanced between them.
Al shook his head, but his jaw tightened. It had been less than a year since Al’s pistol-whipping. Since the night he’d smiled at one of the fair-skinned Sorrel girls in passing on the road. Al had been found half alive in a ditch just hours later. Jorgan and Thor had carried him home, and the women had spent three days patching him back up.
“Did you secure the shop?” Jorgan asked.
Nodding, Thor stepped to the door and peered out into the dark. A-V-E-N? Where?
Jorgan shook his head.
Haakon set two shotguns on the kitchen table. Shoving a pile of Aven’s mending aside, he dropped boxes of bullets onto the tablecloth. Though Thor didn’t see it, Haakon must have asked after Ida because Al answered.
“She’s fetchin’ water. I’ll help her.” Al strode out.
Thor ducked into the great room, expecting Aven to be there only to discover it empty. Returning, he hit Jorgan’s arm to get his attention. Thor pointed to the others. They see A-V-E-N?
Jorgan relayed the question, but Cora shook her head, asking who this person was. Thor ran a hand down his face, already out the door. Beneath the night sky, Al and Ida hurried along. Thor rushed out to help them, and hefting up the heaviest bucket, he took it inside.
Where was she?
To his relief, Haakon was starting up the stairs as if having the same thought. Aven had to be in her room. She had to be.
Ida tugged on his sleeve and Thor watched her mouth move in a rush. “She went for a walk. Check to be sure she’s come back.”
Nodding, he started after Haakon, but his brother was already returning. “She’s not here!”
Thor moved toward the open door. When Haakon got there first, Thor grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him back. Eyes wide, Thor signed stay so Haakon would know he meant him no harm. He didn’t want his brother out there. The kid was too impulsive, and if outnumbered, it wouldn’t end well. Jorgan gripped Haakon by the upper arm, bracing him in place.
Jorgan pointed out the doorway, then made the letters for D-O-R-O-T-H-E followed by the shapes of boxes—enough for Thor to know where to look first.
Thor motioned for a shotgun, and Al tossed him one. As Thor stepped into the dark, he hitched it open, double-checked for shot, then slammed the barrel closed. He had to find her. Now. An army of men was coming, and though they had no quarrel with Aven, to them she would be a glimpse of perfection, and that scared him more.