minute or two, then she heard the melancholy hum of his mandolin over the rain.
Although wet and uncomfortable, Lonnie rested her cheek against her shoulder. The sound of Gideon’s voice whispering a song she did not know lulled her. His elbow gently bumped her side as he plucked the strings on his mandolin. He sang in a soft, throaty whisper, filling her with a surprising amount of peace. Even if she had the strength to join in, she wouldn’t. She didn’t like the idea of him hearing her sing. Songs were so much more than words put together to music. Singing was for showing joy.
It was something she’d only ever done with Aunt Sarah. Something her pa clearly overlooked when he had forced her on that stage. Besides, she didn’t like the melancholy songs she heard now and again. Life could be rotten enough. She didn’t see the point of putting heartache to music. She’d never voice that to Gideon. He wouldn’t understand.
Her head nodded to the side, and her cheek rested against Gideon’s shoulder. Too tired to move, she fell asleep.
When she woke, the rain had stopped and the damp forest held a musty scent. Gideon hadn’t moved from her side. She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her cheek cooled. She glanced into his face to see if he had minded, but he seemed to be studying the rain-blackened trees; the stony set to his features revealed nothing. The trees seemed to stretch their limbs higher to the sky, as if to thank God for the long cool drink. Birds called out in cheerful song.
“We’ve lost several hours.” Gideon stood and brushed the leaves from his pants.
Lonnie wondered if they would make camp before long. The last thing she wanted to do was walk through the night, but when Gideon stretched in the filtered sunlight and tossed his pack over his shoulders, she forced herself from her nest.
Her stomach growled, and she longed for a bowl of stew and a plate of steaming cornbread drenched in butter. Her mouth watered, and she chided herself for her daydreams. Besides, the O’Riley cupboards had been nearly bare. They hadn’t packed much food since that wouldn’t have been right. Lonnie pulled a cold slice of bread from the pack and broke it in half, fighting the urge to hang on to the larger piece. They ate in silence as they walked along, her feet falling in sync behind his, their rhythmic footsteps just a touch apart.
Thirteen
G ideon peered at the log cabin. Wind pulled smoke from the chimney, sweeping it to the east.
“You think anybody’s home?” Lonnie fiddled with the buttons on her sweater, trying to slide them into place.
“Hope so.” He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the trees. Leaves crunched as she followed behind. He stopped when the front door opened. A young man emerged.
The man hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You folks lookin’ for something?” He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed one foot over the other. Gideon studied him and realized he was near to his own age, but the man looked superior, standing up on his own porch, able to run a stranger off his property with the slightest inclination.
Squaring his shoulders, Gideon chose his words carefully. “Yessir.” He tugged his floppy hat away from his unruly hair, then suddenly thought the wiser of it. “We were wondering … Well, my wife and I were wondering if perhaps … we could have … um, borrow a bite of food.” He cleared his throat. “You see, we’ve come down from Rocky Knob, and we’ve been travelin’ for a couple days.”
The man narrowed his gaze. “Borrow a bite of food, huh?” He glanced into his cabin and puffed his cheeks.
Gideon shifted.
“Don’t know about
borrow
.” The man motioned to someone inside, then turned his attention back to Gideon. “But I sure could give you some. We got a bit to spare. You wanna come in?” His hand spread flat against the door, and it creaked open until it thudded into the wall.
When Lonnie’s face brightened, Gideon
Although wet and uncomfortable, Lonnie rested her cheek against her shoulder. The sound of Gideon’s voice whispering a song she did not know lulled her. His elbow gently bumped her side as he plucked the strings on his mandolin. He sang in a soft, throaty whisper, filling her with a surprising amount of peace. Even if she had the strength to join in, she wouldn’t. She didn’t like the idea of him hearing her sing. Songs were so much more than words put together to music. Singing was for showing joy.
It was something she’d only ever done with Aunt Sarah. Something her pa clearly overlooked when he had forced her on that stage. Besides, she didn’t like the melancholy songs she heard now and again. Life could be rotten enough. She didn’t see the point of putting heartache to music. She’d never voice that to Gideon. He wouldn’t understand.
Her head nodded to the side, and her cheek rested against Gideon’s shoulder. Too tired to move, she fell asleep.
When she woke, the rain had stopped and the damp forest held a musty scent. Gideon hadn’t moved from her side. She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her cheek cooled. She glanced into his face to see if he had minded, but he seemed to be studying the rain-blackened trees; the stony set to his features revealed nothing. The trees seemed to stretch their limbs higher to the sky, as if to thank God for the long cool drink. Birds called out in cheerful song.
“We’ve lost several hours.” Gideon stood and brushed the leaves from his pants.
Lonnie wondered if they would make camp before long. The last thing she wanted to do was walk through the night, but when Gideon stretched in the filtered sunlight and tossed his pack over his shoulders, she forced herself from her nest.
Her stomach growled, and she longed for a bowl of stew and a plate of steaming cornbread drenched in butter. Her mouth watered, and she chided herself for her daydreams. Besides, the O’Riley cupboards had been nearly bare. They hadn’t packed much food since that wouldn’t have been right. Lonnie pulled a cold slice of bread from the pack and broke it in half, fighting the urge to hang on to the larger piece. They ate in silence as they walked along, her feet falling in sync behind his, their rhythmic footsteps just a touch apart.
Thirteen
G ideon peered at the log cabin. Wind pulled smoke from the chimney, sweeping it to the east.
“You think anybody’s home?” Lonnie fiddled with the buttons on her sweater, trying to slide them into place.
“Hope so.” He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the trees. Leaves crunched as she followed behind. He stopped when the front door opened. A young man emerged.
The man hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You folks lookin’ for something?” He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed one foot over the other. Gideon studied him and realized he was near to his own age, but the man looked superior, standing up on his own porch, able to run a stranger off his property with the slightest inclination.
Squaring his shoulders, Gideon chose his words carefully. “Yessir.” He tugged his floppy hat away from his unruly hair, then suddenly thought the wiser of it. “We were wondering … Well, my wife and I were wondering if perhaps … we could have … um, borrow a bite of food.” He cleared his throat. “You see, we’ve come down from Rocky Knob, and we’ve been travelin’ for a couple days.”
The man narrowed his gaze. “Borrow a bite of food, huh?” He glanced into his cabin and puffed his cheeks.
Gideon shifted.
“Don’t know about
borrow
.” The man motioned to someone inside, then turned his attention back to Gideon. “But I sure could give you some. We got a bit to spare. You wanna come in?” His hand spread flat against the door, and it creaked open until it thudded into the wall.
When Lonnie’s face brightened, Gideon
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