Tracie Peterson - [Land of Shining Water 02] by The Quarryman's Bride Page A

felt less uncomfortable.
    “Does she have any hobbies or interests in life? Anything that she used to do just for the pleasure of doing it?”
    Emmalyne thought for a moment. “She taught all of us girls to make creel baskets for fishing. They were popular in Scotland, and Mother said she and her sisters used to make them all the time. They would sell them for extra money to buy fabric for dresses and such.” Emmalyne smiled at the memory of learning to make the baskets. “She taught me when I was quite little. I have two older sisters, and they were already very good at the task. So when I started, Mother gave me her undivided attention. I cherish the memory. We would have so much fun talking and dreaming while we worked.”
    “Might she make baskets again if you were to ask her?”
    The pleasant image faded from her thoughts. “I don’t think so. You see, she taught my younger sisters to weave the baskets, as well. We would make them and sell them. Fishing is quite popular here in Minnesota, as you must know. The stores were happy to take as many as we could make. My younger sisters were even faster and better at making them than I was. When they died, my mother never set her hand to another piece again.”
    “Maybe it’s time to suggest she rekindle that interest. Maybe you could encourage it as a memorial.”
    “What do you mean?” Emmalyne stopped and fixed him with a gaze.
    His smile sent tingles up her spine, and she almost dropped the mold of butter on the floor. Recovering, she hurried to put the containers in the icebox and chided herself for such silliness.
    “I think you could explain to your mother that it would be a positive way to remember your sisters. Since you all had such a pleasant time making the baskets, maybe you and your mother could set out to make a few and talk about your sisters and how much they loved the craft.”
    “I suppose I could try, but I have a feeling it would only cause Mother more pain. I’ve offered to read to her as she did for us so long ago, but even that moves her to tears.” She returned from the icebox and began cleaning the paddle and churn.
    “And making the baskets might do the same—at first. It also might allow her to feel close to your sisters again. Do you talk much about them?”
    “They are rarely mentioned, and never around my father. He will not hear of us speaking their names. In fact, he forbids us to speak the names of any of the dead.” Emmalyne placed the churn on the counter and took up a cloth to clean the table where she’d been working. “As I’ve mentioned before, Father blames Mother for their deaths. His heart is quite hard toward their memory . . . and toward God, I’m afraid.”
    Dr. Williams devoured the treat before him, his expression revealing his utmost approval. “By the way, this scone was absolutely delicious.” He licked the crumbs from his fingers. “You also need to realize that your father is using anger to cope with his own grief.”
    “It’s always been his way,” Emmalyne replied, “but I don’t think it’s just grief that makes him act that way. I think it’s just his nature.”
    “Men often shield their pain in fortitude and indifference—at least seeming indifference.” He picked up his coffee cup and looked at it for a moment. “Men are taught from thecradle that to show emotions or pain makes them less than the strong, upright men they were meant to be. I remember my own father telling me that I should never let anyone see me cry.” He shrugged and drank from the cup. Putting it back on the table, his expression changed to one of regret. “He died shortly after that.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Eleven.” He gave her a sad smile. “And I didn’t cry, though I wanted to.”

    Tavin turned the chisel and raised the sledgehammer again to strike and drive the steel deeper into the granite. A splitting line of holes had been placed by the quarry master, the first steps in the long process to