Hearts Awakening (19 page)

“Stay on the path,” Jackson warned, watching the boys to make sure they listened.

Alice gave him a wave. “We’ll watch them for you. Why don’t you tell your wife more about what to expect once we get to the tree?”

Ellie smiled and took the arm he offered to her. “I must admit that I’m more than just a little curious,” she said as they resumed walking.

“I thought I’d have time to tell you about it over supper, but Gram tends to monopolize the conversation. I definitely didn’t want to interrupt her.”

She laughed. “Neither did I.”

“We’re actually keeping two traditions tonight. The first directly involves you and only you. Whether or not you choose to participate in the second, however, will be entirely your choice,” he explained and guided her away from an old stump in the path.

“Which one involves climbing a ladder?”

He met her gaze and held it. “I thought you didn’t know anything about—”

“Gram mentioned it, but our conversation got sidetracked,” she said quickly. “Gram also said she didn’t stop climbing the ladder until she turned ninety-four. Is that true?”

“Sure enough,” he said, chuckling. “I saw her last climb myself, but that’s part of the second tradition. You don’t need to worry about climbing a ladder tonight. Besides, no one could expect you to risk spoiling your Sunday gown,” he teased.

Her gaze flickered. “I should thank you for not telling anyone about what a disaster I made of myself and my work gown today.”

“Like I said, Gram monopolized the conversation,” he replied. Unfortunately, it was easier to shrug off her compliment than it was to shutter memories of Rebecca’s refusal to participate in either tradition once they were married, not even for the benefit of their sons.

With the ancient tree now in sight, he looked over his shoulder. The others were a good ways back, which would give him time to explain how important it was for her to continue this first tradition. He led her through the small clearing at the northernmost tip of the island where the wild apple tree stood.

Thick, unpruned branches rose high, as if trying to reach the moonbeams that fell on what little ripened fruit remained. A mild wind moistened by the river rustled the leaves and thinner branches and filled the air with the scent of the island’s bounty. Shadows nearly obscured the heavy veins of gnarled roots that covered the ground at the base of the tree, but the thick roots below had held this tree steady against summer storms, floods, and snowdrifts alike for decades.

When she stumbled and grabbed his arm tighter for support, he caught his breath. “Watch your footing,” he cautioned and tucked his arm closer to hold her fast so she would not actually fall as he guided her through the maze of ground roots.

“It’s hard not to stare at the tree. It’s magnificent, especially by moonlight.”

He noted the awe in her words before seeing it in her gaze and smiled. “That’s exactly how my father-in-law said he felt the first time he saw it,” he said, pointing off into the darkness beyond the river. “As he told the tale, he’d been traveling for months, looking for a place to settle down. He’d about given up hope of finding anything in this area and decided to take advantage of the full moon to leave and continue his search elsewhere. That’s when he saw the tree from right over there, on the old road that led north from Harrisburg, over forty years ago.”

“The tree’s that old?”

“It’s that old.”

“But it couldn’t have been so massive.”

“No, but he said he was so intrigued, he turned around and rode straight back to the city. Just after dawn, he found someone to ferry him over to the island. By noon, he’d walked the island from end to end and side to side four times. By dusk, he had the deed in hand, and by moonlight that very night, he carved a cross into the trunk of that tree, carved his initials below it, and dropped to his knees to thank God for leading him here. To this very tree,” he said as they stepped below the bottom branches into the shadows.

“He did? Where? Where are his initials? Show me,” she asked.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he moved them closer, saw the cross at shoulder level, and pointed just below it. “His initials are here. JG.”

“For James Gladson,” she murmured, letting go of his arm and tracing the letters with her fingertips. “And the other initials?”

“By tradition, which he started, they belong to anyone who has called the island home, including the Grants.”

“Where are yours?”

He stepped closer to the trunk. “Here,” he said, pointing to the initials he had carved into the tree exactly one year to the day after he had arrived.

“And the boys’?”

“Next to Rebecca’s.”

“It must be difficult for you to see them there,” she murmured.

“Life is always difficult. That’s why faith and family are all that truly matter. James Gladson taught me that when he took me in and treated me like I was his own son,” he replied. “Now I have the responsibility to teach that to my sons, his grandsons. By following the traditions he started and by giving them roots in faith and family as strong as the ones that have held this tree fast for over forty years,” he said.

Reminded by his own words of how weak his faith had become since Rebecca’s death, he drew in a long breath. “Now that you’re part of the family and you call the island home, you’ll need to carve your initials here, too,” he said, just firmly enough to make it clear she had no choice in the matter.

For the briefest of moments, he saw concern flash through her eyes. She may have forgiven him for his mistreatment of her on Market Day and accepted the truth about the scandal surrounding Rebecca’s death, but she apparently did not trust him completely yet.

Hopefully this tradition tonight would ease her concerns, as well as his own. He pulled the old folding knife from his pocket and handed it to her. “This is the same knife my father-in-law used to carve his initials and every set of initials since. I keep the blade good and sharp, so if you want me to help you carve your initials, I will.”

“No. I can do it,” she insisted.

“Then be careful not to—”

“Jackson Smith, if you have your wife carve a single mark before we get to you, you’ll never taste my apple butter again!”

Jackson laughed, turning around just in time to catch Daniel and Ethan from charging straight past him to start climbing the tree. He gave Gram a peck on her cheek when she finally reached him. “I wouldn’t start without you. I was just telling Ellie a little bit about the tradition and warning her to be careful with the knife.”

“She’s a capable woman. She knows how to handle a knife.” Gram held on to her grandson with one arm and his wife with the other. “Prayer first, though,” she reminded him.

“You’re the oldest, Gram. You get to say the prayers,” Daniel prompted.

“Daniel!”

“Don’t fuss at the boy, Jackson. He’s right. I am the oldest, and I should get to lead the prayer.”

Jackson switched his hands from the boys’ shoulders to their hands. Ellie took little Ethan’s other hand. The rest joined hands with them to form a circle under the tree branches and bowed their heads.

“Heavenly Father, we gather tonight under the light of the magnificent moon you created to welcome Jackson’s wife, Ellie, to our island home. Bless her, as you continue to bless us all. Love her, as you love us all. And reward her faith in you with good health and a long life to serve you. Amen.”

The chorus of “amens” had barely faded before Daniel was tugging on Jackson’s hand. “Now can we climb the tree and watch? Can we? Please?”

Jackson laughed and let go of Daniel’s hand. “You go ahead. I’ll help Ethan,” he urged and lifted his youngest son up to a low branch that would be strong enough to hold both the boys. “Hold on tight,” he cautioned, but he did not let go of him until Daniel had claimed a place next to him and held his brother tight.

“I’ll watch them,” Grizel offered as she pushed away a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her spectacles.

He stepped closer to Ellie and handed her the knife.

“Where should I carve my initials?”

“Next to Jackson’s initials,” Gram prompted. “Rebecca’s aren’t there because her father had already carved them into the tree next to his on the day she was born. And there’s more room beside Jackson’s for more initials, should God bless you both with children.”

“Press the tip of the knife hard. The trunk is tough,” Jackson cautioned.

Although her hand trembled a bit at first, she soon had her first initial carved into the tree. She paused and looked over at him. “Do I put a K for my maiden name or an S?”

“S,” he murmured, wishing he were helping Dorothea carve her initials next to his. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like some help?”

“No, I can manage,” she insisted with confidence. She had the top curve of the letter done and had started scrolling down to form the next when she yelped and dropped the knife. With her lips pursed, she pressed her thumb against her forefinger and picked up the knife with her other hand to inspect it. “The blade’s fine. The tip didn’t break off.”

“What about your finger?” he asked.

“There’s lots of blood,” Daniel offered nonchalantly as he leaned down for a better look.

“It’s just a nick. Truly,” she insisted. “I must have hit a knot or something that I didn’t see because of the shadows.”

He moved closer. “Let me see.”

When she stepped back and touched the trunk to indicate where she had stopped carving, he could see blood dripping from her finger. “Not the tree. Your finger. Let me see your finger.”

Her eyes widened, but she let him inspect her hand. “You’ll need a stitch or two,” he said and wrapped the end of her finger with a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Can I watch?” Daniel asked.

“All I need is a good tight bandage,” she insisted and held up her finger. “See? The blood’s stopped flowing already.”

“I can stitch it up for you,” Alice Grant offered.

“No, thank you. I’m sure it’ll be fine with just a bandage. Just let me finish up here so we can go on to the second tradition tonight before it gets too late. The handkerchief will be all I need until then. Where’s the knife?”

He held up her left hand. “You’re holding it,” he said and narrowed his gaze. “Where’s your ring?”

“Oh, I . . . I took it off to clean the cookstove. I’m sorry. I just forgot to put it back on,” she explained.

Disappointed, he made a mental note to replace the wooden ring, which he should have done by now, and put his hand over hers. “Let me help you finish up.”

When she nodded, he used his greater strength to help her carve through the knot she had hit and finish the rest of the letter.

“Finished! Now I’m officially a member of the island family.” Ellie handed him the knife, then traced her initials with her uninjured hand. She even stood more erect, as if more confident now of her place with him on the island. The joy on her face was so sincere and the wonder in her eyes was so real, however, it almost transcended her very plain features.

Surprised by the mere possibility he might ever find her appealing in any way, he folded up the knife, stored it back in his pocket again, and looked up through the branches to the moon overhead. With the exception of his two sons, his life had been filled with nothing more than bitter disappointment and he had no desire to invite more. He dropped his gaze and stared at Ellie’s initials in the tree. Despite those newly carved marks, he had absolutely no intention of thinking their marriage could be any more than it was: a business proposition.

Nothing less.

And certainly nothing more.

Eighteen

“I still want a turn.”

Before Jackson could argue with her again, Ellie shifted Ethan, who had fallen asleep in her arms, and laid him down on the ground in a patch of clover next to his sleeping brother. Pleased that the boy had not woken up, she hitched up her skirts with her unbandaged hand. She started for the ladder, which was still leaning up against the apple tree, leaving Jackson standing near his sons.

She passed by the canvas bag bulging with apples and snatched up the other bag that was still empty. After she had looped the canvas strap over her head to her shoulder like the others, the pouch rested against the front of her bodice. Satisfied, she looked up through the branches to decide how high she would have to climb to reach enough apples to pick and pursed her lips.

Harvesting apples by moonlight at near midnight instead of the full light of day would not have been how she would have chosen to pick apples for the first time since she had been a child. Wearing the gown she usually reserved for Sunday services to perform that task would not have been her first choice, either.

But climbing the ladder and keeping her balance while she filled the picking bag when she had a bandage on her finger that was stiff with dried blood, as well as a few blisters and that stubborn splinter on her other hand, made for the greatest challenge of all.

Except for convincing her new husband that she was serious about picking some apples by herself.

“I told you before, you don’t have to keep this tradition tonight. There’s still one more full moon in October when we harvest the Russets. Wait until then; otherwise, you’re going to fall and break your neck tonight, and you won’t ever be able to pick up anything heavier than your stubbornness,” Jackson warned.