Grace (War Brides Book 4) Read online

  “Where’s Gracie One?” she asked.

  “Why that’s you, of course.” He waved the paintbrush at her nose. “I could put it on your forehead if you want to be sure.”

  Pleased at his choice of name, she giggled. “I think I can remember my own name.” She tipped her head to consider him. “You haven’t called me Gracie since we first met.” She bit back the rest of what she wanted to say. You haven’t said I love you since we were married.

  “Is that a fact? ’Cause I think of you often that way. Guess I got used to hearing you called Grace.” He turned back to contemplating the machine before them. “Did I tell you how proud I am to be the owner of this fine machine?”

  She laughed. “It’s surely evident in the way you speak.” She looked at him, wanting to drag his eyes from the plane and give her the same adoration. “You know, I could get jealous of this machine.”

  He laughed as if it were a huge joke. “She’s mighty pretty, but she’d be a mite uncomfortable to sleep beside. Downright cold and unfeeling, in fact.” He grinned at Grace. “Not at all like you.”

  Her cheeks burning, Grace turned away. “I came to tell you breakfast is ready.” She marched toward the house.

  “Great.” He hurried after her. “As soon as I’ve eaten, I want to go through the engine thoroughly. I want everything ready when the business starts rolling in.”

  He accepted a huge bowl of porridge and poured on canned milk and sugar, eating it eagerly. “You are turning into a fine cook.”

  “Oh yes, quite.”

  Billy shook his head. “Gracie, my mother always said a compliment should be received with a quiet ‘thank you.’ ”

  Grace blinked. “I didn’t think you meant it seriously.”

  “I know you didn’t.” His voice was quiet. “But I did. Perhaps you should listen more carefully to what I say. You might discover all sorts of things you’ve been missing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I know. Never mind. I’m heading back to the barn to do some work. I’m hoping the car will be here shortly after dinner.”

  Grace nodded. He’d made arrangements to buy a car the same day he’d bought the airplane. “Will I be expected to provide the man with a meal?”

  “I suppose if he hasn’t eaten it would be the hospitable thing to do.”

  “But I don’t even know what to make for us.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure things will work out.”

  She stared after him as he headed back to his beloved airplane. Easy enough for him to say things would work out. He was in familiar territory with Gracie Two and his tools. Whereas she felt like she’d been thrown in the deep end of the ocean and told to learn how to swim before she drowned.

  She hurriedly cleaned the kitchen, then turned to her indispensable instruction book, pointedly ignoring the novel that she longed to finish.

  She wanted to prove she could do something more difficult for dinner, but in the end she made a batch of biscuits and scrambled some eggs.

  “See, you’ve made a perfectly good meal,” Billy said.

  Remembering his admonition, she replied, “Thank you.”

  “Yet you probably fretted all morning that it wouldn’t be good enough.”

  “Not all morning.” After she’d decided it was the best she could do, she had picked up the novel and finished it, ignoring the tug of guilt she felt knowing she should be doing something useful with her time. No doubt Irene would have found a way of hanging curtains in the front room or gone and pulled the straggly weeds lurching against the house. But reading was a far more pleasant pastime.

  An hour later, Billy came running to the house. “He’s coming. I can hear him. Come on, Gracie. Our car will be here in a minute.”

  She’d been trying to decide what to make for the next meal and gladly hurried outside. This making meals seemed to be an endless task, she decided.

  Outside, Billy stood looking down the road toward town. A small black dot bopped along in a tumble of dust. As it drew closer, she could make out the shape of a car and hear the sound of a motor.

  Billy stood with his hands in his back pockets, grinning with all the pleasure of a man about to be given his freedom after a long spell in confinement.

  Grace smiled. She couldn’t blame Billy for his excitement. Goose bumps raced up and down her arms as she realized they were soon to be the owners of their own automobile.

  The driver blared the horn, making Grace jump. Billy laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  The car drew to a stop beside them, and a dust-coated man stepped down. “She’s all yours.”

  Billy hurried toward the vehicle, calling over his shoulder, “This is my wife, Grace Marshall. I’m going to teach her to drive.” He turned to Grace. “This is George Arthur, who sold me the car.”

  She mumbled a greeting. How could Billy drop a bomb like that, yet remain oblivious to her shock? Drive? An auto? No. No more than she would fly in an airplane!

  “Are you anxious to be on your way, or would you like something to eat?” Billy asked the man.

  A quiver raced across Grace’s shoulders. If Mr. Arthur said he’d like something to eat, she had nothing to offer him but a raw potato.

  “A cold drink of water would be nice, then I have to hurry back to town to catch the train back to Edmonton.”

  “I’ll be glad to give you a ride to town,” Billy offered, leading Mr. Arthur to the well.

  “I was counting on it.”

  A few minutes later, with a promise he’d be back soon and they’d have the promised visit to the Weltys, Billy perched behind the steering wheel, Mr. Arthur at his side, and headed for town.

  Grace plunked down on the front step and shook her head as the men drove away. One of these days, Billy was going to scare her to death with his sudden announcements. Sometimes she wondered if she’d done the right thing marrying him. But with a shudder, she remembered those long months of waiting during the war, wondering every day if he would get shot down, captured, or injured or—she swallowed hard—killed. She remembered the overwhelming relief when armistice had been declared; how she’d almost burst with joy when he’d walked up the sidewalk to her house and announced he was done with war and could they get married now?

  The days had been so filled with activity: getting ready to get married, the paperwork, packing, and getting ready to travel. Then they’d arrived in Toronto and been flung into another round of activity: meeting his parents and brother, John, and sharing the same house while Billy settled back into the family business.

  Grace pushed to her feet and went indoors. Only Billy hadn’t settled into the family business. Seems having once flown an airplane, it was in his blood. This move to Alberta, where, according to Billy, flying opportunities abounded, would allow him to get back to flying.

  Grace brushed back a strand of hair. This move was a dream come true for Billy. For her, it was a little more reality than she cared for.

  A big horse with shaggy feet the size of dinner plates thundered away as they approached. A baggy skinned dog with a mournful face bayed loudly and stood in the center of the road.

  Billy stopped the car. “Get out of the way, dog.”

  But the dog only bayed at them, his voice like a fog horn.

  Billy turned to Grace. “You’d think he’d never seen a car before.”

  Grace laughed. “Perhaps he hasn’t.” But her attention was on the house and scattered buildings a few yards away: dusty, grey buildings with clutter piled against the walls. Children scattered across the yard, raising puffs of dust before they disappeared from sight. “It appears the Weltys have several children.”

  From the depths of the Welty yard, a voice bellowed, “Hound, enough racket. Get yer sorry self back here.”

  The dog gave one more defiant woof, then shuffled away, his loose skin following in waves.

  “Whoe’r be there, come on in and make yerself
known.”

  Out of the side of his mouth, Billy murmured, “I guess that’s us.” He steered the car along the dusty track toward the low house.

  Grace coughed at the rising dust, pressing a hanky to her nose.

  They pulled into the opening between two of the buildings, and Billy stopped the car. The silence was profound.

  The dog woofed once, the sound cut off suddenly as if he’d been cuffed.

  Two brown hens squawked and flapped away.

  In the shadows sat a man, his chair tipped back against the wall. Grace swallowed hard. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. A dark pipe hung from his mouth. The dog lay at his side.

  “What ken I do fer you?” The words, spoken around the pipe, were barely distinguishable.

  Billy remained in the car. Grace wondered if he had the same uneasy feeling she did. “I’m Billy Marshall. This is my wife. We moved into the old Martin place.”

  The man nodded without speaking, smoke puffing around his face.

  “We heard you might have chickens to sell.”

  Billy’s words fell into silence.

  The man tipped his head toward one of the low buildings. “The missus is over there. Ya best be talking to her.”

  Billy got down and walked around to Grace’s door. “You better come with me,” he murmured to her, taking her hand as she stepped down beside him.

  They marched across the yard. Grace felt the eyes of both man and hound on her back. It wasn’t until they stepped into the indicated building that she could take a proper breath.

  The building was some sort of workroom. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters; jars filled with an assortment of leaves lined the shelves. A wooden trestle table stood against one wall. On it lay more leaves and what appeared to be roots of a plant.

  The room had a peculiar odor, not entirely unpleasant. Grace sniffed. “There’s something familiar about that smell.”

  “Reminds me of the hospital,” Billy muttered.

  Grace sniffed again. “Maybe that’s what it is. Do you see anyone?”

  “No. Hello,” he called, making Grace jump.

  “Out here.” The bodiless voice came from the door facing them, and they picked their way past the shelves and table and stepped back into the light.

  A woman sat with a washtub between her knees, rubbing feathers from the lifeless body of a beheaded chicken. The smell half choked Grace, and she clutched Billy’s hand.

  Grace turned her gaze from the steaming wet feathers to the woman at the tub. She had the blackest hair Grace had ever seen and eyes so dark there appeared to be no pupils; eyes that stared straight through her.

  “I’m Willow Welty. That no count man out there is my husband, Johns.”

  Her voice was low and deep, almost expressionless, even when she mentioned her husband.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be shaking your hand, but you can see I’m a might busy right now.”

  Billy again introduced them and stated his request.

  “Zeke, you come here now.” The woman barely raised her voice, but a lanky youth Grace guessed to be thirteen or fourteen stepped from the shadows.

  “This be my oldest, Ezekiel.” She turned to the boy. “Where are your brothers and sisters?”

  “Hiding.” Zeke darted a look at Billy and Grace as if to indicate they were the reason for the others hiding.

  “Get me a bucket of cold water and call the others.”

  Zeke nodded, grabbed a pail, and darted away.

  “I’ll be with ya in a minute.” The woman returned to sliding her hand across the chicken, revealing pinkish skin beneath.

  Grace vowed she would never eat chicken again.

  Zeke reappeared with water, and Mrs. Welty plunged the chicken in the pail, washing her hands in the same water, drying them on her apron. She stood and faced Billy and Grace.

  “I could spare you some youngish hens. These are the rest of my youn’uns.” She beckoned over her shoulder, and a string of children stepped forward.

  For the first time the woman smiled. “Mary and Baby.”

  A tall girl holding a dark-haired toddler nodded and smiled.

  “My boys Daniel, Hosea, Jonah, Joel.”

  Stair steps, all younger than Mary, the children were as different as man and wife: one as dark as their mother; another with reddish hair like the father; another with freckles; and the youngest boy with light brown hair and a dark complexion. Grace thought he would grow into a handsome man.

  Grace smiled at the children. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  They seemed startled. She guessed it was her accent. “I’m from England. That’s why I sound funny.”

  Daniel laughed first. “You sure do.”

  The others smiled shyly.

  “It’s right neighborly of you to come calling.” Mrs. Welty shook feathers from her apron. “We’ll have tea before we get down to business.”

  Mrs. Welty headed toward the house, indicating Billy and Grace should follow. The children trooped after them. Grace felt their subtle scrutiny.

  Mr. Welty still puffed on his pipe, his chair still tipped back. Nothing on him had moved since they’d passed him earlier—nothing but his lips as he sucked on his pipe, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

  “Mary, give Baby to yer father so’s ya can help me.”

  The older girl dumped the baby on Mr. Welty’s knee. He shifted the little one against him. The baby gave him a toothless grin. Mr. Welty winked at her.

  “Ya visit with Johns,” Mrs. Welty said to Billy. “Ya come visit with me,” she told Grace.

  Startled by the order, Grace dropped Billy’s hand and obeyed, wondering how the family all crowded into such a small area. A large plank table filled most of the kitchen. Through one door, a narrow room held space for nothing but the bed. Through a second door were two narrow beds and another door. The house was surprisingly clean and tidy.

  “Set a spell.” Mrs. Welty nodded toward the bench next to the table, and Grace sat. “Mary, set out some of them cookies you made.”

  The older lady studied Grace until Grace squirmed and looked away.

  “Sorry, but I was thinking yer such a young thing. Not much older than my Mary, and so far from home. How ya be doing?”

  At the soft concern in her voice, Grace jerked her eyes upward. “I–I’m managing,” she stammered, but her fears and uncertainties welled up. Tears flooded her eyes.

  Mrs. Welty patted her shoulder. “There’s no shame in a few tears.” She waited until Grace took a deep breath. “It be hard at first—being on yer own.”

  Grace nodded.

  Mary set a syrup pail of cookies on the table.

  “Take some to the boys.”

  Mary dumped half the pail into her apron and hurried outside.

  “If ya ever need a friend, ya give me a holler.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now I’d better be making that tea before Johns starts to roar.”

  Grace smiled. She could detect no rancor in the woman’s voice and wondered if her comments about her husband were simply her way of talking.

  “There be much a woman has to learn.”

  Grace tried to laugh but it sounded strangled. “Mrs. Welty, I wasn’t taught any of the things I need to know, so I suppose you could say I have more learning to do than most.”

  “Call me Willow. It’s what I’m used to. And don’t you be a-worrying about what you know or don’t know. You’ll catch on soon enough. Tea’s ready. You want to fix up a cup for yer mister?”

  Grace nodded, understanding the men were to take their tea outside together while the women remained inside. She didn’t mind. Mr. Welty made her nervous.

  After the men had been served their cups of tea and a handful of cookies, the two women sat across from each other at the table, Willow’s dark eyes probing Grace. Finally, she nodded. “Ya’ll do fine.”

  Grace couldn’t understand why Willow’s words made her feel better, but they did. “Do you m
ind if I ask you a question?”

  The dark eyes never blinked. “Go right ahead.”

  “What were all those things in the building we came through?”

  The shadow of a smile crossed her mouth. “My herbs. My people are healers. My mother, my grandmother, her mother, as far back as anyone can remember.” Her smile was proud. “I have the gift.”

  Grace hoped her eyes didn’t reveal her doubts.

  “It’s knowledge as much as gift,” Willow continued.

  “These are good,” Grace said and took another bite of a molasses cookie. “Do you suppose I could learn to make some?”

  “No reason why not. Mary, tell Grace what ya put in them.”

  Mary nodded. “Three spoons of lard, and equal amount of molasses, four eggs—”

  “Wait. Do you have a piece of paper I could write it on?”

  Mary rose and found a scrap of brown paper bag and handed it to her. “We got a pencil, Ma?”

  Willow nodded. “Look on my dresser.”

  Mary came back with a stub of pencil hardly big enough to hold and recited the ingredients while Grace wrote them down. Grace wondered if the family could read or write but didn’t want to ask.

  “Now let’s us go see about some hens.” Willow led the way outside. “Get us a crate for some chickens,” she told Zeke.

  The baby slept on Mr. Welty’s knee, and the youngest son, whom Grace guessed to be about three or four, played so close to the tipped-up legs of the chair, she wondered if it was safe.

  Billy rose to go with them, but Mr. Welty didn’t move. “I’ll be letting Baby have her sleep.”

  “ ’Sea and Dan’el, come give me a hand.”

  The two boys trooped after their mother.

  Willow led them past the first dusty building. Chickens scurried after her. “No food right now, ya dumb things,” she said, shoving them aside with her foot. “You boys catch up a dozen of those young pullets.”

  Daniel and Hosea—Grace couldn’t remember which was which—dashed after chickens. Birds squawked, running first one way, then another. The boys laughed as they dove after them, captured them, and stuffed them in the wire crate Zeke had brought.

  Grace’s laughter rang out. It was such a ludicrous sight, and it had been such a long time since she’d felt so light hearted and silly. There was something about Willow’s low gentle voice, her brood of children, even her husband that made Grace feel relaxed and sure of herself for the first time in many weeks. Willow was right. There was much to learn, but she’d catch on soon enough.