“Sar-ee.” The high voice ricocheted through the rafters. Sarah looked over her shoulder so abruptly that she nearly lost her grip on the beam, her face burning with embarrassment. Gracie stood in the retreating square of sunshine on the barn floor, peering up into the gloom, her little round fists planted importantly where her hips would one day be. “What’re you doing up there?”
“How long have you been here, you little sneak?” Sarah snapped. She slid down the rope so fast that she burned her hands. “Why don’t you just go away and leave me be? You’re always creeping around.”
“Am not!”
Sam stepped into the light beside the small defiant figure of sister Grace. “Here now. What’s the row about?”
“Nothing, Mr. Ebbitt.” Sarah blew gently on her hands.
“Sarah was climbing the rope and messing with the swallows’ nests.” Gracie pointed an accusing finger at the broken teeth of mud.
Sam turned his eyes on Sarah. “Don’t you be climbing that anymore. You could fall and hurt yourself. Come on down off of there. Wagon’s hitched, it’s time we were going.” Sarah slid off the haystack and shook out her skirts. Sam eyed her ankles. “That dress’s a mite shorter than’s proper. How old’re you, Sarah Mary?”
“Fifteen.”
“Shorter than’s proper. Get your mam to let it out.”
Sarah looked at the ground, crouching a bit to make the skirt reach the top of her boots. “Hem’s down,” she murmured.
“Speak up now. I can’t hear you.”
“Hem is down!” she burst out.
Sam nodded slowly and worked his jaws. “Well,” he said finally, “day’s not getting any longer.” He led the way to the wagon.
It was huge, with a bed seventeen feet long and hemmed in on three sides with one-by-twelve-inch planks; a team of six draft horses stood stolidly in the traces. Each year Sam donated it for the hayride. He had pitched a great mound of loose hay into the shallow box, piling it higher than the driver’s seat. Wisps poked out between the planks and scattered over a heavy fur lap robe that took up half the seat. Gracie pulled herself onto the wagon and settled in the remaining space.
“Punkin, why don’t you ride back there in the hay and let your sister ride up front with me?” Sam climbed up beside her and unwound the reins from the post, stringing the leads deftly through his thick fingers.
“I want to ride with you,” Gracie pleaded. “Why can’t Sare ride in the hay? She’s all over straw already.”
“Sarah’s older’n you, that’s why,” Sam said. Gracie threw herself sullenly into the hay inches behind the wagon seat. “Don’t lay there right on top of us, move on back and let us talk a bit.” He jerked his thumb toward the far end of the wagon bed. Grace moved back another eighteen inches.
Sam handed the older girl up. Uncomfortable with the attention, Sarah sat hunched against the robe on the far side of the seat. He shook the reins and the wagon lumbered away from the farm, back down the track toward the Tolstonadges’ and the town.
The sun was partway down the western sky, burning the edges of Sam’s beard and throwing long shadows over the road. November’s fragile warmth had gone and the smell of frost was in the air. “You can bundle that old robe around you if you’re feeling cold,” Sam said. “That’s what it’s there for.” Sarah pulled the fur over her shoulders. “You been running off and on that farm of mine since before you can remember, ain’t that right?” He waited for an answer.
“That’s right, Mr. Ebbitt.” She peeked warily at him from the corner of her eye.
He nodded shortly, satisfied. “You like that farm?” He waited for a reply.
“Sure, Mr. Ebbitt,” she said at last, and hid deeper in the stiff robe. There was a flouncing in the straw behind them.
“I’m cold, too,” came an interfering little voice. “A body might happen to think maybe other people get cold, too.” Sarah looked back; Gracie glowered out from a mound of straw she’d heaped over herself, her pudgy face pursed and indignant.
“Come up here with me,” Sarah said too quickly. “I’ll make room in the robe.” Gracie scrambled over the seatback and snuggled under her older sister’s arm, pointedly ignoring Mr. Ebbitt.
Sam spat over the side of the wagon and turned his attention to the road.
The table was set and dinner was hot and good-smelling on the stove when Sam’s haywagon rolled into the yard. Sarah and Grace raced for the house. The stove chuckled in the kitchen, flames flickering behind the door of the trash burner. They crowded close, holding their hands out.
“Careful. It’s awful hot. I’ve had it going all day.” Mam caught up a dishcloth, deftly wrapped it around her hand with a flick of her wrist, and opened the iron door of the warming shelf. There were plates of fresh doughnuts, brown and brushed with butter. She hooked two, one on each of two fingers, and held them out to her daughters. “The rest are for the doings, so eat ’em up quick before your pa and Sam see them.”
“They’ll smell ’em, Ma,” Sarah said with her mouth full. “The house smells like Christmas.”
“But they daren’t ask.” Mam winked. “Show there was something they didn’t already know.” The porch door banged and the girls shoved the doughnuts into their mouths. Keeping their backs turned, they munched surreptitiously.
It was still light out when they finished supper. Sarah scraped her chair back, poised on its edge for flight. “Can I be excused, Mam? There’s enough light so I can finish with Myrtle.”
“Are you making still another picture of that poor old cow?” Mam patted her arm. “Well go ahead, but don’t be forever about it. I won’t be having the dishes left till morning.”
“That was a fine meal, Margaret.” Sam nodded a benediction in her direction. “Emmanuel, I need to have a word with you; let’s walk off some of that stew.”
Mam snorted. “You two can talk here, nobody’d pay you any mind.” As they left the house, Margaret harrumphed to herself.
Out in the cowshed, Sarah sat on the three-legged milking stool, her head bent over a scrap of paper. Holding her braids out of the way with one hand, she sketched with the tip of a burned stick. “Just a minute more, Myrtle, then you can move.” Myrtle lowed softly, her jaw grinding. Sarah nudged the door open for light. The first star of evening was caught in the crack of daylight, burning close and clear in the autumn air.
Boots sounded and there was a thump as someone leaned against the shed. Sarah held her breath and listened. Sam Ebbitt began to speak and she bent to her task again.
“I’ll come right to it, Emmanuel. Didn’t want to say anything in front of the missus, this being your affair.” Sarah’s ears pricked up. “Mrs. Beard give this to me when she saw me heading out of town yesterday,” Sam went on. “Said she didn’t see as how it had come to her, being’s it was for Margaret, but as I was coming this way anyhow, could I leave it by. Your boy, David, did my seed orders and I know his writing. I figured you best see it first.”
“Burn it.” Emmanuel’s voice was hard and clipped. Sarah started to her feet. The drawing slipped from her lap and she slammed it into her knees. “Shh,” she hushed herself. Her father’s footfalls grew faint. She tiptoed to the door, putting her eye to the crack. Sam faced the evening star. Shoving his blunt thumb under the flap of the letter, he tore it open. Holding the pages to the last light, he read them, then took a tin of matches from his shirt pocket. Sarah ran from the shed. She stopped abruptly when Sam looked up.
“You know I can’t show it to you. You heard your pa.” Sarah said nothing. Sam took a match and struck it against the sole of his boot. The breeze had died with the sun, and the flame burned steadily. He looked past the match at Sarah, her eyes pleading, catching the reflected fire, her lips parted. She scarcely seemed to breathe. Sam lit the corner of the paper and she cried out as though he had put the match to her skin. “Your brother’s okay,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.” The paper flamed and he dropped it to the ground. Sarah took his rough hand between hers, pressing it to her cheek.