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“Don’t you wish,” I said.

Fiona ran toward the barn with her father on her heels.

Josephine hung behind with me. She offered her arm. “You best hold on to me. Those boots are much too big for you.”

There was a quiet energy in her as we walked arm in arm toward the barn.

“What are you thinking about so intently?” I asked.

She tilted her head toward me until it almost touched my shoulder. “I was just thinking how happy Papa’s seemed since you came here. And the kids too.”

“Does that make you sad?” My heart was in my throat suddenly. Did she not want me here?

“Quite the opposite. We’ve been waiting for you for such a long time.”

I swallowed. What did one say to that?

Josephine pressed my arm against her side. “I knew you’d change everything.”

“For the better, I hope?” I kept my voice light.

“Yes, Miss Quinn, for the better. You’ll see in time I’m right,” Josephine said. “You’re meant to be here with us.”

“Has it been hard to look after the younger ones?” I asked as we made our careful way toward the barn.

“I don’t know any other way, so I can’t say for sure. Papa’s needed me, and I’ve done so because I love them. Anyway, I’m happy when I’m helping others.”

“I love the sentiment, but you mustn’t forget about yourself. You’re still a child, after all. You should be having fun, not worrying so much.”

“That changed the moment my mother walked into a blizzard.”

Her raw honesty made my legs and arms tingle. “Oh, Josephine, that must have been awful.”

“It was a bad time, but we made it through. That’s what people do, you know?” Her voice was as brittle and fragile as a piece of crystal. I wondered how much her stoicism cost my little Josephine, this grown woman in a child’s body. Would it make her into a bitter woman? One who wished she’d had the gift of innocence for longer?

By now, we were at the barn. I caught the scent of hay and horse stalls. “This is like a barn from a picture book,” I said.

“Really?” Josephine said. “To me, it’s just a barn.”

“It’s much more than that.” Painted red, with white-trimmed doors, the handsome barn added to its idyllic surroundings instead of taking from them. A wooden fence made an area for the animals to roam free in warmer weather. How I wished my mother and sister were here. “This barn is like art.”

“Come on, then. If you like this, wait until you see the piglets,” Josephine said, giggling.

We entered through one of the enormous double doors. Built of round-cut and crosscut timber, there were at least a dozen small windows that let in the wintry light. Bales of hay were stacked in the rafters. Pitchforks, shovels, and various other tools hung neatly in a tack room. The floor was made of wide, rustic planks and was surprisingly clean. Stalls for the four horses, the milking cow, and the pigs occupied one side of the barn. Poultry took up the rest of the space.

A dozen laying hens in various colors of red, white, and speckled scratched and pecked greedily from the cracked corn scattered on the floor. Twelve-inch nest boxes with beds of straw were built upon a three-foot platform.

Fiona ran between the chickens with her arms spread out like wings and made squawking noises. They must be accustomed to her, because the hens appeared undisturbed as they pecked at the floor.

Cymbeline ran toward us and tugged on my jacket. “Miss Quinn, do you want to meet everyone?”

“These are our chickens.” Josephine rattled off their names. Most were clearly chosen for their coloring: Cinnamon, Salt, Pepper, Chili, Clove, Cocoa, Ginger, Mustard, Nutmeg, Vanilla. Having run out of spices, Josephine explained, they went with beverages. “Coffee and Tea were all we could think of. You’d be surprised how hard it is to come up with so many names. And then in the spring, we get fryer chicks. They don’t get names because we kill those for food.”

“No, we don’t.” Cymbeline shook her curls and crossed her arms over her chest. “We get those from the butcher shop.”

Josephine shot me a look that told me the chickens for eating were not all from the butcher shop. “We can’t name anything we’re going to eat,” Josephine said. “That’s Papa’s rule.”

“Good rule,” I said.


Tags: Tess Thompson Emerson Pass Historicals Historical