John Wilson held my stare then slowly nodded. “I see a man who reminds me of myself. I understand.”
Della pushed her forehead against my shoulder, knowing she’d lost the battle, and I’d condemned our next few months to be with strangers and not our chosen sanctuary of aloneness.
My gaze left John Wilson’s and settled on his daughter, Cassie.
She gave me a look that wasn’t full of suspicion or ridicule like usual. Instead, it was filled with fire that made my blood thicken and a feminine smile that made me feel strong for putting aside my mistrust and dislike of people and weak because despite myself…I liked one.
I liked her.
I liked her defending her family and home.
I liked her spirit and snap.
I liked her enough to know I should run far away from her, but I’d just promised to behave for the winter and work for her father.
It was a decision I would live to regret.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
REN
* * * * * *
2005
WE STAYED AT Cherry River Farm all winter.
We made a temporary home in the single bedroom with its own bathroom off the barn. After that first afternoon when the Wilsons escorted us to the private quarters and showed us where we would stay, Della had shown a glimmer of acceptance at having our own place even though she still tugged on my hand to run.
I must admit, I’d sighed in heavy relief.
I hadn’t considered where we would live, and if he’d given us rooms in the main house, we would’ve lasted a night before the loner inside me bundled Della into stolen jackets and vanished into the snowy night.
At least, even with our days filled with people, our evenings and nights were still ours…alone.
That first week took a lot of getting used to. I had no choice but to take it easy with my lungs sloshing with liquid, and Della paced like a caged tiger cub, desperate to run and leap while confined to a small cage.
I couldn’t tell her stories to keep her mind off my commitment to be an employee because I coughed too much, and I couldn’t ask for a TV to continue our unconventional education as I had no right to ask for more than what had already been given.
All I focused on was taking my medicine religiously until I no longer rattled with coughs, did my best to settle my jumpy nerves at being around people, and calm Della enough with promises and assurances that the moment we wouldn’t freeze to death, we’d leave.
A few weeks passed where John Wilson gave me simple, easy jobs around the house, barn, and fields. He showed me his paddock boundaries, pointed out landmarks, and gave an overall rundown of what he expected.
His farm focused more on hay and produce rather than milk and meat and had more acreage but less livestock than Mclary.
This was a world I was familiar with, and my time in the forest had given me an even greater arsenal of skills so anything he tasked me with was easy.
I spoke politely, did what was asked quickly, and fought against the memories of doing similar chores for a much nastier boss.
It wasn’t that I hated working—the exact opposite.
I adored working with my hands, twisting metal back into place on broken fences, chopping firewood, or hammering nails into posts. Despite the conditions back at Mclary’s, I’d loved working the land, smelling the air full of animals and sweat, and waking up with the noisy cockerels every sunrise, knowing I was as connected to the land as I would ever be.
But there was something about working for someone else that itched and chewed, never allowing me to relax. I was still an asset to someone and not free. I didn’t own anything. I didn’t work my own stock or increase my own equity.
I was treading water, watching the frosts and judging when it would be time to run. I was fifteen, and although I had nothing and no way of knowing how, my dream was to have a place like the borrowed Polcart Farm with its boundaries in forest and bush.
I would have my own slice of wilderness one day where nothing and no one could touch me and Della without permission.
As the weeks went on, it wasn’t just me who preferred evenings when the farmhouse turned quiet and I finished work for the day. Della found more and more excuses to hide in our one-bedroom home rather than accept the offer of hanging with the Wilsons around their warm fireplace.
She tolerated Liam, glowered at Cassie, and didn’t let the adults get too close. She was a distrustful little thing, and I hated that I’d been the initial cause of such guardedness but also that her only experience with strangers had been good to begin with, then ended with teachers trying to rip us apart.