planting time.”
She’d been right—he didn’t know a thing about gardening. She kicked at the dirt again. “Awful shame. But ’twouldn’t take you long with two people. I’ve already planted my garden. Could come over here tomorrow morning and help you till up yonder.”
He let out a breath—whether in annoyance or amusement, she couldn’t tell. “Are you proposing to help me dig up a field of the toughest, most rock-ridden sod I’ve ever encountered in my life?”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If we prepare the soil good, I can give you some o’ my seedlings. Have more’n I can use, anyway. That’ll make up for lost time.”
He paused as if considering. “That would be very generous of you.”
She hurried on, afraid he’d change his mind. “You can still plant carrots, taters, squash, beans, greens.” She nodded. “It’ll do you for the winter.”
“In that case, you’ll probably have to show me how to put them up as well,” he replied, the first hint of a twinkle beginning to thaw the chill in his eyes. Geneva felt something inside her begin to melt, too, and felt a profound relief that the man she remembered had not disappeared entirely.
A second later his eyes resumed their coldness. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to plant.” He stood and, once again, she was conscious of his height.
He picked up a fork. “By the looks of it, I have a few days of hard labor ahead, so if you’ll excuse me…” Without waiting for her reply, he began to walk toward the field she’d indicated.
“I’ll come by tomorrow to help you with the tilling,” she muttered to his back.
He heard her and turned around. “I will not have a woman wielding a fork alongside of me.” He enunciated like a teacher to a stubborn pupil.
“Suit yourself. If you want to be a fool, ain’t no concern o’ mine.”
“No?” His voice reached her. “Seems to have concerned you the other day.”
So, he had heard. She could feel the blood heating her face up to the roots of her hair. She kicked at the tough grass. “Folks should mind their own business.”
“What they ought to do and what they do are frequently two different things.” He tipped his hat to her. “I want to thank you for your kind if unnecessary defense of me.”
Wrestling with something inside herself, Geneva gave an abrupt nod and turned to begin her trek back to the gate.
She’d spent too many years protecting her own hide to know how to reach out to anyone. The captain would have to learn to sink or swim on his own. She’d help him with his garden. That was all. She owed him that much.
Caleb sat on the veranda, staring out at the silvery sea, the hot coffee cup enveloped by his hands. He couldn’t see the horizon this morning. It was obscured by the milky white fog that lay offshore and high overhead.
The sun was already visible, its strong yellow orb promising to burn through the white film shrouding but not obliterating it. He listened to the movement of sea against rock, its sucking, rushing sound ceaseless.
He’d been listening to it off and on all night.
Finally the nausea he had felt since rising began to ebb. He took a cautious sip of coffee, feeling as if he were just finding his sea legs.
In truth, he knew his physical condition was the result of more than rising too early and sleeping too little over several days.
He ventured another sip of the scalding coffee, needing something—anything—to wash out the vile taste in his mouth.
Lost in thought again, the knock didn’t penetrate his consciousness the first time. It was only at the second knock that it intruded like something at the periphery of his vision gradually taking shape.
He got up slowly at the third knock, his head shifting like sand, his body weak and wobbly like one who hasn’t eaten in a few days.
Caleb walked back inside, following the echo of the now silent knock. His footsteps reverberated against the polished wood floor as he walked through the wide living room, into the dining room, and finally reached the kitchen. He approached the door leading out into the shed and opened it a crack.
The tall woman wearing men’s attire—denim overalls and a straw hat—was just turning to leave.
He opened the door wider. “Good morning,” he said, immediately clearing his throat as he heard the raspy sound of the syllables emanating from it.
She nodded by way of greeting. “Brought you some loam.”
He frowned. “Loom?” He repeated the word the way she’d pronounced it.
“Topsoil. And dry manure,” she added.
“Oh.” Was this supposed to mean something to him?
The way she waited, just staring at him, made him conscious of his appearance. His fingers touched the collar of his shirt, and he realized the top buttons were undone.
She shifted in her boots. “I’ll bring the seedlings ’round as soon as we work in the loam. Thought you’d want to get started early with the planting.”
He finally nodded in understanding, remembering her offer of seedlings. Somehow it had slipped his mind amidst the backbreaking labor of the last two days.
“And so I do.” He yawned. “Excuse me. I didn’t get to sleep until late.” When she said nothing, he asked, “What time is it anyway?”
He saw her blink at his question. She was younger than he’d imagined. In her men’s getup and her clipped sentences, she had seemed ageless to him.
Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled out his watch. “Eight o’clock. It feels more like daybreak.” He looked at her questioningly. “Don’t you have your own work to do? I don’t want to keep you from it.”
She shook her head. “Already weeded and watered this mornin’.”
He nodded. “Of course.” If her speech was anything to go by, she wasn’t a person to waste time. “I suppose if I am to accept your generous gift, I should at least know your name. You seem to know mine.”
All he understood of the mumbled words was “Neeva Patterson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Patterson.” He took a last swallow of coffee. “Well, let’s be at it, then.”
He followed her out into the yard. The morning was still cool and he shivered slightly in his thin shirt. She marched ahead of him, straight toward the garden patch. Once there, she looked it over like a general reviewing his troops.
She turned to him. “What made you decide to turn your hand to gardening?”
“Sheer boredom.”
As if finding no response to that, she pointed to the wheelbarrow. “We’ve got to spread this over the garden and then use the
