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He didn’t like it; she saw he didn’t like it; she saw something in his eyes that she had occasionally glimpsed when she had been a green girl
sparked by two likely lads and the envy of all her friends. That look was what caused her to hesitate, even though he had appeared like an angel,
offering her—and Tim, of course—a way out of the terrible dilemma that had come with Big Ross’s death.
Perhaps he saw her seeing it, for he dropped his gaze. He studied his feet for a bit, and when he looked up again, he was smiling. It made him
almost as handsome as he’d been as a youth . . . but never so handsome as Jack Ross.
“Tomorrow, then. But no longer. They have a saying in the West’rds, my dear. ‘Look not long at what’s offered, for every precious thing has wings
and may fly away.’”
She washed at the edge of the creek, stood smelling the sweet-sour aroma of the forest for a bit, then went inside and lay down upon her
bed. It was unheard of for Nell Ross to be horizontal while the sun was still in the sky, but she had much to think of and much to remember from
those days when two young woodsmen had vied for her kisses.
Even if her blood had called toward Bern Kells (not yet Big Kells in those days, although his father was dead, slain in the woods by a vurt or some
such nightmare) instead of Jack Ross, she wasn’t sure she would have slipped the rope with him. Kells was good-humored and laughing when he
was sober, and as steady as sand through a glass, but he could be angry and quick with his fists when he was drunk. And he was drunk often in
those days. His binges grew longer and more frequent after Ross and Nell were wed, and on many occasions he woke up in jail.
Jack had borne it awhile, but after a binge where Kells had destroyed most of the furniture in the saloon before passing out, Nell told her husband
something had to be done. Big Ross reluctantly agreed. He got his partner and old friend out of jail—as he had many times before—but this time he
spoke to him frankly instead of just telling Kells to go jump in the creek and stay there until his head was clear.
“Listen to me, Bern, and with both ears. You’ve been my friend since I could toddle, and my pard since we were old enough to go past the blossie
and into the ironwood on our own. You’ve watched my back and I’ve watched yours. There’s not a man I trust more, when you’re sober. But once you
pour the redeye down your throat, you’re no more reliable than quickmud. I can’t go into the forest alone, and everything I have—everything we both
have—is at risk if I can’t depend on’ee. I’d hate to cast about for a new pard, but fair warning: I have a wife and a kiddy on the way, and I’ll do what I
have to do.”
Kells continued his drinking, brawling, and bawding for a few more months, as if to spite his old friend (and his old friend’s new wife). Big Ross
was on the verge of severing their partnership when the miracle happened. It was a small miracle, hardly more than five feet from toes to crown, and
her name was Millicent Redhouse. What Bern Kells would not do for Big Ross, he did for Milly. When she died in childbirth six seasons later (and
the babby soon after—even before the flush of labor had faded from the poor woman’s dead cheek, the midwife confided to Nell), Ross was
gloomy.
“He’ll go back for the drink now, and gods know what will become of him.”
But Big Kells stayed sober, and when his business happened to bring him into the vicinity of Gitty’s Saloon, he crossed to the other side of the
street. He said it had been Milly’s dying request, and to do otherwise would be an insult to her memory. “I’ll die before I take another drink,” he said.
He had kept this promise . . . but Nell sometimes felt his eyes upon her. Often, even. He had never touched her in a way that could be called
intimate, or even forward, had never stolen so much as a Reaptide kiss, but she felt his eyes. Not as a man looks at a friend, or at a friend’s wife,
but as a man looks at a woman.
Tim came home an hour before sunset with hay stuck to every visible inch of his sweaty skin, but happy. Farmer Destry had paid him in scrip
for the town store, a fairish sum, and his goodwife had added a sack of her sweet peppers and busturd tomatoes. Nell took the scrip and the sack,
thanked him, kissed him, gave him a well-stuffed popkin, and sent him down to the spring to bathe.
Ahead of him, as he stood in the cold water, ran the dreaming, mist-banded fields toward the Inners and Gilead. To his left bulked the forest,
which began less than a wheel away. In there it was twilight even at noonday, his father had said. At the thought of his father, his happiness at being
paid a man’s wages (or almost) for a day’s work ran out of him like grain from a sack with a hole in it. This sorrow came often, but it always
surprised him. He sat for a while on a big rock with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head cradled in his arms. To be taken by a dragon so
close to the edge of the forest was unlikely and terribly unfair, but it had happened before. His father wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.
His mother’s voice came floating to him over the fields, calling him to come in and have some real supper. Tim called cheerily back to her, then
knelt on the rock to splash cold water on his eyes, which felt swollen, although he had shed no tears. He dressed quickly and trotted up the slope.
His mother had lit the lamps, for the gloaming had come, and they cast long rectangles of light across her neat little garden. Tired but happy again
—for boys turn like weathercocks, so they do—Tim hurried into the welcoming glow of home.
When the meal was done and the few dishes ridded between them, Nell said: “I’d talk to you mother to son, Tim . . . and a bit more. You’re
old enough to work a little now, you’ll soon be leaving your childhood behind—sooner than I’d like—and you deserve a say in what happens.”
“Is it about the Covenant Man, Mama?”
“In a way, but I . . . I think more than that.” She came close to saying I fear instead of I think, but why would she? There was a hard decision to be
made, an important decision, but what was there to fear?
She led the way into their sitting room—so cozy Big Ross had almost been able to touch the opposing walls when he stood in the middle with his
arms outstretched—and there, as they sat before the cold hearth (for it was a warm Full Earth night), she told him all that had passed between Big
Kells and herself. Tim listened with surprise and mounting unease.
“So,” Nell said when she had finished. “What does thee think?” But before he could answer—perhaps she saw in his face the worry she felt in her
own heart—she rushed on. “He’s a good man, and was more brother than mate to your da’. I believe he cares for me, and cares for thee.”
No, thought Tim, I’m just what comes in the same saddlebag. He never even looks at me. Unless I happened to be with Da’, that is. Or with
you.
“Mama, I don’t know.” The thought of Big Kells in the house—lying next to Mama in his da’s place—made him feel light in his stomach, as if his
supper had not set well. In truth, it no longer was sitting well.
“He’s quit the drink,” she said. Now she seemed to be talking to herself instead of to him. “Years ago. He could be wild as a youth, but your da’
tamed him. And Millicent, of course.”
“Maybe, but neither of them is here anymore,” Tim pointed out. “And Ma, he hasn’t found anyone yet to partner him on the Ironwood. He goes acutting
on his own, and that’s dead risky.”
“It’s early days yet,” she said. “He’ll find someone to partner up with, for he’s strong and he knows where the good stands are. Your father showed
him how to find them when they were both fresh to the work, and they have fine stakeouts near the place where the trail ends.”
Tim knew this was so, but was less sure Kells would find someone to partner with. He thought the other woodcutters kept clear of him. They