The Fire in Ember - DiAnn Mills [21]
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do.” Miss Leah tapped her finger to her chin as though she was working on a plan. Such a pretty woman, and her freckles—like Bert had seen on Mark and Davis—made her look like a girl. Until Bert had met Leah, she had no idea what being a woman was all about, except getting beaten when food didn’t taste good or when one of her brothers decided she needed a bruise or two.
“Miss Leah, you surely don’t look old enough to be the mother of these strapping boys.”
Leah laughed. “Those boys have started to give me a few gray hairs. Thank you. That was very kind of you. I’m thinking you and I could excuse ourselves earlier in the evenings for bed, and we could work on reading then.”
No one would know. When the time came for her to leave, being able to read might help her stay out of Simon’s path. “I’d like that.”
“All right. We’ll begin tonight. Hmm.” She whirled around to the empty doorway. “Son, haven’t you found a book?”
“No, Mama. I’m still looking,” he called from inside the house.
“He’s putting off helping with the peas,” Miss Leah said. “But his peddlin’ would give us an opportunity to look at a couple of reading primers.” She nodded at Bert and called to Davis. “We’re coming.”
Once Davis selected a book, Leah piled the rest of the books back into a wooden box, being careful to place two primers on top. She bent to scoot the box under the bed, but it wouldn’t slide underneath.
“Davis, did you move things around when you pulled this out?”
The boy, with hair the color of corn silk, frowned. “I did push a few other boxes out of the way.”
Leah blew out an exasperated sigh that sounded more amused than frustrated. She lifted up the quilt covering her bed. “I do believe you shifted more than one item underneath here.” She pulled out another box and an odd-shaped object wrapped in a tattered quilt. Its shape looked familiar.
“Is that a fiddle?” Bert bent to the floor.
“It is. Belonged to my Frank. He was the boys’ father.” She sat on the floor and pulled the quilt from the fiddle as though she were unwrapping a treasure. “We spent many an hour listening to Frank play. We’d sing. When the boys were small, they’d dance. Oh, such sweet memories.” The wistfulness in Leah’s voice and the way she touched the bow saddened Bert. She knew the pain of losing someone she loved.
The fiddle looked much nicer than the one Gideon used to play. “This is beautiful.”
“He took good care of it — like another child.” She ran her finger along the length of the fiddle. “Unfortunately I didn’t realize how much I loved him until he was gone.”
“Did he get sick?” Bert remembered how she’d ached for Gideon when he died. How she ached for him still.
Leah glanced at Davis, who appeared to be absorbed in a book about animals. She mouthed “Gunned down.”
Bert gasped. She’d thought this good family hadn’t known the ugliness of life. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s been five and a half years,” Leah said softly. “He’d taken a job for his brother, who was the town marshal, when a gang of outlaws shot him. Dumped his body at our front door.”
“How awful.” Bert had seen killing, and the sight of blood and vacant eyes stalked her sleeping hours. She’d do anything to keep from dying.
“John found him. Frank died in his arms.”
“Then those outlaws kidnapped me,” Davis said.
“I thought you were reading.” Leah’s voice lifted a notch.
“I am, but I can hear too.” He stood from the opposite side of the bed. “John came after me, but they got him too. It took Uncle Parker and Aunt Sage to free us up.”
Bert studied Leah’s face. The woman had seen the harshness of life, but she hadn’t grown bitter with it. Bert wanted to be like her someday—not twisted up in anger and lashing out at others. “Maybe we should start on those peas.”
“Do you want to see the fiddle? I don’t mind.” Leah held it and the bow out to her.
“I can play enough to get by.” Bert took the instrument and tightened the strings. She lifted