way you can rest right away.”
“Is there a fireplace in the bedroom?”
“No.”
“What of a stove?” Mother asked.
“No, but I’m sure if the bedroom doors are left open the warmth from the kitchen and fireplace will provide enough heat.”
“But what of the winter?”
Emmalyne shrugged. “Maybe Father will buy a stove before then.” She didn’t believe he would, but it was better than telling her mother they’d simply have to pile on additional quilts.
Mother seemed uncertain. “Perhaps we should have stayed in town,” she murmured as she looked around. Their journey was taking them farther and farther into the less populated countryside.
“I would have liked that, too,” Emmalyne admitted, “but Father felt it necessary to leave the hotel and save money. At least we have the whitewash and other supplies. I’m sure we can make a nice home. There are repairs that will need to be made, of course, but you mustn’t let that cause you worry. Angus and I will see to it.”
Her mother gave a heavy sigh and lowered her voice even more. “This place reminds me of . . . your sisters.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “When I think on them, I can’t help but wonder what kind of women they might have become.”
“I know, Mother. I think about that sometimes, as well.” She patted her mother’s hand.
“And ye think of him.”
The matter-of-fact statement surprised Emmalyne. Shedidn’t have time to mask her emotions as an image of Tavin filled her mind. “Aye. I do now and then.”
Her mother nodded. “I sometimes think on him, as well. I wonder what kind of life you might have had with . . . Tavin.” She barely breathed the name.
They said little else for the remainder of the trip. Emmalyne felt a growing sense of sorrow deep within . . . the loss of her sisters, the loss of her friendship with Fenella, the loss of Tavin. She fought against the feelings, however. They would serve her no good purpose. If she allowed herself to become melancholy like her mother, neither of them would be of any use. It wasn’t easy to hold back her sadness, but Emmalyne had learned over the years that if she forced it down long enough, it would retreat, rather like an admonished pup.
When they finally arrived at the house, Emmalyne waited for her mother’s reaction. The older woman looked at the house and then at Emmalyne. She seemed to want Emmalyne to confirm—or more likely, deny—that this was indeed to be their home.
“Father and Angus are going to shore up the porch roof, and then you’ll have a nice place to sit in the evenings,” she offered, scooting from the straw bale and off the wagon. “The kitchen isn’t ready, but I plan to tackle that while you rest. I have the rocking chair set aside for you so you can sit there while Angus and I see to your bed.”
She continued chattering on, knowing her mother’s fears were great and many. “Of course, now that we have the nice whitewash, we won’t want to place too many things before we have a chance to dress up the walls. Oh, and I think the rugs we brought from Minneapolis will work well in the front room.”
Angus lifted his mother from the wagon while their fatherstepped down and considered the house for a moment. “As soon as we unload,” he told Angus, “we’ll be headin’ over to the MacLachlans.”
Emmalyne frowned. Once again her father intended to leave her to see to all the things that must be done in the house. She decided to risk his ire. “Father, there are a great many repairs to be made. If you want to sit down to a meal this evening, I will have to have Angus’s help.”
Her father said nothing for a moment, but then nodded. “As ye say.” He went to the back of the wagon. “Where do ye want the straw?”
Emmalyne was surprised he even bothered to ask. “The porch would be good.” Despite the sagging roof, she felt it was the most convenient place to stuff the mattresses.
It took little time until the