These green mountains had never held her the way they held him. She’d always chafed at the constrictions of hill farming, pined for open range. With dual citizenship his wife could be anywhere; Texas, Alberta, anywhere her wild western dreams led. He wouldn’t look.
He was pioneering right here, innovating with heirloom breeds and traditional farming methods. He raised Highland cattle for meat, but kept one as a milk cow, another tradition for this loyal breed. These Scottish Longhorns were hardy and independent, but also good-natured and reliable, good mothers.
He’d be here with his fold should she return.
“You’re back. How far’d you get?”
“Far enough to figure some things out.”
“Figured out they don’t have as many seasons out west. If they have deer season, you’d hardly know it. They never heard of sugarin’ or mud season. I wanna settle in for mud season.”
“You came back because you wanna be here when the roads turn to shit?”
“Early April, right?”
“Yup. Lotta my Highland heifers are due to calve ‘bout then.”
“I figure that’s my time too. We’re pregnant.”
He’d seen rangy heifers become content after calving. He embraced his wife, thankfully, hopefully.
“Did I hurt you when I left?”
They were sprawled on the grass in the pasture that overlooked the house, the barn that held the first cut of hay. She stroked the baby’s dark hair as she nursed.
“Yup. Hurt a lot.”
“I’ve always been a bolter. It’s like I can’t help it after a while.”
The baby sighed and fell asleep against her. “I never was scared before though.”
“You were scared?”
“Afraid I’d gone too far. That I wouldn’t be able to come back. To you.”
His arm around her was strong, gentle. “I’m always here.”
He stood on the porch, watching the storm rolling over the mountain, trees bowing before it, excited leaves anxiously twisting and turning on their stems, murmuring at the rumbles of thunder. Soon it would rain.
The Highlands would be fine. The calves were healthy, feeding well, the new mothers patient and fiercely protective.
Quietly, he went back inside where she had fallen asleep on the couch. He sat before the sleeping baby in the bassinet, still awestruck. Would that feeling ever go away?
Would she ever leave again?
“Hey”, she whispered. “How’s Hope?”
“She’s a light in the storm.”
Hope pushed her toy tractor in the dirt in front of the porch.
“What ya plantin’ Hope?”
“Daddy! There’s no planter attached!”
“You’re right. Again. So, what are you doing, just riding around on the tractor?”
“Yes. I am going away for awhile.”
“Oh, I see.” He sat quickly on the step, leaning weakly against the post, watching his daughter push the tractor away from him, providing a high gear noise for it. Then she geared down and maneuvered it to the step where she parked her toy and sat beside him.
“Daddy, when is Mommy coming back?”
“A mommy, a daddy, and a baby loon live on the lake.”
“The mommy and daddy loon call out to each other, let each other know where they’re fishing.”
“I know that, Daddy.”
“Both the mommy and the daddy loon take care of the baby. They both built and sat the nest, both fish for the chick, protect it, teach it.”
“I know that, Daddy.”
“Did you know that sometimes one of the adults leaves and goes to fish on another lake?”
“Just like us, ‘cept we live on a farm.”
The open porch was curtained by the rain that sheeted off the roof, drilling a trough underneath the eaves. Behind this curtain Hope rocked slightly, pushing against the floorboards with her toes, her father beside her in his chair. A third cane rocker sat empty.
“It’s a good porch”, he said, “Best part of this two-story house.”
“Yup”, agreed Hope. Recognizing the prelude, she looked forward to hearing his stories. Rain drummed the porch roof overhead.
A gust of wind suddenly rent the curtain, whipped them with cold rain, rocked the empty chair.
“Daddy, tell a story about Mommy.”
“I don’t really know that story Hope. That’s for her to tell. When she comes back.”
“She doesn’t tell stories like you do. She’s quiet.”
“How’d you meet her, Daddy?”
“You know that story Hope. Comin’ back from my fishing trip up in Quebec I picked up a hitchhiker. At the border she had me pretend we were together so she wouldn’t get questioned too much.”
“And after, she said she wanted to keep pretending.”
“And she came back with you to the farm and you thought she was never gonna leave.”
“Yup. That’s what I thought.”
She swung Hope high then held her tight. “Mmm. My Hope. Such a big Hope. Is Daddy in the barn?”
“I know. You always are for me.”
He continued to stand in the doorway. She noticed the fall colors beginning to show on the mountain, visible over his shoulder.
He rubbed his shoulder as if it and not his heart ached. “Welcome back. Supper’s already started.”
After putting Hope to bed they sat on the porch step, listening for the loons.
“They’re both together on the lake.” She squeezed his calloused hand. “With their chick.”
“Not a sunset anywhere like this one”, she said, leaning against him on the steps.
“There’s no one around here who’d know that better than you.”
“I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” They sat in silence until lightning bugs glittered the night air.
“You done leavin’?”
“But next time I want you to go with me.”
“What? And leave all this?”
“Well, I was thinking we could wait until Hope is able to look after the farm while we are away.”
“Oh. That’s a way’s away.”
“I know. Gives us time to teach her good.”
“Yes, Hope, a fellow who fell deathly in love with his own reflection.”
“Mommy, that’s silly.”
“Then we’ll call them paper whites. Do the blooms seem papery to you?”
“Yes, and they stink.”
“Ha! Kinda, Hope. And I kinda like the smell. I don’t know why.”
“I like the way they stand in their pots, Mommy.”
“Me too, Hope. So bold and defiant on the cold windowsill, trying so hard to be spring. But they reflect winter.”
“If Winter falls in love with his reflection, he’ll pine away.”
“Then Hope, we’d best start ordering seed packets for spring.”
The curtain snaps against the breeze in the open window. Triumphant flapping and clucking of Hope’s favorite hen heralds its daily escape.
She listens to comfortable thuds and thumps as he prepares breakfast. Brewing coffee rumbles a baseline to the robins’ chirping. The last stair-tread squeaks as Hope joins her father. Both quiet and reserved, in the mornings together they are quite talkative, sharing observations from the farm or surrounding woods, their voices rolling soft like the round-rocked brook. They unconsciously interpret morning sighs. They bring her coffee, their tentative daily offering, worry they might rouse her to flight.
“Thank you for the coffee in bed, sorry I’m so lazy, it’s just that morning sounds have become such sweet music to me.”
“That’s okay, Mom, we don’t mind, do we Dad?”
He grunted his assent and lingered with his own coffee after Hope left to tend her chickens. “Everything okay, I mean, you ain’t got your traveling itch again do you?”
“If you must know, I do plan on traveling, hikin’ to the blackberry patch that’s past the upper meadow, fill some buckets, then hike back, scratches and all, and make jam… Stop worrying, I’ve never been happier.”
“Jeezus, thought you were a bear!”
“Just me. Chores are done, thought I’d pick blackberries with you.”
“There’s more. Tell me.”
“Ok.” He picked as he spoke, careful not to bruise the berries. “You sounded restless this morning.”
“Oh.” She stopped picking, watched him. “I’m not.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I hear the music of the farm, of you and Hope, but then I’m like a scratch in the record.”
He had stopped picking, caught her tear with a berry-stained finger, pulled her close. “I’m sorry.”
“Show me everything about this farm.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Hope’s up the hill with her mandolin. Wanted to serenade us. Or wanted to get out of picking berries.”
“I’d rather she play for us than pick berries. She plays beautifully.”
“Yep. Comin’ along.”
“You’ve taught her so much. She’s quite a kid.”
“Yep, she is. She can do just about anything that needs doin’. Except…”
“No one’s taught her to make blackberry jam. Teach her.”
“I don’t figure she’d want to. She’s always outdoors with you.”
“Just ask her.”
“Ask me what?”
“Hope, I didn’t know if you was interested in making jam.”
He sat in his stuffed armchair.
“Dad, aren’t you going to help?”
“No, Hope, I’m not. Gonna set here and look to be reading my magazine.”
“You could at least play for us. I played for you when you picked the berries.”
“Nope. Gonna just enjoy the sounds of other people workin’.”
It was staccato at first, simple instructions, answers to questions. Then mother and daughter found their rhythm, the tempo increased. Yelps from handling the sterilized jars were followed quickly by laughter. They giggled at each other’s clef of bangs, curled by the steam.
Listening, he smiled, content.