“You need a night of rest and more bacon and apples,” Jasper said. “We’re close, but you can’t make it any farther without food. I was thinking...”
“What?” Horace asked, when Jasper looked away.
“I was thinking I might ask them for something for your arm.”
“Are you mad?” Horace snapped, all good humor gone.
“It’s festering.” Jasper looked over, lips pursed.
“And that might kill me. Is that it? Well, Union soldiers will kill me, did you think of that?”
“Horace, she’s not a soldier. She’s a woman who’s helped us once. If nothing else, we should thank her.”
“We should go,” Horace insisted. He tried to struggle to his feet and sank back down, gasping. His face was an unhealthy shade of grey, and his eyes stood out, wide and fevered.
“All right! All right. We’ll go, Horace. We’ll go tomorrow. You just need...” Jasper clamped his lips shut at the look on his friend’s face. A mention of weakness would be most unwelcome. “I need some sleep,” he said finally. “Please, Horace.”
As he expected, the man’s face softened.
“Tomorrow.” His voice was already fading, and his eyes drifted closed.
“Tomorrow,” Jasper agreed. But he could feel dread settling, cold, into his stomach. The wound was getting worse, Horace’s fever rising. If he did not get his friend help soon, he was not sure he could get him home alive.
Chapter 4
Clara rubbed her forehead and grimaced as she stirred milk into her tea. A late night over the books had led to sleepless hours in her bed, but no matter how she turned the numbers over in her head, they always came out the same way. They needed help for the harvest to make their money, and they needed money to pay for help for the harvest.
She darted a glance at her mother to gauge her mood. Millicent was staring out the kitchen window, her face expressionless as she held a teacup between her hands. No tears. As good a time as any then, and in any case, if she did not expect this to go well, she might as well get it over with.
“We’ll need to hire a man for the harvest this year,” Clara said. She busied herself with her breakfast to keep from meeting her mother’s eyes, spreading a piece of bread with peach preserves and taking a sip of milk. The other two men they employed had gone out into the field already, leaving the family alone in the kitchen.
“Are you sure?” Her mother’s voice was deceptively mild, but Clara heard the sudden flare of interest.
“Yes.” Clara tried to keep her own tone light. “At least one. Cecelia can’t help if she’s taking care of the livestock, and you’ll need to be tending the garden and the orchard.” She took care to smile at her sister, who looked up nervously. With her soft voice and innate kindness, Cecelia was the favorite of all the animals, from the cows to the grumpy old cat in the barn—and experience showed that she was terrible with a thresher.
“Do we have the money for it, then?” Millicent asked.
“I thought we might pay in grain and vegetables.” Clara tried not to let her face flicker as she met her mother’s eyes. It was shameful not to be able to pay the laborers in coin; she knew her mother would balk at it. Indeed, she was not happy, herself. We only have to hang on until Solomon is home. “We have some honey left. Butter. Cheese.”
“Clara.”
“Yes?” Oh, don’t say it.
“You know Cyrus would help if you asked.”
Clara tried to bite back a sigh, and her mother’s face took on a warning look.
“His father’s shop has more help than it knows what to do with,” Millicent said.
“I thought about that.” Clara felt her tension rise. Of course she had considered it; she had known her mother would bring the subject up.
“And?” Millicent asked, implacable.
“I decided not to ask him,” she said at length.
“Why not?”
Clara considered offering reasons and knew her mother would see through all of them. They were reasons she had told herself and rejected each time. There was no reason at all for her to refuse the help of a man who came to call each week, his eyes soft when they rested on her. He would have offered his help if he had even the faintest idea that the farm was struggling.