The Springsweet Read Online Free PDF

filthy laundry and retreated into the house, uninvited.
    It was as small inside as it had seemed without. There were no rooms proper—there was simply a room. A potbelly stove sat against the back wall, marking the cabin in half.
    To its right sat a table and a single chair, rough-hewn and golden—the dining room, kitchen, and parlor in one. The brace of rabbits waited there for cleaning, illuminated by a tin lantern. Their glassy eyes shone in the light, unjudging.
    I turned from them and found myself staring at Emerson's bedroom. He'd left his narrow rope bed unmade, straw jutting from the ticking at odd angles. The quilt was worn, its flags of brown and green calico faded.
    Heat stroked the back of my neck. Standing alone in a young man's boudoir could lead to ruin, but then, wasn't I already ruined? My heart fluttered in my chest and set to aching when I wondered what Thomas would think of all this.
    The door opened, and I smoothed myself over. Clasping my hands together, I offered Emerson a whitewashed smile. "You built all this yourself?"
    "I did." He barred the door, then hung his rifle on hooks above it. A bag swung from his other hand, and as he moved through the small space, the air stirred. The rough, sweated scent of his skin filled the cabin, mingling with gunpowder and leather.
    Turning eyes to me, he asked, "Are you hungry?"
    A strange trembling moved through me. Folding my skirts, I pressed my back against the wall. "Yes. My lunch pail left with the coach."
    He spilled the contents of the sack onto the table—a handful of scrubby onions and potatoes. Without thought, I picked up the rabbits and took his hunting knife in hand.
    I leaned down, taking account of the tin buckets beneath his table. One was stained black around the rim, and I chose that one to put between my feet to clean the rabbits. His was a good knife, and I heard Mama in my head rhapsodizing about the right tool for the right job.
    "What do you think you're doing?"
    Glancing up from my work, I said, "It's not my kitchen. I haven't the first idea where your well is. Or if you've got any grease or flour, or whether you've got pots set back. I'm afraid you'll have to do the cooking, Mr. Birch."
    "It's just Emerson," he said.
    He stood there a moment, then shook his head at me. As if I were some confounding creature, and perhaps I was. Nevertheless, he made himself busy as well. Soon enough, we had a pot of rabbit stew bubbling away.
    Emerson led me outside so we could wash our hands. The well was a simple affair, a wooden lid covering a hole he'd dug in the ground. He lowered the bucket down, bringing up barely a cup of clear water. Frowning, he offered it to me first. "It was fine in the spring."
    "It's in the wrong place," I told him.
    I don't know why I said it; what did I know of wells? But the meager water I poured over my hands smelled of rain, not the earth. There was a greenness to it, distance in it—cool only because it had collected in the shade, not because it had sprung up from the depths.
    "Then where would you suggest, Miss Stewart?" he asked. It was clear he didn't expect an answer. In fact, he came across quite snide, and some old measure of pride leapt up in me.
    Lifting my chin, I said, "Give me a moment."
    The prairie spread out wide around me, and I drew my gaze across it slowly. Something had planed this land flat-—it was smooth as a looking glass, except for a few dark trees so far in the distance I could hardly tell if they were saplings or grown.
    But I walked toward them in the star-speckled dark; with the cabin behind me and the horse's soft whickers nearby, I felt quite safe. My heart insisted it could find water, though my mind disagreed. I would make a fool of myself for bragging, I thought—but my heart beat and a strange coolness came over me.
    I closed my eyes and breathed in deep-—until I smelled water, fresh and clear. I felt it pulsing like a heartbeat, drawing me toward it. My bones ached, as if I'd