But winter had passed. The snow melted.
Trees budded. Flowers bloomed. Birds returned. The swans and their cygnets paddled across the lake. Spring was here.
Like a bulb, hope inched roots down and sent a shoot upward, breaking through the dark crust of earth to glimpse the sun.
From the lookout, Torin had a view of Hank’s meadow, where Ivy led Jewel along the wildflower path they'd worn into the grass over the past weeks. Instead of venturing off a few feet to explore whatever caught her attention, Jewel stayed close to her governess, her head lowered.What could she be looking at?
Even from here, he could tell what was missing from the idyllic picture was Jewel’s chattering in her earnest, halting way, and gesturing with both arms as she always did when excitement outpaced her words. How she darted, in her own ungainly manner, to examine new flowers or pick up a feather.
Concern made his stomach tight, and he wondered how much longer before Jewel returned to her normal cheerful self.Hopefully soon.
Ivy walked with a hand hovering almost protectively behind Jewel’s back. She bent now and then to point at something. That, too, was different. After the first couple of weeks, the governess often stood behind a step, waiting to see what interested Jewel, and then would join her to have a discussion.
By squinting, he could make out Brave padding behind them like a small gray shadow.
The picture they made—woman and child and cat against a meadow of wildflowers with the lake gleaming beyond—was so achingly beautiful, he had to look away.
Don't stare. Don't feel. Don't let yourself want her.
But wanting, Torin had discovered, was not something he could will away. A slowly growing feeling crept in through unguarded moments, enticing all his senses. The sound of Ivy laughing with Jewel. The sight of her apron hanging on its hook in the kitchen, looking like the garment belonged there. How she smelled of roses. The taste of her cinnamon rolls. The timesshe’d clasped his arm, an intimacy that lingered. He could still feel the sensation.
She’s the governess. She works for you.
The two, followed by the cat moved out of sight under the trees.
Ivy has come to mean so much more to me.
The thought made his heart beat faster—not with the cold, clenching fear he'd carried for so long, but with something warmer. Something that felt almost like hope.
Finally, the doubts he’d grappled with since her arrival stilled.Ivy isn’t Mary Beth. She’s proven she’s good for Jewel. My daughter is not only safe with her, she’s flourishing.
Trust her.
Torin sat for a while longer, breathing in and out the release of fear. Not all, of course. He didn’t think that state was possible. He’d always be fiercely protective of Jewel.
Suddenly, wanting to see them, he stood, brushed the pine needles from his trousers, and started down the trail. The air was sweet with pine resin and the scent of warming earth, and somewhere in the canopy a thrush sang in liquid notes.
His stride was lighter than it had been in weeks—the stride of a man walkingtowardsomething rather than fleeing. Hiking down the trail, Torin could hear the sound of his daughter’s enthusiastic squeals.Thank goodness! Ivy must have found a way to make her happy.The thought warmed him.
A smile broke out over his face. He quickened his steps, curious about what they were up to.
But, as he drew closer, he recognized other girlish voices chanting, “Ring around the rosy.”What the heck is going on?His stomach twisted with sudden nausea.Surely, Ivy hasn’t allowed…
He emerged from the trees and stopped, rearing back, aghast.
Jewel was in the yard beside the porch, turning in a circle with three other girls, their hands clasped, their voices raised in a chant fromMother Goose. “Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies...”
The Swensen girls.He recognized Inga immediately—the eldest, blond braids swinging, her voice leading the others with the natural authority of an oldest sister. He supposed Elsabe and Krista were the other two. Constance and Elsie had described them several times.
Beside her, a smaller girl with the same flaxen hair—Elsabe, perhaps eleven—and the who must have been around nine and who held Jewel’s hand.
“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!”
They tumbled to the grass in a heap of skirts and laughter. Jewel fell last. As always, her coordination being a beat behind. But she fell with abandon, with a trust in the ground and in the girls around her that made something in Torin's chest seize and twist.
“Again!” Jewel scrambled up, grabbing Krista’s hand. “Again, again!”
Ivy sat on the porch steps, watching. Her face held an expression Torin had never seen on her—a complicated mixture of joy and concern, her eyes bright with unshed tears, one hand pressed to her mouth as if to hold in her emotions.
