“I guess you won’t be holding class in the church too much longer, then.”
“Well, we won’t be able to raise the school building until the snow is off the ground. But hopefully in the spring.”
Lark loved seeing the shine in Del’s eyes and the happy flush in her cheeks when she talked about teaching. Truly her sensible sister had found her passion.
“Miss Nielsen.” A small girl ran up and tugged at Del’s hand. “Come see the new piano.”
“Piano?” Lark raised a brow and turned to see where the child pointed. At the back of the church, Rev. Pritchard and some other men were wrestling a bulky item through the door.
“Oh, I heard about this.” Del set down her cup. “Rev. Pritchard’s home church back east donated a piano to us. I can’t wait to see Sythia’s face. Excuse me . . .” She followed the little girl’s tugging hand to go see the instrument the men were hauling to the front of the sanctuary.
A piano. What a gift. Lark couldn’t hold back her smile. Now the Nielsens’ musical offerings during services would sound complete once more. She closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord.
“You look mighty happy about somethin’, ma’am.”
At the soft drawl, Lark opened her eyes with a start.
The man standing before her had trimmed his scruffy beard and exchanged his ragged army uniform for simple farmer’s clothes, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Isaac McTavish?” she blurted.
He frowned. “Do I know you?”
“Oh.” Lark’s ears heated. How to explain this? And what was he doing here? “Forgive me. I’m Larkspur Nielsen. You met my family when we were on the trail and also at the Herrons’. When I was . . . Clark Nielsen.” That likely made little to no sense. “We played music?”
Isaac’s face cleared. “I remember now. Mrs. Herron mentioned something in her letter about your, shall I say, necessary subterfuge?” His eyes twinkled.
Lark relaxed. At last, someone who didn’t take her masquerade too seriously. “You might say that. I’m glad you aren’t too shocked.”
“I’ve seen a heap too much these past few years to shock easy. Besides”—he tipped his head to the side, studying her— “can’t say but that it’s rather a nice surprise.”
Lark didn’t know what to say to that. Her cheeks warmed.
“Be that as may be, might a weary traveler get a cup of cider?”
“Oh, of course.” Grateful for the distraction, Lark dipped him a cup of the hot, spiced brew. “So what brings you out here, Mr. McTavish?”
“Well, I’ve been lookin’ for what might be the next stop on my journey. I’ve been traveling hither and yon between here and Ohio, helpin’ with harvestin’ and such. Then I heard about the cyclone damage y’all suffered up here, and havin’ word from Mrs. Herron that my friends the Nielsens had settled up here—well, I thought I’d see if I could be of any help.”
“So you knew we were here.” He’d come all this way to find them?
“Better to settle where one finds friends, I believe. They’re a precious possession in this world.”
Lark met the frank gaze of his gray eyes. “Indeed.”
At the soft chime of piano keys, they both looked toward the front of the church. Lark’s throat tightened with sudden tears.
Forsythia was playing.
It had been so long.
Forsythia caressed the keys, the worn ivory of the hand-me-down piano a familiar friend beneath her fingertips. She segued from one hymn into another, her hands knowing the notes without her even having to think about them. Their beloved “Abide with Me” moved into “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” followed by “Now Thank We All Our God.” It was Thanksgiving, after all.
Someone slid onto the bench next to her, and she glanced up to see Adam’s bearded, smiling face. She smiled back, her heart too full for words.
He sat quietly a moment, watching her, and then, to her surprise, lifted his own hands to the keys and added harmonizing chords to the last round of the hymn of thanksgiving. Their four hands blended beautifully on the final notes of the amen.
She turned to him. “I didn’t know you played.”
“Nothing like you, my love. But a little.”
“Do you know ‘Come, Ye Thankful People, Come’?” She ran her fingers over the keys again, shifting through arpeggios. It was like her hands couldn’t stop playing, so much had they missed it.
“I think so. You start, and I’ll see if I can follow.”
Forsythia eased into a melodic introduction, then began. After a few measures, Adam pressed the keys again, softly adding chords. His touch was slower than hers, yet sure, with a depth and richness to it, like her doctor himself.
Her doctor. Her heart warmed again with the wonder of it.
She hadn’t realized her sisters were gathering around them until Lark’s contralto picked up the first verse, then Lilac joined in, followed by Del. Soon other families gathered round, and they were all singing, Forsythia lifting her soprano alongside Adam’s hearty baritone.
“Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home;
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin.
God our Maker doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God’s own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.”
They finished all four verses, and Forsythia concluded with a triumphant chord. Applause rose enthusiastically from around the church.
“And on that lovely note, let us gather and give thanks.” Rev. Pritchard raised his voice above the swelling chatter. “And then eat!”
Still on the piano bench, Forsythia bowed her head and closed her eyes. Adam’s hand covered hers, his fingers warm against her skin. Much to be thankful for, indeed.
They all feasted on turkey and duck, mashed potatoes and turnips, canned corn and beans, preserves, pickles, breads, and pastries. Then the pie auction began, the women of Salton—and even an occasional man—having given the best of their baking skills toward the schoolhouse cause. Pumpkin and mince, apple and custard, lemon, raisin, and even vinegar pies were lavishly praised by Mr. Caldwell, the appointed auctioneer, and generously
