The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) by Chiaverini Jennifer

Author:Chiaverini, Jennifer [Chiaverini, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2007-11-12T16:00:00+00:00

THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, Sylvia escaped the lonely confines of the manor, her coat pockets full of apples for her favorite horses. Apples the Bergstroms had in abundance, for the orchards had flourished in glorious indifference to the hard times all around them, to their loss and their grief. Her boots crunched through the icy crust on the snow as she made her way to the stable, holding her hood closed tightly with one mittened hand to keep out the sharp wind.

Suddenly, a few yards ahead of her, a shadow broke away from the stable wall. Too startled to scream, Sylvia froze in her tracks and stared as the unfamiliar figure of a man shuffled toward her. She took a stumbling step backward, her thoughts flying to the gangster from Philadelphia.

“Don’t be scared, miss,” the man said gruffly, taking a hesitant step forward, his palms raised. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just trying to find someplace to wait out the storm is all.”

She took in his threadbare layers of clothes, dark stubble on a haggard face, and knew at once that he could not possibly be the man from the train station. “You can’t go in the stable,” she said, her voice high and thin. “You’ll scare the horses.”

“All right.” He ducked his head and stepped back. “I hear you, miss. I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to keep warm.”

He turned around and headed for the bridge over Elm Creek, back into the woods. “Wait,” Sylvia called, then turned and ran to the house without waiting to see if the man obeyed. She burst through the back door and raced through the house until she found her father upstairs in the library, his ledger lying open on the oak desk before him. “There’s a man outside,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t think he’s the gangster. I think he’s a hobo.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with either,” her father said, as she seized his hand and pulled him to his feet. In another moment they were at the back door, pulling on coats and boots. They found the man just outside, sitting on the back steps.

“Good afternoon,” Sylvia’s father said, addressing the man with utmost respect.

“Afternoon, sir.” The man removed his hat despite the cold wind. “I’ll work for a meal. I can clean out stables, milk cows, whatever you need.”

“The cows won’t need to be milked again until tonight,” Sylvia’s father said, and Sylvia knew he was thinking that anyone who didn’t know the proper times to milk a cow could not have much experience with farm life. “Can you handle a shovel?”

“I have a strong back.”

“All right, then.” Father opened the door wider. “Come inside to the kitchen and get a bite to eat. Afterwards I’ll show you around the stables.”

The man came inside—quickly, before Father could change his mind—and tugged off his boots. Sylvia recoiled at the smell and backed off down the hallway, wrinkling her nose. She knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help it.

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