sound of an ax. She peeked across her pillow at the alarm clock. Six-thirty. He was chopping wood at six-thirty?
Barefoot, she crept to the kitchen window and stood back, studying him and the woodpile. How long had he been up? Already he’d split a stack waist-high. He had tossed his shirt and hat aside. Dressed only in jeans and cowboy boots, he looked as meaty as a scarecrow. He swung the ax and she watched, fascinated in spite of herself by the hollow belly, the taut arms, the flexing chest. He’d done some splitting in his time and went at it with measured consistency, regulating his energy for maximum endurance—balancing a log on the stump, standing back, cracking it dead center and cleaving it with two whacks. He balanced another piece and—whack! whack!—firewood.
She closed her eyes—lordy, don’t let him leave—and rested a hand on her roundness, recalling her own clumsiness at the task, the amount of effort it had taken, the length of time.
She opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. “You’re sure up with the chickens, Mr. Parker.”
Will let the ax fall and swung around. “Mornin’, Mrs. Dinsmore.”
“Mornin’ yourself. Can’t say the sound of that ax ain’t welcome around here.”
She stood on the stoop in a white, ankle-length nightgown that exaggerated her pregnancy. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders, her feet were bare, and from this distance she looked younger and happier than she had last night. For a moment Will Parker imagined he was Glendon Dinsmore, he really belonged here, she was his woman and the babies inside the house, inside her, were his. The brief fantasy was sparked not by Eleanor Dinsmore but by things Will Parker had managed to miss in his life. Suddenly he realized he’d been staring and became self-conscious. Leaning on the ax, he reached for his shirt and hat.
“Would you mind bringin’ in an armload of that wood so I can get a fire started?” she called.
“No, ma’am, don’t mind at all.”
“Just dump it in the woodbox.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The screen door slammed and she disappeared.
He hated to stop splitting wood even long enough to carry it into the house. In prison he’d worked in the laundry, smelling the stink of other men’s sweat rising from the steaming water as he tended the clothes in a hot, close room where no sunlight reached. To stand in the morning sun while the dew was still thick, sharing the lavender circle of sky with dozens of birds that flitted from countless gourd birdhouses hung about the place—ahh, this was sheer heaven. And gripping an ax handle, feeling its weight slice through the air, the resistance as it struck wood, the thud of a piece falling to the earth—now that was freedom. And the smell—clean, sharp and on his knuckle a touch of pungent sap—he couldn’t get enough of it. Nor of using his muscles again, stretching them to the limit. He had grown soft in prison, soft and white and somehow emasculated by doing women’s work.
If the sound of the ax was welcome to Mrs. Dinsmore, the feel of it was emancipation to Will Parker.
He knelt and loaded his arm with wood—good, sharp, biting edges that creased his skin where his sleeve was rolled back; grainy flat pieces that clacked together and echoedacross the clearing. He piled it high until it reached his chin, then higher until he couldn’t see over it, testing himself again. This was man’s work. Honest. Satisfying. He grunted as he stood with the enormous load.
At the screen door he knocked.
She came running, scolding, “What in heaven’s name’re you knockin’ for?”
“Brought your wood, ma’am.”
“I can see that. But there’s no need to knock.” She pushed the screen door open. “And y’ got to learn that around here y’ can’t stand on that rotting old porch floor with a load so heavy. It’s likely t’ take you right through.”
“I made sure I walked near the edge.” He felt with the toe of his boot, stepped up
Barefoot, she crept to the kitchen window and stood back, studying him and the woodpile. How long had he been up? Already he’d split a stack waist-high. He had tossed his shirt and hat aside. Dressed only in jeans and cowboy boots, he looked as meaty as a scarecrow. He swung the ax and she watched, fascinated in spite of herself by the hollow belly, the taut arms, the flexing chest. He’d done some splitting in his time and went at it with measured consistency, regulating his energy for maximum endurance—balancing a log on the stump, standing back, cracking it dead center and cleaving it with two whacks. He balanced another piece and—whack! whack!—firewood.
She closed her eyes—lordy, don’t let him leave—and rested a hand on her roundness, recalling her own clumsiness at the task, the amount of effort it had taken, the length of time.
She opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. “You’re sure up with the chickens, Mr. Parker.”
Will let the ax fall and swung around. “Mornin’, Mrs. Dinsmore.”
“Mornin’ yourself. Can’t say the sound of that ax ain’t welcome around here.”
She stood on the stoop in a white, ankle-length nightgown that exaggerated her pregnancy. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders, her feet were bare, and from this distance she looked younger and happier than she had last night. For a moment Will Parker imagined he was Glendon Dinsmore, he really belonged here, she was his woman and the babies inside the house, inside her, were his. The brief fantasy was sparked not by Eleanor Dinsmore but by things Will Parker had managed to miss in his life. Suddenly he realized he’d been staring and became self-conscious. Leaning on the ax, he reached for his shirt and hat.
“Would you mind bringin’ in an armload of that wood so I can get a fire started?” she called.
“No, ma’am, don’t mind at all.”
“Just dump it in the woodbox.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The screen door slammed and she disappeared.
He hated to stop splitting wood even long enough to carry it into the house. In prison he’d worked in the laundry, smelling the stink of other men’s sweat rising from the steaming water as he tended the clothes in a hot, close room where no sunlight reached. To stand in the morning sun while the dew was still thick, sharing the lavender circle of sky with dozens of birds that flitted from countless gourd birdhouses hung about the place—ahh, this was sheer heaven. And gripping an ax handle, feeling its weight slice through the air, the resistance as it struck wood, the thud of a piece falling to the earth—now that was freedom. And the smell—clean, sharp and on his knuckle a touch of pungent sap—he couldn’t get enough of it. Nor of using his muscles again, stretching them to the limit. He had grown soft in prison, soft and white and somehow emasculated by doing women’s work.
If the sound of the ax was welcome to Mrs. Dinsmore, the feel of it was emancipation to Will Parker.
He knelt and loaded his arm with wood—good, sharp, biting edges that creased his skin where his sleeve was rolled back; grainy flat pieces that clacked together and echoedacross the clearing. He piled it high until it reached his chin, then higher until he couldn’t see over it, testing himself again. This was man’s work. Honest. Satisfying. He grunted as he stood with the enormous load.
At the screen door he knocked.
She came running, scolding, “What in heaven’s name’re you knockin’ for?”
“Brought your wood, ma’am.”
“I can see that. But there’s no need to knock.” She pushed the screen door open. “And y’ got to learn that around here y’ can’t stand on that rotting old porch floor with a load so heavy. It’s likely t’ take you right through.”
“I made sure I walked near the edge.” He felt with the toe of his boot, stepped up
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