Free Northern Light by Annette O'Hare Page B

Thomas searched through the shed for the tool he needed, deciding the work would keep his mind off Margaret. Forgive me, Lord, and protect her, please…
    He checked the old saw’s sharpness and returned to the work at hand. The piece of wood had been used many times before, judging by the nail holes scarring its rough grain. But even scraps of wood had to be reused. Supplies were a scarce commodity, especially wood. He searched for the right-sized piece of driftwood to use, but the hunt was fruitless.
    “Beeehhhh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh!”
    “Hush now, Nanny Sue. I’ll have yer pen fixed up nice and new before ye know it and then ye won’t have to be tied up anymore.”
    Thomas talked to the goat as if she understood what he said. He’d done the daily milking since regaining his strength. But Nanny Sue’s milk was beginning to dry up. They’d need to breed her soon if they were to have milk in the coming year. He would have to discuss their options with Mr. Logan.
    Thomas overheard Mrs. Logan talk about trading some of the fall vegetables to Mr. Milton in exchange for a pair of chickens so they would have their own source of eggs and eventually a nice chicken dinner. Images of baked poultry floated through Thomas’s head.
    He knelt and rested the plank across his knee to saw it. That was another chore. He would make some hay bales directly after finishing the goat pen.
    It eased Thomas’s mind that he could repay their kindness in giving him lodging and caring for him during his recovery. He couldn’t understand the abundant generosity of the Logan family. Surely God had brought him to this place for a reason.
    The grass rustled behind him. Someone was coming.
    He instinctively picked up the saw for protection. A glimpse of raven hair came into view. Thomas dipped his head in acknowledgement of her presence and carried on with his work.
    She leaned against the shed, watching him.
    Thomas retrieved a hammer. He returned to the goat pen, picked up the broken piece of wood, and pulled the nails holding the chicken wire in place. Oh, Lord, did Ye hear my prayer? Did Ye work on her heart?
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Murphy.”
    “Good afternoon, Miss Margaret. Ye know, lass, I’m fine with ye calling me Thomas, if you’d like.”
    “All right then…Thomas, I was wondering if you might have time to talk.”
    The sound of his name on her lips was indeed a pleasure. He put down the hammer and rose, trying his best not to show the pain from his still healing body. “Of course. I’d be happy to talk to ye.”
    “Can you come out back? I don’t want little ears listening in.”
    He couldn’t be sure, but Thomas sensed a break in the ice. He followed her as quickly as the rainbow follows the rain.
    Margaret made her way to the back of the property. When she came upon a felled log, she sat on it, facing the saltwater slough at the back of the Logan land.
    Thomas joined her, careful to keep his distance. He surveyed the property. No one was within earshot.
    “Thomas…” A long pause followed as she plucked a lone sea-oat stem and twirled it between her fingers. “I…I’d like to apologize to you.”
    Oh, forgive me, Father. Why do I never seem to expect an answer when I pray? Thomas touched her hand. “What on earth for, lass?”
    Margaret didn’t look at him. “You were right, and I was wrong.”
    “About what, Miss Margaret?”
    “I took your advice and talked to a slave. A slave I’ve always known, but never took the time to talk to.” Her body began to shake. She lowered her face into her hands. “And you were so right—slavery is awful!”
    Thomas inched closer and put his arm around her. “There, there now, lass.” To his surprise, she didn’t withdraw. Even more unexpected, she turned toward him and continued her cry on his shoulder. He never wanted to let go of her.
    “It’s OK, Miss Margaret. How could ye know how bad slavery is when ye have never seen it first-hand?”
    Margaret wiped her tears with