Page 29 of Christmas at Carnton

She was none too sure about attending this event to begin with. A hog killing certainly didn’t feel like a festive Christmas pastime. Though the estate, at least, looked decidedly festive. Jake had hung nearly two dozen ribbon-swathed evergreen wreaths about the barns and fences, per Mrs. McGavock’s request, and the sight of Carnton arrayed so beautifully warmed her.

She yawned, her day having started especially early that morning with helping Tempy prepare breakfast for all the workers lending a hand in the event. They’d carried the food to the barn before sunup, then had let the men serve themselves as they arrived while she and Tempy returned to the kitchen to start on the noonday meal. The amount of food they’d prepared still amazed her, as did the McGavocks’ generosity in providing it.

“Andrew,” she called again. “Stay close. Don’t go too far.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Missus Prescott.” Tempy came up beside her. “Those boys’ll be fine. Every boy I ever knowed loves hog killin’ day.”

“I know I did when I was younger.”

Aletta turned to see Captain Winston walking toward them and felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. He smiled at her and she returned the gesture, same as she would to anyone else, she told herself.

Yet she found it impossible to deny her heightened awareness of the man.

No matter that she’d seen him several times over the last four days since Thanksgiving—and had ridden to and from the McGavocks’ church with him and Andrew yesterday morning. All she could think about was when he’d walked her back to the house the other night after helping her move the wood. She’d been so startled when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Which had been surprising enough. But what bothered her even more was that she hadn’t turned away. At least, not at first.

Here she was, seven months pregnant with Warren’s child, and she’d found herself actually wanting Captain Winston to kiss her. Wanting him to take her in his arms and hold her until she could feel the solid beat of his heart against hers. The blush in her face deepened.

Twice, Captain Winston had made polite attempts to speak with her privately, but she’d managed to avoid it, embarrassed and wishing they could simply go back and recapture the ease of their friendship before that moment. Because, as she had that night, she felt awkward and exposed.

But mostly, she felt unfaithful to Warren’s memory. And partly responsible.

Tempy peered up at him. “So you done this before then, Captain?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. Many times. I grew up on a farm in South Carolina.” He looked around. “It wasn’t near what Carnton is, but it was home. And it was special.” His voice gained a touch of melancholy.

“This be Missus Prescott’s first time.”

“Is that so?”

Aletta nodded. “We had chickens and cows, but no pigs.”

“Oh, you ain’t lived, Missus Prescott, ’til you tasted fresh sausage fried up straight from the grinder.” Tempy briefly closed her eyes. “That and warm tenderloin with all them mashed sweet potatoes, greens, and stewed apples we made this mornin’. And backbone stew’s good eatin’ too!”

Captain Winston smiled. “Backbone stew is the best. Especially with corn bread slathered in butter.”

“Tempy!” a woman called. “We need your help over here.”

Aletta turned to see a group of women standing beneath a massive elm tree. And near them, a large tub perched over a blazing fire. What looked to be a rope and pulley system had been looped above it over a high branch, and a team of mules stood hitched nearby. Tempy moved to join them and Aletta swiftly fell into step beside her.

“Oh no, Missus Prescott.” Tempy laid a hand on her arm. “You best not be helpin’ at this station, ma’am. Not your first time. Wait here, and Missus McGavock will be along soon. She’ll give you a task.”

Aletta found herself somewhat relieved, not at all convinced she wanted to see any part of this event quite so close up. And yet she also wasn’t, considering the man standing beside her.

“Precisely how much do you know about hog killing, Mrs. Prescott?” the Captain asked.

“I believe the question should be, Captain Winston, how much do I want to know about it?”

“And your answer would be?”

“As little as possible.”

He laughed and she found herself smiling a little, too, sensing an olive branch in his demeanor.

“I remember my first hog killing.” He looked down. “My father found me crying behind the barn.”

“How old were you?”

His brow furrowed. “Twenty-two, I think.”