With a three-legged stool behind him, Haakon pulled it forward and sat, keeping his eyes on the water. For most, the hours on watch were a time to ponder. For several, a chance to log the events of the previous day. But unlike those contemplative souls, Haakon didn’t keep a journal. If he did, he would write that they’d hoisted sail and caught a breeze from west-southwest. A gust that was shouldering them away from southern Norway. He’d try to find the words to described how hard it was to see that shoreline grow fainter. If they lingered, they’d watch the birches begin to open their leaves. He was yet to see Norway in the summer and had only heard of its splendor.
    The practical side of him would note that there were eight hundred tons of crystal ice in the hold bound for London. That’s if they survived the North Sea. If so, they would land in England four days from now.
    It would take great effort to cap the inkwell then, but if he lost the battle with himself, he would add that it was getting harder and harder not to think of home.
    That was why he didn’t keep a journal. There was no sense in documenting such a desire. He couldn’t go home. He shouldn’t go home. And he was a fool to continually be tempted. Though time had passed, the years hadn’t worn the memories smooth. In fact, it felt just like yesterday that he’d walked with Aven, her arm on his. Her brown eyes trusting as they strolled through the woods. They’d ventured to the west cabin, where she’d imagined herself safe to be alone with him, only to discover that she’d been anything but.
    Haakon should have tried harder to make amends, but knowing he couldn’t rightly step foot back on the farm, he’d opted instead to blow the Sorrels’ barn sky-high with nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of his brother’s stolen liquor still inside. While it had halted a decades-old war between their families, he doubted it had been the most sentimental way to apologize.
    Pulling his arms tight across his middle, Haakon bent forward on the stool and, with his gaze still on the inlet, did all he could to keep from trembling from the cold. He wanted something hot to drink. Something good and strong.
    More than that, he wanted to make peace with Aven. He wanted to break free from the challenge young Widow Jönsson had given him to cease his running from whatever had him on the move for nearly half a decade. But he didn’t know how to do either, so here he would stay—on this restless sea—until he finally vanished from all their memories for good. Or until he grew enough of a backbone to step back onto his family’s farm and try to right what he had wronged.

Taken from “Daughters of Norther Shores” by Joanne Bischof
Copyright © 2019 by Joanne Bischof
Used by permission of http://www.thomasnelson.com/