Dorothy Clark (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

C
ole pushed down on the handle that closed the flume gate, straightened and looked through the dusky light at the pond. The saws behind him chattered to a halt, helpless without their source of power. The rush of creek water beneath the deck under his feet grew loud in the sudden quiet. He was beginning to hate this moment when the workers had gone home, the saws were silenced and he had nothing but his thoughts for company.

He turned and walked over to the workbench, picked up a rasp and began smoothing the axle he’d made. The days weren’t bad. His mind was occupied and his energy and strength spent solving the problems or emergencies that cropped up in one business or another every day. It was the quiet nights that were hard to get through. Try as he had to dislodge thoughts of Sadie, they filled his head the way the sawdust permeated every nook and cranny of the mill.

He tugged the lamp hanging from a swinging hook overhead closer and bent over his work. At least the hours between the mill’s shutting down and nightfall were now filled with making the wheelchairs for Ezra to take to New York City. He’d have to find something else to do when the chairs were finished.

He cleaned the fuzziness from one of the cuts where the axle squared off to accept the wheel, turned the axle and cleaned the cut on the other end. He checked for any burrs or rough spots.

Birds twittered their night songs. Bats swooped around the oil lamp hanging over the water, their shadows large on the deck floor. Bats. He scowled at the bony creatures. That’s when it had started. He’d been attracted to Sadie from the start, but he’d managed to stay aloof until that night the bat had scared her.

He pitched a piece of wood at the bats and glared down at the bench. She’d lifted his jacket off her head and stood there looking all mussed and flustered and embarrassed... He’d been hard-pressed not to kiss her. He’d resisted, but the damage had been done.

His fingers found a section of rough grain on the axle and he picked up the rasp to smooth it away. And that day in the stable when her hair came free of its pins and fell down her back and she’d stood there trying to be all unperturbed and dignified with that blush on her face... His breath stuck in his throat. He’d had to turn away to keep from pulling her into his arms. And then the other night...

His hands stilled. He took a deep breath and lifted his head to stare out at the dark hills. She’d been happy for him. Her eyes had been sparkling at his news about the chairs when she turned toward him. And then—

He shook his head and rubbed at the tight muscles at the back of his neck. It had been almost a week, yet he could still see the way her eyes had warmed as their gazes met, the way her mouth had softened and her lips had trembled when he’d moved closer. It had been an unexpected moment of clarity and truth when what
was
had not been hidden behind what had been. A moment. If only...

His face tightened. He glanced at the sun still hanging above the hill and reached for the oil to rub into the axle before he attached the wheels, forcing himself to concentrate on the work. This chair was different than Manning’s. It was for a person with two good arms who could propel it by simply gripping the wheels and pushing or pulling. The idea had come to him while taking hold of the wheels on Manning’s chair to help him over a doorsill. The only mechanism needed for this chair was a brake, and that was easily made. He should have it finished before it was time to go and help Manning to bed.

Sadie would be there.

He shot another look at the sky and set his jaw. And that’s all he would do, help Manning. He would not seek Sadie out, no matter how he ached to see her. It was too dangerous. Something warm and wonderful had replaced the fear in her eyes. And he didn’t know if he had the strength to resist.

* * *

Nanna was humming. Sadie smiled and turned onto her side, grabbed for the cloth that slipped off her forehead and opened her eyes. The pinkish-gray light of dusk filled the room. She’d fallen asleep. And she’d dreamed about her grandmother picking flowers in the garden.

The throbbing pain in her temples was gone. She pushed herself to a sitting position, leaned back against the headboard and let out a sigh. She must have needed the rest. Sleep had evaded her for the past week, ever since Cole had stopped coming to Butternut Hill except for brief visits in the early morning and late evening to care for her grandfather. Visits when he only politely acknowledged her—if she happened to be in the room.

The sick feeling she’d been suffering for days settled in the pit of her stomach again. Had she said or done something to anger Cole that night he’d told her about Ezra wanting him to make another rolling chair? Was he too busy making the chair to come around? She frowned, folded the damp cloth into a square, then folded it again. Or was it that he had new interests elsewhere? At the Conklins’ perhaps?

Her stomach churned and she pressed her hand against it, regretting the supper she had eaten before coming upstairs to lie down. Not much supper. Her appetite had disappeared. The dining table seemed empty without Cole sitting across from her. She missed the sound of his deep, quiet voice when he was conversing with her grandfather, his rumbling chuckle when something amused him. And the way he always seemed to know what to say to bring her grandmother back to the present when her mind slipped into the past. She missed him. He’d become her friend.

Tears welled. Why hadn’t she realized that when he was still coming around throughout the day to care for her grandfather? While he was still a part of her life? By extension, to be sure, but still...

A soft humming floated in the window.

Nanna?
She dabbed her eyes with the square of cloth, scooted off the bed and stepped to the window. It hadn’t been a dream. Her grandmother was kneeling on the walkway pulling weeds, the old straw hat on her head, the folded blanket she spread to keep her skirts clean beneath her.

She glanced up at the setting sun, then looked back at her grandmother, who showed no signs of quitting her gardening. Was she aware of night approaching? Where was her grandfather? They’d been together in the sitting room when she came upstairs.

She hurried to pull on her shoes, then ran out of her room and down the stairs to the sitting room. Her grandfather was sleeping in his rolling chair,
The Pathfinder
’s adventures open in his lap.

The kitchen was clean, dimly lit and empty. Lamplight flowed out from the crack beneath Gertrude’s door. Her heart squeezed. No one had been watching over Nanna. Soft, warm evening air caressed her face and arms as she stepped out on the porch, her head full of what could happen to her grandmother if night fell and she got confused and wandered into the woods.

Worry followed her down the steps and up the path. She slowed to a walk and caught her breath.
Oh, Nanna...
Flowers and weeds, soil clinging to their roots, were strewn helter-skelter on the stone walk. Her grandmother was humming softly and pulling a handful of the few remaining flowers in the garden bed in front of her.

Tears gushed from her eyes. A sob clawed its way up her throat. She swallowed hard, brushed the tears from her face and stepped closer. “My, you’ve been hard at work.”

“Yes.” Her grandmother looked up and smiled. “I’m weeding my moon pennies.”

“I see that, but it’s getting late and Poppa would like you to come inside. Perhaps I could help you finish your weeding tomorrow?” She pasted on a smile and reached her hands down.

“Oh, very well. If Manning sent you to fetch me, I’d best go in.” Her grandmother brushed the soil from her small, pudgy hands, placed them in Sadie’s and rose. “Bring along the blanket, Ivy. But see you give it a good shaking first. I don’t want any bugs left on it.”

She snatched up the blanket, gave it a quick shake, tossed it over the back of the garden bench and took her grandmother’s elbow. “Why don’t I walk you to the house and then come back for the blanket? It’s getting dark.”

* * *

The throbbing was still in her temples. The cold cloth hadn’t helped this time. Sadie reached up and slid the cloth off her forehead, opened her eyes and stared into the moonlit room. If only she had someone to talk to. She was afraid it would burden her grandfather’s heart overmuch to tell him about the things Nanna did when he was not there to witness them. And Cole—well, Cole wasn’t here to talk to. By the time she’d gotten cleaned up after making certain her grandmother was safe with her grandfather, Cole had come and gone, and her grandparents were abed.

She tossed off the quilt she’d pulled over her, rose, crossed to the washstand and dropped the cloth into the washbowl then pulled the pins from her coiled hair. The thick, wavy mass tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in a brown cascade. She arched her neck backward, ran her fingers through the silky strands to bring them under control and gathered them in her hands. A ribbon, wrapped once around and loosely tied, restrained her hair at the nape of her neck but allowed the length to flow free.

She eyed her nightgown but chose her shoes instead. She was too upset to sleep. Perhaps a cup of tea would help.

Quiet accompanied her down the stairs. She tiptoed by her grandparents’ bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. Moonlight flooded the room. Its cool, silvery gleam fit her mood. She left the oil lamp trimmed and crossed to the stove. The damper scraped quietly against the inside of the stovepipe as she opened the draft. The coiled metal handle of the lifter was cool to her touch. She fitted it into the slot and lifted a front plate on the stove, placed a few small pieces of wood from the wood box on top of the shimmering coals and replaced the plate. A quick twist of her wrist adjusted the draft on the firebox door.

The iron teapot was half-full of water. She set it on the front plate over the fire and lifted the china teapot down from the shelf, grabbed a crock of dried peppermint leaves and carried them to the work table.

The keen aroma of peppermint when she opened the crock brought back memories of helping her grandmother harvest the leaves for winter use. She would have to remember to do that with Nanna this fall.

Tears blurred her vision as she spooned some of the astringent herb into the china teapot then replaced the crock on the shelf. There was no point in denying the truth to herself any longer. Nanna was not getting better. She would have to be the one to run the household now.

A sigh escaped her. Nanna had lists. She’d seen her bring them out and go over them at different seasons. She’d ask her about them tomorrow.

Steam whispered from the spout of the iron teapot. She grabbed a towel and lifted it from the stove, filled the china teapot, set the iron one at the back of the stove and shut down the dampers to preserve the embers for morning.

The flowers... Her temples throbbed. This was nothing as simple as removing wrongly placed stitches. How could she ever make this right? Flowers died. She draped the towel over the steeping tea, wrapped her arms about her ribs and leaned against the table, her stomach knotted and tense. If Nanna had a good day tomorrow and saw what she had done to her flowers, she would know something was happening. How could she keep that truth from her, to keep her happy as long as possible...

She closed her eyes, trying to think of a solution. Perhaps if she tossed the flowers and weeds piled on the stone walk back into the garden bed, Nanna would think some animal had uprooted them. She glanced at the window. Had she courage enough to go outside into the night? She took a breath and pushed away from the table.

“Please let this work, Lord. Please don’t let Nanna realize what she’s done.” The whispered prayer hung on the silence of the room. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

The moonlight threw slanted shadows of the posts and railing across the porch floor and played hide-and-seek among the swaying folds of the long skirt of her rust-colored gown as she walked to the steps and moved down them to the path, her breath coming short and shallow.

Soft, rustling sounds of small night creatures accompanied her steps. And then another quiet sound in front of her, beyond the farewell bush by the bench, stopped her cold. Her heart pounded. Scraping? Was it possible an animal really was digging in the bed her grandmother had disturbed? A polecat looking for grubs?

She held her breath and eased forward, peeked around the bush.
“Cole!”

“Sadie!”
He jerked to his feet and stared down at her, his expression of shock a mirror of her own.

“What are you doing here?” The question was automatic, unnecessary. She looked down at the wilted flowers leaning every which way in the garden bed, at the pile of weeds beside where he’d been kneeling. “You’re replanting Nanna’s flowers.” Her voice wobbled, and the words were barely audible. She blinked, gulped and blinked again.

He cleared his throat and took a step back. “Is that why you came out—to replant your grandmother’s flowers? I figured, when I saw them earlier, that’s what you would want to do, but I wasn’t sure you cou—
would
come out here at night.”

His voice was gruff, so unlike him. She looked up into his dark gray eyes, smoky in the moonlight, and her heart stopped, her lungs froze, not out of fear, but out of something just as frightening—if she had the courage to acknowledge it.
Help me, Lord....

He turned away, knelt on the walk and cleared his throat again. “Anyway, I thought I’d lend a hand. She’s ripped up quite a few flowers and they would be pretty well wilted by morning.” He tugged a stem free from the tangled heap of foliage on the walk beside him, pulled the weed twined around the flower off, then leaned forward and stuck the roots in the hole he had ready for it.

Her breath and courage returned. She sank to her knees and reached toward the pile. He did the same, and his hand covered hers. She caught her breath and braced herself for a rush of fear. There was nothing but the feel of his hard palm and strong fingers, the grit of clinging soil and a tingling warmth that somehow connected to the quivering in her stomach.