Moonlight on the Millpond (2 page)

The hurt gave way to rage. Her blue eyes flashed fire as they drilled into his. Her hand itched to strike him, but she said and did nothing. Instead, she turned away, but before she could go two steps, she stopped. Turning back long enough to say one more thing, she commanded, “Don't contact me or come near me ever again.”

She held his eyes until his dropped with shame. Only then did she turn resolutely away. This time she did not stop or look back.

One

Tucker Mills, Massachusetts—1838

Jace Randall's gaze followed the consistent progress of the log as it moved through the saw blade, his eyes probably more watchful than they needed to be. All looked to be in order—he had done everything correctly—but his eyes never wavered from the saw blade or the huge log that was being transfigured methodically into boards.

Jace was new at the job. And his inexperience was causing him fear, fear that he would cost his uncle money rather than be the asset they both planned on. This sudden opportunity had come his way, and it was not one he wanted to squander.

Woody Randall, longtime owner of the Randall Sawmill in Tucker Mills, Massachusetts, had asked Jace, his only nephew, to come and work with him. Jace had read the letter over six times. Never at any point did his uncle ask him to make the trip to Tucker Mills so he could work
for
him. The word
with
was always used, and when Jace accepted the offer, he found out why.

Woody's health was in decline, and as much as that man wanted to live forever, recent events told him there was no chance. He had written to Jace, who lived in Pine River, keeping the letter a bit vague. As soon as Jace accepted, however, Woody's next letter detailed his plans to someday have Jace own the sawmill in Tucker Mills.

The offer wasn't without conditions, but Woody wrote to Jace that he knew him to be hardworking, and he was fairly confident that the younger Randall would have no trouble catching on.

“You're attracting another crowd,” Woody called out, lifting his voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the machinery.

Jace glanced behind him. Three of the young ladies from town were walking past the millpond at a snail's pace. Two of them were doing their best to see inside the mill and not be caught in the act. Jace turned away with little more than a glance.

“I'm here to work, not visit with the women.”

“Can't you do both?” Woody asked, thumping him in the chest at the same time.

Jace's handsome face split with a grin that he threw in his uncle's direction, but he didn't comment further. If the truth be told, he was very interested in finding a girl, but his sister's last words as he left Pine River had stopped him cold.

The women like you too much, Jace Randall, and you don't
always use your head. I know you'll go to Tucker Mills and fall for the
first woman who smiles at you. You'll find yourself with a wife and six
babies on your hands before you can blink.

Eden Randall, whose every letter asked if he'd found a girl, was a sister ten years his senior who had practically raised him. She liked to be right. Jace savored the few times she was wrong. And so, if it took every fiber of his being to avoid being lassoed and married by one of the local girls, Jace would expend the energy. He'd been in Tucker Mills for more than five months and had yet to give one of them a single glance.

“Get ahold of that board, Jace!” Woody shouted, and Jace realized that he'd allowed his mind to drift. The men worked together for the next ten minutes before shutting down the operation and heading to the house. Almost noon. It was time for dinner.

“You look tired, Doyle,” Cathy Shephard said to her husband of many years, watching him eat the midday meal she had brought to him in the store.

“I think I am a little,” he said, his tone telling more.

Cathy debated her next comment. He didn't want to discuss his health, of that she was sure, but his skin color was off and his eyes didn't have their usual gleam.

He was rarely irritable or in a poor humor, and Cathy couldn't imagine a man more easy to live with than Doyle Shephard. She had fallen in love with him when she was still a teen; he was five years older. And she still loved him and knew he loved her in return. But right now she wanted to ignore the tone in his voice and press him over the way he felt.

Doyle had opened the store at 8:00 as usual, but there was something missing in his step this day. Cathy didn't work in the store— at least not on a regular basis—but she'd been over that morning to collect some goods and had watched her husband in action. He usually enjoyed the start of each day and greeted customers with enthusiasm, but not today. Today his smile had been just as kind, but his voice lacked strength and his eyes showed strain.

“I can handle things this afternoon,” Cathy said midmeal.

“Why would you need to do that?”

“Because you look like you need to rest.”

“I'll be all right,” Doyle told her, but there was little conviction behind the words.

Cathy let the matter drop. Knowing that her work at home could wait, she made a promise to herself to find excuses to be around the store off and on for the rest of the day. But she wisely kept this plan to herself.

“Where have you been?” Alison Muldoon asked of her 16-year-old daughter when she came in the door a little late.

Hillary Muldoon rolled her eyes. “Greta and Mercy insisted that we crawl past the sawmill so Greta could get a glimpse of Jace Randall.”

Alison looked patient and then concerned. “And what do you think of her being so enamored with Jace?”

“I think it's silly.” Hillary started setting the table and kept talking. “She doesn't even know him, but she's desperate to have someone special in her life.”

Alison nodded but didn't comment.

“And Jace is certainly good looking,” Hillary added, causing her mother to look at her. Alison was pleased with what she saw. Hillary wasn't the least bit starry eyed, stating only the facts as she saw them.

“It's awfully quiet around here,” Hillary commented. “Where are the boys?”

“They ran a loaf of fresh bread over to old Mr. Sager,” Alison told her, referring to her sons. “He's not feeling the best right now.”

As if on cue, a commotion sounded outside the door, and the boys trooped noisily into the kitchen.

“He gave us candy,” 12-year-old Joshua Muldoon stated, “but we didn't eat it.”

“I'm glad of that,” his mother told him with an approving look. “Your father will be home any minute for dinner. You can enjoy it later.”

“I wanted to lick it,” 11-year-old Peter Muldoon admitted, “but Josh said no.”

Alison laughed a little over this declaration, loving his honesty. She set a steaming bowl of potatoes on the table and went to the other room to find her five-year-old son, Martin. He was making a stack with his blocks, his hand steady and his eyes intent.

“Your father will be here soon,” Alison told him.

“I can show him my blocks,” Martin said, hand still steady. But just then the back door opened and closed, sending the tower to the floor.

“Did I do that, Marty?” Douglas Muldoon asked, coming to kiss his wife while speaking to his son.

“It's all right,” Martin forgave, but his eyes looked a little sad.

“You can work on it again after dinner,” Alison encouraged, stopping him when he would have reached for the blocks again.

Not five minutes later they were gathered around the table to pray. The dishes were passed and the meal began. Douglas waited only until everyone had food on their plates to share his news.

“Thank you, Clara,” Jace said to the woman who kept house and cooked the noon dinner for his uncle six days a week. Clara had been on the job for more than 20 years, and although she was sometimes outspoken, she was not unkind. Her husband had worked for Woody until the day of his death.

The table, set and laden with food, invited the men to eat. Clara made her way from the room. Jace barely glanced at her, his gaze going to Woody. They had accomplished much that morning, but on the walk home, Woody's breathing had been labored. He was eating, but his movements were slow and deliberate.

The first time Jace had witnessed this, he'd offered to handle the afternoon workload. Woody had frowned at him and said nothing. Jace had learned not to comment, but his heart grew heavy with the fact that one of these days Woody would not have the energy to go on. Jace wondered just what he would do when that time came and then pushed it from his mind. He still had a lot to learn, and he was in no hurry to see his uncle gone.

“What are you looking so worried about?” Woody had spotted the reflection.

“Just the mill,” Jace hedged. “Asa expects his boards this week.”

“We'll get it done,” Woody said easily, meaning it and not just trying to comfort the younger man.

“How often have orders been late?”

“Never,” Woody told him.

Jace felt his heart sink a bit. Logs would come to the sawmill off and on all winter, but cutting didn't usually start until February, making the spring demand for boards overwhelming at times. And the planting had to be done before too much spring passed as well. Woody didn't work the sawmill all year. He was a farmer by trade. Jace couldn't help wondering how the older man had done it all these years.

“Is there dessert?” Woody asked Clara when she came from the kitchen with the coffeepot.

“When is there not dessert, Woody Randall?”

“I remember a day,” he teased, “even if you don't.”

Clara's hands came to her waist. “The Dresdens' kitchen was on fire!” she reminded him. “I thought the safety of those children might be more important than remembering to put the crumble in to bake.”

With that she walked back to the kitchen, ignoring Woody's satisfied chuckle. She returned with a warm pie, taking great delight in putting it on the table close to Woody, its aroma wafting throughout the room.