Make You Feel My Love

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Make You Feel My Love Page 15

by Robin Lee Hatcher


  Her heart did an odd little dance in her chest as she closed the book and put it on the shelf. “Did he say what he wants?”

  Her great-aunt shook her head.

  Chelsea walked to the counter and took the phone from Aunt Rosemary’s outstretched hand. “Hi, Liam.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  She laughed softly. “It isn’t rocket science, what I do around here. I can handle an interruption.”

  “Right.” He chuckled too. “I get your point.”

  Chelsea turned to lean her backside against the counter, but mostly she didn’t want Aunt Rosemary to read her expression. She didn’t want it known by anyone how she’d begun to think and feel about Liam Chandler. Because what girl from a backwater town in Idaho let herself fall for a movie star, even one in seclusion? The man she thought he was might be an act. She’d been fooled before, and not by someone trained to pretend to be someone else.

  “The reason I called,” he said, “is that I’m planning to barbecue tomorrow evening. I know it’s last minute, but I wondered if you’d care to join me.”

  “Just me?”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “No. Rosemary, too, if she’s able to come.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was gladdened or disappointed by his reply. “She’s able.”

  “I’ll have both chicken and beef, plus corn on the cob and salad. I’m not a gourmet chef, but I’m not bad on the grill.”

  “Can we bring anything?”

  “If you’ve got a particular soft drink you prefer, you might bring that. I’ve got a couple of flavors of sparkling water, and I can make tea or coffee.”

  “Time?”

  “How about six thirty?”

  “Okay. We’ll be there. Thanks.” With the call ended, she turned to face Aunt Rosemary again. “We’ve been invited to a barbecue at Liam’s tomorrow night.”

  “How nice. But are you sure he wants me there?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s what he said.”

  Aunt Rosemary released a sigh. “I’ve meant to have him over for Sunday dinner, and now he’s beaten me to the punch. Where were my manners?”

  “It wasn’t a race.”

  “Maybe not, but my mother would roll over in her grave all the same.”

  Cora

  September 1896

  The smell of autumn filled the air on that September morning as Cora walked toward the mercantile. The crisp scent reminded her it wouldn’t be long before another school year began.

  She was ready, even if her students weren’t. She much preferred days filled with lessons. She loved watching the children as they bent over their slates. It was exciting when a young student suddenly understood two plus two equaled four or discovered a jumble of letters made a word. It was magical when one of them got swept away by a story or when someone realized there was a big, wide world beyond the mountains of Idaho.

  Silently she thanked God for His wonderful provision, for allowing her to meet Mabel Johnson on that train. She couldn’t have imagined that the chatty woman who took the seat opposite her would become the catalyst for her employment as a teacher. She hadn’t known it was something she wanted. At first she’d thought teaching was simply a way to support herself. Respectable employment options for women were few. Marriage was expected and thought to be the path every woman wanted.

  Even in Chickadee Creek, people seemed determined to marry off the schoolmistress. Cora had eaten more than one Sunday dinner with a family where another guest happened to be a local bachelor. Although why they would want to find her a husband, she didn’t understand. Marriage usually meant a woman stopped teaching. And since the parents seemed to approve of her, why would they want to have to find another teacher to take her place?

  One bachelor who hadn’t eaten opposite her—not since last Thanksgiving, a dinner without matchmaking at its center—was Preston Chandler. In truth, she’d scarcely seen him outside of church since the beginning of summer, the day he’d observed her playing her violin. Rumor had it that he almost lived at the mining office—when he wasn’t on the dredger. Yet she thought about him often. She wasn’t sure why.

  Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she opened the door to the mercantile.

  “Mornin’, Miss Anderson,” Alexander Harris called to her from behind the counter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harris.”

  “Anything I can help you find?”

  “No, thank you. I know where everything is.” For some reason, the words made her smile. She loved that she knew where to find things in this store. It meant she belonged.

  Alexander gave her a quick nod before turning back to Mr. Hemplemeyer, the owner of a sheep ranch to the west of Chickadee Creek. The three youngest of his six sons had been students of Cora’s in the previous term. Thinking of them, all three shooting up beyond their trousers last spring, made her smile. Only two would return to the school when classes resumed. The older boy, Bruno, would join his other brothers and father on the ranch.

  As she filled the basket on her arm with items for the kitchen, she thought back to when she’d been the same age as Bruno. There’d been no expectations of her whatsoever beyond that she make life as pleasant as possible for her father, his friends, and any suitors who might be interested in her hand in marriage. Nor had her father shown any love or affection toward her. Mr. Hemplemeyer, on the other hand, loved his family and wasn’t afraid to show it. He wanted the best for his sons, and she found herself envying the Hemplemeyer boys. How different her life might have been if she’d been loved like that.

  She blinked away the unexpected emotions. It had been many months since she’d allowed herself to feel that particular pain. She was happy with her life as it was today. She had wonderful friends such as Sarah Mason and Nora Sooner. She loved her work as a teacher. She lacked nothing of importance. She had a comfortable place to live, plenty of food to eat, and good clothes to wear. She didn’t miss the large house or the fancy balls or the exotic delicacies served at meals or the fine gowns and jewels that used to fill her wardrobe. But apparently she missed what she’d never had: the true affection of her parents.

  “Miss Anderson?”

  She knew that voice. Drawing a quick breath, she turned toward Preston Chandler. How strange that she’d thought about him on her way to the mercantile, thought how she almost never saw him outside of church, and now there he was, standing close, speaking softly.

  “You looked distressed,” he said. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Oh. Yes.” She felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I’m well. Thank you.”

  The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  His question had flustered her. His smile irritated her. She lifted her chin and answered, “I was remembering my family.” The words were true, but the meaning behind them was less so.

  “You must miss them.”

  She longed to agree. She couldn’t.

  Softly, he said, “You’re free?” He paused, then nodded. “I see. You’re free of them.” This time it wasn’t a question.

  It came back to her, that day in May when he’d descended from the ridge on horseback. She’d thought he’d only heard her play the violin. She hadn’t known he’d been up on that ridge even longer, long enough to hear her declaration of liberty.

  Preston cleared his throat. “You’re safe here, Miss Anderson.”

  Something danced in her chest as she looked into his eyes. She found kindness there, kindness without judgment. Nor was he laughing at her or teasing her as she’d feared he might.

  He took a short step back. “I must return to the mining office. But I . . . I wondered if we might have supper one evening at Nellie’s Restaurant.”

  She felt her eyes widen with surprise.

  “Say this Friday night. I could come for you at five thirty.”

  She nodded, meaning that she understood.

  But he took the gesture as an agreement. “Great.” He
touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you then.” He turned and strode away.

  Preston

  September 1896

  Nellie’s was the only eating establishment in Chickadee Creek. At one time there’d been a restaurant in the hotel, but the hotel was destroyed in a fire in 1889 and never rebuilt. By that time, there wasn’t the same need for a hotel as in the early years. Visitors to Chickadee Creek had the option of a couple of boardinghouses, and that seemed to be enough. Preston had stayed in one of the boardinghouses when he first arrived in town, and he ate quite a few meals at Nellie’s at the time. After Sarah Mason hired a cook, soon after her own employment, there’d been no need to return to Nellie’s. He hoped he’d made the right choice to bring Cora there on that Friday night. Not that there were any other options.

  Preston opened the door and stepped out of the way, allowing Cora to enter before him. She gave him a hesitant smile as she moved inside.

  It was crazy, he thought, how many months he’d allowed to pass before he tried to make tonight happen. An evening with Cora had been on his mind ever since that day he heard her play the violin up on that forest trail. Why hadn’t he acted sooner?

  The answer was obvious, especially when he was seated across from her at this table. Her sophistication couldn’t be disguised by a simple white blouse and dark-blue skirt.

  Preston had lived a rough-and-tumble existence in his earlier years. More often than not, he’d lived hand to mouth. He had less schooling than some of the children in her classes. Yes, he was the richest man in Chickadee Creek, but he’d inherited the money through no virtue or effort of his own.

  Cora Anderson, on the other hand, came from privilege. It was evident in the cultured way she talked—both the tone of her voice and her vocabulary. In her elegant posture when standing and the way she seemed to glide when she walked. In the amazing way she played her violin. He would even swear it was found in her delicate smile. At the same time, she never looked down her nose at him or anyone else in Chickadee Creek. She fit into this community as if born to it.

  She’s too good for the likes of me, but that won’t stop me from trying.

  “Do you dine here often?” Cora asked into the lengthening silence.

  “No.” His voice cracked on the single word. He cleared his throat. “No. One of the first things Sarah did when I made her my housekeeper was to hire a cook. Although I haven’t been at home much over the summer. I’m working most days at the dredger, and it’s easier to stay up there at night. We—the men and I—have made a good camp. I’ve lived in worse, that’s for certain.”

  “I know they’re all thankful for the employment.”

  “And I’m glad to have them. I’ve got good men working for me.”

  The waitress came to take their orders, and Preston was thankful for the interruption. He didn’t want to talk about the dredger or the amount of gold they’d found. Especially since it wasn’t as much as he’d expected.

  After the waitress left, Preston leaned forward. “Miss Anderson, I didn’t bring you here to talk about mining. I’d much rather talk about you.”

  “About me? I’m afraid that isn’t a very interesting topic.” Her color heightened, and she lowered her gaze to the checkered tablecloth.

  “I’m sure you’re wrong about that.”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t look up again. Still, he saw her discomfort in the set of her shoulders and the way her fingertips played with the white cloth napkin on the table. Making her uncomfortable hadn’t been his intent. He wanted to know her better. But he didn’t want that to come at a cost to her.

  He leaned back, hoping the extra space would soothe her. “Then tell me about that violin of yours.”

  At this, her gaze lifted.

  “Tell me how old you were when you learned to play.”

  She took a breath. “I was twelve when I took my first lesson. I learned the piano before that, but then I attended a concert and heard the violin played as I’d never heard it before.” A look of joy brightened her eyes. “From that moment, I talked of almost nothing else. I pestered my parents unmercifully.” As quickly as it had come, the look of joy vanished.

  Preston wondered what had driven Cora from her home, why she’d needed to escape. What had made her feel a captive? He leaned forward again. “What was the song I heard you playing that day in the forest?”

  She thought for a moment, then answered, “A piece from Tchaikovsky. His violin concerto. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I think I knew it was a favorite from listening as you played.”

  The blush returned to her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Chandler. You’re most kind.”

  “I’d like to hear you play it again sometime. If you’d let me.”

  She gave her head the slightest shake.

  “Others in town would like it too. Before you refuse, please consider it. Maybe talk to Sarah Mason before you make up your mind. I’ve found she gives sound advice.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Mr. Chandler, I suspect you are a good businessman.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She laughed softly. “You are a shrewd negotiator.”

  Chapter 15

  Delicious odors wafted from the grill on the back deck of the house when Chipper announced the arrival of Liam’s guests. After wiping his hands on a towel, he headed around to the driveway in time to watch both women get out of the car. But he had eyes only for the driver.

  Chelsea’s hair was captured in a messy bun, revealing the slender length of her neck. She wore peach-colored shorts, a matching summer top, and flip-flops on her feet. Adorable was the word that sprang to mind. When their gazes met, she sent him a quick smile before she hurried around the car to join her great-aunt, the two of them then following the stone walkway that led to the back.

  Liam met them halfway and took hold of Rosemary’s other arm. As soon as he did so, Chelsea fell back behind them.

  “I don’t need much help these days,” Rosemary said.

  He nodded but didn’t release his grip. “Don’t want you tripping over one of those uneven stones. Better safe than sorry. You’ve already had a fall. Don’t want a repeat.”

  “True enough.” She patted his hand. “Thanks.”

  Liam and Rosemary made their way onto the deck, Chelsea in their wake. Once Rosemary was comfortably seated, Liam asked what they wanted to drink, then went to fulfill their requests. He was back in short order.

  “Thanks for accepting my invitation.” He gave the older woman her beverage. “I know it was last minute, but I’m getting tired of my own company.”

  There was something in the way Rosemary looked at him that said she wasn’t convinced about his reasoning. And since what he’d said wasn’t entirely true, he couldn’t be surprised she saw through his excuse.

  Liam cleared his throat. “The food will be ready in about ten minutes.”

  “Why don’t you give Chelsea a tour of your house?” the older woman said. “I’m sure she’d love to see it, and then she can tell me, and I can satisfy all of my curious friends who are dying to know what it looks like inside.”

  Liam glanced at Chelsea. “Maybe it’d be better if we wait until after we eat. I’d hate to burn our dinner because we got distracted while I showed you around inside.”

  “Good idea,” she answered with another of her brief smiles.

  In truth, Liam was already distracted. He’d been distracted for the past twenty-four-plus hours. Ever since he’d thought about asking Chelsea to take care of Chipper if he had to travel. He hadn’t slept worth beans last night. He hadn’t heard much of the sermon that morning at church. And even now, despite what he said, he was in danger of forgetting to check the food before it turned to charcoal.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he stepped to the grill and opened it.

  “Need help?” Chelsea appeared at his side with a large platter in one hand and tongs in the other. Both had been on the nearby table moments be
fore.

  “Thanks.” He took the items from her.

  Fortunately for all, the meat and vegetables were cooked to perfection. It didn’t take long for the food to settle in the center of the table, including the salad fixings from the refrigerator. And after a word of thanks, they began to eat.

  * * *

  Chelsea remembered Liam telling her that he’d built his house thinking it would be for hunting trips or brief getaway retreats between films. By design, it reminded her of a mountain lodge with its spacious floor plan, high ceilings, and open beams. She could also see that no expense had been spared, from the top-of-the-line appliances in the kitchen to the rustic decorations throughout the house.

  “I have to ask,” Chelsea said as she stood in the center of the master bedroom. “Did you hire a decorator, or do you think like this?”

  He laughed at the question. After he brought his amusement under control, he answered, “Hired a decorator. If it was up to me, I’d have a TV and a leather recliner downstairs, my bed and nightstand in here, and not much else. There probably wouldn’t even be anything hanging on the walls.” He let his gaze roam the room as if to remind himself what was hanging on the walls.

  It was a good time for Chelsea to do some reminding of her own. She needed to remember their differences—and there were plenty of them. She preferred to stay hidden in the shadows, while he was famous, although the good people of Chickadee Creek pretended otherwise, respecting his desire for privacy. He was wealthy, while she’d never had much in the way of money. She’d never been a homeowner, while he owned homes in California and Idaho. In fact, she felt lucky to own a car.

  On the desk in front of a large window, she saw a Bible and an open, spiral-bound book with lined pages filled with writing in blue ink. Something told her the latter was Liam’s personal journal. If so, those two items on his desk represented something they did have in common. Faith and a determination to remember what God had done in their lives. Perhaps their differences weren’t too great to overcome.

 

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