Determined not to lead her on, Craig opened Maggie’s car door for her, waited as she climbed in, then offered a brief goodbye.
Climbing into the SUV, he pondered Brooks’ words. “It pays a man to know the difference between veneer and solid wood.”
Wood said a lot about a person. He wasn’t surprised that God picked a carpenter to raise his son. Teach him the trade. Many lessons could be learned at the lathe.
Climbing the cinder drive, Craig recalled his mother’s words. It’s a family house, Craig.
Craig eyed the imposing framework. Would he rattle around this beautiful home, its space mocking him, underscoring his solitude? Even if Rocket came along, the old guy spent most of his days sleeping. Considering the dog’s age, Craig knew their time was limited.
“I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” The comforting words of the fourth Psalm ran through his mind.
In God’s time. That’s what his mother would say. Craig eyed the clean, strong lines of the rising structure.
He knew better than to rush things. His parents’ counsel on matters of faith was ingrained. He had no trouble believing in the Master’s plan, a Heavenly framework, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think God weighed the picayune needs of every man, woman and child. Even God had to draw the line.
Surveying the beautiful home, he felt dwarfed by the proportions. “What was I thinking?” he muttered as he trudged to the camper, the skeletal house looming huge and empty.
He had no idea.
Chapter Nine
Herding the kids toward the side doors of the quaint, old church, Sarah spotted Craig’s rangy frame. He was talking with someone, bent to allow for the height difference. Walking past, she sent him another quick look, only to meet those amber eyes head on.
He smiled. Inclined his head, just a little.
Her heart quickened. It was a boyish grin, a mix of mischief and innocence.
Stiffening, she straightened her shoulders, shifted her gaze and made it to the door without looking back, wondering why she looked in the first place.
She almost smiled.
Talk about incongruous. He was happy because Sarah Slocum nearly smiled at him. What had gotten into him?
Spring fever, he decided, making his way to the exit. He clasped Rev. Weilers’ hand. “Great homily, sir. I needed that reminder.”
The reverend shook Craig’s hand and dropped a wizened wink. “Come more often, Doc. I dole out reminders on a regular basis.” Grinning at Craig’s discomfiture, he made a quick change of subject. “So. You found Tippy in good health.”
Craig hedged. The reverend’s dog was nearly as old as Rocket and just as feeble. “As good as it gets at this point. Like my Rocket, we have to figure we’re on borrowed time.”
The minister’s face shadowed, but Craig knew it did little good to foster false hope. Nothing lived forever. Tip and Rocket would be lucky to see another Christmas. North Country winters were hard on old pets.
“Well, then.” The minister mustered his smile, but the effort cost him. “We’ll enjoy the time we have, hmm?”
Craig gripped the older man’s hand in a clasp of understanding. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the bright June day called to him. Seeing Sarah and the kids making their way to the pickup, he headed in their direction. “Sarah?”
She turned. For just a second he witnessed a glimmer in her eye. Expectation. Hope.
His heart tightened.
She glanced down. When she raised her gaze, her face was calm, those doe eyes quiet. “Yes?”
He wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. “I haven’t been properly introduced to your young friends.”
“Tom’s children.”
She said it deliberately, studying his reaction. He swallowed the negative surge that dovetailed with Tom’s name and smiled. Eyeing the tallest one, he stuck out his hand. “Olivia, right?”
She flushed with either pleasure that he knew her name or embarrassment over their initial roadside meeting. He smiled, trying to forget she was Tom’s daughter. “Are you still running? I don’t see you out on the roads.”
She shrugged, awkward. A tiny smile softened her features. “Sometimes.”
Craig nodded encouragement. “You’ve got talent. I saw you race when you were this high.” His hand gesture indicated a smaller girl. “I expect that extra foot of height might be to your advantage.”
Again she flushed. This time she dimpled. “Thank you.”
“I’m Craig Macklin.” Because Sarah seemed tongue-tied, he made the introductions. “I’m building the house across the street from your Aunt Sarah’s place.”
“That’s a nice house.” Brett’s note of appreciation was genuine. He reached out a hand. “I’m Brett.”
“Oh, I remember you.” Craig’s reminder brought color to Brett’s cheeks, but Craig laughed it off. “And that house has been a dream of mine for a long time. I’m glad you like it. And this is Aleta, right?” Eyeing the little girl, he cocked a look of interest to Sarah. “We met at Doyletown Day, remember?”
“Everybody calls me Skeeter,” the little girl told him, her scrubbed-clean face surrounded by shiny, wavy curls. Quite a difference from the first time he saw her.
Craig appeared to weigh the information, then leaned in. “What do you like better? Aleta or Skeeter?”
“I like apple pancakes,” she announced. “And these shoes hurt.”
“Skeeter.” Olivia sent her an impatient look. “Stop complaining. Seriously.”
Craig stooped lower. “Mine do, too,” he consoled her. “I think we should head home, put on comfortable shoes and have apple pancakes. What do you say?”
“Are you coming to our house?” Skeeter smiled, Shirley Temple dimples peeking from opposite sides of the grin.
“Well…” He sent an expectant look to Sarah, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She looked flummoxed and none too happy, but nodded. “You’re more than welcome, Dr. Macklin.”
He opened the truck door and hoisted Skeeter into the middle of the extended cab’s back seat. “Craig, please, Sarah.” He looked down, meeting Sarah’s gaze, letting his eyes twinkle into hers. “We are neighbors.”
The emphasis on her name brought color to her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Then I think first names are in order.” He didn’t give her an out, just followed her to the driver’s door and opened it for her. She started to say something, but reconsidered. Lips tight, she gripped the wheel to pull herself up.
Craig guided her movements, then stepped back, ignoring her look of chagrin. “Half an hour, give or take?”
She looked trapped, but nodded.
“Good. See you then.” Craig stepped back to allow her space to pull away. He weighed things up as her tailgate diminished in size.
She didn’t look back. Bad sign. But then, he had no clue why he’d cornered her in the first place. What was he thinking?
Just being neighborly, he assured himself as he strode to his SUV. I’m following my mother’s words of wisdom. To have good neighbors, be a good neighbor. Extending good will was in everyone’s best interests.
Sarah didn’t always come to Holy Trinity. He knew she sometimes took the kids to their church in Potsdam. Of late, he’d seen her here every time he’d come. Frowning, he fought the nudge of guilt about the Sundays he’d missed.
Her presence used to bother him. Old anger enveloped him, even in church, hardening him when he should have been praying for compassion and understanding. No amount of prayer could reclaim what his grandparents had lost. The worry and suffering they’d endured. Craig had resented that. In turn, he’d resented Slocums in general. Sarah’s simple presence had been a reminder, a thorn in his side.
He hadn’t bothered praying about it. Inclusive anger felt justified after Tom’s actions.
Reading Sarah’s eyes changed his perceptions, pushing him to see Sarah, the woman. Faithful. Kind. Stalwa
rt. Ambitious.
Studying the two-lane road, Craig recognized the depth of his sin. He’d lumped them together, a single entity, and that was wrong.
He slid into the driver’s seat. A small part of him felt sorry for Sarah’s current circumstance, although she wasn’t the type to encourage pity. No, Sarah’s panache inspired…admiration. She was small, but tough. A doer, not unlike his mother.
Brooks would have referred to her as hardwood, all the way. Strong but pliable. Not a hint of veneer. Craig scrubbed his hand across his face as realization seeped in.
What was he thinking?
Something about Sarah tugged his consciousness. Maybe it was her singularity, a need for a friend. Someone who didn’t mind grimy clothes and smudged boots, all part of a day’s work in farm country.
Wanting something to give her, Craig stopped at McMorency’s farm and bought a half-gallon jug of maple syrup and two quarts of fresh berries, definitely a more country boy token of appreciation.
Grinning, he climbed into the front seat and headed to Pierrepont.
Sarah viewed the house with dismay. Not as bad as Rita’s, but nothing to entertain in, either. Why had she said yes? Let herself get trapped into serving Craig Macklin food? What was wrong with her?
She’d tended the sheep early, intending to straighten up the house after church. The clock said nearly noon and Craig was due any minute. Nothing was tidy, despite the ten minutes of effort the kids put in.
A light knock sounded. Drawing a frazzled breath, Sarah moved to it, unsure what to say or do. Six feet plus of good-looking man stood there, holding a jug. As he stepped in, he handed the bottle to her. She eyed the container, turning her hand. “What is this?”
His look said that should be self-explanatory. Her cheeks warmed as she corrected her question. “Why did you bring this?”
“To be nice.”
Unmoving, unexpressive, she met his gaze. She wanted him uncomfortable, to remember the times he hadn’t been nice. The times he’d looked through her, as though she didn’t exist. The occasions when he’d ignored her in a group or a crowd, disavowing her presence. He took the look solidly, then broke it by quoting, “Tend my sheep. Feed my lambs.”
His reminder of the morning’s gospel brought more heat to her face. Obviously he’d been listening. He smiled at her reaction while he eyed the kitchen. “How old is this place?”
She read censure in the question. “Old.”
“Old doesn’t equate with bad.” His tone was mild. Not aggressive.
“It needs work,” she admitted, not meeting his gaze. She didn’t want him noting the dusty shelves, the clutter on her desk, the rugs that needed vacuuming. All things she’d do if there were more hours in the day.
But she wasn’t about to make excuses. She hadn’t expected company, and he could either like it or lump it. He moved forward and studied the spinning wheel alongside the wood stove, then fingered the colorful skeins hanging above. “You spin?”
“Not now.”
“Not now,” he repeated, thoughtful. His fingers grazed the wheel’s pale finish. Fingers that looked strong and hearty, but gentle, too. “Because…?”
Sarah busied herself at the counter. “No time. I learned in college. The woman who owned the farm I worked on had a wheel. She showed me. In New Zealand I had lots of time to practice. Nights are long there. Now…” she hesitated and turned, her eyes on the treadle machine. “It’s on hold for awhile. My sheep don’t produce the kind of wool a hand-spinner would choose, anyway.”
“Too coarse.”
“Yes.” She looked up, surprised he knew the difference. He wasn’t exactly sheep-savvy like Hank. “I could buy fleeces and card them, but right now my time should be used for other things.” Swallowing a sigh she stepped forward and smoothed her hand across the golden wood. “Someday.”
Liv appeared, with Brett on her heels. “The bathroom’s not disgusting any more,” she sang out. “Hi, Dr. Macklin.”
He grinned at Sarah’s discomfiture, then turned his attention to the kids, noting their jeans. “More comfortable?”
“Yeah. Wanna see the pups?”
He looked torn, his eyes going from Sarah to the adolescents. “Is there time?”
Sarah nodded to the big bowl. “The batter’s ready. They won’t take long to cook. Five minutes?”
“All right.” He nodded to Liv and Brett. “Lead the way.”
The smell of apples and cinnamon filled the house as Craig and the kids walked back in. Sarah raised a brow as each child set a quart of berries on the counter. “Beautiful berries. Where…?”
Craig jumped in. “I grabbed them at McMorency’s when I got the syrup. I couldn’t carry them in without crushing the berries, so Brett and Liv helped.”
“They’re great.” Liv chewed as she spoke, bobbing her head in appreciation. “I love fresh berries.”
“Me too,” chimed Brett.
Craig moved closer to Sarah. “And you, Miss Slocum? How do you feel about fresh berries?”
Right now she felt as silly as she’d ever felt in her life. “They’re…nice.” She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.
“Nice?” He took another step forward. There was no missing the breadth of him. The warmth. His short-sleeved shirt showcased arms toned by work, the muscles sharply defined. She gulped and nodded. “Very nice.”
“Ah.” He grinned.
Unintentionally, she met his smile with one of her own.
Drat. Double drat. Where were her Abenaki skills when she most needed them? The ability to meet any situation in full control, shadowing her feelings.
The practiced reserve had served her well for years. She’d unnerved Tom and Ed no small number of times, employing that impassive stare. Much more effective than lashing out, which would give her half brothers satisfaction and control. Just what they wanted.
They didn’t get that from her. She was strong. One with the Spirit, unafraid to turn a blank face and deaf ear to negatives around her.
But her well-honed methods didn’t seem to work on positives. Craig’s smile made her want to answer it in kind. His gentleness inspired hers.
Dangerous, to open her heart like that, especially to someone who equated her with bottom feeders not too long ago. But then, she hadn’t thought too highly of him, either.
By the time they’d consumed fruit-studded pancakes, an easy calm pervaded. Skeet was sated and therefore happy, at least momentarily. Liv rinsed plates and Brett loaded the sink with wash water. “No dishwasher?”
Craig stood at the door, ready to leave. He nodded to the sink full of bubbles.
“I don’t usually need one,” Sarah explained. “Now I’ve got two.” Her look swept Brett and Livvie. Liv groaned.
Brett made a face, then asked, “Can we head to Mom’s when we get done? I’ve got to grab a few things.”
“Yes. I’ll walk Dr. Macklin to his car—”
“Craig,” he corrected for at least the third time. She ignored him.
“—then I’ll be back.”
He swung open the wooden screen door, holding it wide as she stepped out. The higher angle of the sun brought long-awaited warmth until they stepped beneath the trees. There it was cool. Sarah resisted the shiver, stoic to the end.
“Thank you for breakfast.” Craig hesitated, then bent closer as Sarah maintained her silence. “I shouldn’t have railroaded you like that.”
“It was fine.” She didn’t meet his look.
“It wasn’t.” He paused, studying her, picking his words. In a gentle gesture he grasped her upper arm. The warmth of his touch soothed the chill of the shade. “I forgot all you have to do. The work here.” He nodded to the barn and the fields. “The accounts. The kids. When Liv talked about how you helped with her final homework project, I realized it embarrassed you that your house wasn’t ready for company.”
She bit her lip, looking at anything but him.
“I made it awkward for you. I’m sorry.”
Sarah lifted a shoulder.
“The pancakes were great.”
She glanced up. Hints of green and gold danced in his eyes. Eyes that matched the sandy-brown tones of his hair, short as it was. Eyes that scanned her face, her gaze, then came to rest on her mouth, his look warm. Inviting.
She stepped back. “I have to go.”
He nodded and squeezed her arm. She tried to pretend his touch meant nothing. Did nothing. Surely he wouldn’t notice her flush? “Thanks again.”
She kept her reply short, hoping he wouldn’t note the tremor in her voice. “You’re welcome.”
“Not ‘come again’?”
He was teasing. She knew it from the sound of his tone, the look in his eye, but she’d never played this game and he’d played it way too often if rumors ran true. The heat infusion deepened. She nearly stuttered. “Thanks for the syrup. The berries, too.”
Craig’s eyes crinkled. He angled his head. He looked nice. Approachable. Friendly. Too friendly.
Strong, broad fingers tightened against the soft skin of her upper arm, his touch doing strange things to her heart, her belly. He flashed her one last, gentle smile before releasing her arm. “You’re welcome, Sarah.”
Chapter Ten
Startled awake, Craig eyed his cell phone. Did it ring? An emergency call?
No way. Not on his weekend off. He squinted through sleep-deprived eyes. The digital display flashed twelve fifty-two. Then fifty-three. He stretched back out, plumped his pillow, closed his eyes and decided he must have been dreaming.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
The baritone bay dragged Craig’s eyes open once more. Ah, yes. That was in the dream. A dog calling him.
Woof.
Rubbing his eyes, Craig peered at the clock a second time. Twelve fifty-five.
Woof… Woof… Woof, woof, woof…
Somebody’s dog wasn’t happy. The only one close enough to have a dog he would hear was Sarah.
Stretching, Craig grumbled. The big white dog was barking a warning. Another dog, maybe? Coyote? There’d even been unsubstantiated reports of wolves moving into the area although the DEC wouldn’t admit it.
Waiting Out the Storm Page 7