After several seconds, Everett extended his hand. The moment their fingers touched, her breath caught in her throat. How to describe such magic? Is this what a dove felt when it took flight? Did a butterfly know this exhilaration after it struggled free of its cocoon and spread its wings for the first time?
Guilt pricked her as her attention fled from Hubert’s prayer. Could Everett hear her heart pounding? When Hubert’s rumbling voice pronounced the amen, Everett instantly dropped her hand. But the magic remained, and she had to remind herself to breathe normally.
It occurred to her that from this angle, she couldn’t tell the flames ever touched him unless he turned his head toward her, which he didn’t. Perhaps that was why he’d held her chair—to ensure she wouldn’t be able to see his scars from where she sat. A pang arrowed through her, and she searched for a definition. It wasn’t pity.… No, it was more like sorrow that Everett felt he had to go to such lengths to hide his scars.
“Everett, would you like a roll?” Pearl picked up the bread basket and held it out to him.
He started to accept the basket with his right hand but quickly switched. “Thank you.” He set the basket down, took a roll, and deposited it on his plate; then he picked up the basket with his left hand again and passed it to her. Watching Everett maneuver reminded Tillie of attempting to cross a swiftly running stream, jumping from rock to rock, trying not to get wet. She suddenly realized his tactics were because of her presence. Surely he wasn’t this self-conscious around Hubert and Pearl. Perhaps it was time for some maneuvering of her own.
“Everything is so delicious, Miss Pearl.” Tillie scooped a small second helping of chicken and dumplings from the tureen onto her plate. “These dumplings are as light as an angel’s wing.”
“Why, thank you, Tillie. For compliments like that, I’ll just have to invite you to dinner more often.” Pearl chuckled and passed the butter to Hubert.
“And how would you know how much an angel’s wing weighs?”
Everett’s question took her so by surprise she assumed he was teasing, and she laughed with delight at the thought of him joking with her. But Everett didn’t laugh. Tillie swallowed back the giggle and coughed to cover the sound.
“I must admit I don’t have any idea how much an angel’s wing weighs. It’s just an expression my Da uses.”
Hubert chuckled. “I’ve heard some of Timothy O’Dell’s Irish expressions. That man could charm a smile from the grumpiest person in town.” He blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Timothy came in the store the other day and asked if I sold slippers for wee folk. I thought he was talking about one of his little girls, that cute little one…the one with the freckles and pigtails. What is her name?”
Tillie laughed. “That would be Brenna, but Brenna is not wee folk.”
Hubert shook his head and laughed again. “That father of yours sure had me going. He kept showing me, like so”—he held his thumb and forefinger two inches apart—“how small the slippers needed to be, and he was quite adamant they had to be green. I was checking the catalog to see if I could order slippers that tiny. He finally told me that wee folk are—”
“Leprechauns.” Tillie grinned. “Da loves to tease.”
Hubert and Pearl both enjoyed the amusing story, and Tillie watched Everett for some indication of a smile, but there was none. She reflected back to the afternoon she’d spent with Everett at the church picnic a year ago, before he was burned, and pictured his warm, engaging smile. She wished to see it again.
“I suppose”—she glanced at Everett and winced inwardly to see the frown still in place—“I should yield to Everett’s challenge and admit I was stretching my description of your dumplings, Miss Pearl, since no one can measure the lightness of an angel’s wing.”
Everett shrugged. “I didn’t mean to insult.” A barely audible huff blew past his lips, and he pushed his plate away.
Tillie forced a small laugh. “No offense taken.” How hard must one work at being so surly? While it sorrowed her heart to think of the drastic change the fire had caused in Everett’s personality, a part of her bristled. She felt like shaking the young man and informing him that he wasn’t the only person who’d ever experienced pain or adversity. She nibbled on a few more bites of dumpling. God didn’t make mistakes, and she was quite certain she’d felt His nudge, but this man was mighty pigheaded.
A three-way conversation continued over the meal. Everett’s lack of participation rang hollow in Tillie’s ears. Within her spirit, she conceded to her disappointed anticipation. After enough time elapsed that the remainder of food on his plate must have surely grown cold, Everett pushed back his chair and stood. “Forgive me, I’m afraid I’m not very good company.”
“Oh Everett, you can’t go yet,” Pearl declared. “I’ve made a gingerbread cake for dessert.”
Hubert flapped his hand, motioning for Everett to sit. “Please stay, son.”
Tillie rose. “Yes, Everett, please stay.” She glanced at Hubert and Pearl for support. “Why don’t I help you clear the table, Miss Pearl, and let these two catch up on their man-talk.” She began picking up plates and flatware to carry to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that, Miss O’Dell.” Everett’s tone sounded brittle. “This isn’t the hotel dining room.”
Tillie froze in her tracks with a stack of dishes in her hands. Was this the same arrogance and disdain he’d extended to her the day he discovered she worked as a waitress at the hotel? Her Irish temper flared in her chest, but she immediately suppressed it.
“Everett.” Hubert stood and cast an apologetic look at Tillie. “Don’t be boorish.”
Tillie willed her hands not to tremble. “It’s all right.” Her voice was so hushed she almost couldn’t hear it herself. Her father’s favorite verse and gentle admonition ran through her head. “Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another.…” It wasn’t Everett’s fault. They’d practically forced him into spending the afternoon with her. He wasn’t used to being around people since the fire. She’d grown up watching people react to her father’s scars—the looks of pity, horror, and repulsion.
“I apologize, Everett, if I’ve offended you in any way. Please forgive me.” She hurried to the kitchen with the stack of dishes.
Before she could deposit the china on the work counter, Everett followed her. “Miss O’Dell…Tillie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant that you’re a guest, and you shouldn’t have to do those things.”
As soon as she turned to face him, he averted his gaze and drew his left hand up, his fingers covering his right jawline. Da always said a person’s eyes and expression could be read like a book to see what was going on in their heart. But Everett’s expression was unreadable, especially when he kept turning away from her.
She returned her attention to scraping the dishes. “I don’t mind helping. It makes me feel useful. Being a guest is too stiff and formal for me.” She paused, her back still to him. “Everett, I’m sorry, too. I didn’t stop to think that being with people might be uncomfortable for you.”
She heard him sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.”
Tillie started to turn, and Everett slipped his hand back up to his face. “Everett, a man is made up of what’s on the inside.”
“Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say. You’re—”
When she turned to see why he didn’t finish his sentence, Everett spun on his heel and strode out of the kitchen.
“I’m what?” She pondered the question. Curiosity pricked her to hear him finish his thought, but underlying misgiving prevented her from following after him to ask what it was he had been about to say.
Everett laid down his fork. Half of his dessert sat untouched on his plate. Normally he devoured Pearl’s gingerbread cake, but today it went down like sawdust. He took a swallow of coffee.
Hubert cleared his throat. “The crops look good this year. If the weather holds, there will be ple
nty to celebrate come harvesttime.”
Tillie nodded. “Da says he expects a bumper crop of corn and beans. Even Ma’s kitchen garden is keeping her busy with canning. Has there been any discussion of the annual harvest picnic? I realize it’s early yet—harvest won’t take place for another three months, so there is ample time to plan.”
Everett’s senses went on alert at Tillie’s question. Apparently the picnic was some sort of tradition every autumn. While Tillie and Pearl chatted about the possibilities of having a pie-eating contest and apple bobbing at this year’s event, Everett wished he could think of a way to excuse himself and hurry back to his living quarters over the mercantile. He didn’t intend to participate in the celebration, even if it was still three months away. His devised method of slipping into church unnoticed after the service began and leaving ahead of the rest of the congregation allowed him to attend worship in relative comfort. Lingering after the services to fellowship with folks didn’t appeal to him in the least. He had no intention of giving people the opportunity to gawk.
“What do you think, Everett?” Tillie’s soft voice tickled his ears, and he almost turned his head in her direction.
“About what?”
Tillie shook her head. “Pfft! Just like a man. Cogitating on things instead of paying attention to what my Da calls ‘women’s frivolities.’ But he just says that to agitate Ma. He has more fun at the picnics than the children do.”
Tilting his head just enough to see her from the corner of his eye was a mistake. Her smile lit up the room. Why did she have to smile like that? Just when he’d settled into his grumpy disposition, wishing she would mind her own business and leave him alone, the sound of her laughter and her sparkling green eyes chipped away at his defenses.
The heat that rose from his belly and upward into his face tingled the scars along his jawline. He gritted his teeth and stiffened his spine. “Why should I pay attention to a discussion that doesn’t concern me?”
Tillie’s face reddened. “I just thought…that is, I hoped…” Everett watched her slide her gaze to Pearl, and she appeared to be silently asking for help. Guilt smote Everett. He’d been asking God to help him break down his arrogant demeanor and replace it with kindness. Clearly he still needed more work.
Hubert broke in. “The harvest picnic is something the whole town looks forward to. It’s a time when we all come together as a big family and celebrate the way God has blessed us. Why don’t you ladies speak to Pastor and Mrs. Witherspoon about it?” He patted his stomach. “Pearl, my love, you’ve done it again. I’m so full I can hardly move.” He rose and pushed his chair back. “I’m going to see if I can walk off some of this dinner. Everett, come and keep me company.”
Everett rose and readily joined his father. At least it would get him out of the house and away from Tillie. Dodging her attempts at conversation as well as maneuvering so she couldn’t stare at him wore him out. “Yes, I believe I will. Thank you for dinner, Pearl. It was delicious. If you will excuse us.” He sent a curt nod in Tillie’s direction. He didn’t wish to be rude, especially since she was only trying to be nice. But he didn’t need anyone going out of their way to demonstrate pity.
He followed his father out to the front porch and down the steps. Pearl had planted a variety of colorful flowers along the front of the house. He had to admit that between the flower beds outside and the curtains and cushions inside, the place did look more inviting. His father’s house had been the grateful recipient of a woman’s touch.
A woman’s touch. The very idea seared his heart much like the flames had tracked their fingerprints across his face. No woman would want to make a life with him. Not even Tillie. Why did she keep trying to pull him into a conversation?
He sucked in a breath of fresh air, free of the encumbrances of trying to hide his scars. His father turned wisdom-filled eyes on him.
“You looked like you needed an escape.”
Mottled skin pulled when he smiled. “You’re very insightful. Tillie is a nice girl, but having people stare at me is quite uncomfortable.”
“Tillie wasn’t staring at you.”
Everett snorted. “Only because I stayed in constant motion trying to outmaneuver her. I’m exhausted.”
Even without looking at his father, Everett could hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe you should stop running and let her catch you.”
Surely Father was joking. He didn’t plan to dignify the jest with an answer. Instead he changed the subject.
“I finally received a letter last Friday from Grandfather’s lawyer.” He sighed. “If you’ll recall, last year Grandfather’s business went into receivership. Thankfully, all the creditors have now been paid.”
Father walked silently beside him as they headed toward a stand of poplars. He’d have to break the news eventually. Might as well be now when there was nobody else around to overhear.
“The money that was left is a small fraction of what I’d expected.” He adjusted his lapels and the silk cravat at his throat. “I’d hoped to start an import business back in Baltimore, but I won’t have enough capital.”
“Son, I have some money saved. I can—”
“No!” Everett immediately softened his expression. “I mean, no thank you, Father. I know you mean well, but I have to stand on my own two feet. Whatever business venture I invest in, it will be with my own assets.”
His father stopped in the shade of the poplars and rubbed his gray whiskers. “I don’t want to pry, son, but if you don’t mind me asking, how much money was left after the estate was liquidated?”
Everett hesitated and examined his feelings. He no longer resented his father, nor blamed him for the estrangement between them for so many years. In fact, he found that he truly wanted his father’s advice—a discovery that filled him with warmth.
“A little over two thousand. Certainly not the figure I thought I would inherit.” He reached up and plucked a leaf from a poplar tree, twirling the stem between his thumb and forefinger.
Father slipped his hands behind his back and clasped them together. “Well, I agree with you that an import business would require more capital than two thousand.” He pursed his lips and frowned, and Everett could see the thoughts turning over in his father’s head. Finally, the older man spoke again.
“Willow Creek has been in need of a freighting company for quite a while. Every time I place an order for merchandise, I have to wait until one of the freighters from Dubuque or Manchester can schedule a run north. Sometimes my goods sit in their freight office for two or three weeks before they can get them here.” He stared in the direction of town and rubbed his mustache with one finger. “Old Cully at the livery has complained about how long it takes to get harness parts, and Jake Peabody had to shut down the mill last year for more than two months because he was waiting for a new gear to be delivered.”
His father turned a thoughtful gaze upon Everett and tipped his head. “Son, you have a business background already, so establishing such a venture shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”
Everett wasn’t sure what running a freight operation entailed, but if his father’s assessment was an indication, the town definitely had a need for the enterprise. “This is interesting, but I don’t want to leap into a business about which I know nothing. Would you have time later to talk this out and help me put some plans on paper?”
Father grinned. “Of course. We can talk about it now if you like. I have the rest of the afternoon and evening.”
His emotions were already dueling where Tillie was concerned, and he didn’t wish to discuss his financial future in her presence. He glanced toward the house through the low-hanging branches of the poplar trees. Pearl stood on the porch, and Tillie walked away from the house in the direction of town, pausing to turn and wave back at Pearl. He and his father could discuss the business possibility in private after all, but a twinge of guilt assailed him at the thought of Tillie walking home alone. Perhaps he should have offered…No, he s
houldn’t.
Chapter 3
Tillie peeked in Everett’s direction from the corner of her eye but couldn’t find him without turning her head. Her father, seated beside her in the pew, raised one eyebrow at her. She could almost hear his unspoken admonition and returned her attention to the man in the pulpit at the front of the room.
Pastor Witherspoon closed his Bible and made some closing comments, exhorting the worshippers to take the morning’s message with them and apply it in their lives. “Bear ye one another’s burdens.” How might she go about helping Everett carry the burden of disfigurement? Her Da never seemed to be bothered by the scars he bore, and likewise she and her mother and siblings were so accustomed to Da’s appearance, they barely took notice of the gash that trailed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. Were Everett’s scars still too fresh? Or perhaps they ran deeper than one could see on the outside.
Tillie heard the church door creak, and a slice of sunlight fell across the floorboards next to her. She risked a surreptitious glance and caught a glimpse of Everett just as he slipped out. If she waited for the preacher’s closing prayer, she might miss him. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and chafed, her feet itching to follow Everett. Finally, the pastor raised his hands for the benediction. Tillie tip-toed to the door and prayed Pastor Witherspoon’s voice would cover the squeaky hinge. She stepped out and quickly scanned the churchyard. She located Everett closing the distance to the parked wagons and buggies with his long strides. The low-hanging branches of the cedars and the few white pines appeared to be his destination.
As soon as her feet hit the dirt at the bottom of the steps, she broke into a trot, but she didn’t call out Everett’s name until she was well away from the church.
“Everett, wait.”
He slowed his forward progress and cast a brief glance over his shoulder, annoyance outlining his posture. He took a few more steps, as if he pretended not to hear her. For a moment she wondered if he would ignore her altogether. When he reached the deepest shadows of the trees, he stopped. His shoulders heaved with a great sigh.
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