by Dorothy Love
She saw him then, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, helping Mr. Whiting and another man carry a long table up the steps and into the building. One of the men said something. Ethan laughed in response, and she smiled. Almost from the beginning, she had been attracted to that sound, to the way his hair curled over his collar, to the light in his deep blue eyes when he looked at her. But it was his bone-deep goodness, his desire to help her and to ensure the success of the infirmary, that touched the deepest recesses of her heart.
Ethan spotted her and waved, and her heart jolted as the truth dawned. She loved him. Plain and simple. And maybe it was all right that he hadn’t yet shared with her everything from his past. Maybe Carrie Rutledge was right that the future was more important than what had gone before.
She pushed through the newly oiled and painted gate, following Ethan and the others up the front steps and into the long, narrow room that had once served as the dining room. The wooden walls had been painted a soft cream color that caught and reflected the sunlight streaming through the new windows overlooking the street. Partitions had been erected to form separate rooms where patients could be seen and treated. Lined up along the walls were wooden crates filled with medical supplies. The office that once belonged to Mrs. Lowell, the orphanage director, had been transformed into an office for Dr. Spencer.
Ethan helped the men place the table beneath the windows, then walked over to greet Sophie, wiping his hands on his dungarees. “I’m glad to see you. I was just about to call on you at the office and invite you to take a look.”
He swept his arm toward the new staircase and the large room beyond. “My crew is nearly finished. All that’s left is a little bit of painting and the cleaning up.”
“It’s marvelous. I never imagined this place could look so cheerful. You’ve done a wonderful job, Ethan. The whole town owes you a huge vote of thanks.”
He smiled into her eyes. “It was Miss Gilman’s vision. I only helped with the practical things. But I’m glad you’re pleased. I can well imagine what it was like, living here.”
“I thought it might make me sad, coming back inside. But I’m not. It seems like a hopeful place now.”
He took her arm. “Come on. I want to show you the second floor.”
He guided her past a couple of workmen who were busy sanding the newel posts, and they ascended the staircase to the upper hallway. Sophie went still, overcome with memories of the years when it seemed her life would never change. Her gaze went to a nook in the far corner, where her bed had been tucked beneath the eaves, apart from the other girls. She had spent countless hours there with only Mrs. Lowell’s cat for company, inventing fanciful dreams to ease the lonely ache in her heart. Many nights she drifted into sleep imagining long sea voyages beneath billowing white sails, the ship loaded with bright silks, parrots in cages, baskets of gleaming pearls. A crew of gypsies who played sad songs on violins. Ladies dressed in purple silks, holding fringed parasols to ward off the blazing sun.
But mornings brought the insistent clanging of the breakfast bell and Mrs. Lowell’s strident voice, pulling her back to reality.
She thought of the other human castoffs who had lived there with her. What had happened to them? And what had become of the wooden treasure box filled with a hair ribbon she was forbidden to wear, a treasured piece of colored glass, some arrowheads Robbie Whiting had given her? Had she taken it with her to Texas all those years ago? She couldn’t remember.
“Sophie?” Ethan murmured. “Are you all right?”
“I suppose I’m not as unaffected as I thought. But I’m fine.”
“Look at me.” Ethan placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “The things that happen to us in childhood are the hardest to overcome. They mark us forever. But somehow we keep going.”
He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his lips warm and demanding on hers. She leaned against him, wishing with all her heart that she could undo the past and sweep away the secrets and deceptions, the pain that had marred them both. Start fresh, like the Bible said, washed clean and whiter than snow.
“Mr. Heyward?” One of the men stood at the top of the stairs, a box in his hands. “Where do you want this?”
Ethan released her and cleared his throat. “Just over there in that alcove will be fine, Joel.”
He winked at Sophie. She smiled back.
Joel set the box down. “I reckon that about does it, Mr. Heyward. Soon as they get done sanding the stairs, we’ll paint ’em, then get this place cleaned up.” He wiped his hands on his shirt. “We done a right good job of it if I do say so m’self.”
Ethan nodded. “I appreciate your help. I’ll be sure you all get paid out of my personal account.”
“Me and the boys ain’t worried about that.” Joel stroked his bushy beard, dislodging a handful of wood shavings. “It feels good to be doing something for the town. ’Specially the womenfolk.” He leaned against the wall and fished a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. “My sister died last year, right after her boy was born. She wadn’t but twenty years old. Had a real hard time of it. Reckon she might have made it if there’d been someplace like this she could come ’stead of waiting for Doc Spencer.” He bit off a plug of tobacco. “It wadn’t his fault. He was off tending to other folks and couldn’t get to Jenny in time. Miss Gilman is a saint, if you ask me.”
“Joel, will you excuse us?” Ethan took Sophie’s arm. “I want to show Miss Caldwell the children’s ward.”
“Sure thing.” Joel made room for them on the stair. “Oh, boss?”
Halfway down the stairs, Ethan turned. “Yes?”
“I saw Lutrell Crocker at the mercantile this morning. He’s looking for you.”
Ethan frowned. “I haven’t seen him since Founders Day. I figured he’d gone back to Alabama for good. What does he want?”
Joel shrugged. “Don’t know. He seemed awful mad about something.”
“Maybe Mrs. Crocker kicked him out.”
“Maybe.” Joel shifted his plug of tobacco to his other cheek. “You know he’s got a temper on him. You oughta be careful around him, ’specially when he’s drinking.”
“I will.” Ethan took Sophie’s arm as they reached the ground floor. He led her through half a dozen rooms already set up with cots and washstands. At the far end of the building was a playroom equipped with a table and a bookcase. New doors led out to the old playground, which had been swept clean. Ethan smiled at her. “Like it?”
“I do. It’s wonderful. The children will love it.”
“I hope it will make a difference, but I did it partly for you.” He drew her into the shadows and took her into his arms again. “I want you to be happy, Sophie.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.” She brushed a couple of wood shavings from her skirt. “But I came here to discuss something else.”
“And what is that?”
She took a steadying breath. “You mentioned a plan to help me replace the income I’ve lost because of Mr. Blakely. As much as I prefer handling my own problems, I do need your help. I was hoping—”
“Ethan Heyward!”
A skinny man in a dirty gray shirt strode across the playground and grabbed Ethan’s shoulder. “I been looking for you.”
“Lutrell.” Ethan pried the man’s hands away and stepped back. “I’m happy to talk to you, but not in front of this lady. I’m heading back to Blue Smoke in a little while. We can talk there.”
“What if I don’t want to go up to Blue Smoke?”
Sophie touched Ethan’s arm. “I should go and let you talk to this man.”
Lutrell Crocker glared at her. “That is exactly what you should do, missy, because what I’ve got to say to him ain’t fit for a woman’s ears.”
Ethan turned to her and winked. “We’ll have to finish our talk later, Miss Caldwell, if that’s all right.”
“That will be fine, Mr. Heyward.”
Leaving Ethan to deal with Mr. Crocker, Sophie crossed t
he yard, went out through the gate, and headed to the office, her thoughts racing faster than her feet. Ethan had said he wanted her to be happy. And he’d kissed her just now in a way that left her breathless. That proved he had at least some tender feelings for her, didn’t it?
She paused beside the road as a farm wagon clattered past, a towheaded boy at the reins, a shaggy black dog beside him. Would Ethan still care for her once he knew about her family? As long as there was doubt, she could pretend to be anything. But her great-grandmother’s journal left no room for what-ifs.
Sophie had read the little book so many times, savoring the quaint spellings and turns of phrase, that she knew it all by heart. Elena’s father was a Spanish soldier “fond of ale and musick.” Elena herself had married a British merchant in 1770. Her daughter Anna, who was Rosaleen’s mother, had wed a Frenchman in New Orleans in 1820. And according to Rosaleen, Sophie’s own father was a Frenchman too.
The children at the orphanage were right. She was indeed a mixed-up muddlebones. But at least now she knew her own story. She knew her mother. And that knowledge gave her a certain kind of peace.
She reached the main street and hurried along the boardwalk toward her office, her footsteps hollow on the wooden boards. If Ethan loved her, maybe the one drop of long-diluted African blood was not enough to matter. Maybe his idea for helping her, whatever it turned out to be, would allow her to keep the newspaper.
Maybe everything would be all right after all.
“Now, Lutrell, what was it you came here to discuss?” Ethan pushed open the rear door leading to the children’s playground and motioned his visitor outside. “I thought you decided to stay in Alabama.”
“I wanted to, but what woman wants to hitch herself to a man who’s poor as a church mouse?” Lutrell Crocker jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “I was counting on that last bit of money from Blue Smoke to get us started out in life. Then Murphy stole it from me, and you wouldn’t do nothing about it.” He pulled a sack of tobacco from his pocket and took his time rolling himself a smoke. “Mary Susan sent me back here to get what’s mine. She won’t marry me until I do.”
Ethan pressed a hand to his eyes. “Lutrell, we have had this conversation already. Nothing has changed. Murphy is gone, and you have no proof that he stole anything.”
Crocker peered up at Ethan, his walrus mustache forming a set of parentheses around thin, tobacco-stained lips. “My word ain’t good enough for you, I reckon.”
“My offer to lend you the money still stands,” Ethan said. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of wedded bliss.”
“And my refusal still stands. I ain’t about to borry what’s already rightfully mine. But I got a business proposition for you.”
Ethan studied the man for a long moment, torn between exasperation and pity. “All right. I’m listening.”
Crocker fished a watch fob from his pocket and slid his fingers over the dark leather. For a moment, Ethan saw a spark of pride in the man’s faded eyes. “My granddaddy taught me how to weave leather when I was a young’un. Used to weave all sorts of things—belts, coin purses, and the like. He learnt it from his daddy, is what he told me.”
Ethan nodded. The mountains near Hickory Ridge were populated by fine crafters and fine musicians the rest of the world had yet to discover. He’d never imagined Lutrell as one of them, but he had to admit the watch fob was a superior piece of work.
“I reckon I could make you some more of these for that fancy gift shop up at Blue Smoke,” Lutrell said.
“The guests would pay a good price for something that well made,” Ethan said. “I’ll take half a dozen to start at, say, two dollars apiece. I’ll pay you half now and half on delivery. If they sell as well as I think they will, I’ll order more for next summer. Some of those belts and coin purses too.” He stuck out his hand. “You want to shake on it? Might be the start of a whole new line of work for you.”
Lutrell spat. “I got to get at least five bucks for ’em. At two dollars apiece, I’ll be old and gray ’fore I can save up enough to marry Mary Susan.”
Ethan’s patience snapped. He turned and started back inside. “Then we have nothing more to discuss. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. Now, excuse me; I’ve got to check on my crew and help them pack up.”
He was turning on his heel when Crocker lunged at him. Caught off guard, Ethan twisted and fell, his shoulder cracking against the hard-packed dirt of the playground, his spectacles skittering three feet away. Crocker fell across him and landed a solid blow to Ethan’s face. Warm blood spurted from his nose, spattering the front of his shirt.
Ethan grabbed the smaller man’s forearms and, with a sharp twist, ejected him onto the ground. Crocker rolled away and got up, his fists clenched, a murderous look in his bloodshot eyes.
Ethan reached for his glasses, then pulled out his handkerchief to stanch the flow of blood. A sharp pain needled his shoulder as he got to his feet and dusted off his dungarees. “Hit me again, Lutrell, and you’ll find yourself keeping company with Sheriff McCracken.”
Crocker laughed. “That don’t surprise me none. Hiding behind the law rather than settling differences like a man.”
“I’m telling you to clear out now. And don’t come back. Understand?”
Crocker slapped his hat against his thigh to dislodge the dust. With a final glance at Ethan, he spat and sauntered down the road.
TWENTY-TWO
The back door squeaked open, letting in a blast of cold air. Caleb pushed inside, his arms laden with stacks of vellum. Sophie looked up from the jobber press, where she’d worked all afternoon making up a new stationery order for Mariah Whiting’s bookshop. Sophie couldn’t really afford such expensive paper, but Robbie had convinced her to establish a mail-order business selling stationery and business cards, and she needed something nicer than newsprint for corresponding with her new customers.
Caleb dumped the paper onto the counter and brushed his fingers together. “You still here?”
Last night both she and Caleb had worked late, poring over Miss Swint’s photographs for the special edition of the Gazette due out on Friday. Thanks to Ethan and his crew, all that remained before the official opening of the infirmary was to add the finishing touches. Sophie, Gillie, and several other ladies from Robbie’s church were meeting today to hang curtains and make the beds with the new linens and quilts the Ladies Benevolent Society had sewn. Mariah Whiting had promised to stock the children’s bookshelf with storybooks from her shop.
“I went home for a little while, but I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been here all day.” Sophie took her foot off the treadle and rubbed her tired eyes. Thinking about everything that needed doing at the office had been only one reason for her wakefulness. Ethan, and their unfinished conversation, was the other.
“Gillie says Mr. Heyward sure did a fine job on the infirmary.” Caleb set about mixing the ink, pouring a cup of powder into the bucket, and carefully stirring in water. “She’s real excited about it.”
“It’s a wonderful thing for Hickory Ridge. And for Gillie. A dream come true for her.”
Caleb nodded. “I reckon. Only I wish she could think of something else sometimes.”
Sophie looked up at his earnest face. Holy cats. Caleb had gone sweet on Gillie, and Sophie hadn’t seen it coming. Not that she wasn’t pleased for him. But Gillie was older than Caleb, and so single-minded about her infirmary, Sophie wasn’t at all sure her friend had room in her life for a man, even someone as hardworking and honest as Caleb Stanhope.
She gathered the finished stationery order, stacked the sheets neatly, and placed them into a sturdy box for delivery to Mrs. Whiting. “Does Gillie know about your feelings, Caleb?”
“My—” He stopped stirring the ink and glanced away. “Does it show?”
“Only when you mention her name.” Sophie grinned and retrieved the set of business cards she’d just printed for a gentlemen’s emporium in Knoxville.
“I h
aven’t said anything to her, and I wish you wouldn’t either.” Caleb tossed some broken pieces of type into the bucket to be melted and recast. “I mean, I think an awful lot of her, but she’s older than me, and she’s educated, and I’m—”
“One of the smartest, kindest men I know,” Sophie said. “I’m not much older than you, so maybe I’m not the most qualified person to give advice—”
“You do pretty well as the Answer Lady,” Caleb said. “I happen to know we got ten new subscription orders yesterday, not to mention that bag of mail I picked up from the post office.”
“Don’t change the subject. If you want to court Gillie, then make a plan for your future. Show her that you intend to look after her, even if she doesn’t think she needs it.” She smiled. “Every woman wants to feel that her man will cherish and protect her, no matter how much schooling she’s had.”
“I reckon so.” Caleb leaned against the counter, the last of the oyster-colored light falling on his shoulders. “And I’ve been thinking about that. The truth is, I like newspapering an awful lot. I know I’m not much of a speller, but I’m good with the presses and selling advertising and such. And since there’s no room for me at Blue Smoke or at the mill, I’ve applied to Mr. Ochs over at the Chattanooga Times. If he takes me on, I can send money home to Ma and the boys. And maybe someday I can save up enough to ask Gillie to marry me.”
Sophie’s mind whirled. Even though Caleb worked only two days a week at the Gazette, doing without his help would be difficult. But others had made her dream possible. How could she hold him back from reaching for his?
“I shouldn’t have dropped the news on you like this,” Caleb said. “Should’ve waited till I heard back from the Times.” He shrugged and went back to picking broken type from the wooden trays. “They may not have a job for me anyway.”
“If they do, then you must take it. I’ll manage somehow.” Sophie sighed. “I may not be able to publish the Gazette much longer anyway, despite those new subscriptions. Paper and ink are getting more expensive all the time. And so far, Mr. McClure has bought only two of my articles.”