Even though he’d warned her, seeing two settings of Mother’s china laid out on the table—as though she were waiting for Sarah to join her for tea—jolted her with horror. On the floor surrounding the peaceful tableau were shards of what used to be the other six place settings.
An icy finger traced her spine.
“I’m so sorry,” John repeated for the tenth time since finding her outside his dugout. “I don’t know how he got past me.”
She did. Faithful to what she finally realized was his true character, John had been serving her by plowing another acre of her land and sowing wheat. All her letter-writing vandal had to do was keep out of sight whenever John faced west.
She crept closer. Propped against one of the tea cups was another letter. She looked at John. “Did you read it?”
“No. The moment I saw this, I jumped on Shakespeare’s back and headed straight to you.”
For as long as she lived, Sarah would remember watching him race toward her, being held close and sighed over, being cherished—even if only for an instant. It gave her courage to reach for the letter.
These violent delights have violent ends.
No “Dearest Sarah” or signature. What did that mean? She turned around and handed the letter to John.
His mouth twisted with a wry grin. “You really need to change the name of your horse.”
She chuckled, partly because it was funny and partly because there was nothing else to do. “Poor Shakespeare. First he gets saddled with a woman who doesn’t know how to handle him, and now some lunatic is quoting his namesake.”
John crumpled the letter and walked toward her cookstove. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this guy.” He tossed the paper into the fire.
“Me, too.” What she wouldn’t give for solid walls—“Oh!” She spun around, tilting precariously before John reached out to catch her. Gracious, she could get used to being in those strong arms. “My house kit is arriving today. It might not help us catch anyone, but it sure would make me feel safer if I could lock a door at night.”
A warm smile spread across his face, denting his cheeks with those dimples she adored. “Then let me escort you into town.”
A new sensation surrounded her. Her temperature skyrocketed—and it had nothing at all to do with the weather.
For the first ten minutes as they rode toward Lawton, John was too busy with his own thoughts to notice that Sarah hadn’t said a word. He slid his eyes her way to see her hands cradled together in her lap, thumbs tapping.
She needed something else to think about. Something other than her mother’s china and that disturbing letter. And he needed a few answers to figure out who was writing the blasted things.
“A few days ago, you said something about being Sarah Maffey of Boston, only it sounded like there was more to it than Boston just being your home. What did you mean by that?”
She squeezed her hands together. Seconds passed. A deep sigh. “I’m something of…an heiress.”
His hands slackened on the reins for an instant. He recovered his grip and then looked her way.
Her cheeks were pink under her sensible bonnet. “It’s why Eugene wanted to marry me. My father said every man in Boston was after my money, so I came to Oklahoma.” A wry chuckle. “Where they’re all after my land.”
“How much do you stand to inherit?” The question was crass, but he needed to know.
She nibbled her bottom lip and shot him a glance filled with…guilt?
John returned his attention to Homer, giving her a little space to think. “I understand why you’re hesitating…at least I think I do. After what Eugene did, what your father said, and the number of complete strangers who’ve proposed to you since you won a land claim, you think your worth is tied up in things instead of your character. I don’t believe that. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked and, now knowing a little of your history, how much you’ve sacrificed to succeed against long odds. I’m only asking the size of your inheritance so I know how desperate this Eugene fellow might be.”
She turned on the seat to stare at him, probably summing up how much she could trust him with the truth. “Before I answer, may I offer you my sincerest apology for how I’ve treated you these past few weeks?”
John was too startled to speak, so he nodded.
“I used to be such a nice person.” She cut him another guilty look. “I don’t know how you’ve put up with me, nor what makes you say there’s worth in my character since I’ve done little except accuse you of outrageous things. My only defense is that I was acting out of deep hurt. I’ve asked God to forgive me, and I would be forever grateful if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, too.”
He understood deep hurt and how it turned a person inside out. It had taken years to forgive Malanger, not because the man deserved it but because John’s own bitterness had turned him into a man he hated being. “I forgive you, and I hope that we can now be both neighbors and friends.”
Her smile stirred a fire in his gut that made him wish for something more—much more—than mere friendship.
“I like the idea of us being friends.” Sarah gripped her hands together. “And friends tell each other the whole truth. So, to answer your question, aside from the ten thousand dollars my mother gave me, seven hundred thousand dollars will come to me upon my marriage or my thirtieth birthday, whichever comes first. And I will receive more when my father passes into glory—unless, of course, Daddy follows through on his threat to disinherit me. Then I will just receive the seven hundred thousand.”
Land sakes alive! He was sitting in a wagon with a bona-fide heiress—who lived in a tent! He didn’t know which fact stupefied him most.
“I can see the gears turning inside your head.” She turned toward him an inch more. Her knee touched his. “What are you thinking?”
So many things that he couldn’t get his brain to hold one long enough to form a sentence. And the heat burning through his knee and setting his heart to racing was no help at all! How could a man focus?
He took a deep breath and returned his attention to Homer, snapping the reins against his rump to get him moving again.
“Start with the letters.” Sarah’s thumbs started tapping again. “I need to know your thoughts about them.”
“Until this last one, the writer used fairly common language for love letters. It could be your Eugene or some other beau from back home, because I imagine the disappearance of an heiress would make headlines.”
“My father put out a statement that I had taken ill and wouldn’t be attending society functions until I’d recovered.” Another wry chuckle. “It’s his way of saying he thinks I’ve lost my sanity and will be running home soon.”
That father of hers needed a good pounding. “You’ve been gone almost three weeks now. Someone has to be asking questions.”
“Perhaps, but the lack of newspaper reporters flooding the streets of Lawton indicates I’m still incognito here.” The sparkle in her tone said she was quite pleased. “Still, I may have let the cat out of the bag when I gave Mr. Harrison a thousand dollars to open a line of credit at the general store and wired another two thousand into Mr. Atwood’s bank.”
He pulled up on the reins and swiveled his neck to stare at her. “You did what? And you’re just now telling me about it?”
She rounded her shoulders, making herself smaller. “You already knew about Eugene, and it seemed like the three hundred I had in cash was distressing to you, so…”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “If either Harrison or Atwood talked, every man in town will consider you wealthy beyond their dreams—and that’s before they know how much you’re really worth. A single woman in possession of land is enough of a temptation for some men to propose marriage—”
“As is demonstrated every time I go to town or to church.”
“But a woman of means? That garners even more attention. So combine your land with your apparent wealth, and you’re far and away the ric
hest person in Lawton. Maybe in all of Oklahoma.”
She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment then turned those wide, worried eyes to him. “So what you’re saying is, my secret admirer could be anyone.”
Chapter 7
When they pulled onto First Street, Sarah suspected word had gotten out about her thousand-dollar line of credit at Mr. Harrison’s. Men crowded around his store smoking, leaning on the hitching rail, and chatting. They snapped to attention when they saw her and John.
John gave a nod. “Looks like Mr. Harrison already assembled your building crew. That’ll save time.”
Sarah relaxed…until John sucked in a breath.
His voice was tight and low. “Keep facing straight ahead, but look left with your eyes. The couple I told you about is coming toward us.”
She did as he instructed and squinted to see better—the couple was still a good distance away—but the racing of her heart caused her vision to blur. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. What if it was them? What would she do?
Well, one thing was certain: getting riled wouldn’t help. She needed to stay calm. And maybe just a little bit angry. She and John would take this one step at a time. She felt his sturdy hand on her elbow.
Together.
Fortified by his comforting presence, Sarah opened her eyes. The seconds crept by. She waited until the couple came close enough to see under the brims of their fancy hats before exhaling. “It’s not them. Which makes me feel both better and worse.”
John squeezed her elbow. “Don’t worry. I promise we’ll find whoever is writing those letters.”
Tears threatened. There was such safety in his promise. And comfort. And a whole host of other things she probably shouldn’t feel for someone she’d known for such a short amount of time and decided to trust only a few hours ago. But she did feel them. Deeply. “Thank you, John.”
He pulled Homer to a stop and turned to look at her. “You’re welcome, Sarah.”
Maybe she was reading more into it than he intended, but the sincerity in his voice and the tenderness in his green eyes seemed to say, “I’m glad we’re friends now.”
Was he glad? She hoped so!
He swiveled on the seat and jumped to the ground. When he helped her out of the wagon, his hands lingered on her waist for a moment longer than necessary.
Or was it just her desire to slow time whenever he was near that made it seem so?
“Miss Maffey!”
Startled out of her wishful thoughts, Sarah turned her attention to Mr. Harrison.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about your delivery today.”
“Mr. Tyler and I ran into a small problem this morning, that’s all.” Sarah looked past the grocer to see if any of the men clustered behind him reacted to her statement. No one looked away or flinched. It wasn’t proof positive none of them were her secret admirer, but her pulse slowed to a more normal pace. “I see you assembled the building crew.”
Mr. Harrison nodded. “They’ve been here for an hour waiting for you.”
“An hour they’ll be paid for.” Sarah straightened and gave a brief nod. Firm, without a smile. These men needed to know she was in charge. And no amount of fear-laden-Shakespearean-mumbo-jumbo letters would get her to give up her land.
Tension left the men’s faces, some of them going so far as to crack a smile. One elbowed his neighbor and whispered, “Told ya.”
As they loaded bundles of cut boards, posts, and boarded-up rectangles that she presumed were windows, Mr. Harrison drew her attention to a second, rather large pile waiting in the gap between his tent and the wooden half-walls of the store he was building. “I wasn’t expecting your load to be this large.”
Large? The house was only two stories, and a quarter of the total square footage of her home in Boston.
“I took the liberty of asking Otis if he’d be willing to hire out a wagon for a second load.”
Sarah looked around for the rotund man. “Did he agree?”
“Not sure. I sent Don Lesta to—oh. I think that’s them now.”
Sarah turned to see Otis and another man she recognized as part of her barn building crew. “Do you think his wagon will hold the remaining supplies?”
“I’m not sure.”
Half an hour later, the two wagons were loaded with everything the horses could safely haul.
John wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ll have to send someone back for the rest after we offload one of the wagons.”
“Do we have room for a bag of dried apples?” Sarah eyed the mounded wagons. “I’d like to bake a few pies, but I can wait until—”
“Yes!” It was a collective shout from John and several of the men close enough to hear her.
Mr. Harrison scurried into his tent and reappeared with a large burlap bag a moment later. He gave her a broad grin. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
Back at Sarah’s property, as the rest of the men unloaded the house supplies, John grabbed the bag of apples and followed Sarah inside her tent, grateful for a moment alone. “Sarah.” She turned around to look at him. He’d never seen her look so relaxed. “I know it’s a relief that the couple in town didn’t turn out to be Eugene and Trudy, but I still need you to be careful. If you go anywhere besides here or the barn, let me know.” He dropped the apples near her cookstove. “Actually, even if you go to the barn, let me know.”
Her smile was soft. “Thank you, John.”
He frowned. “For what?”
Instead of answering, she smiled wider. “I’ll be sure to stay where you can see me or let you know where I’m going.”
Hoo, boy. He was in big trouble. He’d known it as soon as he saw the smashed china and his heart stayed inside his throat until he saw she was safe. Add the apology and that incredible smile, and he was a goner. Even with her prickles and accusations, she’d worked her way under his skin. But there was work to be done, so he went back outside to help with the offloading.
Despite Sarah’s promise to stay vigilant, John suspected she’d let her guard down once she verified that the couple he’d pointed out weren’t her former friend and fiancé. He kept a wary eye on the men, counting heads every few minutes to be sure none of them wandered off for longer than it took to find a bush and take care of business.
“Hey, John!” Don Lesta waved a handful of papers above his head.
For a split second, John thought they might be another letter—until he saw a picture. “That the house plans?”
Lesta nodded. “You gonna ride back for the last load, or you want me to do it?”
John took the house plans and eyed the man. “What’s your background, Mr. Lesta?”
“Name’s Don, and I used to own me a carpentry shop. It burned down.” He swiped a finger under his nose and sniffed. “Didn’t have the wherewithal to start over.”
“Since you have carpentry skills, I’d prefer you stay here. We’ll find someone else to pick up the last load.” John stuffed the papers in his back pocket and headed toward his wagon to help with the unloading.
For half an hour, he and the other five men Sarah had hired offloaded supplies, carted them to the building site, and organized them into piles.
Sarah came out a few times to offer biscuits and coffee, check on progress, and let John know she was making a quick trip to the barn. Five minutes later, she waved at him on her way back into the tent.
John actually enjoyed how domestic this all felt. Sarah baking pies in her tent, him working hard on her house—no, her home. He shook his head. It had taken long enough, but she was finally accepting his help.
But he wanted more. Much, much more. Sparring with Sarah these past few weeks had shaken loose the comfortable friendship he’d made with grief, reminding him of the things he’d liked best about himself when Ada and little Josie were alive. He’d been a protector and provider, someone whose labor benefited more than just himself, and he missed it.
God had offered hi
m a second chance at love, something he never dreamed possible. No wonder it caught him by surprise. He should have known though. From the moment he met Sarah and saw the hurt in her eyes, she’d been his. That’s why her distrust and accusations had hurt so much.
He shook his head. Sarah’s safety was at stake and here he was having romantic notions. Those could wait.
But hopefully not too long.
Don Lesta came up to John. “You sure I can’t be more help goin’ for that last load?”
Why was the man so insistent? John smelled trouble, even if he was somewhat side-tracked by the scent of apple pie drifting on the air. “I think we should send Otis. He’s looking a little tuckered out.”
Lesta shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
John watched him wander away, then turned and scanned the men. “Otis!”
The rotund man pulled up his shirt to wipe sweat from his red face. “Yeah?”
“You ready to go get the last load?”
“Figured that’d be my job.” He lumbered closer. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, and I’ll be off.”
John took a few steps toward the building site before swinging around. He’d better check with Sarah and see if she needed anything else while Otis was in town.
“John!” Don hollered out. “We need your help lifting!”
Asking Sarah would have to wait.
A few minutes later, wagon wheels rolled and a harness jangled. John looked up. Otis was already on his way. Oh, well. He’d ask Sarah later about what she needed, and it would give them a good excuse to ride to town together again. Meanwhile, he had a load to lift.
Forty minutes and a gallon of sweat later, John caught the scent of something burning. He felt his heart skip a beat and he raced for the tent.
“Sarah?” He ducked through the flap. Smoke poured from the oven. “Sarah?” Her oven mitts rested beside the cookstove. “Where are you?” He pulled the black-crusted pie from the oven and set it on the flat top then stuck his head outside. “Hey! Anyone seen Sarah?”
The men started yelling her name, their voices coming from several directions.
The Secret Admirer Romance Collection Page 44