“You saw him today. The anger and resentment, demanding I return to farming.” He shook his head. “I’ll admit, I don’t understand. I’ve never understood why he’s so against me working with wood. It’s a good trade. His own father made furniture for a living.”
She shifted beside him, and her arm pressed against his. A jolt shot through him, and he sucked in his breath, surprised that having Deborah near could still affect him. Or had she never stopped affecting him, and he’d simply buried his feelings as deeply as possible to deal with the hurt of having to leave her? He longed to take her in his arms and pour it all out—the full truth of what happened. How his father had insisted he break it off with her, due to her mother’s lingering illness and Curt’s inability to provide. How he’d come to her home to persuade her to run off with him, only to find her nursing her sick mother and frightened she might die. But he could provide now and would happily do so, for Deborah, and her mother as well. He’d allowed her to believe he wanted a career and didn’t care to remain in Goldendale—and while that was partly true, there had been so much more.
Then his mind returned to the scene in his mother’s bedroom with Mrs. Summers today, and the fear he’d seen on Deborah’s face as she’d rushed to her. Would it be any more fair now to make Deborah choose between them than it had been when she was sixteen?
She touched his sleeve. “What are you thinking, Curt? What’s wrong?” Her imploring eyes probed deep.
He shook his head, not wanting to reveal how much he cared. He picked up the reins. Maybe he should slip away after the service tomorrow and never return. Deborah said she’d had offers, and like five years ago, he couldn’t stand the thought of remaining and see her married to some other man. That would destroy him.
The service for Sarah Warren was heavily attended, and with Deborah and Curt’s efforts, the parts of the house open to guests shone. Deborah awoke two days later, ready to finish the rest of the Warrens’ home but dreading what she might find when she arrived. Pushing open the door, she slipped inside, praying Curt wouldn’t be gone.
A cheery whistle emanated from the kitchen, and relief weakened her muscles. She’d know Curt’s whistle anywhere. She tapped on the doorframe, waited a second, then stepped into the kitchen as he swung around. A smile brightened his countenance. “You’re up early. There’s no need for you to keep cleaning the house. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do at home, with your mother not well.”
Deborah’s smile faded as the realization struck her that Curt apparently wasn’t as pleased to see her as she’d hoped. She moved into the room, her chin high, and reached for a towel lying beside the stack of wet dishes. “I see you’ve learned how to tackle a few household chores, but this is my job, not yours. Your father has been a blessing to me and Ma since Pa died, and I see this as a way to pay back a small part of our debt. Ma is stronger today, and she’s doing a few of the inside chores and leaving the supper preparations to me.”
“Ah, I see. All right, then. Let’s have at it together.” Curt plucked the towel out of her hand and tossed it on the countertop with an impish glance. “Those will dry fine on their own. What else is on your list of things that must be done? Sorting clothing again, or something else?”
“Boxes, I think. There are several crates in the attic your father wants me to go through, to see if there’s anything worth saving. He believes most of them are full of old clothing or yardage your mother saved that might be ruined by now, but he asked that I check.”
Curt nodded. “I’ll get a pry bar to remove the nails. Once all the lids are off, I might run out to the barn to clean my horse’s stall then tote anything downstairs you’ve decided needs to be moved. Will that work?”
Joy bubbled inside that he wanted to help—better yet, that he planned to spend time alone with her. Other than the ride back to his farm, she’d had only snatches of time without his father or her mother or a helpful neighbor stopping by. “Yes, thank you. I’d like that.” She tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice, but something in his answering glance told her she might not have succeeded.
They climbed the stairs to the attic, and Curt pushed open the narrow door at the top of the steps. “Whew.” He waved his hand in front of his nose. “It’s not too pleasant up here. Want me to bring a few boxes downstairs to work where the air is fresher?” He looked around the cramped space. “You’ll have better light, as well.”
She shrugged, not anxious to return to the living area where some well-meaning person might drop by and interrupt whatever conversation could develop. “Let’s stay here for a bit. Maybe open a few boxes and see if they look like something I need to sort through. If most of them are musty old clothing, you can take those down.”
“Fair enough.” He dragged a wooden crate from a dark corner and rolled up his sleeves. “I’m glad you wore a full apron. It’s pretty dusty up here.” Sticking the edge of a bar under the lip of the crate, he pressed down, the muscles in his forearms bulging.
Deborah tried not to stare but couldn’t quite help herself. He’d changed so much since she saw him five years ago. He’d gone away a boy of eighteen and returned as a mature man. One who had made his way in the world and knew what he wanted from life—and one who had learned to turn to the Lord during times of indecision and trial. The kind of man she’d always hoped he would become.
He glanced up, the final nail screeching as it reluctantly released its hold. “That’s the last one. Looks like you were right; this one is full of clothes.” He moved to the next and repeated the process. “Yard goods? Ma loved to sew. I’m guessing we’ll find several of these boxes. If any of the cloth is still good, the church ladies might want it for sewing projects.”
Deborah nodded and set about digging to the bottom of the crate he’d pried open, sneezing from the dust as she did so. “They’ll have to be laundered and checked for holes, but some of this is still good.”
He sat back on his haunches. “Want me to tote them downstairs? Or open a few others first?”
She gazed around and spotted a stack in another corner then noticed a lone box pushed under the eaves. “If you don’t mind opening that one first, then a couple of those others, I’ll have plenty to do until you return.”
He nodded and set to work, pausing occasionally to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “All right, looks like that’s it. I’ll take a couple of these with me. I won’t be gone long.”
She watched him cross the room, carrying the heavy load as though it were feather pillows. “I’ll be here.”
A warm chuckle drifted from the top of the staircase, and she thought she heard him say, “I’m glad,” as his steps echoed on the hard wood, but she couldn’t be sure.
She moved to the crate that had been off to one side, her mind wandering to what might have been if Curt hadn’t left town. Would they be married and living in their own home, with possibly a baby or two? If only he could reconcile with his father and find a way to stay.
Removing the loosened lid from the crate, she glanced inside, certain she’d see more clothing or sewing goods. A variety of odd-shaped objects wrapped in cloth surprised her instead. She touched the linen, only to note its fragility. How long had this been stored, and did Curt have any idea what it might be? She hesitated, wondering if she should unwrap the objects. But Mr. Warren had been firm. Go through the boxes and determine what should stay and what should be donated or thrown.
She plucked out a long object and carefully unwrapped it. Her breath caught, and she stared at an exquisite hand-carved statue of a woman, clothed in a robe and sandals, her face alight with joy. Hurriedly, Deborah removed the remaining objects and placed them reverently on the floor around her. A beautiful Nativity scene stood revealed, complete with a manger, cows and sheep, wise men and shepherds, and the most lifelike depiction she’d ever seen of the baby Jesus and His family. Amazing. From the condition of the cloth, the pieces had to have been wrapped decades ago, and it was obvious they’d not been tou
ched in years.
Boots clomped up the final few steps, and she raised her head. “Curt?” As soon as he appeared through the door, she waved him over. “Do you know where these came from?”
Chapter 4
Curt stared at Deborah sitting on the dusty floor, her skirt flared around her and the beautifully carved pieces of wood standing just beyond. He knelt beside her, barely daring to breathe. “What in the world?” He gently cradled the figure of baby Jesus lying in a manger and stroked the wood with his fingertip. “These are exquisite. I’ve never seen such fine detail. These were in that box?”
She nodded, a frown puckering her lovely face. “Yes. I assume you didn’t carve them, as the cloth protecting them is so old. Your grandfather was a woodworker, correct? Do you suppose they were his?”
Curt examined each piece before he replied then set the last wise man reverently on the floor. “Very possible, although I don’t see why Ma wouldn’t have brought these out each Christmas. What do you want to do with them?”
Deborah brightened, her blue eyes sparkling. “I’d love to take them downstairs and put them on the mantel for Christmas. It’s only two weeks away. Do you think your father would mind?”
“I can’t imagine why he would. I’ll move them for you. Do you want to do more today?” He glanced around, taking in the small pile of boxes not yet sorted and the streaks of dirt smudging Deborah’s face. “Or have you had quite enough of the dirt and stale air by now?”
She giggled. “I must look a sight. But you aren’t a lot better yourself.” She pointed to his head, where a hat usually resided. “It looks like you’re trying a new hairstyle, with little points all over the place.”
He slapped his hand to his hair and groaned. “I guess if we still care after seeing each other at our worst then …” He snapped his lips closed, horrified at what he’d almost said and shocked that he’d truly meant it. Where was he headed with that kind of statement? Was he ready to declare himself and choose to stay in Goldendale?
No. As much as he cared for Deborah, he needed to think this through. He must pray before he dove into anything. There was no room for regrets in his life, and he certainly didn’t want Deborah to have to deal with the sorrow of a hastily made decision. He’d experienced enough of that as a youth.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
She hunched one shoulder and turned her head. “I knew you were teasing. It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t all right. He’d seen the disappointment reflected on her face and watched the joy drain from her eyes before she’d turned away. If only he could find a way to reconcile with his father, or move back to The Dalles and marry Deborah without taking her mother from her home.
“Here. I’ll help you pack these and take them to the parlor. In fact, if you want to go clear the mantel, I’ll be a few minutes behind you, then you can set these out. We can even find fir boughs to tuck around them if you’d like.” He kept his voice light, hoping her smile would return—praying he hadn’t hurt her too deeply—again.
A few minutes later he arrived in the cozy parlor that his mother had loved so much. Deborah had removed the old clock from the wide oak mantel and readied it for the holy family that would reside there.
He breathed easier, loving Deborah’s excitement as she clasped her hands in front of her waist and rocked back and forth from her tiptoes to her heels. “I’ll set the crate on the chair where you can easily reach it. I need to make one more trip to the barn. Do you want me to wait and help you set up the figures?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’d love to do it, if you don’t mind. Then you can tell me what you think when you return and help me move them if they need it.”
He nodded then stepped forward, unable to resist any longer. As he drew close, she froze, staring up at him with an expectant expression. He lifted a finger and tucked a loose curl behind her ear then stroked her cheek. “I do care, Deborah. I wasn’t teasing upstairs. I simply don’t know how to make it all work, but I care. Can you accept that much for now?”
She looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Yes. I think so. But I’m afraid.”
“I’ll talk to you first if I decide to leave. I promise.”
She wiped her damp cheek and stepped away. “But you won’t promise not to leave?”
He hesitated, not sure how to reply. His heart longed to promise he’d stay forever—that he’d never leave her again—but could he keep that promise and not take her away from the mother she needed to care for? It all came back to the problem of five years ago. His father wouldn’t tolerate him living in this house or being part of his life if he didn’t take up farming, and Curt couldn’t imagine abandoning his woodworking.
“I’ll promise to do my best to find a way to make this work. I promise to pray, and I ask that you do the same. Can that be enough for today?”
She gave a silent nod then smiled. “It can. Now, let me get busy.” She waved him toward the door. “You do what you need to do, and let me rejoice in the beauty of this Nativity.”
Curt rushed through the chores he’d put off too long, knowing it would be one more strike against him if his father noticed they weren’t done on time. He longed to return to the woman who’d captured his heart at a deeper level than he’d thought possible. He realized now he hadn’t really loved her as a wayward, eighteen-year-old boy—not in the way she deserved to be loved. He had been too selfish, too thoughtless at the time. But what was he now, if he couldn’t set aside his own desires and show her true love?
He hurried to the house, wanting to see her again, praying they could find a way to sort through this dilemma. Pushing open the front door, he stepped inside then closed it and drew a deep breath. He strode through the entry and stopped just inside the parlor door in time to see his father raise a fist in the air and shake it.
The older man’s bellow filled the room. “What is going on here? Where did you get those?”
Deborah stood pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, bewilderment covering her face. Curt strode across the room and stopped by her side. He took her hand in his and turned to confront his red-faced father. “Quit shouting, Pa. You’re scaring her. You can do that with me but not Deborah.”
The red didn’t fade from his father’s face, and his entire body shook, but the force of his words diminished a little. “I asked you a question, and I demand an answer. Where did those come from, and why have you put them on my mantel?”
Deborah squeezed Curt’s hand then released it. “I found them in the attic while sorting through boxes, sir. I assumed they were a family heirloom that you’d forgotten about and that you might enjoy displaying them. I apologize for not asking you first.”
The tension seemed to ease from his father’s stiff frame as a shudder ran through him. “I don’t want them there. Pack them back in the box and put them in the attic. Or take them out to the refuse pile for all I care. I never want to see them again.”
Curt placed his hand on Deborah’s shoulder as she moved toward the mantel. “Wait, please.” He leveled a hard gaze on his father. “What’s going on here? I’m not tossing this work of art. Where did it come from? Was it grandfather’s?”
Color started to build in the older man’s face again, and he swiveled and headed for the door. “Don’t ask questions about what doesn’t concern you.” He stormed out of the room, and the front door slammed so hard the pieces on the mantel shivered.
Deborah sank into the nearest chair and put her hands over her face. “What have I done? Your father must hate me for touching something I shouldn’t have.”
Curt knelt beside her and cradled one of her hands in his own. “Look at me, dearest.” He waited until she complied. “This is not your fault. You followed his instructions by going through the boxes, so you did nothing wrong. I’ll help box them up and take you home. There’s no need for you to do any more today. Or ever, for that matter. If you choose not to return, n
o one will blame you.”
She burrowed her hand deeper inside his. “I’m truly not afraid of your father; he just startled me. I thought he’d be pleased, especially if I’d found something his father made. I wish I knew what was wrong and how to help.”
Curt shook his head. “I’ve wondered most of my life about why he despises my grandfather’s woodworking. I’ve never understood, and he won’t talk about it. Don’t worry yourself. It’s his problem, not yours.”
“But he’s your father, Curt. We need to care about what’s worrying him.”
“I know, dear, but I’ve tried, and it’s never done any good.” He released her hand and smiled. “Now, will you let me take you home?”
“I don’t think so. We’ll take these up to the attic then I want to finish the boxes you uncovered.” She gave him a warm smile. “Truly, I’m fine, and when I go home, I can drive myself. Your father has been so kind to Ma and me over the years. He’s allowed one outburst when something is bothering him.”
Curt stood and moved to the mantel. “How about we pack these, and then I’ll take them up while you work on something else downstairs?”
“All right, thank you.”
They finished in a companionable silence, and then Curt toted the crate to the attic. He tacked the lid on then perched on the hard surface, his chin propped on his hands. That scene with his father had shaken him more than he’d realized. He’d been especially disturbed by the shock on Deborah’s face. There was no way he could return to The Dalles and leave her behind.
He knew that now. He loved her more than his passion for woodworking. Maybe it was time to declare himself and do his best to mend fences with Papa, even if that meant returning to farmwork and building furniture on the side. Surely he could work something out to satisfy them both.
He lunged to his feet as relief flooded through him, then took the stairs as fast as he could, eager to share his decision with Deborah and see if she’d be willing to be his wife. He didn’t want to startle her, so he slowed his pace and walked quietly toward the living room, pausing when he heard his father’s voice. It was quieter than last time, but Curt wasn’t about to allow the man to bully Deborah or chastise her again. He reached the open doorway and paused, wanting to understand what he might be dealing with before bursting in.
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 27