The chug-chug of the engine and the whir of the blade filled the air, and Samuel’s heart sang along as he and Jack tested out the blade. They debarked a log then eased it through the blade. Sawdust flew in every direction, but they concentrated on the task at hand as the blade sliced into their very first board.
Jack grinned at their handiwork. “I know exactly where I’m going to use this.”
Samuel quirked a brow. “Where?”
“Over the front door.”
“One board does not a house make.” Samuel nodded toward the block of wood as they readied it for another pass. “Steady now.”
As the afternoon wore on, Jack and Samuel realized just how temperamental the old steam engine was and how exhausting hefting logs onto the ramp and rolling them into position could be. Midafternoon, the blade jerked, lodging itself against the log, and the belt started spinning.
Heart pounding, Samuel scrambled to kill the power to the engine before something blew. As he and Jack tinkered with the cantankerous old equipment, their early excitement waned.
“I’m not sure if this is worth it.” Jack wiped his brow and took a long swig of water from a canning jar. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “At this rate, we’d be better off hauling logs to Abe just like we’ve been doing.”
Samuel searched for the problem, determined not to give up so easily. His heart sank when he saw that one of the braces that held the blade straight and true had cracked. He pointed. “Look.”
“Piece of junk. No wonder Abe wanted to get rid of it.”
“It’s not so bad. If we can get this piece off, Zeke might be able to forge it back together.”
An hour later, Jack headed to the blacksmith’s with the iron bar in hand, and Samuel eyed the saw blade wedged against the log, trying to decide the best course of action. The one thing he didn’t want to do was ruin that blade, or Jack’s dream of building a house and a life with Maggie would be even further out of reach.
He loosened the belt that provided traction for the blade, but the blade held fast, wedged tight against the unforgiving pine log. Nothing for it. He grabbed a saw. Better to waste part of the log than ruin their only blade.
He’d worked up a sweat by the time he sawed away the board and the blade jerked back into alignment. Lord, please don’t let any of these teeth be chipped.
A rain of sawdust fell on his head, and he looked up to see Annabelle smiling at him, her cheeks glowing from the cold. His heart rate spiked at the sight of her. She slapped her gloved hands together, and sawdust fluttered on the slight breeze and peppered her coat and scarf, reminding him of the snow she longed to see in Illinois. A smile wreathed her face. “You got the saw to work!”
“Well, yes and no.”
Her smile slipped. “No?”
“It worked fine until a piece broke.” He showed her where the broken brace had been.
She moved closer and peered at the spot. “Oh no. Can it be fixed?”
“Maybe.” Samuel shoved his hat back. “Jack took it to Zeke.”
“That’s good. Zeke should be able to make it good as new.”
The breeze blew her soft floral scent toward him, and he swallowed, trying not to think about how she’d felt in his arms on Sunday. How her lips had softened and parted just before Jack had called out. He pulled his gaze from her face and settled on the multicolored scarf covering her hair. “You’re covered in sawdust.”
“Uh-oh.” She brushed at the flecks clinging to her scarf. “That won’t be easy to get out.”
“Reminds me of snow.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
He couldn’t resist her laugh and found himself looking into her eyes again. Did she feel the electric charge in the air? A charge he’d managed to keep buried deep down inside.
At least until last Sunday.
She cleared her throat and moved away. “I got another letter from Lucy. She said that it started snowing and they’ve already put sled runners on the wagons. Did you know that? I never really thought about it, since we’ve never had any need for sled runners here in Mississippi. And there’s going to be a Christmas play at her church, and her pastor’s wife invited us to dinner one night. She said we could go sledding, and ice skating—that is, if the ice on the pond is thick enough. She said everybody comes out on Saturday afternoon to skate since it’s not every year that they get the chance.”
Samuel watched the emotions playing across Annabelle’s face as she prattled on and on about all the things she’d do and see in Illinois. Her eyes danced with excitement, and her cheeks bloomed with color that didn’t have anything to do with the slight chill in the air.
“What?” Annabelle gave him a tentative smile, and he realized she’d stopped talking about Illinois and was staring at him.
He said the first thing that popped into his head. “With so much to do, you’re liable to end up staying in Illinois.”
“Oh, no, I can’t imagine that happening.” She laughed, a bit shakily, before looking away and picking up the canning jar Jack had left sitting on the windowsill, sawdust settling in the water. “I mean, what would I do there?”
Samuel’s heart slammed against his ribcage as the truth hit him. She had considered moving to Illinois. Why hadn’t he seen it?
She shook the jar, and the tiny flecks of wood swirled in the water. She lifted her gaze, all trace of teasing and laughter gone. Her eyes, the exact color of the pines towering behind her, met his briefly before she looked away and gathered up her school satchel. “I’d better go. I hope you and Jack get the saw going again.”
Long after she’d gone, Samuel turned the conversation over in his mind. What if she met someone in Illinois? She was smart and beautiful and would make some man a good wife. There’d be any number of men who’d want to court her, and he’d given her no reason to come back to Mississippi.
What a fool he’d been.
Pride in having enough to provide for a wife and family had kept him from making the slightest move to let Annabelle know how he felt. He needed to do something, say something before she left to let her know that he cared. That he wanted her to come back.
His gaze landed on the canning jar half full of water, the sawdust swirling slower and slower until it gradually began to sink to the bottom like softly falling flakes of snow. He reached out, lifted the jar, and gave it a gentle shake as an idea began to form.
Chapter 9
Samuel pictured the carving in his mind as he turned the block of wood in his hand. The entire carving wouldn’t be much bigger than the palm of his hand, and the details would be small and delicate. He itched to be out in the woods felling timber, but falling temperatures and a steady rain earlier in the day had kept them from the woods. Even so, the time hadn’t been wasted. It had taken two days for Zeke to fix the brace on the engine, and Samuel and Jack had cut up the rest of the logs small enough to run through the saw blade.
He chuckled. Actually, they’d cut up anything and everything that even looked like it could be used in Jack’s house. They were a long way from having enough lumber, but that hadn’t stopped Jack from sketching his dream house out on paper.
“What do you think about this?”
Samuel paused in his carving and eyed the crude drawing Jack had made. He pointed with his knife. “I’d put a door right there, off the main room. That’ll make it easy to add on an extra room when you need it.”
“Good idea.” Jack nodded toward the block of wood as he scratched in a door with his snubby-nosed pencil. “What are you making?”
Samuel hefted the three-sided carving, the image of their small country church beginning to take shape on one side. “Christmas present for Annabelle.”
“She’s not going to be here for Christmas.”
“I know.”
Jack laughed, still fiddling with his plans. Suddenly, his pencil poised in midair, he squinted at Samuel, an odd look on his face. “You sweet on my sister?”
Samuel didn’t see any se
nse in denying it. He nodded toward the open sawmill doors. “It’s stopped raining. Maybe you should hook up the mules and head on in to town with that load of logs.”
Jack ignored him. “I should have noticed before now, I guess. She doesn’t stop by here every day to see me.”
“Sure she does.”
“What about last Sunday?”
“She tripped and I caught her. That’s all.”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest, the worn fabric of his work shirt stretched tight. “Looked like more than that to me.”
Samuel gritted his teeth. It was more. A lot more. But Jack didn’t need to know that. “It wasn’t.”
Jack snorted. “When are you going to tell her how you feel?”
Samuel sighed. There was no use trying to deny that he had feelings for Annabelle. “I’m not.”
“Why not? She’s going to Illinois next week.”
“And that’s why I’m not going to say anything. She’s got her heart set on a white Christmas, and I won’t do anything to ruin it for her.”
Jack stretched and reached for his hat. “You just keep thinking like that, buddy, and she’s liable to meet some yahoo up in Illinois, and then where will you be?”
After Jack left, Samuel stared at the block of wood where he carved his hopes and dreams for the future. Would it be enough? Enough to bring Annabelle back to him?
Chapter 10
Weary from a long day of teaching, Annabelle locked the schoolhouse, thankful for the Christmas break that gave her three glorious weeks of freedom. It had been all she could do to keep the children under control all week but practically impossible today, they’d been so excited.
From the schoolhouse steps, she stood on tiptoe and squinted through the cloudy midwinter haze. She could barely see Miller’s Mercantile at the crossroads on the other side of the church. Sipsey couldn’t even be called a town unless you counted the church and the school, along with Mr. Miller’s store, and you couldn’t always count the store.
The tiny mercantile consisted of two wagons butted end to end. The space was so tight, you just entered from one end and exited the other, and every nook and cranny was stuffed full of nonperishables, spices, sundry items, and a bit of cloth and thread. Mr. Miller moved his store to a new location whenever the mood struck him. She hurried toward the wagons, thankful he hadn’t packed up and moved today. Regardless of the lateness of the hour, her mother had asked her to pick up some salt, and with school out, she didn’t know when she’d have another chance to stop in.
In no time at all, she made her purchases and headed toward home, carefully avoiding the puddles left by the recent rain. Free of trying to corral a dozen children, the fluttery feeling of anticipation she’d become familiar with this week niggled at her the closer she got to the sawmill.
When she’d stopped by the last two days, Zeke, Jack, and Samuel had been up to their eyeballs trying to get the old steam engine running. With her brother and the crotchety old blacksmith there, it had been easy to make small talk for a few minutes before heading on home.
On one hand, she’d been relieved not to find Samuel alone, since the opportunity to see him without having to talk put her at ease over Sunday’s episode; but on the other, she’d been disappointed. Which would have seemed downright silly a week ago. But today, the feeling was anything but silly or trivial.
In the distance, she spotted a wisp of smoke curling above the tops of the pine trees. She rounded the last bend, and her gaze swept the familiar weathered boards of the barnlike structure, the lean-to on the left that housed the steam engine, the barn and pasture out back. Zeke’s wagon, with all his scraps of iron, was nowhere to be seen, but the fresh pile of cut lumber stacked under the lean-to was testament that they’d gotten the saw going again. And the big freight wagon Samuel and Jack used to transport logs to town was gone.
Her steps faltered, and her heart skittered. Was Samuel here? Or Jack? Had they both gone to deliver logs? Should she stop in or not? The lure of the woodstove’s warmth drew her, and she hurried toward the doors pulled shut against the cold.
She pushed one of the huge doors open just enough to slip inside. Disappointment filled her as she realized the room was empty. She’d convinced herself that she hadn’t longed to see Samuel, that her concern was just for their business and her brother and Maggie’s plans for the future.
Well, nothing for it. Jack was gone, and so was Samuel. A pot of coffee sat on the stove. Ah, coffee. She sniffed and closed her eyes in appreciation. Just what she needed to warm her for the walk home. She removed her gloves, snagged a cup from one of the pegs, and poured, then sat on the stool next to the stove. As she sipped the brew—a bit bitter but not too bad—her gaze landed on Samuel’s tools and the partially carved train set spread across the table. Probably a Christmas present for one of her brothers. She leaned closer to inspect one of the boxcars, complete with working wheels and tiny axles fashioned from nails.
The door creaked open and she jumped, almost spilling her coffee. Samuel entered, a load of firewood in his arms. He turned, eyes widening at the sight of her before a slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “I’d given up on you today.”
He’d been watching for her?
Warmth filled her, and it had nothing to do with the coffee. “I had to run to Miller’s Mercantile for a few things.”
“Still at the crossroads, then?” He took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door.
“Still there. But not for long. He said to tell everybody that he’s thinking of moving to Kitchener next week, so if you need anything, you’d better get it now.”
“He says that every Christmas.”
“True.”
He opened the firebox and poked at the burning embers. Sparks flew, illuminating a days-old shadow on his cheeks, a shadow that he’d shave off come Sunday morning. She studied his profile underneath the brim of his hat. He tossed a couple of sticks of wood into the firebox and threw her a glance, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. “That should warm you up for the trip home.”
Annabelle laughed. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
“Nope. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” A tiny smile kicked up one side of his mouth again. His shirt stretched taut across his shoulders as he reached for the coffeepot. “More coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Annabelle quelled the flutter in her stomach. Heart pounding, she lowered her gaze and stared into her coffee cup. What was wrong with her? When had she become so aware of every move Samuel made? Since Sunday, when she’d tripped and somehow got it into her head that he’d wanted to kiss her, that’s when. She’d wrestled with questioning him about it all week. But what could she say?
Were you going to kiss me?
No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t ask him such a question. Her cheeks flamed as she tried to think of a way to broach the subject without embarrassing either of them.
A jingle of harness alerted her that Jack had returned. She placed the cup on the table and stood, panic at what she’d almost said mingled with a wild desire to know the answer to the question that had kept her awake five nights in a row. “I’d better get home.”
“I’ll take you in the wagon.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“It’ll be dark soon, and the temperature is dropping.” He moved to the door and called out, “Hey, Jack, just leave ‘em hitched. I’m going to take Annabelle home.”
Thankful that she didn’t have to walk the rest of the way home after today’s rain, Annabelle headed outside. Her brother grumbled good-naturedly as he set the brake and jumped down, grinning at her. “What’s the matter, Sis? Afraid you’ll get a little mud on ya?”
“You know good and well I’m not afraid of a little mud, Jack Denson.”
Samuel climbed into the tall freight wagon then reached for Annabelle’s hand as Jack hoisted her up. Her brother winked up at her. “Y’all have fun. Straight there and back, now, you he
ar?”
The ride home took less than ten minutes, but Annabelle was too mortified to even look at Samuel. Jack acted like she and Samuel were courting, for heaven’s sake, and Samuel hadn’t even said one word to her that would make her think he was interested.
Samuel reined in the mules, set the brake, and jumped down, only to be swarmed by Ike and Ander running out to meet them. Annabelle eyed the distance to the ground from the lowest rung on the wagon. She clambered over the side before Samuel could untangle himself, only to find herself a good foot or more off the ground, with no foothold.
Samuel glanced at her, her little brothers dangling from his arms. “Need help?”
“Well, it seems I do. There’s no way to get down.”
“Sorry. This wagon wasn’t built for ladies.” He shooed her brothers away and moved closer. His hands encircled her waist, and even though she could barely feel his touch through the bulk of her coat, her heart fluttered. Her hands landed on his shoulders, and he lowered her to the ground, so close she could see the golden flecks in his brown eyes. Not a trace of laughter lingered in their depths. “It wouldn’t do for you to fall right before your trip to Illinois.”
“Like last time?” she blurted out, regretting the question immediately. If he didn’t remember or made some teasing remark about her clumsiness, then she’d know the event meant nothing to him.
His gaze softened, dipped, and settled on her mouth before flicking to meet hers again. “Like last time.”
Chapter 11
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, and Annabelle looked around her room, trying to determine what she’d missed. Two bags sat beside the door, and she mentally ticked off the contents carefully folded and stuffed inside. She couldn’t think of a thing she’d forgotten.
Then why did she feel so unsettled? Discontented, even.
Guilt stabbed her. She’d brushed off Maggie’s father’s desire to uproot his family as discontentment. Did she harbor a bit of unhappiness in her own heart? A longing for change for the sake of change, regardless of whether it was for the better or even good for her?
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