“Don’t say it, Ma.”
She stopped, looked at him.
He clamped his jaw to keep from saying more—from spilling out his frustration. His life was what it was. And most of the time he could accept it without rancor. But being forced to spend time with Ellen today had brought back all his old dreams and the memory of all that his father’s death had cost him. He’d spend all of his life alone. He set the bread and the crock of butter on the table, yanked off the towel that covered the loaf and picked up his mother’s knife.
A long soft sigh floated over his shoulder. Plates clinked together. “So, will you be goin’ to Willa’s early in the mornin’, or—”
“I haven’t made up my mind.” The words came out as sharp as the cuts he made with the knife. He sucked in a long breath. “Sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean to bark at you. I’m feeling growly.”
“I know.” She patted his arm, then took hold of a table knife and started buttering the bread.
He sank into a chair, stretched his legs out toward the fire and lifted his cup to his mouth. The sweet taste of hot chocolate flowed over his tongue, left a hint of bitterness behind when he swallowed. “Willa plans on decorating the parsonage and the gazebo after we finish the church. I didn’t know that—or that the baby would take so much of her time. And I, for sure, wasn’t planning on Ellen being involved when I said I would help.”
“Things don’t always turn out the way we figure they will.”
He was no stranger to that truth. He held back a snort, took another swallow of chocolate so he didn’t have to answer. At the moment he didn’t have anything good to say. He was trying not to hear the voice inside, reminding him that somewhere in the Bible it mentioned that an honorable man “swears to his own hurt and changeth not.”
“Still...”
“I know, Ma. God works all things for the good, for those that love Him.” It was one of her favorite verses. He eyed the plate holding bread slathered with butter she slid toward him as if it were an enemy. He’d lost his appetite.
She settled into her chair and blew on her hot drink. “You don’t sound very believin’.”
“It’s a small room we work in.” His face flushed at what he’d admitted. He set down his cup and shoved to his feet, gave a couple of hops when the heated soles of his socks pressed against his flesh.
“That could be a mite uncomfortable.”
He let the snort free. “It’s the memories that make it so hard, Ma. But I’m not twelve years old now. I was only grousing—I’ll be going back in the morning. I gave Willa my word.” He scrubbed his hand over the tense muscles at the back of his neck and gave her a rueful smile. “And if God does work all things out for good, Ellen will stay home.”
“You’re a good man, Daniel. Don’t you ever forget that.” She stared up at him over the rim of her cup, her eyes dark with that look of determination he’d seen so often over the years. “I’ll pray.”
He’d said more than he’d intended. He kept forgetting how easily she read his heart. “Good.” He grinned, resumed his seat and picked up his cup. “Between you and God, Ellen doesn’t stand a chance.”
A smile was her only answer.
Chapter Eight
The bell on the mercantile’s door jangled its welcome. Ellen glanced toward the front of the store and froze. Daniel. Her stomach tensed. She hadn’t thought to see him until this afternoon. She frowned and edged behind a display of wooden buckets atop a center table, feeling too weary, after her restless night, to spar with him. Perhaps if she turned her back and pretended not to see him, he would follow her lead and ignore her. Else—
“Hey, Daniel! We heard timbering had stopped. Got time for a game?”
No! She shot a disgusted glance at the men bent over the checker game atop the barrel in front of the heating stove. There would be no pretending ignorance of Daniel’s presence possible now.
“Not today, Mr. Green. I’m headed for the parsonage.”
“So is true, what we hear? You make the decoration!”
Ilari Fabrizio sounded outraged at the very idea. Ellen blew out a breath and held herself from stamping her foot. Now there would be an exchange, and she was in no mood to stand there and listen.
“No, gentlemen, I do not. For which we must all be grateful.” Daniel chuckled, stomped his boots free of snow and started forward. “Willa makes the decorations. I cut the greens for her and such.” He stepped past the table with the stacked buckets, stopped short when he spotted her. Something flashed deep in his eyes but disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it—except for the warmth creeping into her cheeks.
“Sort of early for you to be up and about, isn’t it, Musquash? Especially in this weather.” That cool, teasing grin she hated slanted across his lips. “Must be you’re expecting a letter from one of your rich beaux and couldn’t wait to read their words of adoration.”
And you thought he was admiring you? Foolish woman. It was simply a trick of the lamplight. “That’s no business of yours.” She turned her back to him, thankful he couldn’t see the letter tucked in her muff, and sorted through the packets of buttons on a shelf, furious at the tears stinging her eyes. She had dozens of admirers—what did Daniel’s opinion matter? Nothing. It was only that encountering him unexpectedly jolted her, made her remember their friendship and the way it had been between them. Important or not, his disapproval hurt. Not that she’d ever let him know.
“Something I can do for you, Daniel?”
Yes. Please... A breath escaped her as he turned and stepped to the counter.
“I stopped in to return this pair of gloves. They were put in the company’s bag, by mistake, the last time I was here.”
She stopped fingering through the buttons and glanced at the door. She had to get to Willa’s and gather herself together before Daniel arrived. She moved slowly along the bolts of fabric toward the front of the store, watching him from the corner of her eye, ready to stop if he looked her way. She’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing he was the cause of her leaving.
“No, they’re yours. I wrote it down.” Allan Cargrave reached for his account book. “Yes...here it is—Daniel Braynard, one pair of leather gloves.”
“These.” Daniel lifted his gloved hands and wiggled his fingers. His head dipped toward the counter. “Those are yours.”
That was Daniel, always honest. She glared at the bell that would toll her retreat and hurried outside, stopped and stared in dismay at the snow being swooped up off of the ground and swirled through the air. The wind had come up while she was in the store. Was the storm returning? She felt of the letter beneath her hands in the muff and shot a look toward the gray, overcast sky. Please don’t let it start snowing again, Lord. Please let Daniel be able to go back to work at the camp.
The fur edging her bonnet fluttered against her face. She ducked her head and stepped out of the protected entrance, staggered as her cloak and long skirts plastered back against her legs, the hems flapping wildly behind her. The brim of her bonnet flipped backward. A shiver raced through her. She yanked her gloved hands from her muff, tugged the brim of her bonnet back in place and fought her way across the raised walkway, struggling to keep her balance, watching her footing lest she slip and fall.
A strong hand gripped her elbow, steadied her. A pair of scarred calf-high logger boots with gray wool socks folded down over the tops and brown twill pants tucked into them came into view. The force of the wind was blocked from her by a tall, broad-shouldered body.
Daniel. She straightened, the top of her head coming level with his shoulder. Someone had mended a rip in his green wool jacket. She had a sudden fervent hope that it was his mother.
He spoke, his words snatched away by the roaring wind so all that she heard was the rumble of his deep voice. She looked up. His eyes were shadowed, unrea
dable.
“Careful of the steps. The wind’s too strong for you.” He lifted his arm and crooked his elbow. “Hold on, and I’ll get you across the street.”
She glanced up Main Street at the church, barely visible through the blowing snow, nodded and slipped her hand through his arm. The texture of his wool jacket was rough beneath the soft kid leather of her glove.
She moved forward with him, ducking her head behind his shoulder for protection. Gusts buffeted them as they descended the steps and crossed the road, stepping over frozen ruts and around ice patches. The cold stung her nose, made her eyes water. She moved closer to his side, felt his arm flex beneath the wool.
“It’ll be faster going in the front.” He kicked a path through a patch of drifted snow, ushered her along the walkway to the church stoop and up the steps. Hinges squeaked as he opened the door and held it with his shoulder.
She followed his glance down to where her gloved hand was gripping his arm, withdrew it and stepped over the threshold. The room was silent but for the muted moan of the wind coming down the stovepipe in the sanctuary. He closed the door, and darkness settled in the small entrance. She blinked and turned to face him. “Th-thank you for h-helping me.”
“You’re shivering.” He stomped his feet free of snow and started down the center aisle of the sanctuary. “I’ll get a fire going.”
Dim light filtered through the snow-rimmed panes of the windows they would decorate today. She watched him hurry to the back room, gathered her cloak close and followed, wishing he would talk to her, wishing they were still friends, wishing she’d never taken hold of his arm. Letting go of it made her feel...lonely.
She shivered, tucked her chin into the soft velvet ties on her bonnet and shoved her cold hands into her muff. The letter crackled against her fingers. She pulled it out and looked at the direction written in a heavy, bold hand. What was she thinking? Of course she was feeling lonely. But it had nothing to do with Daniel. She simply missed her beaux and the parties and entertainments she attended on their arms. She would be fine once Mr. Lodge and Mr. Cuthbert arrived.
* * *
Fool! You had to rush out to help her. Daniel shoved another chunk of oak in the firebox and closed the door. What did that gain you, beyond misery? He stole a sidelong look at Ellen, huddled close to the stove. She was so beautiful with her eyes shining and her cheeks all pink from the cold. All these years, whenever she’d come home, he’d been careful to maintain his distance, to never touch her. And now... I need to get back to camp!
The stovepipe crackled with the rising heat. He adjusted the dampers, shot a glance toward the door. He’d wait until the room warmed, and then he was going to march over to the parsonage and bring Willa back—baby and all if necessary. He’d had enough.
“The fire feels wonderful.”
He grunted and was immediately ashamed of the response but let it stand. He was in no mood for polite conversation—for any interaction with Ellen. He could still feel the place on his side where her arm had pressed against him, the spot on his arm where her hand had clung. “Now that the fire’s started, I’ll go let Willa know we’re here.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and yanked out his gloves.
The door opened and Matthew Calvert stepped inside. “Ah, Daniel, I was hoping you’d be here—Willa sent me to see. She—” He stopped, smiled and gave a polite nod of his head. “Ellen, I didn’t see you there by the stove. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Pastor Calvert. Willa is delayed?”
Ellen’s smile looked a little forced. Not surprising. He was having trouble with his own. He gave up the effort and shoved his gloves back in his pockets, his suspicions of yesterday returning. If Willa thought—
“No, not delayed. She sent me to tell you she will not be able to come and work on the decorations today. The baby was fussy and fretful last night, and Willa doesn’t want to leave her.”
“The baby is ill?”
He shot a look at Ellen, noted the hand she’d pressed to her chest, the small involuntary step she took backward. She’s remembering Walker.
“Willa thinks it’s only colic—not this flu that is laying people low. Speaking of which...” Matthew smiled, gave another polite nod. “I must take my leave. I have sick calls to make. Thank you both for volunteering to help Willa make the decorations. May the Lord bless you for your kindness.” He cracked open the door and slipped out into the howling wind.
Another day alone with Ellen. His stomach knotted. It’s no blessing, Reverend. He turned to Ellen and forgot his discomfort at the sight of her pale face. She’d been terrified of being around illness since her brother, Walker, died of the measles when she was four years old. For the rest of them, their friend’s death had brought sadness—in Ellen it had instilled fear. He fought down his old instinct to reassure and comfort her and waved his hand toward the table. “Well, it seems it’s up to us to get these decorations finished now.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze fastened on his. He shed his coat and cleared his throat. “I’m no decorator, only a worker. That makes you the boss, Musquash. Tell me what you want me to do.” His use of the name worked. She jerked her gaze from his and lifted her chin.
“I want you to stop calling me Musquash.” She flung her muff onto a chair, then removed her bonnet and cloak, hung them over the chair back and stepped to the table.
He tried not to notice the way she looked as she stood there in her old green wool gown, her hands fisted on her hips, her teeth nibbling at the corner of her mouth while she stared down at the work they’d already done, but he knew he’d never forget. His heart kept storing up memories in spite of him.
“I don’t know what Willa had planned for the pews and the windows, but making these bunches of pine takes a lot of time, and with only the two of us to do the work it will take forever. And we’ve the parsonage and gazebo yet to do. So—”
Her tone warned him. He rearranged his features into an expression of polite interest in the instant before she looked up.
“—I think we should make sprays.”
Sprays? His brow furrowed. “What are sprays?”
“You look so perplexed!”
Laughter rippled from her—the laughter he remembered, not that phony titter she used now. It sounded so good he didn’t even care it was at his expense. At least she’d forgotten about the baby’s illness.
“If you will carry in more branches, I’ll explain. Meanwhile, I’ll work on making a second wreath for the parsonage.”
“As you wish.” He pulled his gloves on and turned toward the door. “I’ll try not to let more cold in than necessary.” He reached for the latch.
“I’m sorry to make you go out in that wind again, Daniel.”
The sincerity in her voice played havoc with his determination to not return to their old closeness. He turned back, looked straight into her beautiful azure-blue eyes and gave himself the gift of this one moment. He gave her a smile that came straight from his heart the way he had once done. “I could finish the wreath while you carry in the branches.”
Her eyes widened, searched his and warmed. A smile touched her lovely mouth, tentative, then sure when he didn’t look away. “I’m not that sorry.”
It was the fun way they used to be with each other, an affectionate teasing born out of closeness and understanding. And it was dangerous. Far too dangerous for him. “I was fairly certain of that.” He bit off further reference to his memories of her and let his smile die. The moment was over. And he had his pride to protect. He stepped outside, lowered his head into the wind and trudged through the drifted snow to the pung.
* * *
“So Mr. Lodge is in Dunkirk and will be in Pinewood on Saturday?”
“That’s what he wrote in his letter, Father. I suppose the weather could delay him, but it’s not likel
y with his enclosed sleigh.” Ellen laid down her fork, dabbed her mouth with her napkin and took a sip of tea. “He says it will be too late to call when he arrives on Saturday but asks permission to accompany us to church Sunday morning.”
“Of course, of course.” Her father crossed his knife and fork on his empty plate, leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. “You must be eager for Sunday to come, Ellen. It’s not every day one gets to show clear vindication for their decisions.”
“Vindication, Father?”
“Yes, indeed. Mr. Lodge is proof that you were correct to abandon the rough ways of your friends and learn to be a lady of leisure—to choose to live with your aunt Berdena in Buffalo and mingle with the elite.”
Her mind flashed back to the morning twelve years ago when he had told her she would no longer be permitted to see Willa, Callie, Sadie or Daniel except at school or church. She had been sitting in this very chair, eating bacon and pancakes with maple syrup. And her throat had been so tight with her effort to hold back her sobs, she had almost choked while trying to swallow her food. It had been the worst day of her life. Her stomach tightened. She placed her cup on its saucer, looked at her father sitting in his place of authority at the end of the table and forced a smile. “Then Mr. Lodge is your proof of vindication, Father, not mine. I merely obeyed your orders.”
“And when you enter the church on Mr. Lodge’s arm, everyone will see that you were wise to do so.”
She shook her head and gave him another forced smile. “No, Father. Wisdom infers a choice, and a ten-year-old has no choice. The approbation will be yours alone.”
“And the compliments will be yours, Ellen.” Her mother smiled and rang the small bell beside her plate. “You look so lovely in your new blue dress, dear, I’m certain Mr. Lodge will be smitten anew.”
Her new dress. She ran her hand over the smooth silk of the long full skirt of the fancy silver gown she wore. Her stylish clothes and the pampering she’d received had become her refuge against the hurt and loneliness of being without her friends. And the clothes and her beauty guaranteed her acceptance—
A Season of the Heart Page 9