Their Mistletoe Matchmakers

by Keli Gwyn

  Mr. Nichols looked from Lavinia to Henry. “I owe you both an apology.”

  Hope sprang to life. Could the banker have gotten his facts wrong? Had he discovered that Jack had paid off the loan years before?

  “It was evident neither of you knew about the mortgage, which I found puzzling.”

  Lavinia leaned forward. “I’m curious why you hadn’t mentioned it to Henry before, after his brother’s passing. Surely, with Henry being Jack’s executor, you would have wanted him to be aware of your bank’s claim on the estate.”

  Her question echoed one Henry had asked himself.

  “I’d assumed he would have found the papers among Jack’s things and come to see me if he had any questions. Since he hadn’t and the date of the payment was drawing near, I decided to bring up the matter when I saw you two alone at Emery’s wedding.”

  “Lavinia and I searched the house afterward, but we didn’t find anything.”

  Mr. Nichols shook his head. “No. You wouldn’t have, and that’s my fault. It wasn’t until yesterday that I recalled a brief conversation Jack and I had back in the fall of ’56. Much of Placerville had been destroyed in a series of fires earlier that year. Because fires are common occurrences with the many wooden buildings in the towns here in the Gold Country, such as this one, our bank had just purchased one of Wilder’s fireproof Salamander safes, which I’d mentioned to Jack. He brought in the promissory note and asked me to store it inside. I had my teller go through the safe first thing this morning. He located the note in the back behind some papers we rarely remove.” The banker held up the document he’d placed on his desktop. “I’m sorry about the confusion.”

  Henry’s mouth had gone dry, making forming his question difficult, but it had to be asked. “Where do things stand?”

  Mr. Nichols smoothed his neatly trimmed mustache and cleared his throat, delaying tactics that heightened Henry’s anxiety. “I don’t know if Jack told you, but he was having some difficulty making ends meet. His annual mortgage payment was due on the thirtieth of June, but he didn’t have the money this past summer. When the other smithy in town opened a few years back, he experienced a drop in business. He asked for an extension on the loan this past May. Since he was a valued customer and had never been late on a payment before, the board granted it.”

  “An extension?” Lavinia asked. “For how long?”

  “Six months. The payment is due the thirty-first.”

  “That’s only two weeks from today.” She glanced at Henry, the shock on her face mirroring what he felt.

  “How much is it?” He braced himself for the answer.

  Mr. Nichols spun the ledger around and pointed to a number. Henry and Lavinia leaned forward. “This is how much is due that day, but this—” the banker moved his finger to another figure “—is the total balance remaining.”

  Henry chest tightened. The amount was equal to five payments, meaning the house wouldn’t be paid off for another four years.

  Lavinia’s lovely features had relaxed, so much so that she appeared calm and composed when Henry was anything but. “My sister did mention in a letter several years ago that she feared Jack might have been out to impress her by building such a large house. Apparently, he overextended himself. What will happen now?”

  “Nothing...” Mr. Nichols let the word hang for several nerve-wracking seconds, “provided the payment is made on time.”

  “I’ll make it, but...” Reality settled on Henry with the weight of an anvil. At present, he couldn’t even make the mortgage payment due at the end of the month.

  Lavinia sat there silently waiting, as did Mr. Nichols.

  A grandfather clock stood in the corner like a sentry. Each tick of its pendulum was a stark reminder of how little time was left before the loan payment would come due.

  Henry fought a wave of nausea. If he couldn’t come up with the payment, he could lose the house. He refused to let that happen—he’d do whatever it took, even if it meant lowering the asking price for his hotel up in Marysville to facilitate a quick sale. “It could take me a few days to come up with the money.”

  The banker spun the ledger around, closed it with an ominous thump and rested his clasped hands on top of the leather cover. “My friend, Emery Staples, said you mentioned having found a buyer for Jack’s shop.”

  “I did, but things didn’t work out quite like I planned.” He explained the terms of the sale. “I gave Dealy my word. I can’t go back on it.”

  “Of course not,” Lavinia agreed quickly, easing some of the tension in Henry’s shoulders, “but there are other ways out of your situation.”

  His relief was short-lived. The banker might interpret her statement as supportive and encouraging, but Henry knew exactly what she was suggesting. She wanted him to let her take the children back east, but nothing and no one—not even the curly-haired beauty with eyes as warm as a steaming mug of cocoa—would make him consider giving up his nieces and nephew.

  Mr. Nichols nodded. “Miss Crowne has a point.” It’s possible I could find a buyer for the house who would assume the loan and pay you the difference between that and the price you agreed on.”

  Lavinia smiled. “That would be kind of you.” She turned from the banker to him. “Wouldn’t it, Henry?”

  “I have no intention of selling the house.” He stood, gave her a curt nod of dismissal and held out a hand to the banker. “Thank you for apprising us of the situation, Mr. Nichols. I’ll be in contact soon.”

  But first, he had to figure out a solution to the dilemma that had been dropped in his lap.

  * * *

  Sweat ran down Henry’s face. His muscles ached and his lungs burned, but he didn’t care. Pounding red-hot iron had eased some of the tension that had him tied in knots.

  Why had Jack jeopardized his family’s future by taking out a mortgage on his house? And why hadn’t his brother said anything about it? Those questions had plagued Henry ever since he’d walked out of Mr. Nichols’s office two hours ago.

  Henry gripped the wolf jaw tongs firmly and studied the piece held in them. Despite not having worked with metal in eight years, his decorative twists on the long handle had turned out well, as had the elongated bowl shape below them. Now to put the final details on the leaf he’d made earlier before welding it just below the loop from which the utensil would hang.

  Dealy nodded approvingly. “You haven’t lost your touch, Mr. Hawthorn.”

  Henry started. He’d been concentrating so deeply on his work that he’d forgotten the young smithy, who was hard at work in the shop that was now his. He’d invited Henry to try his hand. In his present state, taking his frustrations out on metal had seemed like a good idea. It was better than snapping at the woman who could make him happier than a kitten under a leaky cow one minute and madder than a cat caught in a creek the next. “Smithing is like milking. Once you’ve done it, you don’t forget how.”

  “Why’d ya give it up?”

  That was a good question. He set down the items and stared at his hands, which were coated with charcoal and soot. “I suppose it’s because I wanted to experience new things.”

  “I love the work. I can’t imagine doing nothing else.”

  Henry clapped a hand on Dealy’s shoulder. “You do fine work. I’m glad to know you’ll be keeping Jack’s dream alive. He wanted this shop to be one of the best in the Gold Country.”

  “Don’t know if I can make that happen, but you won’t find many who work as hard as me.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” The young man’s confidence reminded Henry of himself. He’d headed west determined to make something of himself, and he had. He’d left Sutter Creek for Marysville eight years ago with his meager savings. Now he owned a successful hotel, providing housing for others, although he hoped he wouldn’t own it much longer.

&nbs
p; If only a buyer would come along who was willing to buy the hotel at the reduced price he’d telegraphed to his Marysville lawyer before heading to the smithy. He could then use the money to pay off Jack’s mortgage and see to it that the children would be able to remain in their home.

  He left the shop, completed the gentle climb up Church Street, entered the house and removed his coat, hat and gloves. Once again, he was struck by his hands. He’d vowed not to do the work of a smithy again, not to bear the stains that marked him as a common laborer. What had come over him? He could have bought that silver-handled shoehorn at the mercantile, but instead he’d made one out of iron. Was it the need to release the tension that had been building for weeks, the urge to stand where Jack had stood and remember the bond they’d forged when they were boys—or something else entirely?

  The answer came swiftly. He missed his brother deeply, but the reason he’d felt the need to pound iron was because he’d hoped Lavinia would have admitted defeat and retreated by now. She had no right to take the children, and yet she wasn’t about to back down. The exasperating woman was as determined as she was beautiful.

  He didn’t want to fight with her. He wanted to kiss her. Soundly.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lavinia stood in the kitchen the following afternoon, gripping the mixing bowl with one hand and the wooden spoon with the other and rehearsed to herself. “You offered to help me with the party, Henry, and I’d welcome your assistance.”

  No, that wouldn’t work. If she approached Henry with a request like that, he might get the impression she wanted him around, which she didn’t. After the heated look he’d given her when they’d left Mr. Nichols’s office, the last thing she needed was Henry thinking she enjoyed his company.

  She stirred the dry ingredients with such vigor that she almost fluffed the flour over the side as she had the day before. Apparently, she’d managed to get some on her face in the process. Warmth rushed into her cheeks at the memory of him brushing away the evidence of her mishap.

  He’d been so intent on his task that he’d forgotten where they were, or so it had seemed, since he’d started and jerked his hand away. While that had been surprising, what was even more so was the attraction evident in his eyes. She’d thought she’d seen admiration in them when she’d prepared to descend the stairs during Mr. Staples and Gladys’s wedding. Perhaps she’d been right, after all, and Henry was drawn to her. She swiped the back of her hand over the spot where his fingers had rested far longer than was necessary and smiled. A woman did like to be noticed by a man, especially by such a handsome one.

  Unfortunately, his obstinacy was proving problematic. He was as set on keeping the children in Sutter Creek as she was on taking them back to Philadelphia. What he didn’t know, though, was that the meeting with Mr. Nichols had given her the grounds she needed to build a case against him. Henry might be the executor, but he’d violated at least three statutes.

  One article of the law allowed him two months to give notice to the estate’s creditors, or the court could revoke the letters of administration that granted him his rights. She’d discovered from perusing back issues of the Amador Weekly Ledger, loaned to her by Norma’s husband, that Henry hadn’t placed such a notice in the newspaper. Through a series of tactfully worded questions while at the mercantile checking on her housekeeper advertisement, Lavinia had also learned from the talkative owner that Henry hadn’t posted any notices around town either, thus putting him in violation.

  If that was all she had to go on, she might have trouble making a case. Sutter Creek was a small town, after all, and everyone was aware of the tragedy that had befallen Jack and Pauline. Any of her brother-in-law’s creditors would surely have come forward as Mr. Nichols had.

  But Lavinia had more to go on than that. Reading the applicable statutes as many times as she had helped her remember them. When Henry had told her and Mr. Nichols about the sale of the smithy to Mr. Dealy on credit, she’d known right away she had what she needed to challenge Henry’s position as executor.

  First, he’d neglected to get permission from the probate judge for the sale of Jack’s shop, which was required by law. Second, Henry had agreed to sell the smithy, granting Mr. Dealy a loan with payments extending more than three years into the future, which was more than the length of time a guardian was allowed for the sale of property belonging to minors on credit.

  As soon as possible, she would pay Mr. Price a visit. If all went well, the lawyer would be willing to take her case now. They could petition the courts to have Henry removed as executor and challenge his rights as guardian at the same time because he’d failed to carry out all his duties. Since she was the nearest relative, aside from her father, who was back east, surely the judge would grant her the guardianship.

  That’s enough strategizing, Lavinia. She needed to continue her campaign to win support in the community, which meant she must come up with a better way of asking Henry to help her because no one was interested in the housekeeper job. The owner of the mercantile hadn’t received a single inquiry about the advertisement she’d placed on the board at the back of his shop. And she couldn’t ask Norma to come to her rescue, although her generous neighbor had invited Dot over to spend the afternoon with her playmate, giving Lavinia some much-needed time to figure out how to deal with her predicament.

  As she’d experimented with some desserts, the solution had become clear. Her only remaining option was to ask Henry for help. There was no way she could create the refreshments for the party on her own. Although she’d learned as much as possible from Gladys, her cooking skills were rudimentary and her baking skills even more limited.

  Another approach was in order. Lavinia stirred the beginnings of the cake batter slowly and strove for a pleasant tone that didn’t convey her desperation. “I could use a hand with some baking, Henry, if your offer still stands.”

  That didn’t work either. It sounded like she doubted his sincerity. He was a man of his word, which he’d proven at their meeting with Mr. Nichols. Even though the banker had stunned Henry with the news of the impending mortgage payment, he hadn’t given a thought to altering the verbal agreement he’d made with Mr. Dealy regarding his purchase of the blacksmith shop, a choice that could end up working in her favor. Instead, Henry had stated his decision to honor the agreed-upon terms without hesitation.

  Yes. That was it. She would follow his example and make her request without prevaricating. “Will you please help me prepare the desserts for the party, Henry?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The wooden spoon she’d been holding clattered to the floor. She spun around. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I gathered that since you’ve been talking to yourself.” He leaned against the door frame, his arms and feet crossed, looking entirely too appealing, which added to the sudden wave of light-headedness causing her to reel. She clutched the counter behind her for support.

  “Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively and stooped to retrieve the spoon, giving her time to come up with a response. “I was just figuring out which approach would be the most effective. You men respond differently to requests than we women do.”

  “You missed the obvious.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Compliments. A man thrives on them.” His droll smile and waggling eyebrows took her by surprise. Something must have happened to put him in such good spirits.

  “I see. So what should I have said? Something like this, perhaps?” She clasped her hands, tilted her head and batted her eyelashes in fawning-schoolgirl fashion. “Henry, you’re such a talented baker. I’d be honored if you’d put your culinary skills to work on my behalf. Would you do that, please?”

  He swept low in a deep bow and came up grinning. “My dear lady, it would give me great pleasure to come to your rescue.”

  Her rescue? Had he fig
ured out her party plans were in jeopardy?

  “However, I feel compelled to add a caveat.”

  She fought the urge to gulp. “Yes?”

  “I’ll do the baking, provided you work alongside me, allowing me to serve as your instructor.”

  Although his request was reasonable, spending that much time with him might not be wise, considering how much she enjoyed his company. She ought to be keeping her distance, not agreeing to spend days with him in such close proximity, but what choice did she have? “Very well. I’ll be your sous-chef.”

  “Are these your creations?” His gaze rested on the kitchen table filled with her attempts at creating something edible. Sadly, her efforts hadn’t yielded anything remotely resembling the tasty treats Henry and Gladys had made.

  “Such as they are, yes.”

  He picked up a snickerdoodle. The cookie broke into pieces when he bit into it. His quick movements enabled him to catch them before they hit the floor.

  “When I first took them out of the oven, they looked fine, but they flattened and got brittle.”

  He crunched the bite, swallowed and gave her an encouraging smile. “They’re tasty.”

  It was nice of him to find something to compliment. “I did everything it said in the recipe.”

  “How long did you stir the batter?”

  “It said to mix it thoroughly, so I did.”

  “That could be it. The recipe books don’t tell you, but ‘mix thoroughly,’ in this case, means just until the ingredients are combined.”

  She extended her lower lip and blew out a breath, causing the curls that had broken loose to flutter. “Well, they should have said that. If I were writing a recipe, I would.”

  The front door opened, and the children rushed in, chattering as they removed their coats.

  Marcie was the first to appear in the kitchen. “Something smells really good. Oh! You made cookies.” She grabbed one and chomped down, repeatedly, until a piece broke off. She spat it onto her palm. “What happened? It’s as hard as a rock!”