The sob tearing at her throat choked off her air.
"I'm gonna take a walk," he said on a heavy sigh. "You go to bed, Rachel. Get some sleep." Reluctantly, he turned away and walked across the room.
She heard him take the steps, and each footfall echoed in the unnaturally loud silence.
He thought he was doing the right thing. He was trying to protect her in some strange, twisted way. She knew that. But what he didn't seem to understand was that he was already breaking her heart.
#
Two days later, Jackson pounded the last nail into the dance floor, then sat back on his haunches and grinned. It was a damn fine piece of work, if he did say so himself.
"You're really something, boss," Sam said and ran the flat of one hand across the smooth, sanded boards. "How in the heck did you think of those hinges, anyway?"
Jackson shot him a quick look, then glanced to the center of the floor where an almost invisible seam split the floor into two halves. Beneath that seam were three brass hinges. He'd designed the dance floor so that it could be folded in two for easier storage from one year to the next.
Shrugging, he said, "When Tessa told me they wanted to be able to tuck it away in a barn for next year, I just figured it'd be a lot easier if they could fold it up a bit."
Sam chuckled. "You 'just figured.' Nobody else would have thought of it, Jackson."
"Maybe," he said and stood up, taking the time to stretch muscles that ached with fatigue. He'd spent the last couple of days in a frenzy of work, trying to make himself tired enough so he could get to sleep at night.
It hadn't helped.
Even though he'd avoided spending any more time alone with Rachel, memories of those few minutes with her in the dimly lit great room kept him wide awake and tortured. He couldn't forget the feel of her.
The scent of her.
The taste of her.
Hell, he hadn't even been able to think about Lynch and the justice he so wanted to mete out.
Rachel invaded his every thought, and there was no escape.
Actually, there was an escape open to him. All he needed to do was find her a man. Then he'd be gone in a heartbeat and have the .rest of eternity to concentrate on the agony of not having her with him.
"So," Sam asked, interrupting his thoughts, "you want to get started staining it now?"
Jackson glanced at the cloudy sky above. There were still a couple of hours until nightfall. Plenty of time to get the first coat down. No sense going back to the Mercantile any earlier than he absolutely had to.
"Yeah." He nodded to one side. "The cans and brushes are stacked right over there."
Sam went to get the supplies, but kept talking as he walked. "You know, Jackson, I’ve been thinking."
He hoped Sam's thoughts were easier to deal with than his own. "Yeah?"
"I know you said that you wouldn't be staying in Stillwater for long."
His chest tightened.
"But I was wondering if maybe you might be willing to change your mind." Sam walked around the new flooring, careful to keep his dirty boots off the surface he’d just finished preparing.
"What are you talking about?" Jackson asked as he took one of the cans and a new paintbrush from the other man.
"Well," Sam said as he pried the lid off his can, picked up a stick and swished it through the dark brown stain slowly. "You know Mavis and I are getting married after church a week from Sunday."
"Since that's all you've talked about for two days, yeah. I know."
Sam grinned at him. "Well, I'm gonna be needing some steady work. Can’t be a husband who sits around all day while my wife sews and stitches her little fingers right down to the bone."
Jackson studied the stain in his can as he pushed it around with the stick. Not saying anything, he waited, sure Sam wasn't finished.
He wasn't.
"What I was thinking is," he said eagerly, "you and me could go into business together."
"What?"
"Now hear me out," he waved one hand at Jackson. "Stillwater's growing. And Seattle's not much more than a spit or two away. Good carpenters are hard to come by, you know."
"Sam…"
He didn't want to hear the other man's plans. It would only make it harder to tell him no. But Sam wasn’t slowing down, let alone stopping.
"Listen, Jackson. It would work out fine. The two of us would have more work than we could handle. There’s new shops going up every day in Seattle. With the amount of folks arriving all the time, they’re gonna need lots of new houses. We'd have to expand, hire some men to work for us. With the lumber mills around here, Lord knows there's plenty of supplies!" His dark eyes gleamed with opportunity. "The Territory’s growing, Jackson, and we could be a part of it. A big part."
"Sam, I —"
"Don't say no yet. Think about it." Sam picked up his can and headed for the far side of the floor. He sat down there and yanked off his boots. They’d have to work in their socks to avoid dirtying the floor. They would each start in the middle on either side and stain their way across and down the dance floor.
"It would work out, Jackson. I know it would." Sam grinned again. "Hale and Tate, Carpenters." He shrugged and chuckled. "Or, if you’d rather, Tate and Hale. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."
"Sam, look —"
"Think about it, Jackson. Just think about it. That's all I ask."
Sighing, Jackson tugged his boots off, then picked up the stain and brush and walked to his side of the floor. He glanced at the other man, who whistled happily under his breath.
Just what he needed.
One more thing to think about for the rest of eternity.
Chapter Fourteen
By early the next morning, Jackson knew that working himself to death wasn't going to cure him of wanting Rachel.
He lay wide awake in bed and listened to her moving around in her room, next to his. Her footsteps sounded quick and light on the plank floor, and he knew by the muffled tone whenever she stepped onto a throw rug. His mind drew images of what she must look like in her nightgown. No doubt, it was a prim, high-necked white cotton thing that covered her from throat to toes. It probably billowed out around her like a tent, hiding any sense of the figure beneath.
That vision should have helped. Instead, his mind toyed with the idea of undressing her with all the joy of a kid unwrapping a Christmas present.
But what would he know about that? Growing up as he had, Christmas had been just another day. One year, he'd actually sneaked over to his friend's house and peered in through the window to watch the holiday goings on. He could remember the ache he’d felt to be able to tear into the pretty wrappings just once. But he'd known even then that none of that finery was meant for him.
This thinking about Rachel was that same ache all over again. Only the pain went deeper. Hit harder.
Her hair was most likely messy and rumpled from sleep unless she wore it in one long braid for nighttime. In which case, he told himself, when it was undone and combed through, there would be rippling waves of honey laying across the white fabric shielding her shoulders and breasts.
Jackson winced, ground his teeth together, and yanked the flat pillow out from beneath his head to slam it down over his face. He flung his arms across it, pinning the goose feather thing down over his ears. If he could shut out the sound of her, perhaps it would shut off the thought of her.
Several minutes passed before he admitted defeat.
Grumbling under his breath, he sat up abruptly, tossed the pillow to the end of the bed, and got to his feet. Apparently, he didn’t have to hear her for his brain to torture him with images of her.
Jackson grabbed up his clothes from the chair near the bed and tugged them on. Shirt hanging open over his bare chest, he pulled his jeans on and cursed in a vicious whisper when he was forced to tug his button fly closed across his aching erection.
Blast it, this was no way for anybody to have to live — man or ghost.
His body throbbed in response.
"Enough’s enough," he grumbled and hopped on first one foot, then the other, to pull his boots on. Then, not even bothering to button his shirt, he stomped out of the room, down the hall to the stairs, which he took at a run.
Work wasn’t going to make him forget about Rachel and his need for her. That wasn’t the kind of activity he needed. Today, he would prove that by quitting work early, leaving Sam on his own. What Jackson needed was a willing woman with a warm body.
He’d been celibate too long, obviously. An hour or two with a practiced whore would take care of what ailed him. Then he could keep his mind on the job at hand.
By the time he reached the street and started toward the new house, he already felt better.
#
At lunch recess, Hester Sutton sat at her desk, going over her students' papers. From outside came the muted sounds of the children playing. Laughter, shouts, and a nonsensical song to jump rope by drifted in through the open windows. But she only half heard them. In truth, she wasn’t really concentrating on her work, either.
A soft smile crossed her face briefly as she remembered the night before.
For more than two hours, she and Charlie Miller had sat together in the porch swing in front of her house for all the world to see. Of course, they'd both been perfectly proper. Hester had made sure there was at least five inches of space between them on the swing. Charlie had held her hand gently, as if she were made of some fine, fragile china, and Hester had never known such magic.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the gentle swaying motion of the swing. She could hear Charlie’s deep voice as he talked about work and his plans for the future.
She sighed and laid her pencil on the desktop. It had been a nearly perfect evening. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a kiss. Surprised at her own forwardness, Hester sat up straight and flushed guiltily.
"Miss Sutton?"
A thin, young voice shattered her daydream, and Hester reluctantly let it go to focus on the little girl standing in front of her desk.
She hadn’t even heard the child come inside. Molly Beaker, ten years old with knobby knees, red braids, and a splash of freckles across her tiny nose, waited patiently.
"Yes Molly," Hester said with a smile. "What is it?"
The girl ducked her head and a flush of deep scarlet rushed up her neck to her cheeks. "My ma says to tell you that we can't get no more paper for school till next month, maybe."
"Any more paper," Hester corrected quietly.
"Yes ma'am, any more."
The girl was still looking at her shoes and so missed the sadness that briefly tinged Hester's smile. Molly's mother, a widow, was the cook at a lumber camp outside of town. With three children, the woman did the very best she could, but money was a hard thing to stretch.
Her heart ached for the little girl. Hester remembered quite clearly the sharp sting of humiliation and knew from experience that children suffered more greatly with such things than adults. She could still recall being the only girl in school who didn't have shoes until she was nearly twelve.
Old pain bubbled up, simmered, then slipped into memory where it belonged. Her parents had done what they could. There simply hadn't been enough money to care for ten kids.
Reaching into the deep, bottom desk drawer, Hester pulled out three Indian Chief paper tablets from the supply she kept for just such emergencies. Quietly, she'd made it her business to see that no child did without if she could help it. When she offered the tablets to Molly, though, the girl glanced up, shook her head, and took a step back.
"Oh, no, ma'am," she whispered. "We couldn't be taking charity. That wouldn’t sit well with ma at all. But I thank you anyhow."
Pride.
A wonderful thing, especially in a child.
"Why Molly." Hester drew her head back and affected a look of utter surprise. "I wouldn't dream of offering you charity."
"You wouldn't?" Two wide, blue eyes grew even wider.
"Of course not." Hester set the tablets on the edge of the desk, within reach of the girl who could barely take her eyes off them. "I was going to ask you to do me a great favor."
"You were?"
"You see," Hester explained gently, "I'm not sure at all if I prefer these tablets or another kind for schoolwork. I was hoping that perhaps you and your little sisters wouldn't mind using these and letting me know what you think."
Molly reached up and chewed at one small fingertip. Hester knew that feeling well. In times of worry, she had been known to gnaw at her own fingers until they bled. Although, she admitted silently, she hadn't been chewing them at all, lately.
"Then," she added, "when these tablets are used up, I'd like to give you each one of the other tablets. So you could compare the two and tell me which is best."
By the time the girls finished with the second tablet, school would be out for the summer break.
"So we would kind of be working for you, huh?"
"Oh yes," Hester said softly. "This is a very important study."
"We could do that," the girl said softly and reached one hand for the precious paper. "I think ma would understand."
"Thank you so much, Molly," Hester said. "It will be a great help to me."
The girl’s fingers curled around the stack of tablets, and she tucked them carefully to her chest. "We'll pay real good attention, Miss Sutton, and tell you honest which one is better."
"I know I can count on you, Molly." She nodded solemnly. "And be sure to tell your mother how much I appreciate your help."
"Oh I will, ma' am." Molly gave her teacher a wide grin and backed away. "She'll be proud that you asked us."
Hester nodded again. "Good. Now, you had better go and eat your lunch, Molly. Recess will be over shortly."
"Yes ma'am." The child scuttled down the aisle, ducked behind the cloakroom door, and disappeared from sight.
Hester stood up, stepped off the raised platform where her desk sat, and walked to one of the bank of windows lining each side of the small building. Leaning against the window sash, Hester watched the children playing, her mind drifting with the soft spring breeze that slipped into the room.
"That was a kind thing." a deep, familiar voice said, causing Hester's heartbeat to race wildly.
Slowly, she turned around to watch Charlie Miller walk up the center aisle of the schoolhouse toward her. His hair neatly combed, he held his hat in one hand, while the other hand he kept hidden behind his back. He wore a freshly washed red and black checked shirt, black pants, and his knee-high leather boots had been polished to a high sheen.
He looked wonderful.
Immediately, Hester took note of her own appearance. Something she hadn’t even bothered with much until the last few days. Inwardly groaning, she wished she had worn her soft blue dress to school today. Instead, she wore a serviceable gray gown that was now liberally coated with chalk dust. Her fingers were ink stained and her hair was scraped back into her usual no-nonsense topknot.
She must look an absolute vision.
What a disheartening thing it was to know that the man you were sweet on was so much better looking than yourself.
Charlie's heart swelled inside his barrel chest until he thought it might burst. She was such a fine lady, he told himself. So kind. Gentle. Just looking into her pale blue eyes made him wish and hope for things that he knew were well beyond his reach. Why would a lovely woman with more book learning than he could imagine be interested in someone like him?
The fistful of wildflowers and apple blossoms he held behind his back now seemed silly. Not nearly good enough. Not for her.
"I'm sorry," Hester said softly. "What did you say?"
He cleared his throat because it felt like his collar was strangling him. "I said, that was a kind thing you did, for the girl."
"Oh." She flushed and a deep
rose color flooded her cheeks, making her even more beautiful to him. "I didn't know there was anyone else here."
He took one step closer, forcing his big clumsy feet to move. "That's part of what made it so kind." Scowling at himself for being as awkward with words as he was with his feet, he went on. "I mean, you done something nice for her. Kind. And you didn't do it so everybody would think well of you."
"I would never do that," she said, stunned.
Damn, he had known he would make a mess of this. Now he’d gone and offended her. He took another step, kicked a desk, and knocked it into the one beside it. Some child's papers slid off the tilted surface and spilled onto the floor.
"Ah…" Miserable, he shook his head, then bent down to grab them up at the same time she hurried forward to help. He smacked his forehead into hers, and they both straightened abruptly.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she rubbed her forehead gingerly. Charlie felt like a fool. He'd only come to… hell, he wasn't even sure now why he'd come. But it was for sure that he'd do better to leave quick before he did something else humiliating.
"I'm sure sorry, Miss Hester," he said and started backing up. "I didn't mean to make a mess, or," he waved one huge hand at her, "to hurt you."
Hester closed the space separating them, the growing knot on her head forgotten. He was leaving. Already.
"It was my fault," she said quickly. "I stepped right into your way without thinking."
"Oh, no, ma' am," Charlie answered. "You didn’t do nothing. It was me. Always is. Just clumsy, is all." He tossed a look over his shoulder, then glanced back at her. "I better be going, Miss Hester. I’ve got to get back to work, and you got school and all…"
His voice trailed away and Hester didn't even stop to wonder why it was that around him she didn’t feel shy at all. Instead, she only asked, "Why did you stop by, Charlie? Was there something you wanted?"
He winced as if in pain.
Immediately, Hester worried. Something must be dreadfully wrong. He looked so out of sorts. Stepping in close, she touched his arm and looked up into his eyes. She saw him glance down at her hand, then held her breath as he looked into her eyes.
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