Maybe after she’d finished the painting, she’d offer to watch the children. In the meantime, the drapes still needed to be hung. She stared up at the drapery hardware on either side of the window, and worked out what she’d need to do without a second set of hands. Lifting the draperies over her shoulder, she said aloud, “How difficult could it be?”
Half an hour later, Clara stepped off the ladder, muttering to herself, the drapes still over her shoulder. It was obvious what she should do. She should wait or go find help. But there was something of her father in her, actually there was a greater portion of her father’s temperament in her than her mother’s. A self-made man, defeat was not a part of his vocabulary. He’d taught her the satisfaction that could be found in tackling any difficulty with a do or die attitude. Well, that’s exactly what she needed at this moment.
She lay the drapes over the ladder, and positioned it against the right side of the window frame. Next, she scooted the table close to the wall beneath the left side of the window frame. If she could thread the casing of the right-hand drape on the pole, and rest it on top of the ladder, she should be able to thread the second drape onto the left side by standing on the table.
With a deep breath and a silent prayer, she climbed the ladder and managed to thread the drape onto the pole. The next part would present some athletic ability that she’d never really demonstrated. If she could keep the pole balanced on the top of the ladder, she should be able to step across the four feet of space between the ladder and the table. She studied the gap and swallowed hard. Nothing ventured, nothing . . .”
Reaching out with her left toe, she felt for secure footing on the table. She pressed the fingertips of her left hand to the window for support while holding the pole in her right hand. So far, so good. Shifting her weight slowly to the table, she brought her right foot to meet her left. She felt the table wobble and quickly slid her left foot farther to the side of the table to counter her weight. She remained in that awkward, somewhat spread-eagle position, her heart pounding. Glancing back to the ladder, she was relieved to see the pole with the right-hand drape still balanced there. So far, her strategy was working.
She reached down for the left-side drape and grabbed it while keeping her eyes focused to the right on the pole balancing precariously on the ladder. Slowly straightening again, she carefully threaded the pole through the drapery casing. The pole with the additional weight of the drapery was surprisingly heavy as she lifted it over her head. All she had to do now was place the left side of the pole onto the waiting hardware. Almost there. She drew in another deep breath and held it. It was as she was stretching her arms up to the limit of her five feet four inches, that the door opened.
Startled, Clara’s careful attention to the pole balanced on the ladder shifted. As she attempted to reposition it, the heavy fabric fell before her eyes and over her head. The table reacted to her sudden movements by tipping. Clara tried to slide her feet to compensate for the gravity pulling at the table. As she did, her heel caught in the drapery fabric. The rest was both an act of nature and providence.
As she felt herself falling, the drapery covering her like a shroud, she was aware of strong hands grasping her about the waist. The floor did not rush up to meet her, instead her landing was rather soft as she rolled into the arms of her rescuer with a loud expulsion of the breath she’d been holding. Desperate to fight her way out of the fabric, she flung her arms ineffectively to free herself.
“Calm down. I’ll get you free if you stop all the flailing.”
She froze at the sound of the man’s voice laced with the familiar Scottish brogue.
“That’s better,” he said. “Just don’t panic.”
How dare he suggest she was panicking! She wiggled, again trying to free her arms.
“Stop thrashing about,” he said, sounding less patient this time.
When he’d unwrapped her and she was standing amidst a pile of drapery, she tried to step away from him. Her heel caught in the fabric and she fell backwards. Humiliated, she watched as her feet flew up along with her petticoat, exposing her stockinged legs all the way to her knees. She sat up, tugging at her skirts, to see Mr. Kincaid watching her with an amused expression.
He squatted beside her. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine.” She diverted her eyes and smoothed her skirt.
“That’s good. You could have taken a nasty fall. Glad I was here to catch you.” He rose to his feet and offered his hand to her.
She ignored it and pushed herself to her feet, as she offered him a stiff smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced to the window, taking in the ladder and the table. “I take it you were trying to hang the drapes by yourself?”
Brushing her hair from her face, she bit back a sharp retort to his observation of an obvious fact.
“Looks like you could use some help.” He didn’t wait for her to ask, but stepped to the window and moved the table to the side. “I think I can reach it, if you think you can manage the right side from the ladder.”
He was indeed tall enough to slide the pole into place while she attached the right. As she descended the ladder, she felt his hand against her back, supporting her as she stepped to the floor. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Kincaid.”
She pushed the table beneath the window again, while Mr. Kincaid carried the ladder to the hallway outside. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.
Before she could ask, he said, “I was just talking to Bart Long about next year’s spring sheep drive. Think I’ve convinced him we can handle doubling the flock.”
Clara began collecting her paints and packing them while he spoke. She couldn’t imagine why he thought she’d be interested in the Hartmann’s livestock.
“If we do, well, if Mr. Hartmann agrees, we’ll be needing more herding dogs.”
So that was it? Clara rose to her feet and faced him.
“I was thinking you might be willing to sell your pups. They’ll be from good stock. Alec is a superior herding dog, and your bitch is bound to throw some fine pups. Would you—”
“Would I sell Daisy’s pups to you?”
He pursed his lips. Reacting to her sudden change of manner, his tone was defensive. “Well, yes, in fact. I thought you probably didn’t have the need or the place to raise them properly.”
“Maybe you thought wrong. And what do you mean by ‘raising them properly’? Haven’t I provided for Daisy? She hardly had a proper upbringing when I rescued her.”
He frowned. “I’m sure you did her a favor. But she’s a border collie.”
He said it as if that were the end of the subject, as though that was somehow explanation for her inability to raise her properly. “At least, part border collie. What’s your point, Mr. Kincaid?”
“My point, Miss Webster, is that the dog was bred for an express purpose. Have you ever noticed her herding the children who come into the bookshop? Have you? I have. She’s showing you what she was made to do.” There was steel in his eyes. “Are you planning on dressing up all your pups in fancy bows and leather collars, then?”
Clara stiffened, balling her hands into fists. “If I do, it’s my business, Mr. Kincaid. Mine alone.”
Chapter Twelve
DECEMBER 10, 1891
Clara sat on the floor in the children’s aisle, stroking Daisy’s head. From the front window, morning sunlight created a little circle of warmth just where the dog chose to nap. Her stomach had swelled over the past few days, leaving no doubt in Clara’s mind that those puppies would soon become her added responsibility. Despite her growing girth, Daisy still made her daily circuits about the shop as her regular habit. But she’d definitely added more naps to her routine.
“What are we going to do, girl? The Reynolds have been kind to let you stay with me, but they didn’t count on puppies.” She hugged her knees to her chest, recalling Graham Kincaid’s offer. She might have been open to his suggestion had he not gone too far b
y complaining about her ability to care properly for the puppies. “I’ve never once tied a bow on you, have I, Daisy? Although, you would look rather sweet with one.” She scowled.
She pictured Mr. Kincaid’s dog, Alec, as he ran ahead of the shepherd last fall, bringing the sheep down from the northern grazing lands. He certainly appeared to enjoy the work. And he did his share, because the herd by that time had grown to include lambs. Would Daisy’s pups be big enough by spring to go along on the drive?
The shop bell tinkled as the door opened. Children’s voices followed. Clara made her way to the front of the store, where she found three women and a collection of a dozen children. They ranged in age from perhaps five to ten. She smiled at them as they made their way to the children’s section.
“Good morning, ladies. Children.” Using her brightest welcoming voice, she asked, “How may I help you?”
Nearly an hour later, as she was tying a string around the last woman’s purchases, one of the ladies called to her friends to come to the back of the shop. Hoping that the woman had found more books to purchase, Clara followed behind. Even before she reached them, she heard soft growls coming from the back of the store. She quickened her pace.
“Look at that! Have you ever seen anything like it?” one mother said.
The children stood in a tight cluster, some laughing, others frozen in place, silent, with eyes wide, as Daisy circled them. Every few paces, she’d drop and make a soft growl before rising and padding a little farther around the children.
One little boy took two steps away from the group, and Daisy dashed forward, doing nothing more than hunching down in front of him. Sufficiently intimidated, the child retreated to the safety of the circle.
Clara stared in shocked disbelief.
“Whose dog is that?” one woman demanded. “Bad dog!” She shook her finger at Daisy.
“She’d never hurt them.” Clara rushed forward, grabbing Daisy by the collar.
“Well, I should hope not!” The woman grabbed her child’s arm and led him away, grumbling to herself.
Another woman shook her head and commented to her friend. “Isn’t that interesting? I do believe that dog is treating them just like sheep. I’ve seen Rex do that in the pasture with the goats.”
She was right, Daisy was herding the children, just as Kincaid had said.
When Mrs. Reynolds returned to the shop later in the morning, Clara followed her into her office, eager to speak with her before they were interrupted. After a discussion about a new arrival of inventory, Clara took a ponderous breath. Before starting in, she set a cup of tea on Mrs. Reynolds’ desk. “May we talk?”
“Well, you must be clairvoyant, Clara. That’s exactly what I was thinking of making for myself. Now, what is it you wish to discuss?”
Clara waited for her to take a sip. She couldn’t think of any casual way to introduce the topic, so she blurted it out. “Mr. Kincaid offered to buy Daisy’s pups yesterday.”
“Really? Why, that’s good news.” Mrs. Reynolds cocked her head. “Isn’t it? You don’t look pleased.”
“I don’t know.” She sank into the chair on the opposite side of Mrs. Reynold’s desk. “I suppose it’s best. I mean I couldn’t ask you and Dr. Reynolds to take in puppies, especially not at a time like this.” She waved her hand, taking in the general vicinity of Mrs. Reynolds’ growing middle.
“It might be difficult,” Mrs. Reynolds said graciously. “Perhaps one.”
“Mr. Kincaid told me that the ranch might want more herding dogs.”
“I see.” Mrs. Reynolds picked up her pen and the inventory list from the most recent shipment. “Well, that seems fortuitous.”
“So, you think I should take him up on his offer then?” This didn’t feel like a discussion.
Mrs. Reynolds looked up. “That’s up to you. But given the offer and the need to find homes for who knows how many puppies, it does seem prudent to accept.”
“I suppose.”
“I was talking to Dr. Reynolds just last night about Daisy’s imminent delivery of her puppies. He was thinking that Mr. Kincaid might be more knowledgeable about helping her when the time comes. I mean, there are similarities, of course, but Dr. Reynolds is not a veterinarian, after all. He was wondering if you would consider moving her to the ranch?”
Clara bit down on her lower lip. That would mean Daisy would be away from her for who knew how long. Still, if the doctor wasn’t confident. . . Oh, if only it was anyone but Mr. Kincaid.
“He’s probably done this countless times.” Mrs. Reynolds said. “He’s certainly been with the sheep when they’ve birthed. I’m quite certain Mr. Kincaid would be gentle with her.”
The memory of the shepherd’s hand pressed against her back gave her a strange tingling pleasure. Yes, perhaps in addition to being opinionated, he could be gentle.
Chapter Thirteen
DECEMBER 11, 1891
With flour dusting her sleeves all the way to her elbows, Jessie greeted Clara at the back door. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She looked over Clara’s shoulder to Mr. Kincaid, who was about to lead the horse back to the barn. “You, too, Graham. Lena and I have been watching those clouds piling up there in the mountains and worrying that they might be moving in before evening. We’d sure like to get that tree cut before snow falls. Would you two mind going out to find one? Bart can come later and give you a hand if you need help getting it back. But I was hoping to have some greenery today so I could start making a garland and a wreath for the fireplace.”
“Me?” Clara asked. “You want me to go?”
“Well, yeah. I’d never trust Bart with such a thing. I did last year, and he brought back this scrawny thing a dog wouldn’t even consider worthy of lifting his leg for. But you’ve got a trained eye, and we want a perfect tree this year, something special for Rebecca and the twins.” Jessie frowned, looking at Clara’s coat and town boots. “Come inside and let me find something else for you to wear. You’ll get sap all over that coat, and I have a pair of barn boots that might fit you.”
A few minutes later, Graham watched as Clara emerged from the ranch house in a coat a few sizes too big for her petite frame. She took slow awkward steps across the yard in heavy boots equally too large for her feet. When he offered her his hand to assist her into the wagon, she gave him a surprising smile that he took for thanks.
Jessie ran out of the house carrying a heavy wool blanket and called out, “You might want to take this along in case the weather turns nasty.”
As Graham took the blanket from her, he leaned close and whispered, “It won’t work, you know.”
Jessie gave him a blank stare. “Whatever do you mean?”
“This matchmaking. Doesn’t the expression go ‘a match made in heaven’? Think such things are a little out of your control.” He gave her a wink to show her there were no hard feelings.
Jessie’s cheeks flamed.
He turned back to the wagon and lay the blanket across Clara’s lap. “Just in case, she says.” The girl looked somewhat alarmed, so Graham added, “Don’t worry. I won’t let us get trapped up there in a snow storm. I have a bit more sense than the woman gives me credit for. Besides, we don’t have to go far to find one.”
Graham patted his leg and whistled to his dog. Alec bounded across the yard and jumped in the back of the wagon. Looking pleased with his luck to be invited along, the dog settled himself behind Clara.
A recent rain had stripped most, but not all, of the leaves from both the aspens and maple trees, opening the views to the foothills and the higher peaks of the Sawtooths farther north. It was pretty, but he preferred the vistas from the higher valleys where one didn’t have to see smoke curling from chimneys. Up there, a man could experience true peace and a quiet not possible in cities.
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”
After traveling for some time in silence, he started at her sudden question. He turned his face to look at her. “Lonely?”
“Up th
ere in those mountains without a soul to talk to for weeks on end. Isn’t it lonely?”
He pursed his lips and followed her gaze to the upper range wearing a fresh blanket of snow. “A few of us choose it. I don’t fear the solitude as some might. And I don’t think of it as lonely.”
“But no human voices, no conversations. To say the least, it seems an austere life.” Her brow was creased as though the idea of solitude disturbed her.
“Maybe they aren’t with humans, but I do have conversations.” He reached over the wagon seat and scratched Alec’s head. “Don’t we, old boy? We’ve had discussions ranging from the writings of Robert Burns to Robert Louis Stephenson.” He chuckled. “You’d be impressed by Alec’s erudite analysis of poetry, particularly those from our fellow Scotsmen.”
She smiled at that. It was a pretty smile, lacking in guile. Perhaps the women of the Hartmann house had traps laid for him, feminine notions of matchmaking, but he didn’t perceive such devious intentions in Miss Webster. He wondered what would bring such a young refined woman here to this wilderness. She was far too citified for a place like Idaho.
“So, you read?” she asked.
He slid a wry smile her way. “Actually, I do. Learned when I was a wee lad. Most helpful when I need to know which tin can holds the beans. The label, you know. It helps to be able to read the labels.”
Clara’s cheeks turned bright crimson. “I didn’t mean to suggest . . . You know what I mean.”
Graham laughed, feeling little compunction about rubbing her face in her own preconceptions. “If you mean, do I read books, yes. I enjoy taking a few favorite authors along with me each summer. They don’t take up much room and they don’t eat up my food supply.”
A Hartmann Ranch Christmas Page 7