Sarah held the rose-colored dress up for Emma's examination.
"Now that's a mighty fine little dress," she said, her Kentucky twang drawing out each word. "What little girl wouldn't give her right pinky finger for a dress like that?"
Sarah laughed. "You do have a way with words, Miss Emma."
The blond, blue-eyed landlady gave a cheerful smile, showing bright, straight teeth and a dimple in her left cheek. She was the kind of woman men fell over, but it hadn't taken Sarah long to discover Emma wasn't about drawing attention to herself, particularly attention of the male variety. If anything, she wore aloofness like a coat of armor, and any man fool enough to attempt to remove it might very well pay for the act with a wounded ego. "I got no use for men," Emma had told Sarah one night while the two sat at her kitchen table sipping hot tea. "They're more trouble 'n a wagonload of snakes."
Of course, Sarah couldn't argue the point, since she was of the same mind. Hadn't she left Winchester to escape Stephen Alden's clutches? The man had been obsessed with her since childhood, and neither her mother nor Stephen's had helped matters any by encouraging the relationship. "He's such a fine young man, dear," Carmen Woodward had said from her sickbed. "And bred with solid Christian principles. Successful men like him don't come along just every day. He'll make you a wonderful husband."
"But I don't love him, Mother," she'd argued. His kisses do nothing for me, Christian or not. Besides, I'd always play second fiddle to his career. "I believe God has a better plan for me."
"Better? Nonsense. What could possibly be better than Stephen?"
Thankfully, the conversation had ended when Carmen's doctor arrived. Her mother had been weak. Discussing Stephen's negative points wouldn't have solved a thing. Besides, Carmen had blinded herself to all but Stephen's finest attributes. Years of family solidarity didn't die easily, the two families having traveled from Europe to America together when Stephen and Sarah were still in their cradles.
"How did you learn to sew like that?" Emma asked, bringing Sarah back to the present.
"My nanny taught me," Sarah said, the admission slipping out before she'd had the chance to consider Emma's reaction.
"You had a nanny? My, my, so it is true what folks are saying.
Curious, Sarah's gaze shot up. "Just what are folks saying?"
"That you come from good stock." Emma giggled. "Money, in other words."
Of its own accord, her face pulled into a frown. "Why would they think that?"
Emma laughed again, but not disparagingly. "Honey, either you are just plain naive, or you truly haven't noticed that most folks in these parts don't wear cashmere and silk. You wear it like second skin, as if you were born in it."
"It's all I have," she replied almost sorrowfully.
"Don't apologize. I find your garments quite breathtaking. You shouldn't mind the folks of Little Hickman. They're mostly friendly, just not used to fine things-unless you count the very astute and proper Mrs. Iris Winthrop," she said with a wink.
Sarah planted a hand across her mouth to smother a chuckle. It didn't take a genius to see the woman placed a great deal of importance on fancy attire. The difference between her and Sarah was that while Sarah didn't require expensive things, Mrs. Winthrop appeared to thrive on them.
Emma's gaze traced a path to the window. "I see Mr. Callahan has arrived in town. Looks like he's stopping off at Johansson's before coming here. Those two little ones sure are a pathetic pair. Too bad about their mama."
Sarah's chest rose unexpectedly and she fought the urge to look for herself. Whether she anticipated Rachel's reaction to the dress or seeing Mr. Callahan again, she couldn't be sure. The notion of the latter rankled. Yes, the man was irrefutably handsome, but his brutish personality required an overhaul. There was absolutely no reason she should be attracted to him, unless it was the fact that he was Stephen Alden's complete opposite.
"He is a difficult man to like," Sarah said, trying to make her tone appear neutral. Taking up the little dress, she folded it carefully and placed it in her lap.
Emma walked to the window and pulled back the lace curtain. "He's been through some rough times," she muttered while rubbing her index finger across the sill to check for dust. Sarah had strong doubts she would find as much as a speck of it the way she was forever cleaning the place. Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to rise every morning with a bent for scrubbing everything in sight. Living the life of luxury had kept her from worrying over such matters.
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't heard?" Emma turned to face Sarah, tucking her hands into her apron pockets. "He lost his wife to smallpox a few years back, and his son just last spring to some awful fever. He's been alone since then-that is, till them little ones came into the picture."
"But that's terrible," Sarah said, wincing to learn of his loss. Knowing it seemed to put a different slant on things.
"He used to be God-fearin', but from what I hear he's quit goin' to church altogether. 'Course, I'm not one to talk," Emma admitted with a smirk.
Sarah thought it interesting that Emma would bring up the subject of church. "Would you care to elaborate?"
"Don't need it," she answered with a flick of the wrist. "I figure God's fine for some folks, but I'd rather make my own way. 'Sides, I'm too busy most Sundays to give church much thought."
Rebuilding the burned-down schoolhouse, which had doubled as the town's church, was all people could talk about these days. "Perhaps you'll give it a try once they erect the new building come spring."
"Pfff. Can't imagine that will make much difference to me," she remarked. "I don't hold much importance for religion and such."
Emma turned and gave another lazy glance out the window, strands of her golden hair falling out of its tight little bun, slender shoulders straight, a quiet strength about her. "Especially when it don't seem to lessen all the heartache that's out there. Take those little ones, for instance," she said in a voice so low Sarah had to strain to hear her. "Where was God when their mama was lyin' on her deathbed? Seems to me it would've been just as easy as not for Him to let her live."
Making a turn, she strolled across the room to sweep her finger over the fireplace mantel, again coming up clean, no doubt. Next, she made her way to the tall bookcase with the glass doors and did the same thing, sweeping a clean finger over the top edge. "And what of Rocky's wife and son-and Ben Broughton's first wife, who died while giving birth to their second child? And then there was that awful schoolhouse fire and the death of that young man. All senseless events, and that's just Hickman." Emma shook her head, sadness evident. "Where was God then?"
From what she'd heard, a delinquent boy had started the schoolhouse fire in his attempt to avenge his anger at Liza Merriwether Broughton, Little Hickman's teacher. His futile effort had resulted in his own death. One could hardly blame God for that. The other matters, although tragic in nature, were results of living in a less than perfect world, where the hardships of life seemed to take their toll on the human body. Emma wanted to know where God was, and Sarah might have told her He was right there in the middle of it all, ready and able to help ease the burden, but she doubted Emma was open to that. Besides, now was not the time for arguing particulars. Instead, she feebly offered up a few words.
"Some things are just plain hard to understand, Emma. But I do know this: God takes some of the ugliest of situations and makes them turn out right in the end. Take Benjamin, for instance, now happily married to the lovely Miss Merriwether. That never would have happened had Liza failed to accept the teaching job last summer."
Folding her arms, Emma fixed Sarah with a curious stare. "You don't appear too bitter about that matter, considering it was you Ben was supposed to marry."
Sarah couldn't hold back the tiny spurt of laughter that bubbled forth. "It was plain to see from the moment I bounded off that stage that Benjamin Broughton had already handed off his heart to another. How could I fault him for something over which he
had no control? Besides, he'd tried to enlighten the agency about his change of plans, but the message failed to reach me in time."
Emma tapped a finger to her lips. "So I suppose you would say that God will eventually turn even that misunderstanding into something good?"
"If I trust Him, yes," Sarah stated, if nothing else, wanting to be clear on that one thing.
With uplifted chin, Emma glanced out the window, then sauntered toward the kitchen. "Rocky and those youngins are headin' this way. I think I'll go get a plate of cookies ready."
"Don't make any fuss," Sarah called after. "They won't be here long."
"Nonsense," Emma replied. 'Anyone can see by the look of those children that they haven't had any sweets in weeks. Wouldn't hurt to try sweetenin' up that Rocky Callahan either."
"You two mind your manners, now," Rocky told the kids as he helped them from the rig and ambled up the walk toward Emma Browning's front porch. Neither had a word to say in response. After breakfast, Rocky had discovered Seth's eggs at the bottom of the waste barrel, and so he'd made him sit on an overturned crate in the corner. Of course, the whole thing had made Rachel madder than a hornet on a hotplate, and she'd threatened not to speak to him for the rest of the week-which should have pleased him, but didn't.
The fact was, he had no idea how to handle the rascally pair.
Emma Browning met them at the door. Dressed in an old work dress and worn apron, strands of blond hair falling to either side of her smudged oval face, she was a pretty woman despite her indifference. Nice looks aside, she managed to maintain a good distance that few ever bridged. Utterly selfsufficient, Emma made it clear she had no use for men. In fact, to Rocky's knowledge she'd never even had a beau, although she was pretty enough to warrant a second glance.
"Come in," she invited. "Miss Woodward has been expecting you."
Rocky pulled off his hat while stepping over the threshold and glanced across the room at Sarah. She was standing and wiping her hands on the front of her apple-green satin skirt; a long-sleeved white blouse, buttoned to the neck and tucked in at the waist, accented her stately appearance. Striking hazel eyes, framed by her thick, wine-red locks, gave him a quick assessment before moving over the children with an approving look.
"My, my, who do we have here?" Emma asked, bending over the children.
When both remained silent, Rocky nudged Rachel in the side. "I'm Rachel," she said, jumping to attention. "And this here is my brother, Seth."
A warm smile played around Emma's mouth. "I'm pleased to meet you both. My name is Emma Browning," she said, extending a hand. "Miss Woodward told me yesterday what fine children you are."
Rocky's eyes made a quick path back to Sarah and found her beaming-not at him, of course, but at the impish pair. If anything, she took great pains not to bestow him with anything resembling friendliness.
Rachel and Seth stood straighter than little fence posts, shedding wary glances from Emma to Sarah. Again, he gave the girl a healthy nudge. "What do you say to Miss Browning?"
The girl quickly took the hand Emma offered. "It's nice to meet you, ma'am." Without prompting, Seth followed suit, a tiny grin lifting up the corners of his mouth when Emma shook his hand in greeting.
Sarah's full, green skirt made a rustling sound as she ambled across the room, a cascade of pink material-Rachel's dress, no doubt-hanging over one arm. Upon reaching him and the children, she touched a finger to Rachel's chin and gave it a gentle lift. He thought he saw Rachel's eyes dart to the flowy, pink fabric.
"I'm happy to see you're both wearing your mittens today," Sarah said, pleasant as could be. Of course, Rocky didn't miss the rapid, searing glance intended just for him that followed the smile. If he could have said something in his defense, he would have, but the truth was he felt like a heel for having forced them out in the elements yesterday with nothing on their fingers. As easy as it'd been to locate the mittens today, under a folded blanket in Rachel's room, he could have helped find them yesterday and saved them all the hassle.
"I have an idea," Emma said, looking from Seth to Rachel. "How about you two give me your wraps and then come with me to the kitchen and help me with the cookies and milk? When we come back Miss Woodward can show Rachel her new dress."
Seth's eyes lit like two firecrackers. "Cookies?" he asked, finding his voice. Even Rachel's usual somber mood allowed a modest smile before she cast Rocky a questioning look. As soon as he nodded his consent, they handed over their winter gear to Emma and followed her to the kitchen.
When the trio disappeared, Rocky turned his gaze on Sarah. "You finished the dress, then?"
She nodded, and he noticed a red lock coming loose from its high bun. It dangled at the side of her face, one long, fiery ringlet. "It's a rather simple dress, so it didn't require much time," she stated, holding it up for his inspection. It was the color of faded roses, a soft-looking fabric that his fingers itched to touch, but he didn't. It appeared to be complete save the hem and the bottom of the long sleeves. Even the neckline, round and ruffled, was finished to perfection, and the buttons, gold and shiny, made a straight path down the front, stopping at the gathered waistband. At first glance, he thought it quite pretty-as dresses went. Not that he was any kind of expert on female attire.
"The next one should go even faster now that I know what to expect."
He lifted a brow. "The next one?" As far as he knew, he'd only purchased enough material for one dress.
"Yes, now that I have her measurements down pat and I've fashioned an easy enough pattern. I have several dresses for which I have no use. With a little snipping, I should be able to stitch another dress quite simply-or maybe even two."
He should have been grateful for the generous offer, but instead it rankled. He might be a bit tightfisted, but he was by no means needy. "I'll not have you ripping up your own clothes for the sake of the girl. One dress should do her for now. And by the way, I intend to pay you for your trouble. How much do I owe you?" He reached into his pocket and drew out his roll of cash. Sarah's eyes narrowed.
"I meant no offense."
"None taken. How much?" he asked, more brusque than necessary.
"I have no set fee since I'm not accustomed to sewing for others."
"I see." If he'd had a knife, he might have cut the tension between them. "Are you going to suggest a fair amount?"
"I would think most any sum would appear unseemly to you, Mr. Callahan," she returned with a sharp tone. "After all, you considered the price of the material above reason."
Snappish little woman. "I've never bought fabric before," he said in his defense. Hester had, of course, and he'd never quibbled over prices then, but he wouldn't mention that. What had turned him into such a self-centered galoot?
Seconds of wasted silence ticked away while Rocky stared down at his wad of bills. "Would one dollar suffice?" he asked, glancing up.
A deep frown furrowed her pretty brow. "That seems excessive. How does fifty cents sound?"
Oh, he rued the day his sister had willed him her children and put him in this awkward position. A month ago, he never would have imagined himself standing here debating a fair price for stitching a little girl's dress, let alone with someone as fetching as the infamous Miss Sarah Woodward from Winchester, Massachusetts.
"Fine," he said, hauling out the necessary coins from his pants pocket and handing them over. In the exchange, a smooth hand brushed against his callused one, the brief touch managing to jangle his nerves to their limit. And to think he'd actually entertained the thought of asking her to marry him. Imagine living under the same roof with someone as enticingcorrection, as utterly exasperating-as Sarah Woodward.
Self-control would be the order of the day, that and large doses of staying power.
As if she'd read his very thoughts, she quickly stepped away from him, tucking the coins into her skirt pocket, then nervously fingering a red curl before tucking it behind a diminutive ear. Outside, bitter winds whipped around the corners of t
he building. Sarah wrapped her arms about herself, her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into the folds of her tiny, belted waistline, nails that had undoubtedly never seen a trace of dirt beneath them, much less planted a single garden seed. With anxious eyes, she peered toward the kitchen, as if willing Emma and the kids to come walking through the door. What was taking them so long?
"The dress is nice," he finally conceded, realizing his foolishness in delaying the compliment. "Can you cook as well?"
Her jaw dropped open in shock. Truthfully, he'd surprised himself with how the question shot out of nowhere.
"Pardon?"
"Cook-can you cook?"
Her green eyes scalded him with intensity. "Actually, I'm a fine cook. Why do you ask?"
Yes, why? "Curious is all. I can't quite picture you sweatin' over a cookstove-or cleaning, for that matter. And yet that's exactly what you would have found yourself doing had you married Benjamin Broughton. That and tending to his two daughters. Have you ever taken responsibility for small children, Miss Woodward?"
Her ginger-colored eyebrows rose in curiosity as her face puckered with clear irritation. "I think that is none of your business, Mr. Callahan."
"How disappointed were you when the arrangement didn't work out?" he pushed, unsure himself where the inquiry was leading, but having an inkling. And for just an instant, he questioned his sanity. "Did you feel desperate-thwarted uncertain of your future? Were you depending on Ben to lend you a sense of security?"
Openly confused, if not confounded, she gaped at him. "I believe I'll go check on Emma. Perhaps she..."
Just when she would have escaped, he grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her midstride. Flecks of gold shimmered in her blue-green eyes when she met his gaze. "Don't you want to hear my proposition?" he asked, surprising himself with his raspy tone.
She yanked her hand from his grasp, but stayed rooted in place. "Just what are you talking about, Mr. Callahan?"
Tonight he would probably walk into the barn and invite Nell to give him a kick, but he had to ask the question.
Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) Page 3