by Regina Scott
Still, he shouldn’t have nettled Harry. Dottie was looking for a husband. Harry was strong enough and clever enough to make some woman happy. But surely Dottie could do better.
He nodded toward the chair he’d brought with him. “Rina asked me to deliver that to you. It’s a special chair, for a baby to sit in.”
She bent her head to look more closely at it, running a hand over the smooth wood. “Please thank her for me. It will be just the thing as Peter starts eating solid food.” She drew back her hand, straightening. “Forgive me. We don’t intend to encroach on you that long.”
“You’re not encroaching,” he told her. “Or did things go particularly well today? Any leads on employment?”
She smiled. It was a polite upturn of her lips, as if she thought the other person expected it. There was little warmth behind it.
“I spoke to your brother James and sister-in-law Nora. He doesn’t need any help at the store, but she might have work for me.”
John brightened. “Well, that’s good news.”
She nodded. “I suppose it is. I should have realized it might be even harder to find work here than in Seattle. You all made a way in the wilderness. You’re used to being very self-sufficient. I don’t know how I can contribute.”
“I’ve felt the same way,” he admitted, shifting to change Peter’s view. A moth fluttered by, and the baby raised a chubby fist toward it, missing by inches. “Drew has his logging, Simon the main farm and James the store. Sometimes I think our youngest brother, Levi, left because he didn’t see a place for him.”
“And where do you see your place, John?” she asked.
At your side.
The words almost tumbled out, but he managed to cough instead. Peter glanced up at him with a concerned frown. What was John thinking? Dottie had come here to find a future, and that future wasn’t with him.
“I have my claim,” he told her, hearing the words come out more than a little defensive. “The crops I grow help feed the others. The eggs and milk can be sold in James’s store. When I’m needed, I help with the school or with Catherine at the dispensary. I’m Drew’s fifth man when he has a big contract. I keep busy.”
“Commendable.” She took a step closer, lavender eyes gazing up at him. “You help all your family. But what about you? What do you want?”
Those lips were pink and soft-looking, and all he could think about was how they’d feel against his. He swallowed.
“If I can build the library I want, I’ll be content.”
It was a true statement, or at least it had been true before he’d met her. And suddenly, it was the most important thing in the world that she understand.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you.” Keeping Peter in one arm, he grabbed the chair with the other and took them both into the house.
Dottie followed him, but then, what choice did she have? He was holding her son.
Brian had been pacing in the entry as if waiting for Dottie and Peter to return. Now he paused and eyed John as if disappointed to find him in attendance. Even his cat preferred other company, it seemed. Pushing aside the dismal thought, he set the chair aside and led Dottie up the stairs to the loft. Peter giggled as they climbed, as if he liked the movement.
It was darker in the loft, the only light coming from a window at either end and through the door at the top of the stairs. This space had been intended to house John’s children, like the loft at his parents’ house had housed him, his brothers and Beth. Now the pelts of the animals he’d trapped this winter were stretched on frames against the rafters, and casks and baskets held the last of fall’s harvest. Dottie came in beside him and gazed around as wide-eyed as her son.
John kept up a steady bob for Peter as he nodded toward the stacks of books along the far wall. “Those are what I’ve been able to gather so far. I figure there’s enough so every person within an easy walk of Wallin Landing can borrow a book a month.”
She wandered over, tilted her head to read the titles on the leather spines, golden curls spilling down one side of her face. “Science, philosophy, literature, the arts, scripture.” She straightened and glanced back at him. “You’ve thought of everything.”
He felt as if someone had inflated a hot-air balloon in his chest, lifting his countenance, his head and his spirit. “That’s just the beginning. I want everyone to be able to read about whatever interests them. Books can take you places you’d never go otherwise, to faraway lands or long-ago times. They teach you things you would spend a lifetime learning otherwise.”
“The wisdom of the ages,” she murmured.
He nodded, turning to keep Peter from grasping one of the furs. “They can help shape your opinions, your character. A place truly isn’t civilized until it has a library.”
Peter gurgled in his arms as if he quite agreed.
John shifted on his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to prattle on that way.”
“You never prattle,” Dottie assured him, turning for the stairs. “I find your vision inspiring. I only wish I could help.”
John followed her down. “As I told Beth, I can’t afford to hire myself as librarian, much less anyone else.”
“I know.” She came out on the level and paused to let him catch up. “But I brought a few books with me. You’re welcome to add them to the collection.”
John stared at her. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to deprive you and Peter of them. I know how precious books can be out here.”
This time her smile set her face to glowing. He felt the answering glow inside him.
“If Peter and I settle here at Wallin Landing, we can borrow those books from the library. But this way, others can enjoy them, too.”
His heart swelled, and he balanced Peter in one arm as he seized her hand in the other to shake it. “Thank you, Dottie. This means so much to me, to the whole community.”
That smile and those lips were only a few inches from his own. Another step closer, and he could kiss her. She smelled like the apricots of summer, but he thought she’d taste even sweeter.
And he had no business thinking about her lips at all.
Brian seemed to agree, for he darted between them and disappeared into the bedroom.
John dropped Dottie’s hand and stepped back, lowering his gaze to check on Peter. The baby looked up at him as if he was just as aghast at John’s thoughts.
John had told Dottie he had no intention of marrying. There were men who had no trouble charming a lady and stealing a kiss, with no thought of the consequences. He wasn’t one of those men. A kiss was a promise, a commitment. He couldn’t have one without the other.
Harry would have kissed her.
The thought came unbidden, but he knew it for the truth. Even James had kissed a girl or two before he married Rina. He’d been more than happy to let his brothers know about it. But John wasn’t Harry or James. He didn’t have their easy way. He was the one ladies depended on for help, not romance. He should focus on Dottie’s needs rather than his own.
“I’m glad to hear you’re going to help Nora,” he said. “She always seems to have a project or two waiting.”
She licked her lips, drawing his gaze there once more. “I think she may have taken up a new one today,” she admitted.
John bobbed Peter to keep him entertained. “There you are, then.”
Dottie grimaced. “I doubt she’ll ask my help with it. She intends to make me a wedding gown.”
Something twisted inside him. Well, of course Dottie would need a wedding gown if she found the right groom. “That’s kind of her,” he said.
“You may not think so when you hear the other part of the project,” Dottie told him. “She also intends to make you a wedding suit.”
So that was why Nora had been muttering numbers!
“
I’ll explain things to her,” he promised. “Again. I’m sorry, Dottie, if her assumptions troubled you. My family is well-meaning.”
“They are very kind to want to help,” she agreed. “I couldn’t talk her out of creating the gown, but I suppose it might be needed at some point.”
The air in the room seemed to have soured. “It seems you like Harry.”
She actually shuddered, and he almost danced. Instead, he turned Peter in a circle, earning him a giggle from the lad.
“Mr. Yeager seems like a fine fellow,” Dottie said, watching him, “but only time will tell if he’s ready to support a wife and child.”
“Perhaps,” John said, feeling a bit like a traitor to poor Harry. Peter wiggled as if he wanted to spin again, and John turned him in his arms to look into his face. “What do you think, little fellow? Do you want Harry Yeager to be your papa?”
Peter babbled something that sounded like a negative and reached for John instead.
“I better take him now,” Dottie said, intercepting the baby’s fingers before they could close on John’s face. “He’ll get tired soon. Thank you for all your help. Good evening, John.”
The entire speech had been said so quickly it sounded more like her son’s babble. She moved just as swiftly to the door and held it open for John. He could only nod farewell as he left. His last sight was of Peter pouting, as if he was sorry to see John go.
It was clear her baby liked him, but it was also clear Dottie had taken his measure. He wasn’t what she wanted in a husband.
But he was beginning to think no man could measure up to the fellow John thought she deserved.
Chapter Nine
Dottie shut the door behind John and leaned against it a moment. From her arms, Peter stared at her accusingly.
“Why him?” she asked her son. “He doesn’t even want a wife.”
Peter gabbled quite the lecture, face serious and determined. He even waved his fist for emphasis. Dottie shook her head with a laugh as she pushed off the door and headed for the kitchen. Brian slunk out from the bedroom and followed her.
She had a hard time putting dinner together that evening. Meeting so many new people and having her hopes for employment raised even the slightest were enough to fill her mind with ideas, her heart with hope. Then there was the way Peter reacted to John. Her son liked him more than any other man to whom Dottie had introduced him, but she could not convince herself that that was any indication of character. Peter didn’t know enough about the world to be discerning.
Still, there was something fine about John. She couldn’t help remembering how his eyes had glowed, his face brightened, when he’d described the wonders of the library he hoped to build. What a splendid calling, and one she firmly believed in. If only she could believe in him as much.
* * *
She had risen the next morning and gathered the eggs when she received callers. Once again, she dared to hope it was John tapping at the back door, but instead Tom Convers and Beth stood waiting. He held up a brace of trout, still wiggling on the string.
“Breakfast,” he announced, beaming.
“I’m here for propriety’s sake,” Beth explained to Dottie with a smile, twitching aside her rose-colored skirts to enter. “I enlisted John’s help to cook for the others.”
Of course. And of course, John would agree. Likely he was trying to help his sister, but Beth was just as clearly bent on matchmaking.
Mr. Convers followed Beth in. Like Harry, the logger had dark hair, but his was slicked down on his head, making his face look long. In fact, he was long all through, from his tall, slender frame to his big hands and feet. She thought he would head for the sink and clean the fish, but he tossed the trout on the sideboard and went to take a seat at the table, looking expectantly at the two women.
Beth glared back at him. “Tom?” She nodded toward the sink.
He frowned as if he had no idea what she wanted, then his brow cleared. He rose and went to wash his hands, leaving the fish flapping on the sideboard.
Peter started to cry.
“You better see to him,” Mr. Convers said, returning to his chair. “Nothing like a crying baby to spoil a meal.”
Dottie knew her brows must be as high as her hairline.
Beth marched over, grabbed the logger by the ear and tugged him to his feet.
“Ow!” He jerked away. “What did I do now?”
“You brought a lady smelly fish and left them on the sideboard,” Beth informed him. “You clean those fish right now, and, if you’re quick about it, we might think about cooking them for you.”
Well, that was one way of dealing with a fellow. How would Frank have reacted if Dottie had been so bold? Of course, Frank had never done anything to disturb her in their few short months of courtship and marriage. That was, until he’d broken her heart.
Now Mr. Convers, muttering under his breath and rubbing his ear, went to retrieve the trout as Dottie put the eggs she’d gathered earlier into a bowl by the stove.
“It’s just because he’s been on his own too long,” Beth confided to Dottie, keeping an eye on the logger. “He has a good heart.”
“Let me do the cooking,” Dottie suggested. “You watch Peter. And we’ll both watch Mr. Convers.”
Beth nodded with a grin.
Dottie thought her gentleman caller might protest her busyness. His appearance at the door was obviously his attempt to start courting, and courting meant getting to know the other person, after all. But the logger didn’t seem disposed to talk. After he’d cleaned and filleted the fish, he brought them to Dottie and returned to the table. Leaning back, he eyed Peter in the chair John had brought yesterday, then patted the pocket of his flannel shirt where something bulged. Beth glared at him as if daring him to draw it out. Chewing tobacco, perhaps? Dottie fought a grimace.
A while later, they gathered around the table before buttermilk biscuits, fried trout and scrambled eggs. Dottie was rather pleased with the spread she’d put together so quickly in a strange kitchen. After cooking for her aunt and uncle, she liked to think she had some proficiency. Mr. Convers took one bite of the trout, reached for the salt cellar and dumped it on the food.
Beth hopped to her feet. “That’s it. Out. Now. And don’t expect to be invited back anytime soon.”
Frowning, he picked up his plate and fork and marched out the door.
“Entirely too full of himself,” Beth proclaimed, throwing herself back in her seat as he slammed the door behind him. “Doesn’t help around the house, doesn’t appreciate good cooking.” She forked up a mouthful of the trout and sighed as she swallowed.
“Delicious,” she assured Dottie. “And I’m certain everything else is, too. You can do better than him.”
She hoped so. How nice to be truly appreciated for what she did, who she was. And, truth be told, a second pair of hands would be welcome, at least until her son was old enough to take on chores. Of course, Frank had never helped around the house, but she’d believed his story about being tired from his work and travels. She hadn’t known he’d had another house he was likely expected to support.
“Harry appears to be interested,” Beth told her. “And then there’s Dickie. I’ll send him to the house later so you can see whether you like him. He’s terribly sweet.”
He was also a bit young for her and very shy. He stopped by the house that afternoon, stammering a greeting with his gaze on his feet, and asked what he could do for her. His blond hair, sticking out in all directions, only added to the picture of pathos. She was afraid she’d crush his heart if she told him she was fine, so she asked him to fix the window John said stuck. Mr. Morgan came inside, took one look into the bedchamber and backed toward the parlor.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said. “That’s where you sleep, ma’am. It wouldn’t be seem
ly. Why don’t I just go chop you some wood?”
Harry had made the same offer. It seemed when courting, that was a logger’s preferred way to show a lady he cared.
“So the fireboxes by the stove and the hearth are overflowing,” she reported to Beth, when the young lady came over that evening with a commission from Nora. “And I have an entire woodpile, neatly stacked, outside the kitchen door. But I still know nothing about Dickie’s dreams or his character.”
Beth stuck out her lower lip in commiseration. “It might take some time with that one. But cheer up. John went into town and brought back the mail, and there’s a letter for you.”
For her? Dottie’s fingers trembled as she reached out to take the letter. Beth must have noticed, for she frowned.
“Dottie? Is something wrong? Were you expecting bad news?”
She hadn’t been expecting news at all. The only person she’d told where she was going, and then in only the most general of terms, was Martha Duggin. Dear Martha had been a rock on which Dottie could lean during those dark days, but Dottie hadn’t wanted to leave any evidence behind that might tell Frank where to find her if he ever came looking.
“I don’t know who would write to me,” she told Beth, turning the envelope in her hands. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, but then she’d never seen Martha write anything, and she’d only seen Frank make his signature on the wedding certificate.
A certificate that had proved utterly worthless.
“Well, it’s a lovely surprise, then,” Beth said. “Go on, open it. Unless you’d rather I left.”
She felt as if a snake lurked inside that paper. She refused to open it while Beth was there to see her distress. She set the letter on the bench beside her. “That’s all right. I’ll read it later.”
Beth smiled, but Dottie felt her disappointment. Unfortunately, this was one thread that Dottie could not allow to go on Beth’s spool.
Even after her friend left, however, Dottie could not make herself open the letter. She cooked dinner, then prowled around the parlor, swishing a rag she’d found in the kitchen over the mantel, the backs of the bench and the wood chairs that flanked it. Peter, seated on the floor in front of the bench, kept craning his neck as if to look at the letter on the seat above him. Even Brian jumped up and sniffed at the envelope.