Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  Twice since the accident he’d come calling, his cowlicked hair slicked down and his pale blue eyes anxious. Each time, he knelt by the davenport where Garnet reclined, and with heartfelt sincerity and bouquets of blandishments he prayed for her heart as well as her health.

  Garnet yearned for such an uncluttered faith, but she always struggled against laughter at Joshua’s grandiose expression of it. The man should have been a preacher instead of a bookkeeper. Garnet pondered her fingers, then absently lifted her hand to chew off a hangnail on her right thumb while her mind chewed over the dilemma of Joshua Jones.

  Her father entertained hopes of an eventual match. After all, Joshua hadn’t given up even after three years, in spite of Garnet’s equal intransigence. She blew a ticklish strand of hair off her forehead. There had been times, these past few years, when she almost blurted the truth.

  Prudence, and fear, prevailed.

  The threat was five years old, but the men might still live in the Valley. Until Garnet was an old woman, her signature red locks grayed to anonymity, her sisters long gone and Papa safe in the grave . . . her life must be dictated by that threat. Joshua deserved a faithful companion with an untroubled soul.

  A bird warbled from the branches of the tulip tree that shaded the porch. Startled, Garnet jumped, and her shoulder squawked in protest. With a long sigh, she rested her head against the curved wicker back, closing her eyes until the discomfort passed.

  What would it feel like to have somebody other than her family with whom to share her fears and her secret dreams? Not just a good friend like Chloe, but—a man. A man who understood her flawed personality but still accepted her. Who wouldn’t demand or even expect her to sacrifice the very essence of her being in order to fulfill his own dreams.

  A man who would love her, whom she could love in return.

  A man her past could destroy.

  Garnet gazed blindly across the yard through the sunlit branches of the cedars her parents had planted as a hedge thirty years earlier. God? Please help me to be strong enough to bear it. Especially if Joshua is supposed to be that man. Joshua certainly thought so. No matter what Garnet said, he remained secure in his delusion that time and God’s sovereign will would change her heart.

  Life had yet to teach the preacher’s son that some circumstances could never be changed, because God’s sovereign will seldom manifested itself in the lives of His less-than-saintly children.

  Oh, Joshua, Garnet thought as she sat on the porch and held her precious cloth bag with fingers that wanted to tremble . . . if you knew what I know and what I’ve done, you’d be thanking God that I’m not interested in you.

  “Garnet, where did you put that pile of mending you were working with?” Leah opened the screen door and stopped. “I wanted to—your bag! Did Dr. MacAllister return it? What did he say, why didn’t he come inside?”

  “I found it on the porch.” She forced a smile. “And we can only assume Mr.MacAllister left it because he’s the only one who would have known where to look for it. Since there’s no note—and no person—attached, it will have to remain speculation.”

  Leah blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, of course it was Dr. Mac—oh, don’t look at me like that. He’s a doctor, and we all know it even though he claims to have renounced both profession and title.” Her head tipped sideways as she studied Garnet, fingers tapping her cheek. “He’s also rude. I don’t care what Papa says. The least he could have done was to deliver your supplies in person.”

  “What does Papa say about him?” Garnet asked. She met Leah’s bland look with one of determination. “I’m not helpless or hurting anymore, miss priss. This time, I want some answers.” Especially since certain memories made her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, like stubborn weeds inching their way between the floorboards in the wash house, they refused to be vanquished.

  “It might upset you.”

  Garnet’s throat went dry and tight. “Oh?”

  “Well . . . you seem to think Mr. MacAllister doesn’t like you. You mumbled a lot of absurdities those first few days, you know, all of it a lot of stale stuffing.” She tugged Garnet’s sloppily bound hair over Garnet’s shoulder and began to plait it with nimble fingers. “I wish you’d let me help you dress,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Um . . . Papa won’t tell me much. But I do know Mr. MacAllister asked a lot of questions about your heartwood chest—remember Papa was rubbing all of them down with fresh linseed oil and beeswax, and yours was sitting off by itself on the floor? Strange, isn’t it, that it happened to be yours, since—”

  “Leah, get to the point.”

  “Fine.” She finished the braid, refastened the clip, and tossed the tidier rope of hair back over Garnet’s shoulder. “Mr. MacAllister found the secret compartment, and your cardinal feather.”

  Leah was right. The words did hurt, like the stones that had gouged her head and shoulder when she tumbled down the slope at Cedar Creek. Garnet quailed from the likelihood that Sloan MacAllister had leafed through her sketchbook before he returned it. But that disquieting probability paled beside her sister’s revelation. Mr. MacAllister had examined her heartwood chest. Had in fact discovered the secret compartment that nobody else, including Joshua, had ever found.

  Garnet felt as though her insides had been scraped raw with a cheese grater, but what could she do? Self-consciousness, no matter how intense, was not a fatal condition.

  “Do you know if Mr. MacAllister said anything? Or what Papa said to him?” she asked when she was certain she could speak without emotion. Excessive outbursts made Leah cross.

  “That’s what Papa refuses to tell me.” She made a face. “Claims it has nothing to do with me.” Her hand crept over Garnet’s, gently squeezing, and only then did Garnet realize that her own fingers were colder than Sinclair Run in early spring. “What he did tell me was that he believes Mr. MacAllister is ‘carrying around a tortured spirit,’ is the way he put it. Most vexing. I know Papa’s dander was up when Doc Porter told him that you’d been given some kind of pain medicine with a syringe. Papa was ready to call Sheriff Pettiscomb back to haul Mr. MacAllister off to the county jail. Instead the pair of them end up talking in the parlor half the night like they’re old friends.”

  “Mr. MacAllister found the feather . . .”

  “Perhaps after church Sunday we should drive up to Tom’s Brook and pay him a visit.” Her eyes glinted with speculation. “You could always express your profound gratitude, invite him to dinner . . .”

  “I’d as soon parade through Woodstock in my unmentionables.” Garnet took her bag and stood, concealing a wince of pain. “Leah . . . don’t. I can see you planning something, but—don’t.”

  “Don’t you want to know? ” Scowling, Leah stood as well. “If it had been my heartwood chest, and Mr. MacAllister offered any explanation, however ludicrous, as to why Papa stuffed a dried-up flower bulb in mine, while he put a bird feather in yours and that ugly cookie cutter in Meredith’s . . . well, I’d be on his front porch by sunrise. Mercysake, Garnet, sometimes you—”

  Abruptly she broke off, pressed her cheek against Garnet’s, and stepped back. “Never mind. I need to go check the Irish potatoes I put on to boil for this week’s batch of yeast. Thanks for doing the mending. Don’t tire yourself out; you still look too pale.”

  After she disappeared inside, Garnet remained on the porch while she pondered what Leah had read in her face that practically set her to babbling.

  Abruptly her hands closed into panicked fists.

  That day, the day of the accident, when pain and medicine and malaise kept her locked within a dark maze, there were gigantic chunks of time she couldn’t remember at all. What if, during those unremembered hours, she had revealed the secret—no. No. If her tongue had babbled even a portion of the truth, she wouldn’t be brooding out here on the porch while Papa happily sanded in his workshop and Leah bustled about inside the house.

  She was behaving irrationally, that was all. Too much
time alone with her thoughts, unable to draw, shorn of mobility, nothing to do but grapple with shadows. In a few more days she’d be fine. Fine.

  A horse snorted from the bottom of the lane just beyond the cedars, followed by the muffled thud of hoofbeats. First visitors of the day, no doubt, except they usually waited until afternoon. Garnet’s gaze darted over the porch in search of a hiding place for her bag. She managed to stuff her supplies behind the ficus plant Leah moved outdoors during the summer months just as the buggy, a fringe-topped surrey laden with four passengers, came into view.

  Left arm hugged against her side, Garnet waited while the visitors, townswomen from Woodstock, alighted from the surrey like a flock of colorful birds taking noisy flight.

  “Why, Garnet, what a lovely surprise, finding you out here on the front porch today.” Lurleen Mosely and her husband owned a butcher shop. Lurleen’s ample bosom was offset by a surprisingly sharp-featured face that reminded Garnet of a badger. “I know it’s early, but we were just over to Mrs. Booth’s Café, and we heard some news of interest to you.”

  “We wanted to be the first to tell you,” Elmira Whitaker added with a girlish giggle that belied her matronly status. “So even if you’ve already heard, don’t let on.”

  “You’re no longer the only artist in Shenandoah County,” Mavis Kibler announced, elbowing past her companions. “An artist from California—a lady, moved into the best rooms at the Chalybeate Springs Hotel in Strasburg, for the rest of the summer.”

  “—doing a series of paintings—scenes from all over the country.”

  “—famous, according to my husband. Felicity Ward’s her name.”

  Mrs. Whitaker reached Garnet first, studying her with the frankness of a woman who’d reared seven children and a passel of grandchildren. Her youngest daughter, FrannieBeth, was Meredith’s best friend. “I’m sure she’ll be calling on you, dear. Everyone’s talking about her—you know what gossips we townsfolk are.”

  “And you’re the worst, Elmira. Good gracious, but you’re still looking mighty puny, Garnet. I could count your freckles from a dozen paces. I gave you my remedy for those, didn’t I? The almond paste, followed by a poultice of English mustard powder and lemon juice? You ought to try it . . .”

  Garnet scarcely took in the excited flow of words. Her smile was fixed, a frozen slash of her lips. She could have kissed her father’s sawdust-coated face when he hailed everyone from the doorway of his workshop.

  Felicity Ward, she thought. Felicity Ward had come to the Valley.

  Twelve

  And I reckon this load’ll keep you busy for a spell.” Breathing hard, the young boy from the hardware store wiped his palms on the bib of his overalls. He glanced from the pile of stacked lumber, to Sloan’s house, to Sloan. “Um . . . Mr. Gutermann says you’re doing all the work yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “Well . . . if you change your mind, want some help, be obliged iffen you’d think of me. I’m a strong worker and dependable—ask Mr. Gutermann.”

  Sloan wiped the sweat from his face and neck, studying the beanpole of a youth with round, pale blue eyes. He folded his damp handkerchief into a compact square and tucked it away with deliberate slowness. “What’s your name, son? You helped deliver the mantels for my fireplaces last month, didn’t you?”

  “Yes sir. Name’s Raymond, Raymond Critchley.” He shuffled his feet in the trampled grass, then crammed his hands into the side pockets of his overalls with such force Sloan was afraid the suspenders would tear. But the candid blue gaze never wavered. “I helped my pa build our new place, in town. He’s a foreman, out at Kreuger Mines.”

  Sloan lowered himself on top of the neatly stacked lumber and stretched out his legs. He’d been up since dawn, taking advantage of the cool early morning hours for hard labor—which over these past few days had been to replace rotten, cracked, or warped clapboard siding. Not an easy task for a lone man. But he had enjoyed the solitude, savored the silence. There was a deep satisfaction, watching his painstaking endeavors achieve tangible results. Sort of like helping a mortally ill patient recover from—Sloan squashed the intrusive comparison.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” he said to the hopeful Raymond. Regardless of ulterior motives, the boy was right. Sloan could use some help.

  The admission annoyed him, but his thwarted hermitic yearnings weren’t Raymond’s fault. Sloan scraped up a smile. “Thanks for the offer.”

  “Well . . . you’re welcome.” Raymond hesitated for another awkward moment before he finally scrambled onto the seat of the delivery wagon.

  Sloan watched him steer the two mules down the bumpy, overgrown track that led to Sloan’s house. What was that all about anyway? He supposed he should be grateful that he’d been asked about a job instead of medical advice. Over the last month, the stream of hopeful patients approaching him whenever he went to town had taxed his remaining humanity to the breaking point. Several even knocked on his front door. Fortunately, inspiration supplied a tactic that thus far seemed to have staunched the flow.

  “Infernal nuisance,” he grumbled, but without heat. It was a beautiful day, and the old place was starting to look pretty good, if he did say so. Soon as he finished replacing all the clapboards, he could paint. Yellow, he’d decided some days ago. A nice, creamy yellow, and he might even put some shutters on either side of the windows. Front porch roof still sagged, and the tin roof was rusting . . .

  No matter. He had all the time in the world. All right, so sometimes the nights were lonely, and restlessness tweaked him every so often. At least twice a week he saddled Dulcie for long rides about the countryside. The day after he’d found Garnet Sinclair at Cedar Creek, he found himself back at the bridge, and it seemed absurd, even craven, not to spend an hour poking about for her bag of art supplies. For a week it sat, unopened and accusing, on a shelf near Sloan’s back door.

  Because of what Jacob had shared about his daughter, and because Sloan himself valued privacy, he hadn’t so much as glanced inside the bag. He doubted Garnet would appreciate his forbearance . . . especially since it was due more to indifference than nobility of character. Didn’t matter any longer, as the previous evening he had taken the coward’s way out, dumping the bag on the Sinclairs’ front porch in the middle of the night.

  He wondered in spite of himself how the girl was doing, wondered if that old sawbones Porter had managed to speed the healing process, or if he’d induced infection instead. Man probably never set foot inside a medical school, or any other institution of higher learning.

  Wasn’t Sloan’s problem. Garnet Sinclair was not his patient, and whatever real or imagined trauma had occurred when she was sixteen was none of his concern. He’d let Jacob talk, much the same way he used to listen to the stream-of-consciousness ramblings of patients’ loved ones. All they needed was a listening ear, a pat on the shoulder, a word of encouragement. So he’d provided that courtesy for Jacob Sinclair, but as far as Sloan was concerned that ended the obligation.

  No promises. He’d made no promises, therefore he wasn’t breaking any. He’d renounced the past—his background, his family. His profession. Jenna. Most especially Jenna. The last thing he needed was to become embroiled in another woman’s life, no matter how vulnerable or intriguing.

  And yes, he could feel God’s waiting Presence. Always there, crowding Sloan with almost good-natured persistence. Never rushing, never demanding. Never yielding. Just—waiting.

  “Well, You’ll just have to keep waiting.” Sloan snatched up the flat work cap he’d removed earlier, crammed it back on his head, and headed for the porch.

  Before he returned to work, it was time to check on the one patient he had committed to. At least this one didn’t talk back. In a matter of speaking, that is. To Sloan’s surprise—he would never admit to relief, much less thankfulness—the fox had lived. Now, six days later, the wound was healing nicely, and for two days the animal had been lapping milk from a bowl instead of the baby bottle Sl
oan had purchased. It had also eaten the meat scraps he’d left the previous night. Most of the time, however, the animal slept, curled in a catlike ball with the long bushy tail draped over its face and body.

  “How ya doing today, little one?” He stepped over the makeshift wire mesh pen he’d fashioned at one end of the porch.

  The fox unwound, yawning as it lifted its head.

  “Good boy.” Sloan scratched behind the large pointed ears, then beneath the perennially smiling mouth. “You’re doing all right, aren’t you?” The eyes had lost their cloudiness, and even the burnt orange fur had taken on more of a luster.

  He paid no attention to the color, gently pressing the animal onto its side so he could examine his sutures. “Any tenderness here, hmm? No? Well, that’s amazing. Did you know you’re lucky to be alive, pal?”

  The fox watched him through those uncanny rust-colored eyes in a gaze devoid of fear. It was unnerving. Sloan had the feeling that even if he’d wrapped his fingers around the white furry throat and squeezed, the fox would have allowed it with that same trusting expression.

  “What happened to your survival instincts?” Sloan mused, settling into a relaxed sprawl, his back against a weathered corner post. “You don’t act wild at all. Remind me more of a child’s lost puppy—no. Not a puppy. They make a whole lot more noise than you, and they’re far less graceful.”

  Almost shyly, the fox inched over and laid its narrow head in his lap. Shaken, Sloan felt a tightness in his chest, a prickling sensation in the back of his throat.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The question emerged hoarse, almost gruff. He cleared his throat, feeling more of an idiot than ever, sitting here on the porch and talking to an animal as though they were the best of friends. “Look, I have work to do. Go back to sleep. Best of my knowledge—limited, I admit—you’re supposed to be nocturnal.”