Dorothy Clark (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I
t was getting dark. Cole tugged off his dusty red work shirt, brushed the sawdust from his pants and hurried to the washstand. He was late again. But Manning’s chair was finished. He’d taken time to attach the gears even after the long afternoon spent ironing out the resulting effects of the accident with the jobber at camp two. And that was worth the tardiness. Manning wouldn’t mind a bit.

The water was lukewarm. He scrubbed his soapy hands over his skin, felt the slight cleft in his chin and frowned. His face felt strange without the beard—like it belonged to someone else. He leaned close over the washbowl, dipped his cupped hands in the water and splashed it on his face and neck. Water slid down his forearms and dripped off his elbows.

He toweled off and opened his eyes, looked askance at his reflection in the mirror. No hair fell against his neck, and his face looked naked. And pale. At least the lower half did. His forehead and cheekbones were as brown as the leather on Manning’s chair.

Thankfully, the collar on his new blue shirt would hide his bare neck. He picked up the pair of gentleman’s grooming brushes he’d bought from Joe Fabrizio that morning after getting his hair cut and his hacked-up beard shaved off, hefted them and frowned. They felt light, smooth, foreign. He was used to wielding tools with hard, thick wood handles attached to jagged teeth or sharp edges. And he was a sight more comfortable handling them.

A grin slanted across his lips, erased the frown creases from his forehead. It had been years since he’d seen his ears. They’d been buried under his wild, curly black hair for as long as he could remember. Now there was just a short cap of wavy black hair and some long sideburns around them. It was a good thing they didn’t stick out like Charley Whitewater’s did.

He swiped the brushes over the hair at his temples and above his ears the way the barber had that morning. Another stroke down the back of his head smoothed the hair waving at the nape of his neck and grazing his collar. Done.

Satisfaction surged. There was nothing of Payne looking back at him now—except the dark gray eyes, and there wasn’t anything he could do to change them.

He put the brushes on the wash table, opened a bottle and splashed a bit of witch hazel into his palm, rubbing his hands together, then swiping them over his bare face. Would the haircut and lack of beard enable Sadie to look at him? To
see
him for who he was? Not that that mattered so much. He just didn’t want to see that fear in her eyes any longer. He wanted to put the memory of Payne’s deed and his father’s cruelty behind him.

If he could.

* * *

Sadie roamed around the sitting room, stopped in front of the mantel and fussed with the vase of tansy, moon wort and sweet william her grandmother had brought in from her garden that afternoon. She slid the pewter candlesticks sitting at the ends of the mantel closer to the vase, then moved them back again and stepped over to look out the window. Dusk had given way to nightfall. It was close to her grandparents’ time to retire. Where was Cole?

The nervous tension that had taken up residence in her stomach increased. He’d arrived early that morning and had left before she’d come downstairs. And he’d sent a mill worker to care for Poppa at dinner and supper. Had her suspicious, ungrateful behavior caused him to stay away? Was it a message that he was tired of the way she treated him and would no longer care for her grandfather or manage the businesses? Perhaps that was the real reason he had brought back the ledgers—because he was through helping them. If so, it would be her fault. What if the sawmill failed and the logging camps closed? What if Cole didn’t come?

Her stomach contracted in a painful spasm. She lifted her hands and rubbed at the ache in her temples, straining to hear the click of the back door opening and closing over her grandfather’s voice. If she talked to Cole before he came to the sitting room, perhaps she could undo the damage she’d wreaked.
Please help me, Lord. Poppa needs Cole.
That truth had settled deep. Cole was much more to her grandfather than a strong back and a pair of strong arms. How glibly she had spoken of hiring someone to take his place!

Where
was
he? The moon and stars were out. How would she get her grandfather to bed? Surely Cole wouldn’t leave him helpless... No. He was conscientious about that. Oh, she couldn’t simply stand here stewing about things a moment longer! She had to
do
something.

She whirled away from the window and walked over to where her grandfather sat reading aloud to her grandmother, touched his shoulder and forced a smile when he looked up. “It’s a lovely evening. I’m going outside for a breath of air.”

“It’s dark, Sadie.”

“I know, Nanna.” She rested her other hand on her grandmother’s plump shoulder and leaned down to kiss the frown from her forehead. “I’ll be all right.”

“Very well. But don’t stay out long.”

Her heart squeezed with thanksgiving at the bright awareness in her grandmother’s eyes. “I won’t, Nanna.” She avoided her grandfather’s gaze. He was too good at reading her state of mind.

The kitchen was empty and Gertrude’s bedroom door was closed. She took the old straw hat her grandmother wore when she worked in the garden off its peg, settled the hat over the thick roll of hair at her crown, tugged it down as far as she could for protection against any bats that might be flying around and stepped out onto the porch. Balmy evening air caressed her face and her arms left bare below the softly puffed short sleeves of her blue-and-white-striped cotton gown.

How lovely if her life could be as serene and calm as the night seemed. But there was nothing serene about trying to find out the truth. The facts contradicted one another. There was no denying the figures in those ledgers. Cole had saved her grandfather’s business. And he was not stealing money. But there was also the horse. Cole had lied about delivering that load of clapboard. If only she could find the answer to that horse!

Her long skirts swished quietly as she walked to the steps, the sound blending with the chirping of crickets, the rustle of some small creature in the flowerbeds and the whir of an owl’s wings as it swooped low to the ground, then soared off into the night.

She moved down the steps to the moonlight-dappled stone path and walked to the garden bench, took hold of the back and looked toward the fence and the wooded, hard-trod path beyond the security of the weathered pickets. Where was he? He was supposed to be here. Cole might be a liar and an...an opportunist, but he had never forgotten her grandfather. Had something prevented him from coming?

Worry sprouted, took root. Perhaps he was hurt or injured. The workers at the sawmill had gone home long ago. There would be no one to help him. With those saws... He could be bleeding....

She caught her breath, glanced over her shoulder at the oil lamp left burning in the dining room window to light Cole’s way to the house, then looked back at the path. No. She couldn’t do it. She hadn’t the courage. And there was no reason. She was being foolish to let her imagination carry her thoughts along that way.

A chill prickled the flesh on her upper arms.
Let him come, Lord. Let Cole be all right. Please let him be all right.

The moon slipped behind a cloud, and darkness settled around her. The night creatures stilled. She tipped her head back and looked up at the stars, trying to shake the image of Cole lying bleeding on the sawmill deck from her mind, but it refused to be dislodged.

Please, Lord...I can’t walk that path.
Tears stung her eyes. She glanced again at the lamp, drew a shuddering breath and turned toward the house. Cole mustn’t suffer or bleed to death because of her cowardice. She would tell Poppa of her concern, get some clean towels and then ride Sweetpea down the road to the mill. She wouldn’t go on the path. And she would not dismount if Cole were well.

An odd sort of whispery rumble came from the woods. She paused. It sounded like...
wheels.
Yes, rather like buggy wheels rolling over hard-packed dirt, only quieter. Now what could—

A man in a blue shirt, pushing a barrow in front of him, stepped out from the trees.

She gasped and whirled to run.

“Sadie?”

Cole?
He was all right.
Thank You, Lord.
She took a breath to calm her racing pulse and turned. “You’re wearing a blue shirt.” An inane thing to say. It sounded like an accusation. But he always wore red shirts. Loggers did. “And you’ve no lamp.” More silliness. Heat climbed her neck, spread warmth across her cheeks.

“I couldn’t manage one with the chair. I’m sorry I frightened you. I’d have whistled had I known you were outside.” He rolled the strange-looking barrow through the gate and onto the garden path, the wheels bumping against the stones.

“I came out to—”
Chair?
“You were late...” She stared at what she’d thought a barrow of some sort. It
was
a chair. With
wheels
on it. She looked up to ask about the strange thing and promptly lost her train of thought. Where was his long hair?

“I’m sorry for that. I lost track of time while I was finishing this.” He stopped in front of her. “I hope Manning isn’t too uncomfortable?”

And his beard was gone. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him. “What? Oh. No...” She shook her head and looked down at the odd chair to keep from staring. “Poppa’s reading to Nanna.” Her gaze slid back to his clean-shaven face of its own accord. “When did you—” The heat climbed into her cheeks again at the slip of her tongue. “—I mean, what’s this strange object?” She gave a flustered little wave toward the thing between them, thankful for the darkness that hid her blush at her rudeness.

“It’s a surprise for Manning.”

“A chair with wheels?”

“Yes.”

“But what—” She bit off the question, annoyed by her runaway tongue.

“You’ll find out when I get it inside.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to pry.” She spun about and started up the path to the house. “Perhaps I can open the door for you?”

He replied, but his low voice blended into the rumble of the wheels on the path behind her and she was too discomposed to ask him to repeat his answer. She hurried up the steps and across the porch to open the dining room door and stole a glance at Cole as he carried the strange-looking chair inside. She barely recognized him without his wild, curly hair and black beard. He looked younger and...handsome. Of course, it was hard to see him well outside in the dark, or here in the dim light given by the lamp in the window.

She closed the door, tossed the straw hat on the server and smoothed back her hair as she walked to the hallway, Cole following behind with the chair. And what did his appearance matter anyway? Nothing. It was only that the change was so stark and surprising. She frowned and kept her gaze fastened straight ahead as they passed the stairway. She’d been rude enough with her staring.

The wheels of the chair whispered against the floor and Cole’s boots thudded in rhythm behind her. Why had he brought that odd chair for Poppa? Of what use was the ugly thing? She circled around the center table in the entrance to give him room, glanced down at the rolling chair as they came back together and jerked to a halt.

He stopped beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s—” She swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat and rubbed her hand over a swelling tightness in her chest. “—it’s just...I understand now. The chair, I mean.” She reached out and touched a wheel. “Poppa will be able to—” Tears welled. She gulped them back, shook her head and ran her fingertips over the smooth, waxed wood. The chair was beautiful.
Beautiful.

“It’s an experiment, Sadie. Don’t expect too much. I don’t know if it will even work.” Cole’s voice was pitched low, his tone cautionary.

She drew in a breath and lifted her chin. She’d caught hold of his vision and she wouldn’t let him rob her of the hope of it. “Of course it will. It’s a perfectly
wonderful
idea.”

She walked to the sitting room doorway, smiled when her grandparents looked her way.
Oh, Poppa, wait until you see...
Her smile wobbled. “Cole is here.”

There was movement behind her. She stepped aside, watched her grandfather’s eyes shift from her to Cole, then narrow in bafflement when he glanced at the chair.

“Why, Cole!” Her grandmother huffed and rose from the settee. “What is that...
thing?
I don’t want that in my sitting room.” She made shooing motions with her small hands. “Take it outside.”

Her grandfather leaned forward and caught hold of one of her grandmother’s hands. “Let...be, Rachel. I want to...see it.” The starch went out of her grandmother’s spine.

“Oh, very well, Manning. But then Cole must take the ugly thing away. I can’t imagine what Mother would say if she saw it in here.” Her grandmother gave another huff, resumed her seat and picked up her needlepoint.

Her grandfather looked at her, a silent message in his eyes that moved her to stand beside her grandmother while he turned his attention back to Cole.

“What...sort of...con...traption is...that?”

“The sort that will work, I hope.”

Please grant it, Lord.
She watched her grandfather’s face as Cole pushed the chair across the room, swallowed hard when his eyes widened and brightened with understanding. Her heart thudded as he lifted his big, work-worn hand and touched one of the wheels.

“You...made this...Cole?”

The gruffness in his voice brought the lump back to her throat.

“Nate Turner made the wheels. And David Dibble made the braces.”

“But you...planned it...and...made the...rest.” It was a statement, not a question. Her grandfather cleared his throat and slapped his palm on the rim of the wheel. “How’s it...work?”

“Let’s get you in it, and I’ll show you.”

She held her breath as Cole lifted her grandfather into the chair and settled his flaccid foot on the board between the front legs, then tapped his finger beside it. “You put your other foot here. Good. Now...” He stepped to the side and rested his hand on the wooden handle sticking up beside the right arm. “This lever works the gears that propel the chair. You pull it to go forward and push it to go backward. Take hold and give it a try.”