Spirit of the Valley (10 page)

“Ma'am?”

“We have a guest room you're welcome to use.” She felt her face heat. “When you visit to . . . help.”

He nodded. “That'd be good.”

“It would probably be best if we keep that between ourselves,” she added haltingly. “People might misunderstand.”

“I wouldn't say anything,” he replied earnestly. “Not ever. You have my word.”

She nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“That meal was really good. Worth fixing the roof for.”

The thought was so preposterous she nearly laughed, and he smiled in return. Something about his smile, about the way the lines formed at his eyes, made her heart lurch. “You needn't call me ma'am. I'm Lizzie.”

He nodded. “Jeremy.”

He extended his hand, offering a handshake, and she placed her hand in his. His hand was strong, the skin rough. The contact caused a tingly sensation up her spine.

“It's really nice to meet you,” he said.

“It's nice to meet you, too,” she managed. He released her hand and she turned away, anxious for some business to attend to. As she scalded the teapot, she heard him taking his seat again. Lightning flashed and she glanced out the window.

“It'll clear up tomorrow,” he said.

“I hope so,” she said without turning around. “I'm nearly out of containers to catch the leaks.” She put up the dishes he'd cleaned and then poured boiling water from kettle to pot, glad for the activity.

“So, where did you come from?” he asked.

She stiffened. “The . . . Midwest.”
Oh Lord.
She cringed at the sound of her voice. She tried to collect her thoughts as she set the kettle back down. “Outside Chicago.” When she turned to face him, she had the distinct feeling he knew she was lying. “And you? Are you from this area?”

He nodded. “Born and bred.”

She needed to get
him
talking because she was the worst fibber in the entire world. “What's it like to work in a mine?”

His expression changed. It was as if his vitality drained from him. “Dark and cold.”

She wondered why he did it. The sisters had mentioned the surfeit of jobs for men. There were ranches and farms, big operations that required a lot of labor. Mining was also a big industry, but certainly not the only one.

“This dripping,” he continued. “I hear it all the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's wet deep in the earth. The walls are white sometimes.”

“White?”

“Because it's so wet. I guess it's mold of some kind. It's like nothing you've ever seen.”

She turned back and prepared the tray, then carried it to the table and sat. “May I ask . . . why you do it?” she asked as they both readied their tea.

“Long story,” he hedged.

It was apparent he didn't want to discuss his reasons—whatever they were.

“I imagine you have a few of those,” he added, glancing up at her.

Touché.
“A few,” she admitted.

“I grew up on a farm.”

She looked at him.

“I don't know that I thought about it as a really good life at the time, but it was. I see it now.”

“It was a good place to grow up?”

He nodded. “It was. It is. You won't be sorry you came here.”

She smiled. “I really like the people I've met so far.”

“There's some interesting ones, that's for sure.”

“Besides the Blue sisters?” she asked with an affectionate smile.

“You bet. There's lots.” He leaned back in his chair. For most of the next hour, he spoke of local residents, and there were some interesting characters. There was a wealthy rancher who'd married a woman doctor who'd come to town to try to save the life of a man who had been shot in the head. And his life
had
been saved. There were cowboys and professional gamblers and a clan of dark outcasts, the Lindleys, who enjoyed causing trouble.

There was a group of men who called themselves the wise men's circle, who got together to play poker once a month at Miss Julia's Teahouse, although they didn't drink tea. The group, consisting of Emmett; Jules Gunderson, the telegraph operator who had one leg shorter than the other; Joseph Schultz, the beefy man who owned the livery; and the Reverend Thompson, a rather handsome man in his forties with long white hair and a pleasant baritone voice, were some of the regulars. “I think your father used to play with them,” Jeremy recalled.

She averted her gaze. “That does sound familiar,” she murmured, although her tone sounded unconvincing. She had no practice at lying. Not with words, anyway. She'd deceived Ethan with every bit of money she'd managed to stash in order to get away from him, but she'd learned not to speak around him at all, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Reverend Thompson's
friend
came and took over the church choir a while back and that caused a big controversy because his friend is a lady. She's about his age, hair about the color of yours, and they have a real
close
relationship. People know because they both live in town and she's at the parsonage at all hours. It caused a lot of talk at first. Some people even wanted to kick him from the pulpit. They didn't, though.”

Cessie and April May had told her about some of the same people, but it was interesting hearing of them from another perspective. She knew the lady was named Carlotta “Lottie” Lowe and that she'd studied music in New York. She'd performed opera, and played the violin beautifully.

“Good enough to break your heart when you listen,” April May had declared.

“That is the truth,” Cessie had seconded. “And, honey, not only can she play, but she comes up with these songs that . . . well, they aren't even really songs. They're classical pieces by Bach and Beethoven and some others I never even heard of. But instead of them being played by an orchestra, which we don't have, she teaches the choir to sing the various parts. It's beautiful.”

“Cessie and April May mentioned her,” Lizzie told Jeremy. “Have you heard the choir perform?”

“Not really a churchgoer.”

“I thought we'd go tomorrow with Cessie.”

“You'll meet a lot of folks that way.”

The fire had died down and she needed to check on the children. It probably was time to call it a night. “Shall I show you to your room?”

“Sure.”

She rose and took the lead, and he followed. The door to the children's room was shut, but she heard them playing inside. She stopped outside the spare room, having lit the lamp earlier. The room had nothing but a narrow bed, a floor lamp, a chair, and a wardrobe, plus there was a small hearth and a filled wood box. “Please make yourself at home, and if there's anything you need—”

“I'll be fine.”

“Then I'll see you in the morning.” She quickly turned and left.

 

 

It was a good feeling to step into the children's room. Even with the bed askew, it was a cheerful room, and Jake and Rebecca had already changed into their nightclothes. She smiled to see their game. It combined most of their toys—his army men, her battered doll, blocks, and sock puppets. “Bedtime,” Lizzie said as she walked over to dim one of the lamps. “Put the toys up, please.”

Jake willingly complied, but Rebecca resisted, as usual.

“Remember, we're going to church with Cessie tomorrow,” she reminded them. “So we'll get an early start and we'll have lunch with them.”

“Will
he
come, too?” Rebecca asked.

Lizzie gave her a look of exasperation. “No.
Mr. Sheffield
is going to work on the roof. He said his supper was the best he's had in a long time and it was worth fixing the roof for. Now, come on. Into bed.” They complied and Lizzie tucked Jake in first. “I don't think we should mention that Mr. Sheffield is going to stay here on occasion,” she said to both. “All right?”

Jake nodded, while Rebecca pursed her lips in disapproval.

“He's doing us a great favor, but people might not understand.”

“I don't understand,” Rebecca murmured under her breath.

It was clearly heard, as was Lizzie's exasperated sigh. She walked around the bed, tucked her daughter in, and kissed her good night.

“Will you stay here until we go to sleep?” Rebecca asked. “Jake likes that.”

Lizzie grinned. “Of course I will.” She walked over to the rocking chair in the room, another gift from her guardian angels, and sat. For all Rebecca's resistance to bedtime, she dropped off to sleep nearly as quickly as Jake. The steady patter of rain helped, as did the oil lamp flickering at its lowest level.

Stepping back into the hall, Lizzie looked at the closed door to the guest room before going into her own. With the newly sewn bedspread and curtains in a floral print of sage and deep blues, fat jars of wildflowers, and a lovely painting Cessie had given her, it was finally beginning to feel like her room. It hadn't, at first. It had felt as if she were an intruder. Of course, she wasn't an intruder; she was an imposter.

All of a sudden, she felt edgy, almost caged. She turned up the lamp on her dresser and began to pace. It was astonishing that there was a man—a stranger, really—in their house. It was astonishing he'd shown up offering to help, this handsome stranger. She pressed the palms of her hands together and brought the tips of her fingers to her lips, trying to control the
feelings
coursing through her
.

She stopped before the mirror above her vanity and peered at her image, wondering if she looked as different as she suddenly felt. Staring into the wavy glass, she decided she did. It was because Lizzie was so utterly different from Pauline. Pauline had been frightened every day of her life. She'd been timid and cowed, while Lizzie had the courage to begin a whole new life. In fact, to make that life exactly what she wanted and needed. She was not a child, she was a woman who would make her own way, even if that way was wildly unconventional. She was . . . “Strong,” she whispered, trying out the word.

She wondered how Jeremy saw her. Ethan had never thought she was pretty. Once he'd stated she was “appealing enough for a common man,” although he'd often called her twitchy. Twitchy as a rabbit. Of course, he was the one who'd made her twitchy, she thought resentfully. She shook her head and tried to force Ethan from her mind. She didn't want him there anymore. There were new things to focus on—survival, the children, the cottage.

Jeremy Sheffield.

A strange yearning filled her as she recalled Jeremy's dark silhouette in her doorway.
Well, ma'am, there's other ways to pay a man.

She shivered and exhaled slowly. This feeling was beyond strange since she'd loathed intimacy with Ethan. She'd hated him touching her in any way. Worst of all was when he attempted to kiss her. Anything else she could block from her mind. She could close her eyes and pretend he was someone else, but a kiss was too intimate.

She pictured Jeremy's lips and slightly grizzled chin, and pictured her hands slipping slowly around his back. A powerful warmth emanated from her pores. For the first time she could remember, she wanted a man. A man who was not her husband.

Was it wrong? Pauline had never felt this way, but she was Lizzie now. No longer would she live with the shame Pauline had endured. She slipped her hands down her body, caressing herself. Was this what Jeremy Sheffield wanted to do? There was no doubt about it; Lizzie was brazen, maybe even shameless. She enjoyed the thought.

 

 

Jeremy's arms were folded behind his head as he stared out, lost in thought. The knock at the door surprised him. Before he could get up and put his clothes back on, the door was opened a few inches.

“May I come in?” Lizzie asked quietly.

For a moment, he gawked. Then he feared she'd come to ask him to leave. “Sure,” he said as he sat, although it sounded more like a question than an answer. The door opened and Lizzie was standing before him, wearing a worn, gray cotton dressing robe. She was unclothed underneath and her hair was down. His jaw went slack. He needed to speak, to say something, but he couldn't think of a word to say.

Leaving the door open, she started forward, although she looked nervous enough to turn and bolt. His instinct was to get up, but he didn't have a stitch of clothing on. Did she want him to leave?

“May I sit a moment?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She perched on the side of his bed, facing him, only a few feet away. He noticed the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and knew she was anxious. He couldn't stand the suspense any longer. “Do you want me to go?”