Strong and Stubborn (21 page)

Alert but not allowing himself to be anxious, Mike waited. He waited while Granger took a few slugs of coffee. He waited and fought off thoughts about what the man before him might want. He waited until Granger realized he'd go right on waiting for however long it took for the other man to explain what he wanted.

“Dunstan does the same thing.” Granger scratched his jaw. “Waits out a conversation so the other man spills his guts.”

Mike raised a brow and drank more coffee to hide his grin. He could be compared to far worse than a man like Dunstan. The hunter didn't seem to speak much, but he commanded respect when he did.

“Most men would've told me about their boy, I expect. Tried to convince me what a good lad he is and how he wouldn't cause any trouble.” Granger tilted his head. “Why aren't you convincing me?”

“I don't like it when people go on and on about their progeny, so I try not to inflict my parental pride on others.” Mike saw the smile but couldn't relax yet. “Ask questions. I'll answer them.”

“Why didn't you mention the boy when you first got here?”

“When would I have worked it into the conversation?” Mike shook his head. “From where I stand, Hope Falls sets a fast pace.”

“From where I stand, you don't have trouble keeping up. When you aren't already a step or two behind, that is.” Granger pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket and laid it on the table. “You're the only man in town who hasn't read this—one of very few who didn't find their way to Hope Falls because of it.” He pushed the paper to the middle of the table, but kept it anchored beneath his hand.

“I was warned this is a strange place, but I'm not sure I follow what you mean.” Mike had never held a more convoluted conversation in his life. They were no longer talking about him helping Miss Higgins or determining whether or not Luke was welcome. Mike's fingers itched to snatch the paper and make sense of things.

“This paper holds an unexpected answer to some of your questions about the way we do things,” Granger advised. “But since it didn't bring you all the way out here, I want to know what did.”

In spite of the gallons of coffee Mike downed that morning, his mouth went dry. He'd told Granger to ask his questions, and now he was honor bound to answer. A couple of dry swallows bought him time.

“You read the telegram.” He croaked out the most honest answer he could give. “I needed work, and I was told I'd find it here.”

“A man with your skill set can, if you'll forgive the pun, make a place for himself just about anywhere.” Granger flattened his palm against the paper and leaned forward. “It makes me wonder why you'd decide to raise a child near the dangers of a new sawmill.”

“Boys can find danger wherever they're raised,” Mike hedged. “Hope Falls seems as good a place as any—and better than most.”

“I'm not saying it's not a good place to find yourself—but I'd be a fool if I didn't know it's a better place to
lose
yourself.” The steely glint in his gaze belied his wordplay. “So why are you here?”

“For Luke.” That gallon of coffee sloshed bitterly in Mike's stomach. He'd prepared to answer a few questions, but he hadn't reckoned on Granger's astute appraisal of his situation. He made his message clear: either trot out an explanation or ride out of town.

“Most would say I married above myself.” Mike forbore to mention that he didn't agree with the general consensus about his bride. “Leticia was an only child. Now that she passed on, my in-laws demanded they be allowed to raise their only grandson.”

“And you won't fork him over.” It wasn't a question, though Granger looked curious. “I can understand that. What I don't understand is why your in-laws thought they could force the issue.”

Again, Granger didn't ask. Mike still answered. “They can't.”

“They shouldn't,” he corrected. “But I've more than my fair share of experience with wealthy flea-brains who think money gets them whatever they want.” Granger paused. “It usually does.”

“I know.” Mike sucked in a breath. “You're right about the reason I chose to come here. I'm doing my best to get us lost.”

“Don't let anybody else find out.” Granger took his hand away from the paper. “Go ahead and read it. You'll find it interesting, but I don't think it'll make you change your mind about staying.”

“It won't.” His relief was so intense, he didn't grab the paper. Mike realized his mistake when Granger picked it up again.

“Probably shouldn't say this …” The other man tapped the paper against his palm as though deciding whether or not to pass it over. In the end, he shoved it toward Mike. “But I'm saying it anyway. Don't let this change your mind about Miss Higgins either.”

“What?” Mike turned around so fast he worked out a kink in his neck that'd been pestering him since yesterday. It was just in time to see Granger slap his hat on his head and walk through the door.

“What does this have to do with Miss Higgins?” Knowing there was no one to hear him ask, he muttered the question and started scanning the newsprint. The first page ran an article about trains, but a quick read turned up nothing out of the ordinary. On the other side, columns of classifieds paraded up and down, jostling against each other all the way across the page. Mike turned back to the first page to make sure he hadn't missed anything important.
Nope
.

A prickle of unease raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Mike carefully turned the thin paper over again, looking closer at the jumble of advertisements. A single ad took up more space than any three, demanding attention from the bottom third of the page.

Wanted:
3 men, ages 24–35
.
Must be God-fearing, healthy, hardworking single men with minimum of 3 years logging experience
.
Object: Marriage and joint ownership of sawmill
.
Reply to the Hope Falls, Colorado, postmaster by May 17
.

Mike read the thing through three times before laying it back atop the table. Only then did he realize he'd been gripping the news sheet hard enough to poke his thumb clear through the page. He propped his feet against the bench across from him and leaned his head against the wall, trying to take in the irony of his situation.

Trying to outrun a past where he'd married for money, Mike stumbled upon the only town in all of history where the women were trying to hire husbands. It was his own mistake, multiplied by three and magnified by the men who came to “apply” for the position. All his questions, the unexplained oddities of Hope Falls, and the bits and pieces he'd seen firsthand joined together with what he'd read.

Now he understood why the men answered to the women. It explained why men worked for room and board to start. It even made sense that they began to offer wages when, as one man put it, there was only one more “girl up for grabs.” The odds of winning a wife had changed. After all, Granger claimed Miss Thompson, and then Miss Lyman chose Dunstan, leaving only the youngest of the three without a fiancé. The poor girl was about to be deluged with would-be suitors.

The only thing the ad didn't explain was why Granger thought it would change Mike's opinion of Miss Higgins. Did he think Mike would think less of her for not joining the other three in a husband hunt?

Mike snorted. If anything, it reassured him that the woman he'd agreed to spend months working alongside wasn't a mercenary female desperate to nab a husband. It probably took great strength of character to withstand her friends' pleas and refuse to join them in this farcical scheme. How could this advertisement make him think less of Miss Naomi Higgins?
If anything
, Mike decided as he shoved the distasteful thing deep in his pocket,
I admire her more than ever
.

H
e thinks I'm pretty
. No matter how Naomi tried to push the inane thought aside, it kept bubbling to the surface of her thoughts. All day yesterday, like a tune she couldn't get out of her mind, the phrase hummed in her head.
Mr. Strode thinks I'm pretty. Me … pretty!

It was distracting. It made her smile. It would have been downright mortifying if anyone suspected her of such foolishness. Of course, no one caught on. Naomi was far too sensible for such girlish foibles. At least that's what she sternly reminded herself when she woke up with the chipper refrain ringing in her ears.

Unfortunately, Naomi found her own reprimands surprisingly ineffective. It was, to say the least, disconcerting to be ignored by one's own self. Though it did explain why Lacey found it so easy to disregard Naomi's sage advice—there were things a woman's heart found far more interesting than plain, old-fashioned common sense!

And Mr. Michael Strode is one of them
. Little wonder she'd found the notion of working with him so unsettling; those qualms were the last vestiges of her instinct for self-preservation. They must have been the last. They'd gone quiet since the moment Mr. Strode told her, in a roundabout way, that he found her attractive.

Naomi knew how dangerous this was. She knew she shouldn't entertain the hope, not even for the briefest moment, that Mr. Strode might be interested in a more permanent sort of partnership. Because even if he indicated interest, Naomi couldn't allow things to progress beyond mutual regard. Newly widowed, Mr. Strode was trying to build a new life for himself and his son.
Far too fine a man
, Naomi lectured herself,
to overlook my checkered past
.

By the time she'd gotten through breakfast, she'd worked very hard to talk sense into herself. It didn't take Naomi long to figure out that she'd fixated on the carpenter as an appealing alternative to her real suitors. With that sobering realization, she managed to replace the happy little “he thinks I'm pretty” hum with a “he deserves better” refrain. It sounded as sprightly as a dirge.

“Granger tells me you're ready to get started.” A deep voice broke through the plodding rhythm of her new favorite dirge.

“If there's nothing to interfere.” Naomi made it a point to sound brisk and businesslike, but couldn't help returning his smile.

“It's all been arranged on this end,” he assured her. “I didn't bring my toolbox, but I can fetch it in a jiffy if it's needed.”

Naomi gave a rueful shake of her head. “I'm afraid things aren't nearly so neatly arranged on my end. The furthest I've planned is to set up a work space. Beyond that, I'll need to do some digging to find my own materials so we can create a scale for the project.”

“We get a workshop?” Mr. Strode's eyes sparkled like a child's who spied a bulging Christmas stocking with his name. “Lead on.”

“First, you'll need to lower your expectations.” She couldn't help but laugh, picturing his reaction to what lay ahead. With that, she took him to the short row of houses behind the diner, pausing at the threshold of the second building. “This is where we'll work.”

The door swung open to reveal a modest-sized room adorned with a block table, two chairs, and a questionable-looking old pipe stove. The dirt floor had been hard packed by the miners who'd lived there and would be fairly easy to sweep clean. Three windows, covered with cloth to keep out the elements, let in plenty of light.

“Strong light,” Mr. Strode approved, making a quick circuit around the space. “We'll need another two tables—work space for each of us and a display station for completed or in-progress pieces. If none are available, I can put a pair together this afternoon.”

“That won't be necessary.” Naomi felt her shoulders relax and realized she'd been anxious for his approval. “Tables I can provide, but we're going to have to sort through some things before we clear them off. Things have been so busy since we got here. Anything we didn't immediately need got shoved into storage.”

“It doesn't take long to clear a table,” he assured her in the confident voice of a man who hasn't seen the task ahead of him. After Naomi opened the house next door, he revised his opinion.

A low whistle escaped Mr. Strode. “I believe I spoke too soon.”

“How could you know?” Naomi asked, torn between amusement and resignation as they stood on the threshold. Boxes and bags, crates and trunks, luggage of all sizes crowded from floor to rafters, with a few pieces of furniture thrown in to keep things interesting. “Clearing off a table is one thing, but I didn't know how to explain that we'd have to clear out a house to get to the tables first.”

“I see.” Mr. Strode looked up, looked down, ducked his head through the door, and swiftly pulled it back. “Not to criticize the plan, but it would be less hassle for me to build the tables.”

Naomi shuffled closer to the door and glanced at the chaos within. Like the sun, it was best seen in glimpses. Otherwise its full power made a person close their eyes and turn away. Even in small doses, it was overwhelming to take in the sheer mass within.

“It's worse than I remembered,” she admitted. For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether Lacey had managed to organize the colossal mess of the mercantile by ferrying merchandise here. But another quick glimpse revealed nothing from the storeroom. “When we were packing back in Charleston, everything seemed important. If you left something behind, it might take weeks to order a replacement.”

“So instead you borrowed a page from Noah and brought two?”

“No.” The giggle escaped before Naomi could even try to stop it, but it erased Mr. Strode's dawning chagrin at his outspokenness. “Between the four of us, we probably brought along a few spares.”

“When you put it that way,”—he braved the threshold and squeezed inside—“it doesn't seem so bad, for four women.”

“Er …” Naomi wondered if discretion wasn't the best course of action but decided in favor of full disclosure—some of her things might have been misplaced, and she didn't want to go through explanations. “All things being equal, how about two out of four?”