“How are you feeling?” Truett’s brows drew together. If he even smiled she would die of embarrassment.
“Where’s Will? Is he all right? Please go back to Will. I am fine.” Will was the one who needed the doctor’s attention!
They both stepped inside and came toward her. She wanted to sit up, but her head weighed a hundred pounds.
“Will’s all right.” Lizzie picked up Celia’s hand and held it.
Celia focused her eyes on Truett. “Where is he? What did you do? Did he just need stitches?”
Truett smiled. Was he laughing at her?
“I stitched up the wound. The cut wasn’t too deep. If there’s no infection, he should be as good as new in a few weeks. For now he just needs to stay off his leg.”
Celia placed a shaky hand over her heart. “Thank goodness.”
“What about you?” Lizzie leaned over her. “You’re so pale. Is something wrong?” She turned to Dr. Beverly. “Is she all right? What made her faint? She never faints.”
“I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Celia was determined to show them both that she was all right. She pushed herself into a sitting position, with Lizzie helping her. The room pitched and rolled like a ship in a storm.
“I think she’s all right.” He picked up her hand and held two fingers against her wrist. “How do you feel?” Truett’s intense blue eyes focused on hers. If she’d seen the least bit of amusement there . . . But he only looked concerned.
“I’m fine. I’m not a fainter. I guess I was worried about Will.”
“Had you eaten this morning?”
“Yes. I’m all right.” She started to get up, to prove she was fine, but her legs shook like a newborn foal’s.
Truett placed a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you sit for a few more minutes. You don’t want to go fainting again.” He raised his eyebrows.
Inside, he was probably laughing at her. Of course, why wouldn’t he? After she’d said she could take care of herself, vowed she could take care of her whole family as well as any man, she’d fainted like those silly, giggly girls she’d always held in such contempt. It was too much.
She stuck her finger at him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”
He raised his brows again and held out his hands. “I’m not laughing. I was worried about you. Fainting is an involuntary response. You couldn’t have stopped yourself.”
She remembered the sensation of being lifted. Truett must have picked her up and carried her, must have held her in his arms. The thought made her dizzy again. She put her hand over her face as a flood of embarrassment made her cheeks hot.
“People can faint for any number of reasons. You can’t control it, so it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I just don’t want you to think of me when Will is the one who’s hurt. Shouldn’t you check on him?” She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.
He backed toward the door. “I will if it will help you rest. You stay there. Please.” He pointed at her as he turned and left the room.
“Oh, Celia.” Lizzie’s eyes were lit up like Christmas morning. She whispered, “You should have seen the look on his face when he swept you up in his arms and gazed down at you. Oh, it was so sweet. I think he’s in love with you!”
“Hush! Please don’t let him hear you say that,” Celia whispered back. “Besides, that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly think of me as anything but a silly, stupid, fainting girl.” Tears stung her eyes.
Lizzie was imagining things. But she did wish she could remember how it felt to be held in his arms.
Lizzie was rubbing off on her, apparently.
Celia sat up, holding her sister’s arm, and waited as her vision gradually stopped spinning. With Lizzie’s help she got up from the bed and walked into the examination room.
Truett was cleaning up his tools and putting them away, while Will reclined on a pillow on the examining table, looking wrung out but alert.
“Oh, Will. Are you all right? I’m so sorry.” Celia squeezed her brother’s hand. His leg still had traces of blood smeared over it, with tiny black stitches criss-crossing it.
Will grinned. “Don’t be sorry. I wasn’t watching what I was doing. But it’ll make a great scar, don’t you think? I can’t wait to show the fellas.”
She had meant she was sorry she had fainted while he was getting stitched up, but she also wanted to tell him how sorry she was for being so grouchy that morning, how horrified she had been at the thought of him being seriously injured. But rather than saying all that in front of Dr. Beverly, she decided to wait until they were home.
“You’re such a boy,” Lizzie said, and she and Celia both laughed, though Celia’s was a bit shaky. Thank goodness he wasn’t upset with her—his bossy grouch of a sister. God, from now on I promise not to be grouchy with Will or anyone else, ever again. She only hoped she could keep her promise.
Truett soon finished and turned to Will. “Ready?”
Will nodded. Truett picked him up and carried him out to the wagon, laying him on the quilts. Lizzie climbed into the back beside Will.
Truett focused his gaze on Celia, standing next to the wagon seat.
She looked away, needing to express her gratitude for what he had done for Will, but embarrassed at her silly fainting spell. He continued standing in front of her. She lifted her eyes to his. “Thank you . . . for what you did for Will.” She bit her lip and murmured, “And I’m sorry I fainted.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” His voice was soft. “You couldn’t help it, and you were just worried about your brother.” His throat convulsed slightly as he swallowed, his eyes never straying from hers. “It was my pleasure to be of help.”
Not a flicker of humor passed over his face, as he held her gaze with his, his lips slightly parted.
She turned toward the wagon seat. His hands clasped her waist and he hoisted her up.
As she sat on the wooden seat and collected the reins, their gazes locked again. She quickly turned away and urged the horses forward.
Lord, what just happened here? She could still feel his hands around her waist. A warm tingling spread through her.
What was wrong with her? Perhaps she had just spent too much time away from her sewing. As soon as she got back to the house, she planned to pull out whatever material she could find and create the most intricate, detailed dress she’d ever sewn.
If that didn’t drive Truett Beverly out of her thoughts, nothing would.
Truett couldn’t chase Celia Wilcox from his thoughts. Especially the way she looked when she fainted, so pale and helpless. It had turned his insides to mush to see her that way. But he certainly liked the way she felt in his arms, soft and warm and . . . perfect.
He shouldn’t be thinking this way. After all, she had gotten mad at his teasing and yelled at him, telling him her family didn’t need him, then stalking off. But then, she had apologized. She was easy to forgive.
He had promised himself he would write her off as uppity and irritable if she did not think well of him after two weeks. But the unfortunate truth was, he still couldn’t quite forget about her. Whether she knew it or not, she and her family did need him. And now that he knew what she felt like in his arms, he wanted to feel that again.
But she wasn’t likely to faint in his arms again anytime soon.
However . . . the Fourth of July was coming up, which meant his mother was probably organizing a dance. A dance would afford a perfect opportunity to get her in his arms again.
If he had any sense, he’d forget about Celia. She didn’t even like him.
Although, she hadn’t exactly looked at him with hate in her eyes after he sewed up Will’s leg. As he recalled, she had looked quite grateful when she thanked him so prettily just before he lifted her onto the wagon seat.
It had taken more than two weeks, about three, in fact, but maybe she was coming around. And maybe he was plumb addled, but he still wanted her to admit she was wron
g about him, that she had completely underrated him—his abilities and his charm.
Chapter 10
The next morning, Celia’s eyes flew open. A thunk seemed to come from the back door. She didn’t hear anyone stirring in Will and Harley’s room. Lizzie was still beside her. And Tempie and Mama never got up this early.
Carefully, to avoid waking Lizzie, Celia eased herself out of bed. She grabbed her robe off the hook on the wall and put it on. Only the barest gray light was visible through the windows. The clock on the mantle showed a quarter past five.
She tip-toed through the hallway to the kitchen and peered out the window, her breath catching at the sight of a man striding across the yard, milk bucket in hand. He disappeared into the barn.
Was this man trying to steal their cow’s morning milk? Well, he couldn’t have it—not unless he at least asked first!
But the milk might only be the beginning of what he wanted. Perhaps he was a drifter and would kill them all in their beds. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She’d read a newspaper account of that very thing happening somewhere in Kansas.
Should she go outside and confront him? Not in her nightgown and wrapper! But with his hurt leg, Will was in no condition to face an intruder. Nightclothes or not, if anyone faced the man, it should be Celia.
She padded softly into the breezeway and found her father’s old hunting rifle hanging on the wall on two wooden pegs. If only they had a smaller gun. But she’d have to make do with what she had. Good thing Daddy had taught her how to shoot all those years ago.
Still, it had been a long time since she’d held a gun.
Celia hitched the rifle up to her armpit as she stared out the kitchen window again. She quickly pushed the window up and propped the end of the gun barrel on the window sill, aiming at the barn. When he got close enough, she’d demand to know who he was and what he was doing there.
She waited, propping her hip against the sink as she kept her eyes trained on the barn door. The gun grew heavy in her arms, and the sky lightened even more. The rooster crowed, as he normally did around 5:30, but the man still had not emerged. Was he out there? Had he left without her seeing him?
Finally, the man, wearing a blue chambray shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows, came out of the barn carrying the milk bucket. He strode across the yard toward her and the house, but his eyes were trained on the ground as he walked. Celia leaned forward. Unless she was mightily mistaken, the man was Truett Beverly.
Her heart thumped double time as he approached the back door. He set the bucket on the top step and, without looking up, turned and strode back toward the barn.
She slumped against the counter and relaxed her grip on the gun.
Soon, Truett exited the barn again, this time pushing a full wheel barrow. Had he mucked the stable? After dumping that, he sauntered over to the wood pile, picked up the ax, raised it above his shoulder with practiced precision . . . and brought it down on the block of wood, splitting it in two.
Tears sprang to Celia’s eyes. She blinked several times to clear her vision. She wasn’t given to tears any more than she was given to fainting spells. Now, it seemed she was losing control at every turn—especially when Truett Beverly was around. It must mean that she was still sad about her father’s death. After all, she hadn’t allowed herself to cry very much when he died—besides that embarrassing display in front of Truett Beverly when he’d told her Daddy was dead. Crying didn’t help anything, and it wouldn’t bring her father back.
Truett set another block of wood on the broad stump. He lifted the ax and swung it down, splitting it with the first swing. Then he set up a much larger block of wood on the stump, tapping an iron wedge into the wood with the flat end of the ax. He then picked up the sledge hammer and brought it down on the wedge, which sank into the wood. He swung the hammer again and the block of wood split in two.
Celia had seen men split wood before, but never was she so fascinated before. His shirt was clinging to him, and it was already darkening with a patch of sweat down the middle of his back. She really shouldn’t be watching the play of muscles around his shoulders as he swung the sledge hammer.
“Who is that?”
Celia jumped and spun around, her hand over her heart as she gasped for breath. “Oh. Lizzie.” A guilty burn crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
Lizzie gave her a quizzical look. “Why do you have that gun?”
“This?” Celia had forgotten she was still holding Daddy’s rifle. “Oh. I heard someone outside and didn’t know who it was. But it’s just Dr. Beverly.” She stepped away from the window, trying to look nonchalant. “I’ll go put it away.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Splitting wood.” She shrugged, as though the town doctor splitting wood in their yard was the most ordinary thing.
“Oh, that is so sweet.” Lizzie peeked out the window.
Yes it was. Very sweet.
She put away the gun and then came back to help Lizzie with breakfast. She knew how to make the dough for the biscuits now, so she started getting out the flour and butter while Lizzie built a fire in the stove, but she had to force herself not to look out the window.
She tore her gaze away. Again. What would Lizzie think?
Celia finished mixing the biscuit dough, but when she turned to get the rolling pin, which was only inches from the window, she looked out.
Truett brought the ax down on a smaller piece of wood. The pieces flew in two directions. He leaned the ax against the wood pile and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he bent over and began gathering the pieces of wood. When he started to turn in the direction of the house, she whirled away from the window, forgetting the rolling pin. She had to scrunch down and snake her hand across the counter so he wouldn’t see her through the window—if he happened to be looking.
“Celia?” Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Lizzie frowned.
“I just don’t want Truett to see me.”
“You don’t want him to see you staring at him, you mean.” Lizzie laughed. “Celia Wilcox, tell the truth. You like him.”
“Lizzie, stop. I don’t”—she dropped her voice to a hiss— “like him!” She finished the statement as an angry whisper. Then her conscience smote her. “All right, maybe I like him, just like you and Will and Tempie and Harley like him. We all like him. Now will you please stop talking about it?”
“Whatever you say, Celia.”
Lizzie grinned. Celia huffed at her. There was no use arguing. Besides, her feelings for Truett Beverly were nothing she wanted to discuss, even with herself. She was going back to Nashville, and the sooner the better.
“But I do think you should go offer the poor man a dipper of water.” Lizzie was turned toward the stove so Celia couldn’t see her expression.
“I’m not even dressed!”
“Well, go get dressed. You don’t want him to see you in your nightgown, do you?”
“Of course not!” Celia yanked her wrapper tighter around her waist. She turned and stomped to the bedroom to get her clothes. Just to prove to Lizzie that she didn’t care, she picked out her ugliest work dress.
Should she really go outside and offer Truett water? Part of her thought it was the nice thing to do, but part of her just couldn’t do it. He would think she was flirting with him! Wasn’t it Rebecca in the Bible who snagged herself a husband by offering to draw water? She was sure Truett had read that story, too. No, Lizzie was just trying to play matchmaker again. He could get his own water.
When they finished preparing breakfast, Lizzie stood in the back door and called out to Truett. “Will you come in and eat with us?”
Celia stood back as far as she could from the window. Truett straightened and looked back at Lizzie. His hair was dark with sweat and curled against his temples. “Thank you, Lizzie, but I’ll grab a bite at home. I’m about finished up here. I need to get to the office.” He
smiled and his eyes sparkled in the sun.
“I’ll wrap you up a biscuit anyway. Celia makes good biscuits.”
Lizzie slipped back inside, grinning from ear to ear. Celia wanted to snap, “Why should it matter to him if I make good biscuits?” But she held her tongue.
A few minutes later, Truett came to the back door. Celia stood back as Lizzie went outside and begged him again to come in and eat something.
“No thanks, Miss Lizzie, but much obliged anyway.”
She handed him a cloth bag with three biscuits with butter and plum jelly. He thanked her. As she leaned toward him to give him a hug, he clasped her shoulder.
“No, you’ll get yourself all sweaty.”
Celia had to at least thank him. But the picture he made standing there, his hair damp on his forehead, his work shirt clinging to him, and his face ruddy and handsome, like David in the Bible . . . she wasn’t sure she could even speak.
The very idea.
Celia stepped forward until she was standing in the doorway. “Thank you for all the work you did for us this morning.”
Truett gave her a friendly nod. “My pleasure, Miss Celia.”
His eyes lingered on hers and the corners of his mouth quirked higher before he finally turned away. Her stomach fluttered as she gazed after him.
Later that morning, Celia stood by the stool at the back door, washing Tempie’s muddy foot.
Her little sister hadn’t wanted to be left behind when Harley crossed the creek to chase after a lizard. But as soon as her bare foot encountered mud, she started screaming. Celia heard her all the way from the kitchen.
“Tempie, sweetie, please don’t go near the stream again. It’s always muddy around there, and you hate mud. Besides, I don’t want you to get on a snake.”
“Truett said his dog got bit by a rattlesnake and died.” Tempie poked out her lip. “Poor puppy.”
And if one of those rattlesnakes bit you or Harley . . . Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want to scare the child, so she said, “Just please don’t go out of the yard. Wouldn’t you rather play with your dollies than go traipsing through the woods?”
Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1) Page 9
