The Holiday Courtship

by Winnie Griggs

  Probably much better than he would have been.

  When he stepped inside, he found her and the two young’uns at the table in the kitchen. Miss Whitman appeared to be teaching them how to do some complicated cat’s cradle designs with loops of string laced through their fingers. And the kids—both of them—were actually smiling.

  They looked like, well, like a family. And for just a moment he had a keen desire to fit into that picture. The tug of that longing startled him in its intensity.

  Then the kids saw him, and the immediate change in their demeanor made it clear that he didn’t fit, that he was still someone who had yet to earn their trust, much less their affection.

  He’d excused that reaction before because of what they’d been through. But this time it was harder to dismiss because he’d seen their relaxed attitude around Miss Whitman, a woman they’d just met hours ago and who had no blood ties to them at all.

  So that meant it was personal, at least in part.

  When Miss Whitman looked up, she, at least, gave him a welcoming smile. “Mr. Chandler. I trust you found all was well at your sawmill?”

  He moved forward with a nod, entering the kitchen fully. “Simon’s a good second-in-command.” He glanced at the kids. “It looks like you all are enjoying yourselves.” He spotted the chalk and slate on the table. Did Miss Whitman plan to leave that here with them? It would sure make communicating with Chloe easier.

  But they could discuss that later. “That stew smells good.”

  Miss Whitman straightened. “I imagine you’re hungry.” She turned to the kids. “And I’m sure you are, too. Why don’t we get the table ready? Your uncle can show you where the dishes and cutlery are stored.” She picked up the slate and wrote on it as she talked, and now she turned it around so Chloe could read it.

  Hank realized the kids were waiting for him to do as Miss Whitman had asked, so he moved toward the cabinets. He retrieved the dishes and utensils and handed them to the children, who then transported them to the table.

  As they arranged things properly, Hank approached Miss Whitman at the stove. “Is there anything I can help with?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, then nodded toward the counter beside her. “You can slice that loaf of bread and put it on the table, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” As Hank grabbed a knife he noticed there was already a portion missing from one loaf. “Looks like someone’s been doing some sampling,” he said as he began slicing. Then he inhaled the smell of the fresh-baked bread with appreciation. “My grandma used to say that you could always tell how good a cook a woman was by the bread she baked. I think you’d pass even her test with this loaf.”

  She raised a brow at that. “But you haven’t tasted it yet.”

  “The aroma and how nicely it slices are enough to tell the tale.”

  He turned to transport the bread to the table and paused a moment. His kitchen table was of a modest size, square with four chairs situated around it. But this evening, the children had rearranged things so that there were two chairs on one side. Should he say something or let it go?

  He glanced Miss Whitman’s way, wondering if he should let her handle this. But she had her back to them and hadn’t yet noticed. There was no way for him to bring it to her attention without the children, or at least Alex, noticing.

  He decided to let it go and carried the bread platter to the table as if nothing was amiss.

  Later, as they prepared to take their seats, Miss Whitman gave them an apologetic smile from her position at the stove. “I couldn’t find a large serving bowl. So for tonight I think we’ll just put the pot on the table to serve from.”

  Hank quickly took the pot from her. He didn’t think he actually owned a large serving bowl. He rarely cooked more than he could eat in one sitting, so he had no needs in that area. He supposed that was yet another thing he’d have to take care of now that his household had expanded.

  Miss Whitman placed a folded cloth on the table and he carefully set the pot on it.

  She took her seat and he moved to the other side to take his. He’d barely settled when she gave him a meaningful look.

  “Mr. Chandler, would you say the blessing for us, please?”

  “Of course.” What else could he say? Before he bowed his head, he saw Alex touch his sister’s arm and then fold his hands to indicate they were going to pray. That sort of direction was no doubt why Chloe felt the need to keep her brother close.

  Then Hank closed his eyes and reached deep for the words. It had been quite some time since he’d prayed aloud. “Lord, we thank You for granting us safe travel home to Turnabout. And thank You for this meal we are about to partake of. Thank You, too, for bringing someone as generous as Miss Whitman into our midst. We ask that You grant Aunt Rowena’s friend renewed health so that she may get to Turnabout in the coming days. And in all things keep us mindful of Your grace. Amen.”

  As he looked up, Miss Whitman softly echoed his amen and gave him a warm smile of approval.

  That smile touched a spot inside him he’d thought long dead.

  Then she sat up straighter. “Rather than passing this heavy pot of stew around, if you’ll pass me your bowls, I’ll serve each of you.”

  “Here, let me help.” Hank stood and reached for Alex’s and Chloe’s bowls. He held them up to the pot while Miss Whitman ladled the thick, rich-looking stew into each. Then he set the full bowls in front of the kids and reached for his own.

  Alex and Chloe were mostly silent during the meal, but Miss Whitman seemed to take no notice. She kept the conversation going without apparent effort. She asked him some questions about his sawmill and about his home.

  He did his part to keep the conversation going, mostly by asking her questions about her life before she’d moved to Turnabout. But she always answered superficially or changed the subject. Was she trying to act the woman of mystery? Or was she truly hiding something?

  When the meal was done, Miss Whitman stood to fetch the cobbler while Hank carried the stew pot to the counter.

  He saw what was coming a split second before it happened. Miss Whitman had approached the table with the cobbler and was frowning down at the dish, saying something about hoping she hadn’t let it bake too long.

  At the same time Chloe, who had slipped a bit of bread to Smudge, straightened back up just as Miss Whitman was in the process of setting the dish on the table. Somehow her movement jostled Miss Whitman’s arm so that the dish slipped from her grip and landed on the floor with a plop, sending bits of filling and crust splattering in a wide radius.

  Chloe slapped a hand over her mouth, a stricken expression on her face. Alex let out a loud oh, but for a moment there was no other sound, no other movement in the room. Then Smudge approached one of the splatters and began delicately lapping it up.

  Miss Whitman reached a hand out toward Chloe, but before she could reassure or comfort the girl, Chloe erupted from her chair and, with tears flowing, went running to her room.

  Hank felt he should follow her, but what was the point? Even if he knew what words to say, she wouldn’t be able to hear them.

  He looked to Miss Whitman and she returned his gaze with a self-reproaching grimace.

  “That was my fault,” she said. “I’d forgotten—one of the first rules of interacting with the deaf is to never approach from their blind side if you can avoid it.” She looked down at the mess on the floor, then faced in the direction Chloe had run off.

  “Go,” he said, guiltily relieved she wanted to be the one to comfort his niece. “Alex and I will clean this up.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “There’s a bit left in the dish. If you set it aside before Smudge gets to it, you and Alex should still be able to have some dessert.”

  “I don’t—”

  She made
a small movement with her chin that stopped him. Then she glanced toward Alex, who was wearing a helpless, suspiciously watery-eyed look.

  Of course—she wanted him to keep the boy distracted.

  He rescued the remaining cobbler, placing the pan on the table. “I suppose it would be a shame to let a perfectly good pan of cobbler go to waste,” he said thoughtfully. “What do you say, Alex? Let’s get this cleaned up for Miss Whitman. Then we can reward ourselves with dessert.”

  Alex obediently slid from his chair. As Hank placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he glanced Miss Whitman’s way. She gave him a barely perceptible nod of approval, then lifted the slate and chalk and started out of the room. Then she paused, turned back and, with a quick, graceful movement, reached down and scooped up the cat with one arm. “I’ll get Smudge out of your way,” she said by way of explanation. “And Chloe will probably be glad of his company right now.”

  Now, more than ever, Hank was convinced the pretty, warmhearted schoolteacher would make the perfect mother for the children.

  If only he could convince her of that.

  * * *

  Janell pushed Chloe’s door open and stepped inside to find the girl crying into her pillow. She sat down on the edge of the bed, setting Smudge beside her.

  Chloe immediately sat up. When she saw who it was, she swiped the tears from her face and her expression tensed, taking on a prickly, resentful tightness, even as she cuddled the cat.

  Janell placed a hand on the girl’s knee, giving her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Then she picked up the slate and wrote Not your fault.

  Chloe read it, but rather than easing her distress, it seemed to increase it.

  Janell quickly erased the slate and tried again. I should have paid closer attention.

  Chloe rested her chin on her pet’s soft fur. “It wouldn’t have happened if I could still hear.”

  Again Janell erased the slate and started writing. Mishaps happen to everyone. Didn’t you bump and spill things before your accident?

  Chloe’s expression shifted as a touch of doubt and thoughtfulness crept in.

  Feeling she’d done all she could for now, Janell gave Chloe’s leg another pat, then stood. It was going to take time, but she was determined to get through to the girl.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Janell was surprised to see the worst of the mess had been cleaned up. She gave both of the menfolk a smile. “You’ve done a fine job, gentlemen. Why don’t you let me finish up while you see how that bit of cobbler we salvaged tastes?”

  Alex looked up, his worry plain. “Is Chloe okay?”

  “She’s embarrassed, but otherwise all right.”

  Alex seemed to accept her words at face value and his mood lightened as he took his seat again. Janell met Mr. Chandler’s gaze over the boy’s head and saw the relief in his expression as well.

  She spooned some of the remaining cobbler into Alex’s dish, then turned to do the same for his uncle.

  But Mr. Chandler stopped her. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to eat while you finish cleaning the mess.” And he went back to work wiping down a table leg.

  Well, well, the man wasn’t afraid of housework, nor did he seem to consider it strictly woman’s work. A nice surprise.

  By the time the two of them had the mess cleaned up, Alex had finished his cobbler.

  “May I be excused?” the boy asked. The question seemed to be directed at her, but Janell waved a hand Mr. Chandler’s way, letting Alex know she thought it his uncle’s place to answer.

  Mr. Chandler nodded. “Yes, of course. But carry your dishes to the counter first.”

  His attempt to instill some discipline surprised Janell yet again. The more she was around this man, the more persuaded she became that he actually had the makings of a good father.

  Once the boy left the kitchen, no doubt headed to check in on Chloe, Janell waved a hand toward the table. “Ready for your cobbler?” There was just enough for one serving left.

  “Only if you share it with me.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “I insist.”

  “Perhaps I’ll have just a bite.” But before she could serve it up, he performed the task for her and made sure the remaining cobbler was divided equally.

  Yet more proof that despite his sometimes gruff manner, Mr. Chandler was a gentleman at heart.

  Why was this man still a bachelor? Didn’t the single women of Turnabout see what a catch he was?

  * * *

  As they dug into the dessert, Hank wondered how he would have handled all of this afternoon’s little upsets without Miss Whitman’s assistance.

  As if reading his mind, the schoolteacher gave him an apologetic smile. “I hope you won’t let this worry you overmuch. Such things happen, even with hearing children, and a girl of Chloe’s age is easily embarrassed.”

  Was this what he had to look forward to? “Surely there’s a way to minimize these incidents.”

  “No need to look so horrified. I assure you you’ll get through this. Once the children settle in, and get used to having you as their guardian, things will settle down. But first we need to help Chloe realize her life isn’t over.”

  She stood to clear the table, but he tried to wave her back down.

  “Don’t worry about the dishes—I can take care of that later. You’ll want to head home before dark and I’d like for us to have that talk while we can.”

  She nodded but didn’t pause. “Of course. But I can talk while I work.”

  Stubborn woman. He grabbed their plates and marched to the sink.

  She raised a brow. “Do you prefer to wash or dry?”

  “Dry.” If he was the one to put the dishes away, it might keep her from rearranging any more of his cupboards.

  She nodded and began filling the basin. “First of all, is there someone you have in mind who’ll keep an eye on the children while you’re at work?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hoping Aunt Rowena will arrive by Monday or Tuesday at the latest. I figure, until she gets here or I can make other arrangements, I’ll only go to the sawmill while they’re at school.”

  She turned to face him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You can’t possibly be contemplating sending these children to school on Monday.”

  From the way she asked the question, it was obvious the correct answer was no. But her tone got his back up. “Why not? Attending school is something they’ll be familiar with. I would think the sooner I set routines for them, the sooner they’ll adjust to their new life.”

  “School might be familiar to them, but not this school and not under these circumstances.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Have you forgotten that Chloe will have no idea how to communicate with either the other students or with her teacher?”

  “Of course not. But you’re her teacher and you said you’ve dealt with this before. And that slate you brought seemed to work pretty well.”

  She waved a hand dismissively, not seeming to notice the droplets of water she dispensed in the process. “The slate is just a stopgap measure to use here at home. It’s not something that will serve her in more public situations.”

  He wanted to challenge that declaration, but decided to hold his peace. “What about Alex? Surely it would be good for him to go? It doesn’t seem right for him to be constantly looking out for his sister the way he does.”

  “I agree—you absolutely do need to separate the two, for Alex’s good as well as Chloe’s. Alex can’t make worrying about his sister his whole world the way he’s trying to right now.”

  He sensed there was a but coming.

  “But he is worried about her and he does feel a sense of responsibility for her.”

  He sighed.

  “You can’t just tell him to let it
go and expect it to happen,” she continued. “Alex needs some kind of assurance that Chloe will be okay without having him constantly by her side before he can focus on class work and on just being a little boy. If we do our job right, I’m hoping he’ll be ready by midweek.”

  He supposed he should be happy that at least they agreed on the need to separate the children. “Just what does doing our job right entail?” She had yet to describe exactly how she planned to help Chloe.

  “It means we prove to Alex that we have Chloe’s best interest at heart, that even though she won’t necessarily be happy with her situation, we are doing whatever we can to make it better for her.”

  She continued to say we, as if she didn’t plan to just give him the necessary tools and leave but actually planned to help him wield them. It gave him hope that perhaps he could convince her to make her involvement with the children more permanent.

  But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. “We keep talking around the main question. Again, how do we help Chloe?”

  “We’ve already started. You’re doing what you can to give both of them the stability of a home. But you need to take the next step.” She looked at him diffidently, as if she wasn’t sure if she should say whatever was on her mind.

  “And just what is that next step?” he asked.

  “You must show them that you’re not only willing to make a home for them here, but that you are pleased to do so, that you don’t resent their presence in your life.”

  He shrugged. “That’s no problem because I don’t resent them.” Not exactly, anyway.

  “Don’t you?”

  Who did she think she was to judge him? “No. But what I do resent, Miss Whitman, are the circumstances that put us all in this position. I resent that some careless yahoo, who was more worried about his schedule than the safety of innocent folk, drove a load of explosives through town instead of going the long way around to the mine like he was supposed to. I resent that my sister died much too young and I will never, ever see her again. And I resent that she will never get the chance to see her children grow up or hold her grandbabies in her arms.” He took a deep breath. “And I especially resent that those kids are stuck with me rather than the parents they should have had.”