by Carol Arens
“They say that someday we won’t need horses to pull our wagons.” Lilleth looked him in the eye, hard. She pointed her finger past him toward the hospital. “I’m going in that building with you, Clark Clarkly, and that is that.”
To prove her point she turned on her heel and walked toward it. For a moment she didn’t hear his footsteps following. She did feel his gaze frowning at her back.
“Suit yourself, then,” he said, catching up in a few long strides. “Just make sure you keep quiet.”
“You’ll hardly know I’m there.”
* * *
So far, Trace found Lilleth to be true to her word, and useful in the bargain.
She was careful not to speak above a whisper. She helped him carry wood. She smiled at the inmates, fawned over them and charmed them. When the ancient Mrs. Murphy would not believe that Lilleth was not Trace’s ghostly bride and the reward for his good deeds, she simply patted the old woman’s hand and thanked her for her good wishes.
After he had warmed the last hearth, and motioned toward the door to leave, Lilleth tugged on his sleeve.
“That can’t be all of them?” She glanced at the closed doors up and down the hall. “Are you sure we haven’t missed someone?”
She tapped her foot...one, two, three.
“What’s wrong, Lilly?”
“What could be wrong?” Her foot tapped faster. “I think we might have missed someone, is all. What’s up those stairs?”
“A bolted door.”
At once she ran for the steps, lifted her skirt and dashed up them two at a time.
“Lils, what’s going on?” She didn’t hear him; he’d known she wouldn’t in her haste to reach the door at the end of that long dark hallway.
When he caught up with her, she had reached the door and pressed her ear to it.
“If someone’s in here they’re going to be cold as stone.”
He prayed that no one was in that room, but instinct told him there was. He’d never heard a cry or a plea for help, even though he’d pounded on the door.
“Let’s go. It’s late,” he said.
Trace walked down the hall, even though he sensed that Lilleth hadn’t followed. He stopped with one foot poised over the first stair heading down.
From down that long, dark hall came the most beautiful voice he had ever heard.
He pivoted about and saw Lilleth leaning against that closed door...singing a lullaby. Even at this distance he saw tears shimmering in her eyes.
He opened his mouth to warn her that someone might hear. But then, a ghost could sing a lullaby as well as anyone. He let her finish, then walked back down the hall and turned her away from the door.
“Why were you singing? What’s going on?”
“There could be someone trapped inside.” She wiped her eyes on her coat sleeve. “I thought a song might help.”
“Come on, let’s go.” He slipped his arm about her shoulder and she let him lead her out of the building. He closed the door and picked up his ax from beside the woodpile.
She huddled under his arm, allowing him to hug her close to his side all through the sleeping woods, along the winding path.
There was more going on than she was admitting. He ached to ask her what it was, but she wouldn’t tell him. He knew that for a fact.
So they walked in silence, leaning into each other until they reached the cabin’s front steps. By then her tears had dried to frozen, salty tracks.
Tiptoeing up two stairs, she turned and faced him eye to eye.
“Will you come for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She went up the rest of the steps. She turned and sent him a subdued smile before she slipped inside and closed the door. He heard the lock shift into place, then jiggle as though she was checking its security.
He wondered at what point she would remember that she couldn’t cook.
Chapter Eight
“Auntie Lils, you’ve got flour on your nose.” Jess scanned her powdery appearance, hair ribbon to boot toe. “And your elbow.”
“I’m well aware of that, young man, but biscuits don’t magically appear on the table.”
“They used to, back home.”
Jess ducked when she flicked a pinch of flour at his nose.
“Back home you had someone trained in the art of biscuit making to set them before you.”
“I never saw Mrs. Farmer with white stuff all over her...and the kitchen.”
Lilleth scanned the cooking area of the cabin’s main room. White dust covered nearly every surface. The only reason Mary wasn’t covered in flour was that she was ten feet away, tied to a chair at the dining table, merrily banging a tin cup on the wood planks.
“I don’t suppose you ever saw Mrs. Farmer dip her fist, fingers and all, like this.” Lilleth smeared her hand in the heap of flour on the small table beside the oven, where she’d set out the mixing bowl, eggs and lard. “I don’t suppose she ever did—”
Lilleth lunged, patting her hand on Jess’s small rump. “This!”
The boy squealed. He dashed for the biscuit bowl and scooped out a fistful of his own.
He was quick. Lilleth didn’t have time to dodge the white cloud coming at her face.
She blinked through powdery eyelashes, then wiped her face with both fists.
Jess doubled over, laughing. Bethany would want that. It’s why Lilleth had begun the biscuit fight, even though her own heart was weighted with worry.
“You look like a raccoon, Auntie!” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“And you look like you got a—”
A loud knock sounded at the front door.
“That’s Clark! Come to help me catch the cat.” Jess dashed in that direction.
“Don’t you dare open that door!” she called after him.
Oh, mercy, all powdered in white, she looked like Clark’s ghost bride.
Jess opened the door wide. Clark stepped inside, pushed along by a gust of wind.
He straightened his glasses, peering wide-eyed at her through the lenses. How interesting that today he needed them.
“Good day, Clark.” She tried to straighten the blue bow binding the loose hair at her nape, but it was hopeless.
“Lilly?”
Blame it, half a smile tweaked his lips. She must look incompetent to the bone.
Her plan had been to impress him with her newfound skills, not make him laugh. Which he was doing, and quite hardily, even if he did manage to keep it inside.
“Ma’s practicing biscuits,” Jess announced, while he grabbed his coat off a peg by the door. “She’ll be better at it by Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, without a doubt. Let’s go get your cat.”
Jess dashed out the door.
Clark followed, but before he closed the door behind him he turned.
He winked!
“Well!” She slammed her hands on her hips, smiling in spite of herself. “This will be the tastiest Thanksgiving dinner that Mr. Clark Clarkly has ever eaten, mark my words, little Mary.”
She had three days to make it so. Seventy-two hours to go from novice to queen of the kitchen.
* * *
Snow was on the way, hard and heavy. She’d heard the prediction while she walked down the boardwalk. Not by speaking with anyone about it, naturally. The fewer people she socialized with, the safer it would be.
In passing, she’d caught a word here and a sentence there, enough from each conversation to know that, along with the turkey, the good folks of Riverwalk might have a blizzard for Thanksgiving.
Lilleth stepped into the mercantile, grateful for the stove in the middle of the floor that invited icy shoppers to warm their backsides. This afterno
on, she was the only person warming herself at the grate.
With only one more day until Thanksgiving, she had expected a crowd.
Lilleth stretched her gloves toward the fire. She skimmed her mental list of things she needed to purchase. Somehow those things would come together to provide a feast. Other women cooked; they did it daily. Blamed if she wouldn’t do it, as well. It was simply a matter of mixing flour, and such, then there you had it. Somehow.
She put away wondering about the mysteries of gravy when thoughts of Clark crept into her mind. The man was perplexing, fascinating even. What was it about him that had tugged at her since the very first time she’d met him?
And what kind devilment had gotten into her, inviting him for a feast cooked by her own hands?
He made her feel safe, was what.
Had it not been for the pit of lies and deceit that she lived and breathed on a daily basis, she would have asked him not to take the short walk home the other night.
Clark was the kindest, most decent man she had ever met. And honest on top of all that. In case those things were not enough, she wanted him in a most carnal way. Somehow, the librarian had gotten under her skin, burrowed himself into her heart.
Her bedroom walls were thick, made of solid logs, and the children were sound sleepers. Had life been different, she would have invited him for more than dinner.
She’d never met a man she wanted in that way. It could be because she’d never met a man she completely trusted.
She trusted Clark.
Walking home from Hanispree, tucked under the shelter of his arm, she had wept against his chest and found sanctuary.
Even though that moment of refuge felt good and right, she was not entirely comfortable with it. Being her own guardian had served her quite nicely her whole adult life.
In the end, she could not deny that having someone watch out for her gave her that extra bit of courage.
Right now she needed courage. Clark believed that someone had been trailing her in the woods, at midnight no less. All afternoon while she shopped in town, she had felt creepy crawlies itching between her shoulder blades, just as Jess had described.
She was surer than ever that he hadn’t imagined he was being spied on the other day.
Thank the stars that she had come to town alone today and left the children in the warm safety of the cabin. The cabin with the sturdy lock that Clark had insisted on installing with his own, not so bookish hands.
Lilleth shook off a shiver. No one was watching. Her nerves were getting the best of her, what with the pressure of cooking a holiday feast. Not a feast for just the children and Clark, either; she’d make enough food for all the folks locked up in Hanispree. I’ll find you, Bethany. She sent the thought for the thousandth time.
The mercantile owner came out from behind the curtain of the storeroom, wiping his hands on his long apron.
“What can I do for you, missus? Hope you don’t want a turkey—sold out of those yesterday. Folks came in early, stocking up for the storm. No one wanted to get caught without a bird for Thanksgiving.”
Luckily, she didn’t need a bird. Clark was supplying that, although she would still need to cook it. From what she had been able to learn from the cookbooks that Jess had sneaked home from the lending library, turkey was the easiest part of the meal to fix.
“I don’t need a turkey. Just some green beans, a dozen cans of milk.” If a blizzard was coming she would need to have extra milk on hand. “Make that two dozen cans, along with potatoes and a big bag of flour.”
“You go through all that flour you bought the other day already?”
“My biscuits are renowned.” Hopefully, he didn’t see her blush at her womanly failing to prepare the perfect bun. “I can’t seem to make enough of them. They disappear almost before they are out of the oven.”
That might be the case at some point in time, after she practiced a few dozen more batches. Hopefully, Jess wouldn’t turn into a lump of dough for all the sampling he’d been doing.
“In fact, let me have two bags of flour. They are that good.”
She laid money on the counter to pay for the food.
“You’ll need help with all that. I’ll send my boy over in the buggy.”
“Thank you. Here’s something for his trouble.” She placed a quarter on top of the bills.
“You take care, Mrs. Gordon. That blizzard’s going to be a killer.” He scooped up the money and slid it in his apron pocket.
Lilleth turned to walk toward the front of the store. A man, his hat tugged so low it flopped over his ears and nearly hid his eyes, peered through the window. Ice crystals frosted the glass where he breathed on it. He grinned at her, then licked the pane with a long narrow tongue.
Just as quickly as he’d appeared, he vanished.
“Did you see that?” She spun about, but the mercantile owner had gone into the back room.
Had the apparition even been there? She’d like to hope that it was merely stress getting the better of her. Just in case, though, she’d ride home in the wagon with the storekeeper’s son.
* * *
The turkey had nearly frozen while Trace went from the lending library to the cabin. So had he. The five minutes it normally took to walk that distance stretched to fifteen.
Wind howled past his ears, swirling snow every which way. He knew he was on the path only because he didn’t bump into a tree.
Predictions of a blizzard had been underestimated. This storm was a violent force that breathed menace down turned-up collars, and foreboding up pant legs. Pity anyone who got caught out in it.
At least his family in Chicago wouldn’t be expecting him to wire them his tardy progress report on the investigation.
A lamp glowing in the cabin window reassured him that he was going the right way. He leaned into the wind and pressed toward it.
The Gordons must have been for watching for him. As soon as his frozen boot touched the porch the front door was flung open and Jess rushed out to take charge of the turkey.
“Ma thought you wouldn’t come,” he said. “But I knew you would, Clark.”
The boy looked up at him, grinning. The gladness illuminating his eyes made Trace want to go down on his knees and embrace him.
It was plain to see that Jess missed having a father, one who would be around no matter what. Apparently, without meaning to, Trace had stepped into the role. He shouldn’t have let that happen, but it had come about so naturally that he hadn’t noticed until this instant.
Besides, this was Lilleth’s son, her own flesh and blood. He could no more turn away from him than he could the boy’s mother.
Jess crossed the room, carrying the bird to Lils. He almost staggered, tipped to one side with the weight of it. She lifted it from his arms, her face flushed from the fire she had just built up in the stove.
“Wait till you see my surprise, Clark!” Jess dashed toward his mother’s bedroom and disappeared around the corner.
“He’s been on pins all morning with excitement. I didn’t expect you’d make it in this weather. You must be frozen through.” Lilly brushed a spot of snow from his shoulder.
“It would take a worse storm than this one to keep me from this meal. I’d have crawled through the woods if I had to.” He shrugged out of his coat, then hung it on a peg on the wall beside the fireplace.
Lilleth smiled at him, bright and pretty. Something about her was different today. She looked at him with softness in her eyes. Or maybe it was simply holiday cheer.
He’d give thanks today for that, even if what he should be giving thanks for was that she hadn’t discovered who he really was.
Jess came around the corner, walking carefully and carrying a big cat in his arms.
“He finally came to me, just like you said he wou
ld.” The boy’s small chest seemed to puff up with pride while he carried his prize across the room. “Just in time, too.”
As if to emphasize the point, a screeching wind grabbed hold of the cabin. It pounded, as though it wanted to blow the place down, but being made of good solid logs, with all the holes repaired, the structure held without a creak.
“He’s a fine cat.” Warmth from the fireplace on one end of the cabin and heat from the stove on the other chased the chill from Trace’s clothes, then his bones.
He bent down to gaze closely at the cat, which purred with contentment in Jess’s arms.
“Might be the finest I’ve ever seen.” Trace stroked the orange head and got a nudge in response. “Maybe he’d like some turkey, later.”
“Bet he would. He’s hungry as anything.” Jess settled in one of the chairs beside the fireplace and snuggled the feline close. “He already gobbled down two eggs and four of Ma’s practice biscuits.”
“Those must be some good biscuits, then.”
Jess arched a brow, then shook his head, long and slow. Luckily, Lilleth was busy sliding the turkey into the oven and didn’t seem to notice.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Napping.” Jess bent his nose into the cat’s fur and nuzzled.
Halfway between the kitchen and the fireplace, Lilleth had constructed a bedroom of sorts for the children. By stringing up blankets she had given them a private space near enough to the fire to catch its warmth.
Trace walked over to it. He drew back the curtain and peered inside.
Mary, sucking her thumb, snuggled in the small bed that he had given her. Red ringlets curled about her precious little ears. If the Thanksgiving ever came that he was giving thanks for a sweet baby daughter like this one, he would be a happy man.
“If you wake her up, it will be you who entertains her,” Lilleth whispered, standing close beside him. Her breast grazed his arm ever so briefly when she peeked around him to look at Mary. “Why don’t you go sit by the fire, Clark? The turkey won’t be finished cooking for hours.”
“Can’t I help with anything?”
“And you a guest? I should say not. Take yourself over to that chair...put up your feet. They’ve got to be frozen through.” She nudged his arm, urging him toward the fire.
