Love Inspired Historical October 2015 Box Set

by Lacy Williams

  She sprang to her feet and hurried to the piece of wood on the sawhorses. “I’ll help you measure this.”

  He pulled the tape measure from his pocket and handed her one end.

  She ducked her head and concentrated on the task, giving it far more attention than it required.

  For a moment, she’d let her guard down. It must not happen again. If she didn’t keep her wits about her, keep her goal firmly in mind and her senses tuned for danger, she could end up losing her daughters.

  A tiny groan escaped her lips. She felt Blue’s silent question but would not look at him. Good thing he was a loner. Equally good she didn’t want anything from him but a chance to feed herself and the girls until she could leave this town.

  Chapter Five

  Blue ignored Clara’s groan. He wouldn’t let her problems be his concern. He reminded himself that he only allowed her to help in order to make sure the girls got regular meals. He’d want people to do the same for his kids if they’d lived.

  He bent over as if to pick up something off the floor, but it was really to stop the pain that grabbed his gut.

  Eleanor and Libby had stacked the woodpile neatly and now played with bits of bark from the firewood. He caught bits and pieces of their conversation. Something about Christmas and a new—

  But he never caught the word and refused to dwell on the subject. Christmas had meant nothing to him since the fire.

  The two girls were pleasant enough. Their mother seemed a nice woman. But he didn’t welcome them into his world.

  He straightened. Only one way to make this afternoon pass quickly, and that was to keep his mind on work. And hope whoever Clara waited for would arrive quickly. Like right this minute.

  But of course nothing happened. No wagon or buggy rattled into town. No rider came looking for a young woman.

  Did she really have a plan, or was she hoping for something to fall from the sky?

  A bit later, he glanced out the window at the fading light. “It’s quitting time,” he announced. He’d succeeded in keeping his mind on measuring, measuring again, cutting and using the plane. Well, almost. At every move, Clara had been at his elbow, reaching to help, holding the tape, insisting she could use the plane.

  “I love doing this,” she said as thin shavings peeled from the wood. “Am I doing a good job?”

  He admitted she did. “I’ve never seen a woman doing woodwork before, though my pa said he knew of one and said she did a good job. Said she had a light touch, which he recognized in all her work.”

  Clara sat back on her heels. “Maybe I could make furniture.” She sounded as surprised as he felt.

  “Why would you want to? Won’t you remarry? Seems running a home and raising kids is work enough.”

  She came to her feet, her eyes flashing like lightning. “What you are saying is I require a man to take care of me and all I need to do is sit around and look pretty.” She spit out each word as if they were the pits of sour fruit.

  He held her gaze without flinching. He knew she resented what he’d said and couldn’t understand why. “From what I’ve seen, running a house and looking after the children doesn’t allow much time for sitting around. My wife worked very hard, as I recall. Most of her days were longer than mine.”

  Slowly, the fire faded from her eyes. “I have no use for sitting around being ornamental.”

  Nor did he, but why should she think such a thing? He took in her blue eyes, her hair with varying colors of blond that reminded him of finely grained wood. She was a beautiful woman. Why hadn’t he realized that when he’d first seen her? No doubt she’d pitch a fit if she knew what he thought. Nevertheless, he finished his assessment of her. Skin so pure that it was no wonder that Libby used it as a comparison. Shapely hands that had proven to be capable of working with wood. A grin came unbidden to his mouth. “Seems to me you’d have a hard time not being ornamental.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she sputtered.

  He continued to grin, pleased he had left her speechless. “We best head over for supper.” He gathered up his coat. The girls followed suit.

  Clara made a sound of exasperation, then grabbed her coat. “It’s far more important to be useful,” she muttered as they left the church.

  “No reason a woman can’t be both.” He spoke airily, knowing most women would have welcomed the compliment. But she only huffed toward the Morton place without offering any explanation.

  Libby slowed her steps. “I’m awfully tired after working so hard.” She gave Blue a sad look.

  “Don’t suppose you’d like a ride?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” She practically threw herself into his arms.

  He shifted her to one side. “How about you, Eleanor? Maybe you’d like a ride, too?”

  Eleanor shot her mother a look, but Clara steamed on ahead of them and didn’t glance back.

  Eleanor nodded, and he swung her up in his other arm.

  The two of them were a load, but he didn’t mind. He could spare them a little extra attention once in a while.

  Just as he would have for Beau and Nancy.

  Sorrow dripped its bitter poison into his veins.

  Libby touched his cheek. “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes I am.”

  She didn’t ask for more explanation but pressed her head to his neck in a way that offered comfort.

  And he let her. For the first time he accepted it from someone. Somehow it seemed fitting it should come from a child.

  Over the meal, Bonnie chattered about everything under the sun. Claude added a comment or two, asked a question of Blue that he answered in as few words as possible. Clara seemed equally indisposed to conversation, though the girls more than made up for their mother’s lack.

  When the meal was over, Clara offered to help clean up. He rose and left but paused outside the little shack. If he went in, she would object to the intrusion. But if he didn’t, he’d worry all night about the safety of the stove. He’d sooner endure her wrath than his worry and stomped inside.

  The first thing that hit him was the scent of something sweet. Perhaps a perfume or a scented soap. Or perhaps it was simply the way a space with three females would smell.

  The furniture and boxes had been rearranged so the open space where they would sleep was closer to the door, farther away from the stove. He had no idea why she’d placed things so, but it eased his mind to know they wouldn’t likely be trapped by a fire.

  Three dresses hung from hooks on one wall. Two small ones and one larger. He stared at them for a moment as a flood of memories assailed him. Hadn’t Alice and Nancy hung their dresses in a similar fashion? His and Beau’s shirts had hung side by side, too. He’d often thought it was an indication of what was to come…the child growing until the garments became the same size as the parent’s or even larger.

  Only his children would never reach adulthood.

  He drew a long breath into his starving lungs and turned his back on the clothes and his attention back to the task he’d come for.

  He shook out the ashes and took them outside, then built a fire in the stove. One that would burn slowly and steadily. No sudden flaring and overheating. Then he returned to the church.

  The winter days were short, requiring him to light a lamp. He settled comfortably on his bedroll with one of the books he’d brought with him from the ranch.

  His mind wandered from the story. Working with Clara triggered so many memories. Some he didn’t welcome. But he let his mind go back to Texas and the days he’d worked with his pa. When was the last time he’d written home?

  Not since he’d notified Pa of the death of Alice and the children. Why? He leaned back on the rolled-up bedding and thought of his reasons. Mostly, he’d shut his mind to anything but the moment before him. He allowed no thoughts of the past. Not even of his pa. Poor Pa must be worried about Blue, especially as he didn’t even know where he was or how to contact him.

  He bound to his
feet, grabbed his coat and strode down the street toward Macpherson’s store. It would be closed and locked up by now, but Macpherson lived in the same building.

  Blue banged on the door until Macpherson threw it open.

  “Blue, what’s all the racket about? I’m closed for the day.”

  Blue knew he opened the door for business whenever it was required. Travelers came at odd hours, especially in the summer when daylight lasted long into the evening.

  “I need to purchase something.”

  Macpherson stepped aside and let Blue inside. “And it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  Blue didn’t want to wait. “I’m working during the day.”

  Macpherson gave him an odd look. “What is it you need?”

  The words stuck in Blue’s throat. His request was going to sound mighty odd to Macpherson. But now that he was here, he had no intention of retreating. “I’d like to purchase a piece of paper, an envelope and a stamp.”

  Macpherson stared at him. “You needed me to open the store for that? You know the mail won’t even go out until Petey returns.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Seen through Macpherson’s eyes it did sound foolish, but Blue wanted to write Pa while he had the notion. After all, it wasn’t like the notion came around often.

  Macpherson shrugged. “Ah, well, seeing as you’re here.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and an envelope and went to the other end of the counter to get a stamp.

  “Can I borrow a pencil?”

  Macpherson handed him a stub so short Blue had to squeeze it between his thumb and forefinger. He wet the lead with the tip of his tongue and bent over the paper.

  “Leave it on the counter when you’re done,” Macpherson said. “I’m going back to my supper.”

  “Thanks.” Blue started the letter.

  Dear Pa,

  I’m okay. Sorry I haven’t written in so long. I have a job at the Eden Valley Ranch. You can send mail to Edendale, Alberta. Work is slow at the ranch at the moment so I am in town building pews for the new church. I remember all you taught me

  He looked up. Maybe not everything. Pa—and Ma before she died when Blue was twelve—had taught him to be a God-fearing man. He tapped the pencil on the counter a moment before he resumed.

  about woodworking.

  I trust you are well.

  Fondest regards,

  Your son, Blue

  He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, glued it shut, wrote on the address and glued on the stamp.

  “Thanks, Macpherson,” he called.

  “See yourself out,” the man called.

  As Blue returned to the church, he glanced toward the shack where Clara and the girls were. A faint glow came through the canvas. What did she do to entertain herself and her daughters?

  From what Libby and Eleanor said, she must read to them from the Bible—the book of Exodus to be exact. He stepped inside the church and glanced about. The girls had stacked half a dozen pieces of wood next to the stove.

  “So you don’t get cold at night,” Eleanor had said.

  At the stack of wood next to the door, they’d arranged bark and scraps into what seemed to be a corral. He chuckled again. No doubt the groups of curled wood were animals.

  He examined the pieces of oak that Clara had planed. She’d done a fine job.

  He lay on his bedroll and picked up his book. Blue opened it to the page where he’d left off, but his gaze kept drifting around the room. Everywhere he looked he saw reminders of Clara and the girls.

  If he wasn’t careful he’d be forced to face his past and consider his future. He had no intention of doing so and focused his attention firmly on the book.

  *

  The next day Clara and the girls hurried over to the church as soon as they’d finished breakfast. Blue had come and gone without speaking more than a dozen words. Bonnie and Claude didn’t seem surprised, so Clara decided it meant nothing.

  “We have to get more snow for him,” Eleanor said. “Maybe we didn’t leave enough wood. I hope he didn’t get cold in the night.”

  “I’m sure he could get wood from the pile if he needed to,” Clara assured the girl.

  “But it’s our job,” Eleanor insisted.

  “Only when we’re there. Other times he takes care of himself.”

  “Okay.” The child didn’t sound convinced.

  Libby skipped from one patch of bare ground to another, avoiding the skiff of snow. “He needs us.”

  Clara laughed. “I doubt it, but it’s nice to be able to help.”

  Later, as she planed a piece of wood, she realized how true her words were. It did feel good to help. She would have never thought she’d find so much pleasure in working with wood. Could God have given her this opportunity so she could learn the skill and perhaps, one day, use it to support herself and the girls? It was a fantastic dream, but for the first time maybe in forever, she felt as if the future offered something more than survival and running.

  She sat back and watched Blue sawing through a piece of wood. She hadn’t done that yet and hurried to his side. “Can I try using the saw?”

  He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “It’s like playing a musical instrument—”

  “Those who do it well make it look easy,” she finished for him. “But most musicians have to learn by doing.” She held out her hand for the saw.

  “Very well. Wait while I find a spot you can manage.” He cut a few more inches, turned the wood around. “There are a few things you need to know about saws.” He talked about crosscut and ripsaws and which one was needed for the job. He showed her how to hold the tool, then handed it to her. “Put the blade next to the pencil mark and make a nice kerf.”

  “Kerf?”

  “An opening in the wood so you can get started.”

  She tried to follow his instructions, but the blade skipped away from the wood.

  He came to her side, placed his hand over hers on the saw, held her other hand in place on the wood and guided her through the motions.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the task, to ignore the warmth of his body so close to her, the strength of his hand over her fingers. What would it be like to share life with a strong man? One who allowed her to do something useful?

  He stepped back, and she jerked her thoughts from the slippery slope they’d started down. She meant to prove she did not need a man to take care of her.

  Focusing on the task, she successfully completed the cut and, filled with pride, stepped back and grinned at him. “I enjoyed that.”

  He looked surprised. Did he think she meant his hand on hers? Or sharing the work with him? Who knew what the man thought? It certainly didn’t matter to her, but lest he get the impression it did, she said, “Woodworking is pleasant.”

  “I agree.” He turned to examine an uncut board.

  “Can I plane this piece I just cut?” she asked, eager to be doing something.

  “Go ahead. You seem to have the knack for it.”

  The work was soothing and required her concentration, allowing her no time to think.

  Then, happy with the job she’d done, she sat back and watched Blue. He noticed her attention on him and reached for the planer and another board. “I’ll work on this.”

  She observed for a few minutes as her thoughts drifted back to the prior evening. After the girls had fallen asleep, she had been restless as she sat at the table. Her only reading material was the Bible, but she longed for something more even though she couldn’t say what it might be. Another book? Something to occupy her hands…some sort of needlework maybe? Someone to share a cup of tea with? She thought of returning to the Morton home and seeking Bonnie’s company, but she didn’t care to intrude on the couple’s time together.

  “Blue, what do you do to occupy yourself in the evenings?”

  “Hmm. Nothing much.”

  “Surely you don’t stare into the dark corners of the room with no thought on your mind.”

  �
��Nope. Sometimes I work on the pews. I sharpen the saws or the blade of the planer.”

  “You can’t do that every evening.”

  He lifted his head from his work. “Last night I wrote a letter to my pa.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Where does he live? Is your mother alive?”

  “He lives in Texas, and my mother passed away years ago.”

  She looked past him into the distance. “My mother died when I was a baby. My father raised me. Or rather, a succession of nannies did.” She felt his gaze on her and dipped her head to watch his hand moving up and down the piece of wood.

  For some reason she didn’t want him to express sorrow over the loss of her mother. “It wasn’t like I missed her. I don’t even remember her.” But she’d often wondered what her mother was like. Did she sit idly while Father decided when she would move? Had she secretly exerted her independence in little ways as Clara had learned to do as Rolland’s wife?

  She met Blue’s gaze and saw only acknowledgment of her words. “I did always wonder what my life would have been like if she lived. Would I have been raised differently? I like to think I would have.”

  “Different? How?”

  She shrugged. She longed to tell him, but was it safe? “I can’t help but think my mother would have seen me as someone of worth.”

  “Your father didn’t?” Then understanding flashed through his eyes. “It was him that made you think you were only a pretty little object, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” She ducked her head.

  “Guess you know better now.”

  Her head came up so quickly her neck protested. “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? You have two girls you take care of, you are traveling on your own, you’re learning woodworking. And I expect you’ve learned a good many other useful things, too.”

  She let his words sink in. “You’re the first person who has acknowledged all that.”

  He shrugged again. “Seems fairly evident to me.”

  It was far from evident to her. At his words, a sense of satisfaction grew inside her. If she appeared so competent to Blue, perhaps she might eventually feel confident in herself.