Several returned the greeting, but most turned toward another man and started chatting, pulling off the name tags.
Tiredness pulled at her muscles, and she just wanted to sit and do nothing. But she moved to where Blinne waited and gathered the supplies.
A man with reddish-blond hair approached and smiled at Blinne. He reached his hands toward the slates and mimed lifting before patting his chest.
“Blinne, Torg would like to carry your slates the entire, incredibly short distance to your cabin.” Lang stood with arms crossed, his face stiff.
Sorcha wondered if such a question had been one that Lang objected to in the shouting.
Blinne glanced toward Lang. “How do I say yes?”
“Just smile. He’ll understand.” He turned to Sorcha. “Ready? I’ll escort you.” He crooked his right elbow.
Pulse racing, she hesitated. No graceful way to switch sides existed, so she grasped his arm with her injured hand. Would he feel the difference in the stiffness of her padded last fingers and ask? Worry gnawed at her stomach, and she needed to fill the silence. “I thought the class went well.” She stepped over the threshold and into the cool air. The waning moon bathed the clearing and buildings in silvery light.
“I’m happy they minded the manners their mothers taught them.”
Over the weekend, she’d have to work hard to prepare lots of flashcards. But with what materials? Maybe if each slate contained a simple sentence, and she broke the men into small groups—
“Sorcha.”
She jerked and looked up. “Hm. What?”
“You’re home.” Lang tilted his head toward the cabin.
Blinking, Sorcha glanced around and spotted Torg ambling back toward the bunkhouse, whistling. Blinne’s humming came from behind the front door. “Oh. I was lost in plans for the next class.”
Smiling, he set his hands on her shoulders. “You did well tonight. I like how you adjusted your plan.” He chuckled, then cocked an eyebrow. “Or maybe you planned to use the bunkhouse for vocabulary words.”
At the intimate gesture, warmth invaded her chest, and she lifted a hand to squeeze his. “A spontaneous decision. But I relied on you interpreting, and we made a good team.”
His head jerked back, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Sleep well, Sorcha.”
What just happened? Did she offend him with her injury? She stared at his retreating back until he disappeared into the bunkhouse. Hot tears invaded her eyes, and she stumbled into the cabin, dazed over his obvious rejection.
Almost a month later, Lang stomped into his office and slammed down his order book. The inventory of logs was down, and insufficient lumber filled the drying racks to ship the waiting order. Three men recuperated from injuries received in careless accidents, affecting the output. He’d filled in as best he could, but he couldn’t perform three jobs . . . four, if he counted the manager duties. The men grumbled about having to work longer on Saturday to make up the shortfall. Roald reported more petty arguments than usual among the men. In the mill, Staffen struggled with preventing the boiler from overheating. Nobody was happy with Lang, and everywhere he turned, he couldn’t meet expectations. He wished for someone on whom he could unburden his troubles.
He flopped into his desk chair and turned to gaze out the window. Fördamma. Had he positioned the teacher’s cabin in his direct line of sight to torture himself? Maybe a troll whispered in his ear while he met with Roald and Staffen about the coming teacher and the cabin location. The presence of that mischief-making being in the camp could explain a lot.
His own turmoil had a personal basis. No getting around how he’d overstepped proper boundaries the night of Sorcha’s first class. Excitement over the success of the men’s responses spurred him to touch her—in a way only a beau should touch a woman. The accusatory glares from his crew, who’d pressed their faces to the bunkhouse windows, caught him up short. The rules he’d laid down for the men about keeping their distance from the women had to apply to him as well. Even if his heart rebelled.
In the intervening time, he kept busy in the office each evening while she conducted the class. Occasionally, Blinne helped, but often she was too busy with sewing orders. Soon his entire crew would own new shirts. A wiser way to spend their wages than on whiskey. If the company duties were completed, he whiled away the time by carving Dalecarlian horses in the style he learned in his grandpa’s shop. The brightly painted, stocky horses sold well at the mercantile for gifts. If asked the reason for wanting to see the small toys bought, he’d have to say national pride.
No matter what task occupied his evening, each night at five minutes before nine o’clock, he waited outside the bunkhouse door to carry a lantern to light her path home. On nights when enough moonlight shone, he still maintained the protective ritual. Only a simple good night or a few words about the men’s progress were spoken between them. But every day, he looked forward to those two or three minutes more than he had a right to.
Maybe what he needed was a long sit in the bastu. Let the heated steam release his tension and relax his muscles. He shoved to his feet and moved the order book onto his desk. Sitting here musing hadn’t presented a solution to his problem. Hopefully someone else had the same idea before him, and he wouldn’t have to wait twenty or thirty minutes for the stones to heat.
When he arrived at the building situated near the tree line, he spotted other clothes hanging on pegs in the shed surrounding the cold-water tub. Steam would already fill the wood-paneled room. After stripping down and piling his clothes onto an anteroom shelf, he entered the bastu, laid a towel on a bench, and sat. This special hut held such a priority among the men that it had been completed before the bunkhouse roof received its final shingle.
Two figures, hunched forward with elbows on knees and a towel covering their heads, sat on the other side of the narrow space, several feet apart.
Perspiration popped out on his skin, and he sighed, then draped a small towel over his head. As the moist heat seeped into his muscles, Lang let his thoughts wander. Used to be he looked forward to receiving letters from home. After posting the one at the beginning of the month where he’d requested greetings to be forwarded to Olga, the girl on a neighboring farm, he dreaded his mother’s reply. The day after he sent the letter, he regretted his statement, which only encouraged his mother’s matchmaking. Although the original plan was to establish and run the company in America for four years, then return and take a Swedish wife, Lang knew his wishes weren’t the same as when he left Sweden. The moment he first met Sorcha changed everything.
Someone poured a ladle of water on the hot stones in the middle, making them sizzle.
Lang mopped the sweat from his face, then reclined, resting elbows on the next higher bench. He watched the steam rise in clouds and crawl along the ceiling. At his movement, the towel dropped off. From somewhere close came sweet musical notes. Ones like he’d never heard before. He couldn’t name the melody that pulled at him like one played by the legendary Pied Piper.
But compulsion to learn the source drove him to his feet. He walked to the back shelter and eased down the steps into the pool, then ducked under the surface. When he shot upward, he sucked in a breath at the sudden cold. The resulting tingles along his skin pumped his heart faster, sending quickened blood throughout his body.
Moments later, he followed the musical sounds, wandering a distance into the forest. Water dripped from his hastily dried hair onto the shoulders of his shirt.
Sorcha sat on a tree stump, playing a small stringed instrument balanced in her lap. Her head was lowered, as if she was listening to the notes as she strummed.
The sweet and sad notes put an ache in his throat. He leaned a shoulder against a tree and closed his eyes. Notes of yearning sifted through the air and circled his head. How an instrument could make him feel wistful, he didn’t know. A branch cracked behind him, and he glanced around. By his count, six other men stood in similar positions in a circle about t
hirty feet back from where she played.
Jealousy, hot and wild, ran through his body. He’d been a fool to remain silent about the connection he felt toward Sorcha. Had he risked her forming a similar attachment with another man in camp? The fact none of the others stepped forward to speak with her gave him hope. Direct, stern glares and a jerk of his thumb caused three of the men to leave. He’d had to hike around the outer perimeter until he convinced the remaining ones to find other diversions.
At least with those six, he’d made his claim known. After taking a deep breath, he stepped through the trees toward the musician who’d captured his soul. Now he could only hope for Sorcha to be as accepting after the coolness he’d displayed.
Sorcha plucked the last notes of “My Lady Greensleeves,” then pressed a bare hand flat on the harp’s metal strings to still their vibrations. Although normally she sought solitude to play, during the past month, she’d learned privacy was a hard state to achieve in a place filled with so many men.
She’d been grateful Lang granted her request for her and Blinne to take the midday and evening meals in the bunkhouse. The extra work Wikimak performed to keep two portions separate wasn’t needed. Besides, eating with the men allowed for conversational practice. She only wished Lang wasn’t so obvious in his aloofness. His sudden coldness the night of her first lesson hurt. Following his unexplained aloofness, she vowed that teaching must remain her true passion.
Crunching dirt announced the arrival of one from the many who had been listening.
She glanced around, and her traitorous heart fluttered faster. Over the past month, she told herself she had no right to expect his special attention. He’d provided a job when she needed one—nothing more. So why did the sight of the tall, handsome man heading her way set her atwitter? Facing forward, she reached for the harp’s leather case and gasped at the sight of her bare hands.
“Don’t put it away on my account.”
“No?” She tucked her left hand under her leg. Had he noticed?
“Nej.” He dragged a fallen log a few feet closer and sat, facing her. “I miss hearing music. My papa and grandpa play the nyckelharpa.”
“I don’t know that instrument.” And she didn’t care what he wanted to talk about, as long as the conversation continued. Her thoughts of the intervening time—that her feelings didn’t amount to much and that she was better off with only her work—were all rubbish. A few moments in his proximity, and she knew Lang was a man she could truly care for.
“It’s played with a bow like a fiddle, but finger keys stick out from the slender neck to change the tones.” He demonstrated cradling an instrument across his forearm and in front of his body, mimicking the bow’s movement.
“Interesting.” She laid the harp across her thighs. To help calm her nervousness, she tapped her right fingers on the strings, producing a quiet hum.
“I apologize for my men disturbing you, Sorcha. If you’re bothered by an audience, let me know. I can do better about keeping them away.”
One look at his determined look—mouth set tight, brows furrowed—convinced her he’d do exactly that. What had happened to the smiling man she’d first bumped into? “I don’t mind sharing my music.” She tilted her head and smiled.
“I mind sharing you.” In a slow move, he levered forward, positioning himself on his knees until their heads were only inches apart. “I’ve missed you. I was a fool to think I could deny my feelings.”
Sucking in a surprised breath, she inhaled what little air existed between them. His words set her thoughts reeling. She reached out a hand to grasp his shirt front. “I wondered—”
Lang cut off her words with a brush of his lips over hers, then he eased back, eyebrows raised.
“Oh.” Had he kissed her, or had she wished it? The touch was so light. Nodding, she tightened her hold, pulling more shirt fabric into her fist.
Smiling, he circled an arm around her shoulders and eased her close.
His chest was a muscled wall, and she relished its solidity. For too long, she’d ached to be enclosed in a strong embrace . . . Lang’s secure embrace. Sorcha bent back her head and closed her eyes. His lips nuzzled her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, and finally the tip of her nose. The subtle seduction hammered her pulse, but the wayward touches left her mouth aching for a real kiss. A moan escaped, followed by heat flaming her cheeks at the expression of her need.
Then he pulled back and released his hold.
Wondering what stopped him, she popped open her eyes. At the sight of him setting the harp into its case, she couldn’t stop a smile. She’d forgotten she held it. When she saw his outstretched hand, she let him pull her to a stand.
Lang wrapped one arm around her back and cupped her chin with his free hand, then gazed into her eyes. His breaths panted through opened lips.
Blood whooshed in her ears, and she returned the look, marveling at the various shades of blue in his eyes. Then he moved too close for her to focus, and she savored the sensation of his warm lips nibbling at hers, first from one direction—then he angled her chin higher and pressed harder. Sorcha slipped her arms around his waist and held tight as the kiss intensified, scrambling her senses. Her knees wobbled.
“Steady.” Lang moved his other arm to support her and leaned back. “You all right?”
“I’m wonderful.” She was glad to notice that his breathing was as quick and raspy as her own.
“How did the injury happen?”
“Oh, you saw that?” She shook her head. “I don’t like to expose its ugliness to others.” She let out a breath and lifted her left hand between their bodies. “It happened in a clothing factory where I worked several years ago. A piece of metal flew off a weaving loom and sliced my two fingers so badly, they had to be amputated.”
He cupped her hand and grazed a thumb over the scar. “Must have hurt.”
“It did, but the injury is also what made me decide I wanted to become a teacher.” Am I really sharing this personal story? “I took a good look around and noticed I wasn’t the only maimed worker, some being youngsters of seven or eight years. I knew then I wanted to bring education to children so they would not be forced to work in unsafe conditions.”
“Such an admirable reason.” Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand and brushed tiny kisses along her scar. “I’m so sorry you had to suffer. But if you hadn’t, then you wouldn’t have traveled west, and we’d never have met.”
Seeing his lips touch the puckered skin clenched her stomach. In the next moment, his open acceptance rushed hot tears to her eyes, and she blinked them back. “I would have missed out on so much.”
Lang rested a hand on her shoulder. “Speaking of missing out . . . I want to be part of mealtime conversations where everyone around you and Blinne wears a smile as they eat. Tonight I request the honor of dining next to you.”
“Consider the spot yours . . . always.” She hoped her words weren’t too forward, but she no longer wished to hide her feelings.
With a nod, he gestured toward the camp. “We should return separately.”
“Why?” Frowning, she stepped back. With a sharp exhale, she stooped to gather her gloves. Anger tightened her muscles, and she fumbled to unlatch the clasp. “Are you ashamed of me?”
Lang wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her struggling body against his length. “Hey, stop.” He pressed his cheek along her neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
Her resistance ceased, but she stood rigid within his hold, trembling. The warmth of his body seeping through her clothes strangely comforted her. “What did you mean?”
He turned her in his arms and cupped her cheeks then smiled. “Our feelings are too new. We need to become better acquainted, don’t you agree?”
Part of her did, and the other part—the bigger part—enjoyed being swept away. “I suppose.” She stepped back from his hold and brushed a hand over her skirt. “I’ll go first.” After grabbing her gloves, she pulled them on, then lifted her case.
“See you at supper?”
He winked. “Count on it.”
Each step she took proved harder than the last one. What she wanted was to return to his arms and soak in that feeling of security his strength offered. Ahead, the small hut behind her cabin came into view. Wanting one last look of Lang in their special spot, she drew in a quick breath and glanced over her shoulder. But all she saw was trees.
Over the next week, as she went about her routine, Sorcha doubted her feet touched the ground. The men responded quicker than she expected to the lessons. Her idea of breaking them into groups facilitated spontaneous conversations. By rotating the slates, each with three sentences to copy, then practice reading, she exposed them to twelve new sentences a night. If a group finished early, they worked with flashcards she’d copied from Missus Mortimer’s teaching sheets. Mister Morgan at the mercantile supplied her with scraps of torn paperboard from his deliveries, which served well for the cards.
Sitting near Lang at meals was a treat and allowed her to overhear his remarks to his crew. Although she didn’t understand all the words, she recognized his caring or teasing tone, admiring his behavior. He also prompted the men to respond in English if they could.
But the walks following the class were her favorite times. With the warm evenings, they walked the perimeter of the clearing. If anyone crossed their path, she changed the topic to something about the curriculum. She never knew when he’d pull her into the shelter of the forest and sneak kisses during their walk. Each embrace grew longer and each kiss grew hotter, until heat flamed her cheeks. Thankfully, Blinne never said a word when Sorcha slipped into the cabin.
On Friday, she got an idea about using the next day’s planned trip to the mercantile as a teaching experience for her best students. In her excitement, she dashed into the logging office without knocking. “Lang, listen to—”
“What the dickens, Sorcha?” Lang jumped to his feet and shoved a letter in a desk drawer before slamming it shut.
Mercer's Belles Page 23
