Chapter 20

TWENTY

He thinks I’m pretty. No matter how Naomi tried to push the inane thought aside, it kept bubbling to the surface of her thoughts. All day yesterday, like a tune she couldn’t get out of her mind, the phrase hummed in her head. Mr. Strode thinks I’m pretty. Me …

pretty!

It was distracting. It made her smile. It would have been downright mortifying if anyone suspected her of such foolishness. Of course, no one caught on. Naomi was far too sensible for such girlish foibles. At least that’s what she sternly reminded herself when she woke up with the chipper refrain ringing in her ears.

Unfortunately, Naomi found her own reprimands surprisingly ine ective. It was, to say the least, disconcerting to be ignored by one’s own self. Though it did explain why Lacey found it so easy to disregard Naomi’s sage advice—there were things a woman’s heart found far more interesting than plain, old-fashioned common sense!

And Mr. Michael Strode is one of them. Little wonder she’d found the notion of working with him so unsettling; those qualms were the last vestiges of her instinct for self-preservation. They must have been the last. They’d gone quiet since the moment Mr. Strode told her, in a roundabout way, that he found her attractive.

Naomi knew how dangerous this was. She knew she shouldn’t entertain the hope, not even for the briefest moment, that Mr.

Strode might be interested in a more permanent sort of partnership.

Because even if he indicated interest, Naomi couldn’t allow things to progress beyond mutual regard. Newly widowed, Mr. Strode was trying to build a new life for himself and his son. Far too ne a man, Naomi lectured herself, to overlook my checkered past.

By the time she’d gotten through breakfast, she’d worked very hard to talk sense into herself. It didn’t take Naomi long to gure out that she’d xated on the carpenter as an appealing alternative to her real suitors. With that sobering realization, she managed to replace the happy little “he thinks I’m pretty” hum with a “he deserves better” refrain. It sounded as sprightly as a dirge.

“Granger tells me you’re ready to get started.” A deep voice broke through the plodding rhythm of her new favorite dirge.

“If there’s nothing to interfere.” Naomi made it a point to sound brisk and businesslike, but couldn’t help returning his smile.

“It’s all been arranged on this end,” he assured her. “I didn’t bring my toolbox, but I can fetch it in a ji y if it’s needed.”

Naomi gave a rueful shake of her head. “I’m afraid things aren’t nearly so neatly arranged on my end. The furthest I’ve planned is to set up a work space. Beyond that, I’ll need to do some digging to nd my own materials so we can create a scale for the project.”

“We get a workshop?” Mr. Strode’s eyes sparkled like a child’s who spied a bulging Christmas stocking with his name. “Lead on.”

“First, you’ll need to lower your expectations.” She couldn’t help but laugh, picturing his reaction to what lay ahead. With that, she took him to the short row of houses behind the diner, pausing at the threshold of the second building. “This is where we’ll work.”

The door swung open to reveal a modest-sized room adorned with a block table, two chairs, and a questionable-looking old pipe stove.

The dirt oor had been hard packed by the miners who’d lived there and would be fairly easy to sweep clean. Three windows, covered with cloth to keep out the elements, let in plenty of light.

“Strong light,” Mr. Strode approved, making a quick circuit around the space. “We’ll need another two tables—work space for each of us and a display station for completed or in-progress pieces.

If none are available, I can put a pair together this afternoon.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Naomi felt her shoulders relax and realized she’d been anxious for his approval. “Tables I can provide,

but we’re going to have to sort through some things before we clear them o . Things have been so busy since we got here. Anything we didn’t immediately need got shoved into storage.”

“It doesn’t take long to clear a table,” he assured her in the con dent voice of a man who hasn’t seen the task ahead of him.

After Naomi opened the house next door, he revised his opinion.

A low whistle escaped Mr. Strode. “I believe I spoke too soon.”

“How could you know?” Naomi asked, torn between amusement and resignation as they stood on the threshold. Boxes and bags, crates and trunks, luggage of all sizes crowded from oor to rafters, with a few pieces of furniture thrown in to keep things interesting.

“Clearing o a table is one thing, but I didn’t know how to explain that we’d have to clear out a house to get to the tables rst.”

“I see.” Mr. Strode looked up, looked down, ducked his head through the door, and swiftly pulled it back. “Not to criticize the plan, but it would be less hassle for me to build the tables.”

Naomi shu ed closer to the door and glanced at the chaos within. Like the sun, it was best seen in glimpses. Otherwise its full power made a person close their eyes and turn away. Even in small doses, it was overwhelming to take in the sheer mass within.

“It’s worse than I remembered,” she admitted. For a eeting moment, she wondered whether Lacey had managed to organize the colossal mess of the mercantile by ferrying merchandise here. But another quick glimpse revealed nothing from the storeroom. “When we were packing back in Charleston, everything seemed important.

If you left something behind, it might take weeks to order a replacement.”

“So instead you borrowed a page from Noah and brought two?”

“No.” The giggle escaped before Naomi could even try to stop it, but it erased Mr. Strode’s dawning chagrin at his outspokenness.

“Between the four of us, we probably brought along a few spares.”

“When you put it that way,”—he braved the threshold and squeezed inside—“it doesn’t seem so bad, for four women.”

“Er …” Naomi wondered if discretion wasn’t the best course of action but decided in favor of full disclosure—some of her things might have been misplaced, and she didn’t want to go through explanations. “All things being equal, how about two out of four?”

He eyed her incredulously. “You mean to say there’s more?”

“The next house.” Naomi gestured to the right, where an almost identical structure stood. Doors shut, it looked unprepossessing.

“The whole house? Another like this?” He sounded faintly awed, but Naomi found it encouraging that he didn’t just sound faint. The prospect of going through everything made her think longingly of a nap. How must he feel, faced with the task of hauling it all out?

“We made some attempt to categorize things,” she soothed. “So we won’t tackle the second house. My supplies should all be here.”

“So we’re going in after more than just the tables.” Mr. Strode squared his shoulders and eyed the Herculean challenge ahead. “I’ll haul out whatever you want, so long as you don’t expect me to open things up. It wouldn’t be right to go through ladies’ luggage.”

“That’s ne, since I’m not even sure what I’ll nd!”

Five hours and countless boxes later, Mike began to suspect this was retribution for his thoughts on how building a dollhouse would be easier on his back. At the start, he gured it looked like there were more things crammed inside than there really were because the eye couldn’t focus on individual pieces. He’d been wrong.

The farther he burrowed into Miss Higgins’s storage, the more he marveled at how much a one-room structure could hold. He’d practically built a fort out of the pieces she immediately rejected—

and not the size fort he’d hammered together for Luke back home.

The saving grace of that pile was Miss Higgins’s o hand remark that she needn’t look through them—they all belonged to Miss Lyman.

If Mike had to slap a ratio on it, he’d say that two-thirds of the contents of the house went to the fort. In comparison, the heaps

surrounding Miss Higgins seemed downright reasonable—especially since they owed most of their bulk to two tables and a small shelf.

“Why don’t I tote these over to the workshop and out of your way?” Mike gestured toward the shelf and one of the tables. The other table made itself useful as a type of sorting station.

“Yes, let’s do that.” She snapped shut the satchel she’d been looking through and added it to the heap nearest Miss Lyman’s fort.

“If you’ll take the table, I’ll get the shelf—it’s not heavy.”

“Spruce is surprisingly light,” Mike agreed. In general, he wouldn’t want a woman lifting any furniture, but he was learning that the women of Hope Falls were a determined and capable breed.

He’d save his protests in case she tried to move something heavy.

“Is that why?” She slid her hands beneath a shelf and lifted without much e ort. “It’s surprisingly sturdy without being dense.”

“Yep.” He shouldered the door open and set down the table, unable to hold the door open for her if she went through rst.

“You’ll nd a lot of crates, ladders, and ship masts made from it.”

“I never knew.” She tucked the shelf into a corner and smoothed her apron. “As part owner in a prospective sawmill, I suppose I’ll need to brush up on the types of wood and what they’re used for.”

“Start with the softwoods,” he suggested. “Pine, spruce, r, and even cedar grow hereabouts, and that’s what you’ll be milling.”

It was a novel experience, talking business with a woman. Or rather, talking business with an interested woman. Mike thought of all the times he’d tried to share something of his craft with Leticia.

She waved him away, refusing to hear about “trade.” Wasn’t it enough that she allowed Luke to come home covered in sawdust?

“They’re called softwood?” Miss Higgins’s astonished query amused him. “All things considered, isn’t that a bit of a misnomer?”

He shrugged. “It’s a classi cation based on the tree itself.

Evergreens are generally less dense than trees that shed their leaves.

They grow faster, so the layers aren’t as compacted.”

“How fascinating.” Eyes alight with interest, she was fascinating.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to learn more as we work.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Mike couldn’t remember a time when he meant it more. “I’m not the sort who requires silence to work.”

“But you do require sustenance.” Miss Higgins squinted at the sky when they exited the building. “It looks about time for lunch.”

“I’ll never turn down a good meal.” Mike happily followed her to the diner, where a medley of smells made his mouth water.

“Oh!” Miss Higgins held up a nger and backed toward the door.

“I’ll be right back. I forgot something!” With that, she was gone.

“Strode.” Until Dunstan’s greeting, Mike didn’t notice him. Like any good hunter, he had a way of blending into the shadows.

“Dunstan.” Mike joined him, taking a seat nearest the swinging kitchen doors. He avoided the man’s injured side, where Decoy hunched beneath the table. “How goes it?”

“I’m trussed tighter than a turkey,” he grunted. They lapsed into companionable silence for a moment before Dunstan added, “Don’t remember if I thanked you for helping haul me out of the mine.”

“Don’t mention it.” Mike watched as the other man dug around in his pocket and pulled out a new knife sheath of tooled leather. Mike accepted the gift with a nod of recognition but no words. Neither one of them wanted to talk about what happened to his old one.

Miss Higgins bustled back in, clutching a grubby lump of cloth trailing a mangled set of ribbons. She paused for a moment to look around the room, apparently satis ed to see no one but the men.

Then her eyes widened—she’d caught sight of the massive wolfhound curled up under the table.

“Does Evie know he’s here?” Her murmur scarcely made it across the room.

“Yep. Miss Thompson says he’s earned a place—just not at mealtimes.” Dunstan reached down to scratch between Decoy’s ears.

“And not in the kitchen. The other women are in there now.”

Mike thought he heard her mumble “excellent” beneath her breath as she crossed the room and came to a halt in front of the mounted cougar. He watched as she gave the cat a considering glance, set down her bedraggled bundle, and began tugging at one of the benches. Before Mike could o er to help, she’d worked the bench closer to the wall and climbed up. She looked quite pleased with herself until she realized she couldn’t reach the thing she’d set on the table.

“It’s the hat.” Dunstan sounded as though he was trying to hold back his laughter—probably because it made his ribs hurt.

“Yes it is.” Naomi held a nger to her lips, signaling him to hush.

She wanted to get things in place before Lacey decided to investigate. Unfortunately she’d hit a snag; now that she could reach the cougar, Naomi couldn’t stretch far enough to get the hat!

“It’s a hat?” Mr. Strode sounded as though he had doubts about that, but Naomi forgave him since he was kind enough to pass it up.

He’d see that it was a hat as soon as she got the thing situated.

Only now that she had her hat in hand, so to speak, she couldn’t decide quite how to place it. Too far back and it wouldn’t make enough of an impact, but the ears presented another problem entirely. No matter how she tried, Naomi couldn’t further squish the already-squashed accessory to t between the cougar’s ears. Nor would it balance atop the furry tufts. The more Naomi failed, the more she imagined the great cat was laughing at her paltry e orts.

Until she pulled a packet of hairpins from her apron pocket.

Jabbing hairpins into place, Naomi discovered, was far easier when the subject of the primping couldn’t feel anything. In almost no time at all, she’d anchored the hat at a jaunty angle, with one ear artistically uncovered. As a nishing touch, she tied a large bow beneath its hairy chin. Then she hopped down to survey the results.

“Please forgive my earlier skepticism,” Mr. Strode apologized. “I failed to consider your superior knowledge of feminine frippery.”

“Obviously.” Naomi swallowed a snigger at the sight. Lacey’s prized pink hat, now squashed and stained almost beyond recognition, listed drunkenly atop the snarling beast. Tattered ribbons dangled limply over one eye to tangle in its whiskers. It was perfect—especially since the cougar faced across from the Hats O to the Chef sign Evie carted clear from Charleston.

“I suspect there’s a good reason Dunstan’s got the giggles?”

“Sure is.” Dunstan stopped chuckling. “But I don’t giggle.”

“Who has the giggles?” Lacey popped through the swinging kitchen doors, caught sight of the newly adorned cougar, and froze.

Slowly, as if seeking something lost, she smoothed back her hair.

“My hat …” She turned to Dunstan to demand, “You went back for it?”

“Later that night.” Suddenly the hunter looked uncomfortable.

“You tried so hard to retrieve it, and then you said that thing about how a gentleman would pick it up … so I went and picked it up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lacey’s mushy, in-love-with-a-man-who-saved-my-hat expression changed. “Why didn’t you give it back?”

“I couldn’t very well waltz up to you and present the thing on a silver platter, so I shoved it in one of those rooms you had lled with stu .” Defensive and sheepish, Dunstan glowered. “You were bound and determined to run me out of Hope Falls. Remember?”

“What’s all the commotion in here?” Evie and Cora joined them.

Cora gasped. “What on earth have you done to that poor cougar?”

“Don’t look at me.” Lacey held her hands up. “I just shot it.”

“I found the hat when Mr. Strode and I started sorting through luggage, trying to unearth my supplies.” Naomi tried not to look too pleased with herself. “I wanted to display it in honor of your engagement and decided the cougar deserved to be part of it.”

“Why?” Mr. Strode’s ba ed query reminded her that he didn’t know the story behind the cougar or its signi cance to Lacey.

“I met Lacey when she decided to go for a walk in the woods.

Alone.” Dunstan threw his ancée a pointed glance. “Granger warned me that the women needed looking after, but I didn’t expect to nd a cougar stalking her. It must’ve been the uttering ribbons.”

“Which is why I think the hat belongs right where I put it,” Naomi nished. Then she thought better of it. “If Lacey agrees.”

“Well …” Lacey’s smile ickered, and she admitted, “I certainly won’t ever be able to wear it again. But it was my favorite hat. I hate to see it looking so sad and frumpy—cougar notwithstanding.”

“Try to stop thinking of it as a ruined hat,” Evie suggested.

“Instead, why don’t you see it as a one-of-a-kind souvenir?”

“Of what?” Lacey’s brow furrowed. “A souvenir of what?”

“Of one of the best days of your life.” Naomi tried to keep the wistfulness from her tone. “The day you nally met your match.”

OceanofPDF.com