Spirit of the Valley (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Jeremy lifted his hand to knock on the door of the Greenway cottage, but lost his nerve. Lightning flashed in the night sky and he looked around at the wildly blowing trees. He'd chosen a lousy evening, but here he was. After thinking of little else but the very pretty Mrs. Carter for three weeks straight, it was the moment of truth. He blew out a breath and knocked. With the racket the wind was making, he had no idea if she'd hear it. After long seconds with no response, he raised his fist to knock again, but the door opened and she was standing before him, the wind buffeting her, ruffling her clothes and blowing back her hair. His heart began thudding faster.

“Yes?” she called to be heard over the wind.

“I, ah—”

He moved back as she opened the screen door to better see and hear him.

“I apologize for showing up so late in the evening,” he said loudly, “but I thought you might need some help,” he said, leaning forward slightly so she could hear him.

“Need some help?” she repeated, confused.

“Around here. You know T. Emmett Rice?”

She nodded.

“He . . . suggested you needed some help with the place.”

She blinked in surprise and clutched at the front of her shirt to keep it from blowing open. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but I'm not in a position to hire anyone, Mister . . .”

“Sheffield.” He took off his hat. “Jeremy Sheffield.”

The rain suddenly let loose, falling hard at an angle, bouncing off the porch floor. It had been raining off and on for two days and it didn't seem as if it was going to stop anytime soon. “Please, come in,” she said, opening the screen door wider. “You'll get soaked.”

He stepped inside, barely avoiding brushing against her, and the savory scent of food assailed his senses. His mind raced for what to say next, but the little girl suddenly appeared in the hall, providing a distraction.

“Go finish your supper,” Mrs. Carter said to her.

“I am finished.”

“Rebecca,” Mrs. Carter said in a tone that apparently meant business, although the girl gave Jeremy a decidedly suspicious look before walking away. Mrs. Carter turned back to him with an apologetic expression. “I'm sorry you came on such a miserable evening.” She held herself stiffly, her hands clutched tightly together.

“I don't mind bad weather. I usually work in a hole where there is no weather.”

She looked puzzled.

“I work in a mine,” he added.

“Oh. I see.”

“Like I said, I heard you could use some help.”

“I won't claim it's not true,” she began slowly. “Unfortunately, I'm not in a financial position—”

It was dim enough in the small parlor that he couldn't see her face clearly, but it was better that way. Easier. He'd come this far. “Well, ma'am, there's other ways to pay a man,” he said quietly. Other than a noticeable intake of breath, she made no sound or movement. He opened his mouth to say something else, but shut it again because he hadn't meant to put it that way exactly. Or had he? “I mean to say, there's other arrangements that could be made.” She still didn't respond. “Like how some people barter?”

“I . . . I'm not altogether certain what I have to barter with.”

He shifted on his feet. “The food smells awful good.”

She exhaled, relaxing slightly. “It's stew. Why don't we go into the kitchen,” she said, stammering slightly in her nervousness. “The light is better and we have plenty to share.”

“That sounds good.”

“Mama,” a child called from the other room. “There's another leak.”

“It's this way,” Mrs. Carter said. She led the way, but only made it as far as the hallway before she stopped and turned back to him with a decidedly conflicted look on her face. Because she wanted him to leave, he knew. He held a breath, waiting for the words.

“Mr. Sheffield.”

She looked so uncomfortable, and he had taken her by surprise, which wasn't fair. “Would you rather I leave?” he asked quietly. “It's all right.”

“I . . .” She stepped over to the lamp on the wall and turned it up before looking back at him. There was a blush on her face and her arms were folded. “I'm not sure I believe you wanted to barter for . . . food.”

He struggled for a response that wouldn't frighten her away. “I didn't have any one particular thing in mind,” he said, keeping his voice low. “And that's the truth. I wanted to help. I knew you couldn't pay. I'm not trying to trick you or anything.”

“I didn't mean that.”

“I can tell you this much,” he said. “I'd never ask for more than what you'd want to give. If that's a home-cooked meal or two, I'll take it.”

She considered him a moment and then uncrossed her arms. “It's this way,” she said, continuing on to the kitchen. He followed, stopping just inside the kitchen door because the children were looking at him from the table. He didn't have experience with children, nor did he have the desire for any. He glanced around at the array of bowls and pans catching the drips from the ceiling.

“This is Mr. Sheffield,” Mrs. Carter said. “He's offered to help us with a thing or two. Mr. Sheffield, these are my children, Rebecca and Jake.”

He tipped his head to them. “Hello.”

“Help with what?” Rebecca asked her mother warily.

“The roof,” he said. “That'll be the first thing. Unless you like it raining in your house.”

The girl was not amused.

Mrs. Carter said, “Are you both finished?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Rebecca replied, still looking bleak about his presence.

“Then go play in your room.”

Rebecca's eyebrows knitted. “What about dishes?”

“I'll do them later. You may be excused.”

“Come on, Jake,” Rebecca said grimly, getting up. Her little brother followed suit and Jeremy stepped aside to let them by.

“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Carter said as she turned to the stove.

He felt awkward as he went to the empty place at the table and sat. The food smelled delicious enough that his stomach had begun growling, but he hadn't felt this out of place in as long as he could remember. Like a bull in a china shop. Or a fox in the henhouse. A wolf among sheep. Was that what he was, deep down?

When she set a steaming bowl of stew in front of him, she said, “I have cider or—”

“That'd be good. Thank you.”

“Please, eat,” she said before going for the pitcher.

When he took a bite, it was so hot it burned his mouth, and he had to hold his hand in front of his lips and let it cool. He was hungry, and it was better than anything he'd had in months, but he needed to remember his manners. When she set a cup of cider before him, he nodded. “It's good,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze.

She smiled, sat catty-corner from him, and offered him the bread basket filled with still-warm biscuits wrapped in cloth. “I enjoy cooking.”

He took one and was going to dunk it into the stew, but resisted, fearing it might be rude. Besides, these biscuits were soft, with a tantalizing scent. He took a bite and savored the taste. “Delicious.”

She reached for her glass of cider. “I'm glad you like it.”

“I saw you,” he said. “A few weeks back. Coming out of the boarding house.”

“We'd just arrived in town,” she said, obviously recalling it as well.

“Then I saw you again coming out of T. Emmett Rice's office.”

She looked at him, nervously waiting for more.

“This is a nice place,” he offered.

“It will be when the roof stops trying to drown us,” she said with a weak smile.

“What I was thinking is, I have part of Saturday and all of Sunday each week. I could pretty much do whatever you need doing.”

Staring at her glass, she nodded slowly. “You said you work in a mine?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That must be hard.”

“Yes, ma'am. It is.”

“Are you not too tired on your days off?”

“Tired of the mine. This sort of work would be different. It'd be good.”

“Do you have a family?” she asked hesitantly.

He shook his head as he stirred the stew. “I don't have anyone.” He took another bite and watched her reach for a biscuit out of the corner of his eye. She tore it in two. She set half down and tore the other half in two before nibbling on a piece of it. He took another bite of his stew and then another as she eviscerated the biscuit. Obviously, she wasn't hungry, she just needed something to do.

Rebecca stepped back into the kitchen, followed by her little brother. “There's three leaks in our room,” she announced.

“There
are
three leaks,” Mrs. Carter corrected. “So get bowls, please.”

Rebecca looked aggravated. “The rain got on the bed.”

“Get the bowls for now, please, and I'll see to it in a minute.”

Rebecca flicked another suspicious glance Jeremy's way before she went to get bowls. Her little brother stayed in the doorway and then followed her back out again. Jeremy recalled the black eye on the boy the day he'd first seen them. “Do you have tools for what you need done?” he asked. “I probably should get started on the roof at first light.”

She took a moment to reply. “I think so. April May gathered a good amount of supplies and hired a boy to cut wood shingles.” She paused. “Do you know April May?”

“Yes, ma'am. Known her a long time. She's a nice lady.”

“She and Cessie have been a godsend.” She paused before adding, “I never had family like them.”

“What about your father?” When her blue-gray eyes widened in alarm, he felt bad. Emmett had mentioned she and her father had been estranged. “Sorry, I shouldn't have asked.”

“No, it's fine,” she said quickly. “My father and I—”

“No, I understand,” he said when she faltered.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” She pushed back in her chair and rose. “I should see about those leaks.”

He started to stand, but she was already in motion. If she allowed him anywhere near her after this, he had to start remembering his damned manners.

 

 

Lizzie made it to the safety of the hall before she pressed her back to the wall with her hands crisscrossed against her chest. There was a man in her house—a handsome one, at that. Offering to help. Had she accepted?

She inhaled and blew out her breath as she moved on, attempting to look normal.

Jake played with his toy soldiers on the rug as Lizzie pushed the bed clear of the leak. Rebecca stood with her arms folded tightly, frowning. “Why is he having supper here?”

“Because he hadn't eaten,” Lizzie replied lightly as she stripped off the damp bedspread and blanket underneath. “I'm also going to invite him to spend the night in the guest room. I don't know if he will, but if he does, I expect you to remember your manners. He's going to fix our roof.”

“You said we couldn't afford to pay someone,” Rebecca accused.

“We can't. But he offered to help anyway.”

“He's doing it just to be nice?” Rebecca's voice was filled with doubt.

Lizzie stopped and looked at her. “Sometimes people do things just to be nice.”

“Cessie and April May,” Rebecca said. “They're the only ones I ever knew.”

“And how old are you?”

Rebecca pursed her lips.

“Let's just be grateful,” Lizzie said. “And friendly. I don't think that's too much to ask.”

“If you ask me, I think he's here because he
likes
you. I saw him look at you in town and I could tell.”

“You saw him in town?”

“Yes. And he
stared
at you. You said it was rude to stare.”

Lizzie turned away and patted the sheet, which was dry, then she picked up a folded blanket and shook it out. “Help me with this, please.”

“I don't think he should stay here,” Rebecca stated as she walked to the other side of the bed. She pulled the blanket straight.

“He's going to help us, Rebecca.”

Jake placed a bowl on the floor to catch a leak and then adjusted it. “I think we're going to need a bigger one,” he said.

“Well, we're about out of bowls,” Lizzie replied. “But”— she looked at her daughter—“we're about to have the roof fixed. And that is a very good thing. Right?”

Rebecca folded her arms again.

 

 

When Lizzie went back into the kitchen, Mr. Sheffield had washed and dried the dishes. “Oh, you didn't have to—”

“That was the best supper I've had in a long time,” he said, setting the dish towel down. “It was the least I could do.”

Lizzie felt warmth creep into her face and so she walked to the stove and put the kettle on to boil.

“Would you like me to start a fire?” he asked.

The rain had chilled the air and the constant drips made it seem colder. “Yes. Thank you.”

He went to the hearth and laid a fire, noticing how old the wood was. It would burn fast and there wasn't much of it. He commented that unless more had been chopped, he'd need to do it soon. It wasn't until he struck a match and lit the kindling that she spoke again.

“Mr. Sheffield—” He stood and turned toward her, his expression one of concern. Because he thought she was going to dismiss him. She
felt
it and it gave her a strange sense of control.