Strong and Stubborn (19 page)

“I never said that. We all know better than to say that.”

“His meaning was clear.” Mike negated the coward's hasty disavowal. Repeating the comment about Miss Lyman's britches would be disrespectful, but he needed to make sure everyone understood the gravity of the situation. “He also insulted Miss Higgins's character and appearance and made suggestive remarks about Miss Lyman.”

“Ja, that he did,” Clump avowed with much vehement nodding.

“Oh, come on.” Giving up his pretense of innocence, the man launched a counterattack. “We all know that proper women don't advertise to hire husbands, and real ladies wouldn't be here.”

Advertise to hire husbands?
The ridiculous accusation hung in the air, waiting to be refuted. But no one corrected the man. Mike couldn't make a lick of sense out of the comment, but it dawned on him that none of the other men looked confused or even surprised.

“You're lucky Mr. Strode showed such restraint.” Dunstan must have understood Mike's message. Decoy, picking up on his master's mood, bared his teeth at the object of Dunstan's displeasure.

“That settles things.” Granger shared a glance with Bear Riordan, and the massive Irishman broke from the surrounding circle.

“To the privy then?” Bear waited for Granger's nod. Then he simply lowered his head, jammed his shoulder into the condemned man, shouldered him like a sack of potatoes, and strode into the night.

“Outhouse?” Mike grinned at the Hope Falls's detention cell.

With the excitement ended, dinner beckoned everyone back into the diner. His grumbling gut urged him to follow the crowd and find a seat, but his curiosity got the better of him. He waited until only Granger and Dunstan remained outside then asked what was on his mind. “Advertise to hire husbands? What was he talking about?”

“He doesn't know?” Dunstan asked Granger, sounding surprised.

“Tomorrow morning.” Granger looked Mike over as though trying to discern something. “After breakfast. We have things to discuss.”

“Mrs. Smythe spotted my dollhouse just before we left for Hope Falls. I had it brought down to the parlor for crating, and she caught sight of it.” Lacey tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

“She's commissioned me to make one for her.” Naomi rubbed her temples. “I've never spoken with Mrs. Smythe about it. I didn't know she'd ever seen the Lyman Place miniature! But in the pile of mail today I found this. It's the ‘second installment' payment because I didn't send back the first.”

“Why didn't you tell me earlier this afternoon?” Lacey huffed as she scanned the missive. “And where's the first part then if this is the second?”

“I checked every piece of post—twice. It's not there. It's not as though a letter requesting a custom dollhouse would be difficult to find amid the ad responses.” Naomi crumpled the remaining letter and fumed. “Draxley didn't just stop sending telegrams and distributing messages—he must have opened any that looked thick enough to have money enclosed. It's a wonder he didn't get his hands on the second letter and steal it, too!”

“Bad business all around.” Evie scooted toward the head of her bed in order to make room for Lacey. With Mr. Lawson already ensconced in the study for the night, they couldn't converse freely in the adjoining parlor. Somehow Evie and Cora managed to find two small beds—practically hammocks topped with mattresses—in one of the abandoned houses of Hope Falls, so everyone crammed into their room.

“If Draxley did take Mrs. Smythe's first letter and steal the funds she enclosed, how will we be able to fill the order?” Cora eased herself beside Naomi, causing the bed to shift softly. “I mean, I know the second letter contains more money, but is it enough to even purchase the necessary supplies? What about the specialty pieces?”

“Mrs. Smythe paid well.”
Very well
. Part of the reason Naomi hadn't been able to confide in Lacey that afternoon was her shock. Aside from the dawning horror of the situation, she simply hadn't been able to register such a large sum. Of course, she only received half of it, which created the current problem. “With God's help, a little ingenuity, and some hard work, I believe I could fully furnish a six-room dollhouse without overextending the amount.”

“Then the timing is the only problem?” Lacey brightened. “Why don't you just have those specialty German pieces delivered directly to Mrs. Smythe since the passage to America already takes so long?”

“Because that's only part of the problem.” Naomi smoothed the letter again. “I can't furnish a house that hasn't been built. With the advance funds she enclosed in the first letter, I would have beenable to commission a master craftsman to devote his entire attention to this as a special order. Even then I would have needed to be working based on its dimensions until it arrived here.”

“And now you don't have the money to commission the house.” Evie considered for a moment. “What if we raised the money?”

“It's too late.” Naomi pushed against the floor, making the bed sway. “The project would have been incredibly ambitious to begin with, and I've already lost two months! There's no time to find a craftsman, work out the project details, and pray he gets them right and ships it to me on time! Nor can I try to find a house that's already constructed—Mrs. Smythe has some specific requests here.”

“What if you took away the distance?” Cora put down her foot and stopped the swaying. “What if you could speak to the craftsman, monitor the construction, and not waste time waiting for the shipping?”

“I suppose it might be possible.” Too anxious to sit still, Naomi hopped up and began pacing the narrow space between the beds. “But even so, I couldn't pay a reasonable fee! This is highly skilled labor—artistry, really. Anything I could scrape together would be laughable at best, insulting at worst.”

“But the Hope Falls sawmill can. As of tonight, all of the workers are paid by the company.” Lacey beamed at Cora, who beamed back as though they shared a secret. “Including our new carpenter.”

Mr. Strode
. Naomi sank back onto the bed, overwhelmed at the prospect. “We hired him as a carpenter and joiner to help construct the mill. What makes you think he'd want to build a dollhouse?”

“What makes you think he wouldn't?” Evie grimaced. “Especially since the alternative is going to the woods and cutting down trees.”

“That's more masculine.” Naomi didn't even know why she was arguing. “The men accept that because he's working for the mill.”

“The men will accept the way we decide to do things.” Cora set her jaw, reminding everyone of her newfound determination to put Braden in his place. “Every man does the work he's contracted for.”

“What about the work I'm responsible for?” Naomi needed to be fair. “Evie needs help with the cooking, and laundry doesn't wash itself.”

“Remember, we've lost a good dozen—well, a bad dozen—men. We all know we can thank Mr. Strode for the removal of the latest bad egg.” Evie grinned. “That means less work. So long as Lacey bakes the bread and we get a jump on things in the morning, I'll manage.”

Cora set her bed swinging again, as though the motion helped sort her thoughts. “We never decided what I'd do once Braden no longer needed a nursemaid. I'll take over the laundry for a while. I don't mind washing our clothes, so long as the men continue to see to their own. Arla's been kind enough to take on their mending.”

“Unless we're pushing you to take on a task you don't want.” Lacey peered at her. “You seemed so happy while you transformed my old dollhouse, I just assumed you'd enjoy a fresh challenge.”

“Yours was a labor of love,” Naomi tried to explain. “And I loved working on it. But it was a hobby, tiny projects spaced out over years. This is entirely different, and I'm not at all certain I can finish in time. I'm hesitant to inflict such a close-looming deadline on anyone else—especially a man who's already working.”

“Mr. Strode is waiting until Hope Falls is ready for a carpenter. Meanwhile, he's been hired on prospectus, and we're paying him a retainer for the time when he's needed.” Lacey shrugged, oblivious to the way everyone was staring at her after all that business jargon. “What he does until that time is negotiable.”

“What if Mr. Strode doesn't want to negotiate about this?” Naomi knew she was looking a gift horse in the mouth, but somehow she sensed a cavity looming ahead, waiting to swallow her hopes.

“Ask,” Evie ordered. “You might be surprised by his reaction.”

“All right.” Naomi accepted that she wouldn't get much sleep that night thinking about this. “What's the worst that can happen?”

B
raden kept the smile glued to his face until the doctor departed, still marveling over the “incredible progress” his patient had made. Only when he was certain he was alone did Braden turn his head into one of his plethora of pillows and give the hoarse shout he'd been choking back for the past half hour. Even that small movement screamed through his knee, intensifying the already bone-deep ache.

“Breakfast!” If the smell of food weren't enough to turn his roiling stomach, the cheery voice of his erstwhile fiancée managed.

She exhibited the uncanny ability to show up whenever Braden felt his worst. It wasn't enough for Cora to see him trussed up like a Christmas goose, trapped in a doctor's bed. No, the contrary woman flitted into his room every time Braden was least able to be civil.

“Take it away,” he groaned, not bothering to lift his head.

She plunked the tray on his side table with a jangle of abused dishes and cutlery. “You don't have to tell me to leave anymore, Braden. I already agreed to find my place in the world without you.”

Still not daring to look up from his pillow, Braden blindly groped the air, searching for her. He found some sort of fabric and grabbed hold of it, keeping her at his side. Clinging in spite of a sudden onslaught of slaps and scolds, Braden focused on controlling his body. He focused on taking shallow, measured breaths until his stomach retreated to its customary position beneath his ribs.
Finally
. Braden looked up. He'd caught Cora by the apron strings.

The irony wasn't lost on Braden. Leading strings, they were called, because mothers the world over bid their children hold on tight in crowded places. A boy began the transition to manhood only after Mother had “cut the leading strings.” Independence meant not being tied down. But here Braden was, a grown man of twenty-six, clutching a woman's apron strings as though they were a lifeline.

Because they were. Those strings were his final, tenuous connection to Cora. If he let her storm from his room for the second time in as many days, he deserved to lose her. If he was honest, Braden would admit he already deserved to lose her. But he'd also admit he was a greedy bounder who wanted far more than he deserved.

So he held on, not letting go until Cora stopped twisting, turning, and generally flailing about like a fish caught on a hook. Her contortions traveled along the apron strings, through his clenched fist, and reverberated to his knee. By the time she stilled, Braden felt like the landed fish—green about the gills.

From Cora's expression once she got a good look at him, he probably looked as good as he felt. Without a word, she dipped a clean handkerchief in the washbasin, wrung it out, and draped it across his forehead. Then she set herself in the seat beside him.

“I came across the doctor in the hall, mumbling about your most excellent progress this morning.” She didn't bother beating about the bush. “You're pushing yourself too far, too fast, Braden.”

Yes—but still not far enough
. Yesterday Granger sent the telegrams to set Dunstan's plan in motion. They'd dangled the bait; now it was only a matter of time before their prey came skulking into their trap.
I have to be out of this bed before they arrive
.

But first he needed to apologize to Cora and make things right.

“I didn't want
you
to go.” He gritted his teeth, repositioning a few pillows to brace his back before gesturing toward the covered breakfast tray she'd brought. “My stomach couldn't take the smell.”

“Is it still bothering you?” Cora shot the tray an apprehensive look, as though it might jump up and bite one of them at any moment.

“No, it's passed.” He struggled to find the words then gave up and offered a simple confession. “I don't know how to apologize.”

“Well, you never did, and I won't expect you to start over a bout of queasiness.” Cora subtly nudged the tray farther from him. “It was my own fault for assuming you meant to expel both of us.”

He'd managed to make a hash of that to make Cora begin offering apologies. Braden took a deep breath and tried again. “No, I don't blame you for making that assumption. I've tried to evict you often enough. I've been a first-rate cad since the day you arrived here.”