Strong and Stubborn (23 page)

“It's the dollhouse!” She turned to him, eyes shining. “The replica of Lyman Place that I restored and furnished for Lacey.”

“The one that impressed the lady so much she hired you to make another one?” Curiosity getting the better of him, Mike started looking around for the crowbar he'd barely used this whole time.

“One and the same,” she confirmed. “I'll go get Granger so the two of you can transfer it to the workshop. We'll open it there.”

With a swish of her skirts, she all but ran from the room, barely giving Mike enough time to dig up his missing crowbar before she returned with Granger in tow. And Miss Lyman, and the two Miss Thompsons, and a woman who looked ready to give birth any moment. Mike couldn't recall having ever seen her before, and he was pretty sure there could only be one woman in Hope Falls expecting a child.

Actually, until two minutes ago, he'd been fairly sure there were no women in Hope Falls who were expecting a child. So maybe, Mike decided, he needed to stop making assumptions and get to his side of the crate. Granger already stationed himself on the far end.

Once in position, Mike waited until Miss Higgins herded the rest of the women outside and out of the way. Then he and Granger lifted the crate—which wasn't as heavy as Mike first thought, but unwieldy enough to require two men—and half shuffled, half walked it over to the workshop next door. They hadn't set it down before Miss Higgins bustled in, brandishing his crowbar and directing them to set the crate atop a console table she'd tucked into the far corner.

“Thank you.” Mike snagged the crowbar when she turned to speak with one of the women currently congregating near the entrance.

In a few minutes, he removed the top panel and pried off the front piece to reveal … cotton batting. With him supporting the house from the bottom, Granger eased what remained of the crate to the floor. Mike offered Miss Higgins his knife when she drew close, rewarded for his efforts when her fingers brushed against his.

After a few slight tugs to pull the packing away, she began slicing open the cotton, letting it fall like snow and drape around the house. When she stood back, she revealed an astonishing replica of a Georgian brick home, complete with two faux marble pillars bracing the architrave above the door. From dormer window to gable to mullioned windows, they'd executed every detail impeccably.

“Oh.” Miss Lyman's hand went to her throat. “Do you know I'd forgotten how beautiful Lyman Place is? How many memories it held …”

“Memories can be kept forever, but you can only live in one place at a time.” Miss Thompson gave her a quick hug. “Better to choose the people we love than hold on to a place we once lived.”

“You're so blessed you could bring Lyman Place with you!” The younger Miss Thompson brought the focus back to the dollhouse.

“Yes.” Miss Lyman straightened her shoulders and moved toward the table. She touched the side of the structure, and with a little pressure, it turned on the table. “My home away from home. I'm so glad I didn't let you talk me out of bringing this, Naomi!”

“What?” Mike tore his gaze away from the model, which he surmised revolved on a sort of broad turntable, to stare at Miss Higgins. The lovingly crafted details evident on the exterior of the house would surely pale in comparison to the loving attention she'd lavished on the rooms within. The idea that someone would willingly abandon such a masterwork, an unquestionable labor of love, boggled his mind. He had to know… . “Why would you ever leave this behind?”

“How quickly you forget the mountain you moved to reach this crate! With so much to oversee already, I didn't want Lacey to bring along something so large and difficult simply to spare my feelings.”

Her feelings were reason enough, but Mike didn't care what motivated Miss Lyman to bring the thing. He was just glad that she had. At that point, the women clustered around the table, pulling tiny wooden boxes lined with more cotton out of every single room. Within the boxes, Mike saw, lay the furniture and frilly bits females used to cover perfectly good hardwood floors, mantels, and walls. Feminine exclamations of delight accompanied the excavation of each room's box, driving Mike back to the storage next door.

On his way he noticed that Granger was nowhere in sight. No fool, the head of the logging operation skedaddled once he finished the heavy lifting. That left Mike with nothing but time on his hands and little left to go through. Most of the room had been emptied—he'd carted Miss Lyman's possessions to a separate building and carefully kept everything Miss Higgins already went through off to one side. By now there wasn't much left, aside from the lacquered cabinet that he'd found supporting the dollhouse.

It sat on squat little cabriole legs, oddly fashioned of mahogany inlaid with blond oak—an uncommon combination, since blond oak didn't echo the rich red tone of the mahogany. Then, too, the broad oval shape of the piece was perplexing. Square, rectangular, or even circular tables and cabinets were all common enough, but doors to fit an oval piece were difficult to execute evenly.

Upon closer examination, he saw that the design worked onto the top surface was a fancifully elaborate letter
N. For Naomi
. Mike traced it with his fingertips, more intrigued than ever now that he knew it didn't belong to Miss Lyman. Custom pieces like this became costly, and he wondered whether she'd commissioned the unique design or if someone special presented it to her as a gift.

Tiny golden hinges, expertly recessed along the back, tattled that the top lid lifted. Mike stopped tracing the letter, dropping his hands to run beneath the edge. There he found a tiny button. He pressed it before he could talk sense into himself, hearing the slight click of a released clasp before the lid angled upward.

A recessed shelf occupied the middle of the piece, but the design of the doors caught his attention. They were oval because they'd been designed to loosely bracket a chest of drawers. When he opened the doors, small spikes with slight bends at the tips thrust from each side. Tightly wound spools of sturdy thread and colorful embroidery floss, neatly ordered by shade, stood at attention beside more incongruous windings of wire, fishing line, and even twine.

Having identified the piece as a sewing cabinet, Mike wasn't surprised to see a small pair of silver scissors, a magnifying glass, and a matching slender tube for needles. Nor did the various yarn hooks and such give him pause. But there, neatly laid along the side, sat something very familiar—a combination tool set.

Mike knew what he'd find if he opened the case: a small-grade chisel, gouge, screwdriver, tack puller, gimlet, scratch awl, and brad awls in four different sizes—all hand-forged steel and all interchangeable for use with the included hardwood handle. Impressed with the quality and sure that the size would suit a young boy, he'd ordered one for Luke from the Montgomery Ward catalog a year ago.

Mike quietly closed the doors and lid of Naomi's workbox. His discoveries eradicated any doubts that this dollhouse was a whim, the sort of poorly planned project sure to end in disaster. Miss Higgins knew full well the complexities ahead, and she'd undertaken the challenge with the confidence of an experienced craftsman.

Craftswoman
, Mike corrected.
One I'll enjoy working alongside
.

“Do you think he'll like it?” Naomi scrutinized the parlor, reaching in to nudge one of the mantel candlesticks a smidge farther inward. “I know men don't usually think much of dolls and dollhouses, but we're going to be putting in long hours working on the next one.”

While she didn't expect Mr. Strode to share her enthusiasm for all things miniscule and perfectly ordered, Naomi did hope he would find the work interesting. Nothing put a damper on her enjoyment more quickly than someone who didn't savor the process of creating the pieces or worked as though rushing through an unpleasant task.

“What's not to like?” Cora looked up from where she sat on the floor, cross-legged, the box for the ballroom half unpacked amid the cushion of her carefully smoothed skirts. “It's amazing!”

“I wish I had these full-sized!” Arla exclaimed. At some point, Granger had brought in a small rocking chair for Arla to sit comfortably amid them. She'd pulled it up to a table and was gingerly unwrapping the pieces that belonged to the nursery. Arla held up a wicker bassinet tiny enough to rock in the center of her open palm. “However did you make this, Naomi? It must have taken you days!”

Naomi laughed and admitted, “I cheated. It's a regular cradle made out of sandalwood with braided broom straws glued on top and painted. To tell the truth, it went quickly once I learned the straw bent more easily if I soaked it overnight in a bucket of water.”

“Clever.” Evie turned the house slightly so she could place the baking table in the center of the kitchen, offset so it didn't block the stove and scrub sink already situated against the back wall. She let out a little squeak of pleasure as she unwrapped the next bundle. Tiny rounds of cheese, braided loaves of bread, and a cone of sugar—complete with tiny wire tongs—spilled into her hand.

“You thought of everything!” From Evie, this was the highest compliment any kitchen could receive. “When you've finished your work for Mrs. Smythe, I might have to beg you to make me one of these model kitchens. I'd keep it on my shelves for inspiration!”

“I'd be honored.” The thought that another project might follow this gave Naomi a surge of energy. There was something galvanizing about the idea that she could keep doing what she loved.

“We're the ones who should be honored.” Lacey lifted the lid to the small hope chest she'd slipped against the end of a canopy bed. She smiled, tugging out a set of tiny washcloths for the washstand. “Isn't it awful, the way we become used to the blessings we're given and stop seeing them? Honestly, Naomi, it's as though years of familiarity blinded me to how special you made this Lyman Place.”

“Working on this was a gift to myself as much as a present for you,” Naomi confided. “I would have gone mad if I didn't find a way to keep myself busy!” Indeed, losing herself in a thousand tiny details kept her from losing herself in a quagmire of self-loathing and sorrow. When she felt powerless to fix the mistakes she'd made, Naomi found comfort in the tiny world she kept in perfect order.

T
oday Braden would regain control of where he went and how he chose to spend his days. Just as soon as Doc stopped dilly-farting around.

“You want to run and get a protractor, Doc?” Braden asked after the doctor checked and rechecked his progress. He'd flexed his leg and brought it back one time too many, and Braden knew he couldn't conceal his discomfort for another round.
Time to move things along
.

Three months after the first mine collapse, and more than a week since the second, Braden finally reached the doctor-required forty-five-degree angle. He'd earned the right to get out of bed and into his wheeled chair—and the sooner, the better. He needed to gain proficiency in using the device. By the time the targets of his trap wandered into Hope Falls, Braden wanted to wheel like the wind.

“Congratulations, Mr. Lyman.” Doc adjusted his spectacles and consulted his chart once again. “You have regained enough range of motion to progress to the wheeled chair. We'll attempt it tomorrow.”

“Today.” Braden couldn't wait another minute, much less a day.

“Tomorrow, Mr. Lyman.” Doc eyed him with obvious disapproval.

“Listen.” Braden grabbed the edge of his bed to keep from throwing the medical chart out the window. “We made a deal. You said I could get out of this bed once I bent my knee forty-five degrees.”

“It would be best to be certain you can do so consistently. One more day gives me the assurance that you haven't overexerted your knee this morning in a misguided attempt to reach your goal.” He tapped the chart. “Another day's rest won't do you any harm.”

“Yes it will.” Braden clamped his hand on the chart, trapping Doc's pencil and demanding his attention. “I've rested for more than three months. That's more than a hundred days of sitting in the same bed, staring at the same three walls, and slowly going stir-crazy. I met your criteria; I've earned the chance to leave this room.
Now
.“

Doc cleared his throat and tugged at his precious chart. When he realized Braden had no intention of letting go, he sighed. “Your determination is evident. I'll bring in the wheeled chair then.”

The man staggered back when Braden released the chart then scurried from the room. Whether or not he'd return remained to be seen, but Braden's fears faded when he heard rolling wheels nearby.

Doc parked the contraption and poked his head through the door.

“Just a moment—the first attempt is always tricky. I'll need to find someone who can assist you while I hold the chair in place.” He vanished almost before he finished, before Braden could protest.