Strong and Stubborn (25 page)

No one said much as they left town, crossing the railroad tracks and heading into the forest. Naomi couldn't tell if they were sulking over the situation or waiting for the scenery to give them something to say. She refused to consider whether they were waiting for her to come up with a topic of conversation. They'd asked for her company—it wasn't her responsibility to keep them entertained!

The forest rose up around them, majestic pines and stately spruces pointing straight to heaven. Dappled sunlight streamed through the canopy of branches, highlighting some areas and leaving others mysteriously shadowed. Here the fresh mountain was more strongly scented with pine, with moss lending a musky note not found in town. Dry pine needles snapped underfoot with each step, a crisp counterpoint to the cheerful bird calls from high above them.

“It's lovely.” Despite her decision that the men should lead the conversation, Naomi spoke first. Since arriving, she hadn't had much opportunity to leave town. If not for the pure air she breathed, she might almost convince herself that the surrounding scenery was no more real than a well-executed oil painting.

But it was real—a tangible display of God's grandeur, set down to nourish the body and inspire the soul. For the first time, she understood what lured Lacey to her solitary walks and later why her cousin insisted on accompanying Dunstan on his forest treks.

When Naomi spotted a white-and-brown-speckled feather resting atop some bushes nearby, she stopped and picked it up. Stroking her thumb upward, it felt so soft. Running downward, it resisted.
Just like Lacey—always reaching high and not stopping to look down
. The thought made her smile, and she tucked the feather into her pocket.

“You like feathers, Miss Higgins?” Bobsley squinted around, moved to the left, and gave a short hop. In a moment, he returned with a longer feather, white in the center and dove-gray at the tip.

“I was thinking of Miss Lyman,” she explained as she accepted the gift. “She's sad to see her favorite old hat looking so …”

“Scraggly?” Riordan supplied the word Naomi couldn't find.

“Exactly,” Naomi agreed. “I was thinking to spruce it up a bit, tack on a few feathers and whatnot to hide the worst spots.”

From that point on, the men made a game of spying fallen feathers and fetching them for her. It nicely broke up the silence while leaving everyone free to enjoy the beauty around them.

“Will it all be destroyed?” Naomi stopped beside one of the trees, peering up at a knothole. Above a tiny black nose, reflective eyes peered back at her—most likely wondering what she wanted.

“Not here.” Gent stepped forward to assure her. “I won't tell you it hasn't happened in other places, because they logged the forests right out of most New England. But it won't happen here.”

“Why not?” With a twitch of its nose, her friend disappeared, and Naomi returned to the well-worn path. She hadn't given it much thought before, but wasn't this the reason Lacey's idea would work—they'd ruined most of the forestland back East? “Isn't that what logging does? Chops down all of the trees to mill the lumber?”

“Ja, this is done in some places still.” Clump looked aggrieved, mirroring Naomi's newfound concern. “But, too, this depends on who owns the land and also who they hire for the working of it.”

“Oh.” In spite of the odd way Clump phrased things—Naomi suspected the German language put words in different order than English—she understood his meaning. “So how can Hope Falls cut enough logs for a sawmill without taking down all of the trees?”

“We're lucky to have Granger on board. Granger Mills was one of the first to head West for fresh timber sources and one of the first to stop strip-logging the sites.” Bobsley's disembodied voice reached Naomi from where he traveled behind her, Gent, and Clump.

“Sometimes it's good to thin the forest.” Gent gestured toward a thick stand of trees, dense branches casting shadows. “If no light comes through, the smaller trees die and nothing new can grow.”

“But don't the old ones keep growing, things still the same if it's left alone?” Naomi persisted in spite of their explanations.

“Overgrown areas hide dead trees, withered brush, and dry, broken branches. Loggers avoid them or clear out the kindling before starting work.” For the first time, Bobsley sounded serious. “One spark to those places and an entire mountainside goes up in flames.”

“Granger's way, we clear out areas we need for construction then cull through the timber.” Riordan veered around Gent and stopped a few steps ahead, patting a tree. “What do you see, lass?”

“Um …”
A tree?
Suddenly, Naomi wished she'd asked Michael how to identify the different kinds of wood while they were still trees. “It's not as thick or tall as some, and the branches start low?”

“Verra good.” Riordan was pleased—his accent was coming out. “It's young, green, and supple. The saplings and the smaller trees make for more work with less profit. In old days, we'd take them anyway. Here and now, they stay behind to continue the forest.”

Naomi broke out in a grin. “I'm so glad to hear that!”

“We are the kind you said to Williams that you wanted.” Clump hooked his thumbs through his suspenders, rocking back on his heels.

She blinked, trying to understand but coming up with nothing.

“For beautiful trees and also with beautiful women,” Clump explained. “We pay attention and make good choices for the future.”

“Selective,” Naomi murmured, fighting another blush as the men around her nodded. She'd gotten so caught up in her concern for the land, she'd forgotten the reason she'd ventured outside to enjoy it.

Lord
, Naomi prayed in silence as the group headed back to town,
I know I don't deserve this embarrassment of riches, but You've put it before me anyway. They're good, kind men who've all chosen me. So why is it that I can't bring myself to choose one of them?

W
here's Miss Higgins?” By the time Mike returned, she'd vanished. To his way of thinking, he'd gotten the bad end of the deal if his brief absence meant he'd traded her company for that of Braden Lyman. The other man seemed more agreeable than Mike remembered from his first night in Hope Falls, but he was still no Naomi.

“She went for a walk with—” Granger's woman didn't finish her thought, instead shielding her eyes and squinting out toward the forest. “There she is. Looks like they'll be back in a few minutes.”

“They?” Mike mimicked her motion, putting his hand against his forehead to block the morning glare. It didn't take long to spot the three, four, no … make that five figures walking through the trees. And only one wore skirts.
Why is Naomi walking with four men?

For a moment he wondered whether Miss Thompson mistook her own sister for Naomi, but Mike knew which woman was picking her way down the mountainside. It wouldn't grumble his guts any to see men circling around the younger Miss Thompson like hounds after a hare.

Mike didn't want to think about why he reacted so strongly seeing Naomi surrounded by would-be swains. Nor did he want to think about why he'd been so disappointed in the first place when he'd returned and found her gone. No matter how she monopolized his thoughts lately, Mike had nothing to offer a woman like Miss Higgins. Even if she and Luke got along well—which was a big assumption, given Luke's experiences—Mike hadn't established himself in Hope Falls. He couldn't give her a home so long as he slept in the bunkhouse.

And if any woman deserved a home to make her own, it was Naomi. Any fool could see the way she longed for a house; he need only glance at what she'd done with Miss Lyman's dollhouse. When he first saw it in all its glory, rooms emptied of boxes and transformed with treasures, he'd been staggered. Naomi filled every corner and crevice, left her stamp on each nook and cranny until the model home overflowed with tangible proof of skilled hands and a giving heart.

For the first time, Mike wished that Naomi's looks didn't mirror her spirit. Her trim figure and pretty smile attracted too much attention in a town full of bachelors. If anything, he should be surprised that he hadn't seen men trying to court her before today. Of course, this was the first day the men hadn't been excavating a fallen mine or spending ten to eleven hours in the forest, so perhaps Mike had missed the subtler signs of wooing.

“I've seen soaked cats wearing less peeved expressions.” Braden wheeled up beside him as smoothly as though he'd been doing it for days. “And it doesn't take a detective to see where you're looking.”

“It surprised me to see the men swarming like that.” Mike admitted part of the truth. “Up till now, I thought the ladies had a better handle on that sort of thing—making sure they didn't let one get outnumbered if the others could step in and even things out.”

“They probably used to.” Braden rubbed at a crick in his neck. “But with Evie and Lacey off the market, there are too many determined bachelors with high expectations from that consarned ad and no one else left to draw their attention away from Naomi.”

Mike frowned at that interpretation. Why wasn't the youngest girl stepping in? Unless … the prospect of angering the town chef could easily turn a hungry man's mind from one woman to another less thorny option. “Is Miss Thompson overly protective of her sister?”

“You mean Cora or Evie? Eh, doesn't matter. You'll get the same answer either way. They're protective of each other. Cora couldn't stand the idea of coming here and leaving Evie alone, and Evie couldn't let her little sister come to the wilds of Colorado Territory without her. And all that hullabaloo when we were already engaged, if you'll believe it.” Braden shook his head at the memory.

“Engaged?”
Mike repeated dumbly, too astonished by his mistake to say more. He thought back to his first night in Hope Falls, thinking of when Granger's woman made introductions. She'd called the other Miss Thompson her sister—no one made any mention of her engagement to Braden Lyman. Nor had anyone brought it up since.

“You didn't know.” It wasn't a question. Braden peered up at him, the corners of his mouth flat and tight. “You should have known Cora was taken, even if nobody told you who claimed her. Didn't you wonder why the ad only asked for three husbands?”

“The ad didn't bring me here.” Mike tried not to snap at the man who was still his boss. “I caught wind of it after I got to town.”

“And you made the wrong assumption about which women wrote it.” Braden scowled and decided, “You look like you swallowed a slug.”

Mike didn't comment, though the description wasn't far from the truth—the realization that Naomi was the last woman from the ad definitely left a lump in his throat and a bad taste in his mouth. Mere minutes before, he'd been grappling with his inability to offer this woman the stability of a home and marriage. Now he learned that if he had tried, he'd be nothing more than a hired husband.
Again
.

Lord, it looks like You've saved me from repeating my biggest mistake
. Mike tried to drum up some gratitude for the intervention but came up empty.
I can't say I'm happy about the situation, but since I was reminding myself I couldn't marry her anyway, it's not as if I lost a chance I was willing to take. Help me, Lord, as I work alongside this woman. In spite of what I've learned, there's still a lot to admire about Naomi Higgins. Enough that I think I'm going to need Your help to remember the way things really stand
.

“So,” Braden prodded. “What made you think it was
Cora
, anyway?”

“Think
what
was Cora?” Cora froze about four feet behind Braden. Flabbergasted to see him out and about, she'd hurried to greet him without paying any attention to the conversation going on. All she heard was his question to Mr. Strode—and though the words might be innocuous, she didn't care for his dismissive tone. Not one bit.

Even from behind she could tell she'd taken him by surprise—his shoulders stiffened that much. She could have made things easier for him by walking around his chair so they could speak face-to-face. But Cora was finished making things easy for her former fiancé.

So she waited for him to turn around, and while she waited, she became more and more irked. There he sat, in the wheeled wicker chair she'd brought all the way from Charleston. Without being asked. Without having him even bother to roll up and thank her.

Instead, like the fool she thought she wasn't, she'd rushed over to share the joy of his achievement, only to hear him speaking her name in the same tone usually reserved for creepy-crawly things. It was one thing for the man to denounce her in private, worse when he did so before their tight-laced group. But publicly? The closer Braden got to getting back on his feet, the lower the man sank.