Strong and Stubborn (26 page)

“Cora!” Braden started to reach for her hand, but Cora crossed her arms. His smile hadn't fooled her; the man wasn't happy.

“Yes, Cora. The same Cora you were discussing?” She slid a glance toward Mr. Strode, noticing the man looked to be suffering from a stomach ailment of some sort. When neither of the men responded, she prompted, “You thought I was what?”

“One of the women who wrote the ad.” With that simple statement and a glance toward the group of men bidding for Naomi's attention, Mr. Strode's sour expression made much more sense. The man wasn't ill; he was disappointed!

So our new carpenter isn't as indifferent to Naomi as he'd like to be
. It took a lot of willpower for Cora to keep from smiling. She, Evie, and even optimistic Lacey all worried about their friend. It would be just like Naomi to tire of all the fuss and choose the first man she deemed marginally acceptable. Then they'd have a terrible time convincing her that an “acceptable” man was insufficient. Naomi simply didn't see herself as extraordinary.

But Mr. Strode obviously did, and that was a more important development, even, than Braden finally getting into his wheeled chair and out of that dismal room. Braden, of course, wouldn't agree with that assessment, but then Braden hadn't been agreeable in a long time. At least Cora now understood why he'd been so sour about it.

He wasn't disgusted with her. Far from it. He didn't like the idea that another man thought she was available. Even when that other man was obviously smitten with Naomi! Cora felt as happy and relieved as when they'd finally pulled Lacey from the mines.

“As it just so happens, I did help write that ad.” Cora let loose the smile she'd been holding back. It felt wonderful.

“Not as one of the would-be brides, Cora. Somehow the new man in town got the idea that you were the last bride, and I wanted to know why he didn't realize it was Naomi.”

“The night everyone was offered wages, the men talked about the last girl up for grabs. It seemed to me that between yourself and Miss Higgins, you were the girl. Then your sister started warning the men to keep their hands to themselves, and it seemed like she was protecting you.” Mr. Strode grimaced. “I didn't know you were engaged.”

“I'm not.” Cora knew her comment would confuse Mr. Strode a bit, but more importantly, it would clear things up for Braden.

“Don't go mixing up the truth with trouble.” Her former fiancé looked mad enough to spit. “He thought you were one of the women advertising for a husband, and I told him you were already engaged.”

“True. When we posted the ad, I was engaged.” She shrugged. “Hope Falls has a funny way of turning things on their heads.”

“I'm getting that impression.” Mr. Strode looked from Braden to her then back again, no longer confused. “It sounds like the two of you have some things to talk through, and it sounds like they're private. So I'll just leave you to it.” With that, the carpenter extracted himself from their convoluted conversation. He also, Cora couldn't help but notice, headed straight for Naomi.

“What do you think you're playing at?” Braden demanded, looking positively outraged. “Telling him you're not engaged. If he repeats that around town, all the men will think you are up for grabs!”

“It's the truth.” Cora sighed. “I signed Lacey's paperwork, Braden. My dowry has been returned, along with my own portion of Hope Falls. As of now, the engagement is officially dissolved.”

“No it isn't!” Braden pounded his fist on the arm of his chair, making the wicker creak. “You can't end it just because things aren't going your way, Cora. We made a commitment.”

Cora's jaw dropped at the vehemence of his hypocrisy. Was this the same man who'd ordered her to leave his side, leave town entirely? Was this the Braden Lyman who'd looked her in the eye and told her he didn't want her anymore? She'd had to hold his use of her dowry over his head to make him accept that he couldn't back out of their engagement. So how could this be the same Braden who'd begged her to sign Lacey's paperwork so they'd both be free?

It can't be
. The man sitting before her bore more of a resemblance to the Braden she'd loved than the Braden she'd battled in Hope Falls. Staggered by the realization, Cora decided to leave him in the company of his own hypocrisy while she sorted through her conflicting emotions. She needed to decide where to go from here.

T
he bottom floor is where the kitchen, dining room, and parlor belong.” Naomi bent over the sketches scattered across the tabletop. “Since we're making this home with six rooms rather than eight, we'll need to move the study upstairs with the bedroom and nursery.”

“Do you have any preference as to which room is the starting point?” Michael seemed more businesslike than Naomi remembered from the first few days. But then again, he'd been moving crates and setting up the work space. Now that the room was ready, it was understandable that he wanted to get the project fully under way.

At least that's the explanation Naomi hoped explained his sudden lack of warmth. It wasn't as though he was rude or dismissive—merely detached. As though he'd withdrawn in some way from their burgeoning partnership. Whatever the reason for his altered demeanor, Naomi hoped his enthusiasm would return. Soon.

“It needs to be one of the side rooms on the ground floor,” she mused. “So either the parlor or the kitchen would be a good choice.”

“What if the location of the room didn't matter?” He looked up from the prints. “Wouldn't it be easier for you to develop a room if it wasn't already locked in place? I mean to say, would it help you work if I could build the rooms first and connect them later?”

“That would make it much easier to work on the ceilings, wall coverings, and flooring.” She caught herself nibbling on the corner of her lip and immediately stopped. “But I would imagine that would interfere with your work on the exterior. Doors, windows, shingles, the scalloped siding would all wait for the house to be together.”

“True… .” He looked to be off in his own thoughts, but this was the sort of distance Naomi didn't mind. Anyone could see he was turning around options in his head, trying to find a solution to the problem. Michael left the drawing board, so to speak, moving to stand in front of Lyman Place. He moved from side to side, turned the model to view it from different angles, bent lower to run his forefinger along the edges of floors and ceilings. Then he returned, picked up a pencil, and began drawing. Quick, slashing lines across the blank page formed the now-familiar outline of their design.

Except this was shaping up to be anything but familiar. As she watched, he outlined the house, using it as a frame and running two lines across it—one beneath the eaves and another about halfway down the walls so the whole sketch looked rather like a bookshelf. When Naomi began to ask a question, he held up his left hand, forefinger extended in the age-old request that she wait a moment.

So Naomi waited. And wondered. And watched.

She watched as he added two lines, dividing the house with one-third to the right and two-thirds of the space to the left, and understood that he was leaving room for the hallway and staircase on each level. Again, she wanted to ask why he felt the need to draw again what they'd already decided, but then Michael's pencil veered to the margin of the paper, abandoning the skeletal structure. In quick succession, he drew six cubes floating around the house. He lifted his tilted head and erased the top line from each cube.

“Movable rooms.” Naomi's mind raced with the possibilities of this innovation. It was an entirely new dimension for those who loved dollhouses, allowing them to arrange not only the furnishings and décor of the home but the floor plan of the house as well. “It's genius!”

“Just practical,” Michael demurred but seemed pleased with her reaction. “You were right before, when you said that working on the rooms would stop progress on the exterior. This way you'll be able to work more comfortably without losing time elsewhere.”

“This way I can even work on multiple rooms. I won't need to wait for paint to dry or glue to set!” Naomi was almost giddy. “It will be so much easier than hunching down, straining my neck to see what I'm doing. This makes all the difference.”

He
made all the difference, but Naomi couldn't tell him that. It sounded too intimate.
That's because it
is
too intimate, you ninny!
Her common sense was putting in almost as many hours on this project as Naomi, constantly delivering stern reminders and scolds.
You can't tell a man that you wake up looking forward to spending the day with him. Michael isn't one of the men who's courting you, and you already decided that you couldn't marry him even if asked. You should not enjoy his company this much. Compose yourself!

At this rate,
Compose yourself!
was vying with
He deserves better!
as Naomi's mantra. It seemed a pity that she didn't like either one. But a more encouraging, uplifting sort of motto would be of no use in restraining her fascination with the man beside her. She hadn't known Michael Strode for long, but his strength of character set him apart from most of the men she'd spent time with.

He made no secret of his love for the Lord. In fact, her first memory of Michael was his offer to pray. Then he'd proceeded to help pull apart half a mountainside without even knowing whether he'd be allowed to stay. That spoke of a servant's heart.

Then there were the things she learned as they worked. Michael treated her like an equal, never resenting having to work with a woman. His determination to provide for his young son merited respect, as did his formidable intellect. Naomi found herself transfixed by his unique ability to puzzle through problems.

How could she compose herself when he stood so close, smelling of soap and pine, his sleeve brushing against hers? Or when his eyes lit with enthusiasm for a fresh idea? Naomi sighed and accepted her weakness. When it came to Michael, common sense went out the door.

Mike wondered if Naomi realized how long she'd been thinking without saying anything. He wanted to know what, exactly, she'd been thinking about for such a broad range of expressions to cross her face. And most of all, he wondered why on earth Naomi Higgins would need to hire a husband. With or without part ownership in a new sawmill, the woman was a prize. So how come some man hadn't swept her off her feet long before she resorted to such extreme measures?

“Is there a reason behind your decision to not enclose the rooms?” She'd apparently decided to rejoin the conversation. “I would think ceilings stabilize the unit, so won't the room be more easily damaged if it's moved around without the covering?”

“Yes.” Mike tapped the drawing on the table. “But I was thinking about how much simpler it would be for you to work with the rooms open so you could reach in from above as well as from the side. Also, it makes for less work if we address the ceilings all at once, doing the painting and so forth along the undersides of the support shelves before I insert them into the frame.”

“Clear advantages.” She paused, clearly torn between the function of the design while they were working as opposed to the function once they'd finished.

“I also considered that the lack of a roof would make people more cautious when handling the rooms. They should always be supported from the bottom, but a closed box might encourage rougher handling.” Mike wanted her to decide in favor of what made her work easier, but he wanted her to feel good about the decision.

“I agree.” Until her smile returned, Mike hadn't realized he'd missed it. “The increased difficulty in this approach falls to you—there's no margin for error when each portable unit must be precisely the same dimension as the next.”

“Not a problem,” he assured her. “I'm known for precision.”

“Oh?” Her green eyes lit with curiosity, and Mike knew he'd made a mistake. Naomi seemed to have been waiting for an opportunity to ask about his past. “How did you gain such a reputation?”

“Mark the line and measure twice; a single cut should then suffice.” He smiled as he recited the rhyme. His father drilled it into his head from the time he'd been old enough to hold a hammer.

“Sound advice in a clever phrase.” Naomi smiled, but she wasn't finished questioning him. “Where did you learn it?”

“My father made sure I learned that lesson long before he let me put it to use.” Mike didn't mind telling her that much. Trades were often handed from father to son through generations. “I did the same with Luke when he started to show an interest in the workshop.”

“You had a workshop?” She seized the word like a dog on a bone.

“Yep.” How was he going to change the topic now? If he didn't derail the conversation soon, she'd keep digging for information he needed to stay buried. No matter how he racked his brain, Mike could think of only one answer a woman wouldn't question further. “I closed it down after my wife died. Luke took it pretty hard.”