Strong and Stubborn (29 page)

Another hour's sleep would have been nice, after turning in late last night, but Mike rolled out of his bunk at the same time as the other men. There'd been a few grumbles about his change in status when the men realized he spent all day with Naomi—practically alone. He didn't plan to give them more ammunition by sleeping in.

The others probably didn't know Lawson had dropped by the workshop to get Mike's opinion on plans for the sawmill. They didn't know that when Dunstan came rushing in with news of Arla, Lawson had asked Mike to go with him. It made sense—of the men Lawson spent any real time with, Mike was the only father in the bunch. And while Lawson was the uncle, he'd be the man raising the babe along with his sister. Mike understood full well how nerve-racking it could be to wait out the delivery of a child. He fought against his own helplessness, knowing he couldn't soothe the pain or make sure things would turn out right. The sound of a new mother's anguished cries made any man's blood run cold.

He hadn't been thrilled to go with Lawson, but he accepted that the man needed company. Mike didn't regret going—how could he? The babe and mother were doing well, and Lawson didn't break down. What were a few missed hours of sleep compared to those blessings?

Besides, he knew full well that the women found their beds much later and awakened a solid hour earlier than he did. That thought galvanized him as he splashed frigid water on his face and rubbed the bleariness from his eyes. He left the bunkhouse, further invigorated by the chill morning air and the enticing scent of coffee. Mike breathed deep.
And bacon
. He picked up his pace.

He wasn't surprised to find the dining room almost empty, but it did prompt him to bolt down a meal that deserved more appreciation. Then again, all of Miss Thompson's meals deserved appreciation, so Mike determined to give extra attention to the next one. Or two. Or …

“Good morning!” Shadows smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes, but Naomi's smile said she didn't mind the missed sleep.

“Good morning.” He hid his surprise to find her already in the workshop. Mike expected her to be doing what all women did, hovering around the newborn and rushing about with tiny clothes and whatnot.

Of course, Naomi never fulfilled his expectations; she exceeded them. With plenty of other women to fuss and coddle the infant and mother, Naomi didn't shirk her responsibilities. She went to work. Her very presence in the workshop told him everything was fine.

Still, Mike knew he should ask. “How are the mother and babe?”

She positively beamed. “Quite well. Doc said Arla's labor was the easiest kind, very short, so she'll have a quick recovery. Granger is showing Mr. Corning around, which is fitting since Mr. Corning is concerned with the business side of the enterprise, so Granger is the best man to explain what we've accomplished and how we plan to proceed—they'll meet with Mr. Lawson a bit later. At any rate, it frees any of us from having to play hostess today.

“Cora and Martha are taking turns, switching between helping Evie with supper and staying with Arla. Doc will check in soon, and Lacey dragged Dunstan to her mercantile to dig up baby supplies. I expect she'll inundate Arla with piles of catalogues tonight.”

“I never saw Mrs. McCreedy before last night,” Mike admitted.

“The men don't see her much,” Naomi assured him. “She keeps to the kitchen or watches over Arla. Martha makes a point of taking supper home so she and Mr. McCreedy can enjoy each other's company.”

“That explains it.” Mike began laying out the pieces he'd work on that afternoon. So far he'd spent the bulk of his time planing shingles down to extreme thinness. Now he had a stack of wood sheets, each meticulously shaved to a quarter-inch thickness. These would make the removable rooms. The stack of larger boards he'd left at a third of an inch to create the exterior and house supports.

“I think it's wonderful”—the wistful note in Naomi's voice grabbed his attention—“that they set aside time to be together.”

“Spouses should make time for each other.” Mike wished he could flatten the worries buzzing around her thoughts like little gnats. Of course she worried about what her own marriage might entail. The bond between a man and woman happily growing old together wasn't likely to develop with a spouse chosen without love. Mike should know—he'd failed with Leticia. Instead of stopping her worries, he should add to them—warn her away from such a disastrous decision.

But I can't tell her that I married for money
. Women made this arrangement every day, but for a man to admit he'd sold himself the same way … it made him less of a man. Weak.
No one can ever know
.

“Did you?” She looked at him expectantly, with a trace of defiance for having dared ask such a personal, prying question.

“Did I make time for my wife?” Mike had no easy answer for that. In the beginning, he'd catered to Leticia's every demand, believing her temper would even out after Luke's birth. The physicians who knew no more of Leticia's character than Mike assured him that women were notoriously emotional when expecting.

After Luke's birth, Mike brought the babe to visit Leticia every day, even though she refused to nurse the child herself. When Leticia regained her strength, she ended the visits entirely. Dinners were eaten in silence across a long table.

His attempts to interest her in the workshop were met with open disdain. Invitations to take their son for a walk earned him a frosty glare while she informed him that nannies pushed prams—did she
look
like a servant? As time passed, Mike slowly stopped making overtures to his wife. They lived as strangers in the same house.

“I should have tried harder.” The admission tasted sour. He'd been the only one trying, but Mike took Leticia as his bride. As the head of the household, the marriage rested on his decisions. There was no excuse good enough for giving up on his wife.
None
.

Sensing that she'd pushed too far, Naomi settled herself in her chair and devoted her attention to the list she'd begun yesterday.

Mike thought she'd ended the conversation until he heard her whisper, hesitant and husky, “All any of us can do is try.”

I
t's not enough.” Naomi pushed her chair back from the table an hour after the awkward end to her and Michael's conversation. Up until today, she'd been setting up the work area and poring over catalogues to place orders with German manufacturers for things she couldn't possibly make herself. Now that she'd inventoried her supplies, she realized how much she still needed to move forward.

“What isn't?” Michael stopped sawing and walked over to eye her list. A frown puckered his forehead as he read over her supplies.

“These.” She circled the lower portion of her list and began reading aloud. “Tin ceiling panels, pressed cork sheets, model ship masts, wall-covering samples, linoleum, one-inch diameter wooden dowels—the manufacturers won't ship small orders. Except the wall-covering samples—I don't think those will be shipped at all.”

“The ceiling panels, linoleum, and wall coverings make sense.” Michael paused before asking. “Cork? Model ship masts? Dowels?”

“Cork is wonderful!” She got up and rooted around Lacey's dollhouse, bringing back a handful of items. “It's thin enough to cut, more pliable than wood, inexpensive, and it takes paint well.”

She set down one of the beds and tugged off its coverlet to expose the cork nestled within the bed frame. “It's perfect for mattresses or padding-covered furniture. If you slice a bottle stopper, with a little paint it makes an excellent rind for cheese.”

Naomi smiled at his thunderstruck expression as her “cheese” spilled onto the table—some already with wedges cut out. She added her pièce de résistance—a “copper” bathtub. “The flexibility allows me to cut the pieces, glue them together, and paint it easily.”

“Cork it is.” He picked up the tub and turned it around. “I'd only ever seen it used as insulation for walls or even flooring.”

Naomi set down one of the flights of stairs and pointed to the railing. “Here are the ship masts. They're already the right size, shaped nicely, and take almost no effort to trim. I also use them for furniture.” She indicted the posts on the disassembled bed.

“That'll save a lot of time carving.” Michael seemed impressed.

“Oh, you wouldn't believe how much I rely on toothpicks and pieces made for ships in a bottle.” Naomi laughed. “And fan blades.”

Admiration shown in his gaze. “Clever—very clever. I wouldn't have any idea where to find a supplier for fan blades though.”

“I found a fan maker who was closing her shop, and I bought all of the pieces she had on hand. Strips of sandalwood and balsa mostly. I use them for everything from fireplace grates to furniture. But thank heavens there are still plenty of those—I doubt we'd find an accommodating fan maker out here in the territories!”

“I can't wait to hear how you plan to use the wooden dowels.”

Naomi didn't keep him in suspense. “Scalloped siding. If you cut the dowel into thin, angled rounds then layer them so the thicker bottom part overlaps the thinner upper portion, it looks like siding. If Lyman Place hadn't been brick, I would've tried it.”

Michael rubbed his jaw, as he frequently did while thinking. “That's going to save me a considerable amount of time, and the results will be much more uniform than hand carving each shingle.”

“Oh, I'm sure your shingles would have been wonderful.” Naomi couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed a conversation more. Here she stood, discussing her techniques with a man who appreciated her method and made her feel almost as innovative as he was himself.

“There are dowels at the mercantile. I remember seeing some the first day I arrived.” He looked uncomfortable, and for the first time Naomi wondered why Michael, of all people, had followed her back into the storeroom that day. Why not stay in the main area of the mercantile, grabbing spades and pickaxes with the others?

She slowly put a line through the dowels, crossing it off her list if not her thoughts. “That helps. The other thing we'll need is glass cut to fit the windows, but I don't know the measurements.”

Michael grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil to start making notes of his own. “I'll write them out and take them to a glassmaker when I go to fetch the other supplies. The ship masts will be the most difficult to come by, but maybe we can place a large order since we'll use a lot on things like staircases and porch rails?”

“True.” Naomi put a careful little question mark beside the item, trying to hide her smile at the way Michael listened to and was already finding ways to tailor the materials for new purposes.

“When do you need these things?” He tapped his pencil on the top of her list. “How long before the lack starts to slow you down?”

“Soon. The linoleum and wall coverings are the foundation for most of the rooms. So you should go next week.” Naomi nibbled the inside of her lip, not wanting him to see her distress at the idea of him leaving. She couldn't show how much she'd miss their daily conversations and the simple pleasure of working with a partner.

“It's fortunate,” she began brightly. Too brightly—Naomi realized she'd overdone and modulated her tone before continuing. “Lacey and Braden were determined that Hope Falls be a place where workers could bring their families. The little houses are so useful—if one doesn't think about the people who left them behind.”

“And why.” He sat with her in a moment of silence, acknowledging the losses incurred by the mine collapse. Families torn apart. “But they came in handy when Corning showed up.”

“And for storage,” she teased, knowing it would make him smile. “But I was thinking more along the lines of setting up a house so when you go for supplies, you can bring Luke home with you.”

“You mean …” His face lit up as though all his Christmases came at once. “I can bring him back with me next week? To a house?”

“Well, we aren't going to put him in the bunkhouse.” Naomi tried to look stern but couldn't manage in the face of his joy. “A one-room cabin is the least we can do. Aside from Arla's little Dorothy, he'll be the only child in Hope Falls. Our first family.” She tried not to think about how it wasn't actually hers at all.

She's not mine
, Mike reminded himself, watching Naomi return from another nature walk, surrounded by lovesick swain.
Don't interfere
.

Not that she asked him to. Actually, by the looks of it, she didn't seem to mind being swarmed every time she stepped foot outside their workshop. But try as he might to convince himself otherwise, Mike minded. He wanted to swat the suitors away from her.

It was maddening, seeing her smile at all of them and no one in particular. He'd come to loathe seeing what new addition perched atop the cougar's hat in the dining room—one of the men actually added a small bird's nest, ostensibly to go with the abundance of feathers fluffing up all over the raggedy thing. Each one of those multihued plumes reminded Mike that other men gave her gifts.