Strong and Stubborn (35 page)

“A nursemaid.” Red-rimmed eyes rose to meet their scrutiny. Her voice lowered to an almost inaudible mutter. “Arla's taken ill.”

“I'll get Doc!” Lacey practically leaped from the settee.

“He knows.” Cora's pronouncement had them all sit back down. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she told them, “Childbed fever.”

“No.” Naomi's jaw dropped, and she struggled to compose herself. Childbed fever took almost every mother it chose. So few women survived, the diagnosis might as well be a death sentence.

“But …” Lacey's protest sounded feeble. “The birth went so well.”

“There's still hope we might contain the fever and bring it down.” Despite the words, Cora looked as worn as their hopes.

You work miracles where You wish, Lord. I pray You see fit to bestow one on Arla and let her live to be a mother to Dorothy. She adores that baby girl, and I know she'd never make her daughter feel unwanted or flawed just because Dorothy's father has passed away
. Naomi's heart clenched at the thought and the memories behind it.

Lacey rallied before any of them. “What can we do to help?”

“Keep her cool and comfortable, lots of water. I've contacted an agency, and they're sending a nursemaid for Dorothy. She'll arrive tomorrow. Doc put in an order for ice. Arla gets agitated when he comes in—when anyone but Martha or I go into the room actually.” Cora frowned. “Mr. Lawson isn't handling things well. As soon as he heard, he rushed up to see her. Then he left—and hasn't come back.”

“Perhaps it's best that he grieves now so he can be strong if he needs to handle the worst,” Naomi ventured, although privately she couldn't imagine leaving her sister's side if Charlotte were the one suffering. Time took away precious things, leaving family with nothing to hold on to. How could anyone let go a moment early?

M
ike struggled to hold on to his patience, anxious to hold Luke and see that he was fine. Unfortunately, patience was one of those virtues he found easier to cultivate than to exercise. Generally he felt patience was a good thing. He worked to have stores of it so he could wait through difficult days, months, years … an entire marriage. But longsuffering was a completely different sort of patience than the kind that kept a man from stomping around, being short with shopkeepers, and generally buzzing around like a demented bee.

He wrestled with his agitation with each step, each word, each stop he made to gather Naomi's dollhouse supplies. Mike and Paula hatched the plan together. She'd go about her daily business, stop for the wallpaper samples, and drop them off at her elderly friend's house with instructions for Mrs. Roberts. When the Bainbridges' henchmen had gone for the night, she would place one of the white patterned squares in the front window to signal the all clear. If the wallpaper remained in the morning, Mike would grab Luke and hop on the first train out of Dallas. It didn't matter which direction the train headed—he could always double back after they were safe.

Meanwhile, Mike would gather everything on Naomi's list. He forced himself to move slowly, unhurriedly, like a man going about his normal daily business. If anyone followed him—and he caught sight of The Stone several times during the course of the afternoon—they'd find nothing suspicious in his activities. Thankfully, it kept him busy. If he'd had nothing to do, Mike would've gone mad.

Actually, that part remained in question. He'd taken a bed at a lodging house, careful to make sure that the room he shared with four other men had a back window. While they slept, he'd slip out and return to Paula's street under cover of darkness. Mike would conceal himself well, wait for daylight to dawn, and watch for the wallpaper. If one of the lackeys appeared, he'd wait them out.

He lay awake the entire night, going over possible scenarios and praying that Luke was fine and they'd escape without leaving any trail behind. Other than Paula, Mike had no family. He'd left his friends behind when he skipped town. After this, the Bainbridges would have no leads left to track. They'd have to accept defeat.

The thick, almost smothering darkness of night began to thin. Mike sat up, his legs on the side of the bed, his hand fisted around the burlap sack. He waited, watching black soften to charcoal, charcoal seep to gray. Mike edged to the window, thankful that none of his roommates protested leaving it open on a warm summer night.

He lowered the bag, swung his leg over the sill, and slid down. Staying in shadows marginally darker than the rest of the world, he pulled his hat from the sack and tugged it low over his brow then moved into the night. Mike hid himself in a cluster of trees as morning dawned, illuminating the streets with watery light. He smiled to see the white square in the window, glowing with promise.

Somewhere inside that house, Luke slept. He'd always been a sound sleeper—his head hit the pillow and he slept like a log. That was good—he needed Luke well rested and in good spirits for the journey home.
Home
. Strange how quickly home became a workshop in Hope Falls and the woman who ran it. Mike hoped his son would see the town—and Naomi—as he did.

They'd specifically instructed Mrs. Roberts not to tell him about the plan ahead of time. Exceptional as Luke was, ten-year-old boys weren't known for their prowess at intrigue. They couldn't hide all their excitement, and if one of the Bainbridges' men caught a glimpse of Luke peering through the window in anxious anticipation, things would get very ugly, very fast. To make sure that didn't happen, Mike planned to wait it out, take things nice and slow.

Or agonizingly slow, as the case may be. Mike couldn't remember the last time dawn's soft light spilled forth so gradually. The sun decided on a leisurely morning, but Mike couldn't afford that luxury. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, peering around the tree trunks in every direction to make sure no one arrived. To make sure no one was watching him in return.

Finally, the day began. Women bustled about, lighting cook fires and sending spools of smoke into the crisp morning air. The piping voices of young children joined the background. Smells of bacon, coffee, and biscuits ventured from open windows to scent the air and tempt slugabeds to the breakfast table. And still no sign of the men who'd been lurking in the lane for more than a week. Even better, Mike didn't see anyone else set up watch on the street.

As casually as he could, Mike swung his now-heavy sack over his shoulder and ambled across the way and down toward the Roberts' house. After a nonchalant glance around to make sure no one looked interested in his destination, he nipped behind the house itself. A tap on the frame of an open window. A few endless moments while his heart slammed against his ribs. And then a small boy was shoved through the opening, hair ruffling as he descended, a book of wallpaper samples clutched against his chest. Mike caught him and slapped a hand over Luke's spreading grin before he could shout a greeting.

The last traces of bleariness vanished. Luke's eyes widened as Mike raised a single finger to his lips, warning to keep quiet. He pulled back his hand and caught Luke again, this time when his son flung himself into his arms. This time Mike picked Luke up and didn't let go until they were tucked away on a departing train.

“Where are we going, Dad?” Luke burst out as soon as Mike told him it was safe to speak. “This time we stay together, right?”

“We're sticking together, and we're going home.” Mike wrapped an arm around Luke's shoulders. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

N
aomi!” Her sister's trill pierced through the workshop window, which Naomi left uncovered even in the drizzling rain. Overcast though the day might be, some natural light still shone through.

For a brief, cowardly moment, Naomi considered ducking beneath said window in hopes that Charlotte would peek in, see an empty room, and keep walking. But Arla's rapid decline had strengthened Naomi's resolve to make the most of her time with Charlotte. Perhaps they'd never be reconciled—Naomi knew she didn't deserve forgiveness even if her sister were the sort to extend it—but perhaps they could blanket the past in a newfound peace.
I have to at least try!

So she stood up, brushed her hands against each other to dislodge some sawdust, and waved through the window. “In here!”

Astonished by a deluge of icy drops, Naomi hastily pulled her arm back inside. She'd been focusing so intently, she'd not registered that the morning drizzle became a downpour. Now that she noticed, Naomi realized the biting chill seeped into the workshop, too. As her sister flung the door open, Naomi headed for the modest cookstove. She added logs until the fire blazed hot and bright.

“So this is where you escaped to!” Charlotte swept over to warm her hands by the fire, gaze raking the room in abject disapproval.

“The workshop isn't an escape.” Naomi recognized the lie as it dropped from her lips. Even without Michael's conversation and smiles, the workshop remained her refuge. Primarily, it was a place to work—but in her work, Naomi found an escape. Focusing on minute details distracted her from the many hurts haunting Hope Falls.

At the house, Arla moaned in pain and baby Dorothy wailed for her mother. In the diner, well-meaning lumberjacks vied for her attention and reminded her just how limited her choices for the future had become. Everywhere else, Charlotte sniffed her out like a hound chasing a hare. And the daily train stops heightened hopes she shouldn't have but never brought Michael home with Luke.

None of that followed her into the workshop … until today.

“Well, it's not
my
idea of an escape,” Charlotte conceded in a tone that implied she held higher standards than her sister. “But it is out of the rain and away from the diner where that Evie woman acts like she owns everything and won't answer questions. Would you believe she told me to make myself useful or make myself scarce?”

Naomi smothered a chuckle by pretending to clear her throat. “Yes, well, Evie does own the diner and doesn't answer to anyone over how she runs it. I know it seems strange the way we do things, but in Evie's kitchen, if you're not helping you're in the way—and, yes, she'll tell you so. The men aren't allowed inside at all.” She tacked on this last in an attempt to soothe Charlotte's indignation.

“She did seem to have her hands full.” Charlotte unbent a little. “I vow, Naomi, you could
hear
the men sniffing on the other side of those batwing doors! They all tromped in once the rain started coming down in sheets. Something about dangerous conditions—sticky summer sap and slippery rain making things too difficult.”

“Oh, I didn't realize.” Naomi closed her eyes, knowing she needed to go join Evie in the kitchen or at least help Lacey come up with a way to occupy the displaced workers. As she knew from previous experience, rainy days made the men ornery, and the last thing they needed was for a fight to break out in the diner. Again.

But she had so much to do.
I'm already short on time, and somehow everything takes longer when Michael isn't here with me
.

“I assumed not.” Charlotte gave another sniff as she looked around again. “So this is where you spend your time, cobbling together tiny knickknacks? When Mother shipped you off to Charleston, I never imagined you'd resort to taking up a
trade
.” She managed to make honest work sound like the lowest sort of crime.

“How fortunate,” Naomi murmured, giving her sister a faint smile, “that my choices are not limited by your imagination.”

Charlotte tittered as though amused, but her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Your unconventional choices have brought you unexpected options. However will you decide among your throng of suitors?”

Her shoulders slumped forward, but Naomi recognized the sign of defeat and pulled them back before her sister could comment. Now was not the time to indulge in morose feelings and show weakness. Now was the time to show her sister that she'd moved on. That she'd rather be sitting in a sawdust-strewn workshop in the middle of a mountain storm than pouring tea as Mrs. Harold Blinman.

“I don't know how I'll choose.” She screwed the silver-plated cap and brush onto the cut-crystal paste pot Lacey gave her instead of admitting that the only man Naomi might consider didn't see her as anything more than a fellow worker and friend.
How can a woman choose a husband when the man she wants doesn't offer for her?

Not that she could have chosen Michael. Choosing him would mean telling him about her past, and then he wouldn't want her anyway. When he remarried, Michael would choose an upstanding woman to be the mother of his children. Naomi picked up the tiny crib she'd been gluing, inspecting the rails while she thought.
Michael is too good a father to give Luke anything less than a good mother—a shining example of what a wife and woman should be. Not me
.

With a sharp crack, four of the crib rails splintered away from their frame, broken by Naomi's clenched fist. She carefully set the piece down, knowing better than to further reveal her inner tumult. She shrugged at Charlotte and announced, “Not sturdy enough. I'll drill deeper impressions with my awl before gluing the rails. Everything that goes into the dollhouse has to be strong enough to withstand being grabbed by children and shoved about the room.”

“If only there were so easy a test to eliminate unsuitable husbands.” Speculation lit Charlotte's avid gaze. “Although, I must say, you've done an admirable job of making sure they're all impressively strong. Perhaps you need to see how they temper all that raw physical power before you make your final choice?”

“Perhaps.” Naomi didn't see any harm in agreeing with her sister when Charlotte accepted the crushed crib as Naomi's barometer of her own work. Besides, anything that bought her more time before she was trapped into accepting one of the men couldn't be so bad.