Falling for the Teacher. Dorothy Clark
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braced himself with his extended left leg, shifted his weight onto his right hip and rested his thigh along the railing. “Yes. But no one else in the area has a clapboard machine. I think it will pay for itself with the first few loads we ship downriver.”
The fading brown eyes took on a speculative gleam. Manning swept his hand through the air. “Big mar...ket.”
The show of enthusiasm brought a smile to his lips. It seemed he might have found a way to get the afflicted man excited and involved in his businesses again. “Very big. I’ve been doing some letter writing. There’s no other supplier of machine-milled clapboard from Olville to Buffalo. And none I could find a trace of from here to Pittsburgh.”
He twisted front and leaned forward. “You’d be the first, Manning. The other timber companies will still be riving clapboard by hand, and you know shaving them clean is a slow process. They wouldn’t be able to compete with your time or price.”
He stared down at his hands dangling in the open space between his legs. Big hands. Strong and powerful from felling trees and making shakes and clapboard. Payne had big, powerful hands, too. He glanced back up at the window and watched Sadie turn from placing a lamp on the fireplace mantel. So lithe and graceful. So unable to defend herself.
Stop it! He clenched his jaw so hard the muscle along the bone twitched. He couldn’t throw away four years of effort and hard work because he felt guilty for something that was not his doing.
Lightning flashed white brilliance through the air. Thunder rumbled a warning of things to come. The approaching storm seemed an ominous omen. He pushed off the railing, looked up at the darkened sky and turned to Manning. “I’d best take you inside before the storm hits.”
“No.” Manning’s face worked; his eyes flashed as brilliant as had the lightning. His good hand fisted on his knee. “Stay here. Like...storms.”
“All right. If it gets too bad, I’ll come back and take you in.” He turned toward the steps at another flash of lightning. “You think about the clapboard machine, and we’ll discuss it more tonight.”
Raindrops angled down from the black clouds rolling in, splatted in a halfhearted warning on the wooden steps, made dark wet splotches on the slate stones of the garden path. “Looks like this is going to be a soaker.” He stole another look at the window. Sadie was not in sight. Disappointment pricked him. He frowned, tugged the collar of his shirt up to cover the back of his neck, trotted down the steps and set off down the path.
* * *
Lightning flashed through the room. Thunder rumbled. Sadie replaced the glass chimney on the lamp she’d lit, glanced at her grandmother serenely dusting the serving table for the third time and started for the door. “I’ll see if Mr. Aylward is still here to bring—”
“Sadie.” She halted, startled by the ring of authority in her grandmother’s voice. “Cole Aylward is our good friend. You are to call him by his given name, as you do Daniel. Do you understand?”
Did she mean it? Or was she lost in her own world? She searched her grandmother’s eyes for that opaque look she was beginning to recognize and nodded. “Yes, of course, Nanna, if that is what you wish.”
“It is. Cole doesn’t take you off on dangerous adventures the way Daniel does. Now, you’d best hold the door for Cole. He’ll be bringing Manning inside.”
She nodded, swallowed back tears at the way her grandmother slipped in and out of the present, wished with her whole heart she could help her. Lightning flashed again. She opened the porch door, then stared agape. “He’s gone.”
Irritation flared. She stepped out onto the porch, heard the soft splat of raindrops, felt the freshness of a quickening breeze on her face and hands. How would she get her grandfather inside? She cast a sidelong glance at him, worrying over the problem. Perhaps the rockers would slide...
Her grandfather chuckled. His eyes twinkled with humor, crinkled at the corners. Her own mouth pulled up into a grin, tugged there by the chortling sound that accompanied so many of her happy childhood memories.
“Can’t...do it. Too...heavy...for you.”
Her amusement fled. “Don’t worry, Poppa. I’ll get you inside someway.” She cast an angry glance toward the garden path and stepped toward him. “Mr. Ayl—” she glanced at her grandmother standing in the doorway “—Cole never should have left you out—”
“Stay here!”
She stopped and stared at her grandfather, taken aback by his sharp tone. He reached out his good hand and took hold of hers.
“Not...child.” His face worked; his hand squeezed hers. “Told Cole...leave me. Like...storms.”
Not child. How humiliating for a proud, independent man like her grandfather to have to accept the care, the control of others. She swallowed hard and pushed back a tendril of hair the wind had plucked free of the thick coil of hair at her crown. “I’m sorry, Poppa. I should have asked your wishes.”
“You keep Poppa company, Sadie. I’ve work to do. Don’t go off the porch now.” Her grandmother smiled and stepped back into the dining room.
She stared at the closed door, aching with the need to have her grandmother and grandfather well, to have everything the way it was. “I remember, now that you’ve mentioned it, how much you like storms, Poppa. It used to frighten me when you would stand out here on the porch with the lightning flashing and the thunder crashing.” She turned from the door and forced a smile onto her face. “I was usually huddled up on the settee with Nanna.”
He tugged her closer, laid his cheek against her hand. “I...miss her...too.”
“Oh, Poppa...” She sank to her knees, placed her head against his knee and snagged her lip with her teeth to keep from crying. “Is there nothing Dr. Palmer can do to help Nanna get better? Can’t he give her some sort of medicine, or—” Her throat constricted, closed off the flow of words.
Her grandfather shook his head, his mouth working. “Some...thing in her...mind shuts...off...now and then. Doc can’t...stop it. Sorry, Sa...die.” He rested his big, work-worn hand on her hair, and she closed her eyes and imaged him whole and well and for a moment her world righted itself.
The wind gusted, snatching at her skirts. A door banged. Banged again. Her grandfather tensed. She looked up.
“Stable...door.” A frown knit his gray brows together. “Wind break...it.”
“I’ll go close it, Poppa.” She rose and shook out her long skirts.
“Lightning...”
She pushed out a small laugh and shook her head. “I’m not afraid of thunderstorms anymore.” It isn’t nature that hurts you, it’s men. “I’ll be right back.” She lifted her hems and ran down the steps, veered left onto the path that led to the stable. The wind blew her skirts against her legs. Raindrops spattered on her hair and shoulders, chilled her bowed neck.
She grabbed hold of the stable door with both hands and tugged with all of her strength to pull it closed against the rising force of the wind. It moved after a momentary lull, and she planted her feet and backed toward the gaping stable doorway, hauling the big, heavy door with her.
Lightning snapped, sizzling to the earth in a yellow streak. Sulfur stung her nose. Thunder clapped and the rain came—a wild, stinging deluge driven by the wind that snatched the door from her grasp. “Oh!” She ducked her head and jumped inside.
Raindrops drummed on the shakes overhead. The wind whistled across the open doorway and banged the door back against the building again. She stared in dismay at the heavy fall of water pouring off the roof to splash against the ground and tried to work up enough courage to go out and try again to drag that heavy door closed. And then it didn’t matter.
A large figure loomed in the opening, then pulled the door closed, shutting out the splashing curtain of water. Lightning flashed