Chapter Four

The days passed and then weeks as they settled into their new home. This morning, Isabelle peered over a lemon–scented cluster of angelica. "What's a garden without herbs?"

"Less work," Rory replied with a chuckle. On her knees, pulling weeds from a rangy mass of wildflowers, she blew a puff of air. "Toying with your sense of humor, Isabelle; didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did." Her sister gazed lovingly at the tangled limbs and stalks. "Thoughtful of the former owner to plant herbs amid the wildflowers, don't you think?"

"Hmm." Sarcasm edged her word. "Remind me to thank them if they return for a visit."

Isabelle came to her feet. "What happened to our sun?"

"Look to the west. It appears heavy, gray clouds scared it away."

"Lightning behind those clouds." Isabelle clucked her cheek. "And I believe I hear distant rumbles."

Near the barn, Jon called out and pointed to the sky. "Best herd the children inside. Jab claims storms roll in with little warning."

Rory looked at the clusters of herbs they'd plucked. "You grab the children. I'll tote the weeds in—I mean stalks of roots and plants." Rushing behind Isabelle and her nieces and nephews, Rory closed the door on a whiplash of current striking the ground. "Another minute out there, we'd be soaked now."

Jon, Clark and James burst into the kitchen, rivulets of rain dripping from their hats. "Your sons wanted to wait it out in the barn but I told them no telling how long the storm will last."

A thunderous roar shook the house and shafts of lightning ripped through the heavens. Looking out the kitchen window, Rory clutched her throat. "Dear God, I'm so thankful you didn't! Look!"

Tripping over their feet, the others stampeded toward her. "The barn is on fire!" Isabelle screamed.

Clark sprinted to the front door, his long strides covering the distance in seconds. "Charmer is in her stall, can't let her die like this."

"Don't chance it, Clark, the roof might collapse!" Rory's words died on the gust of wind rushing through the kitchen.

With their hearts in their throats, the onlookers crowded around the window and prayed. A collective sigh escaped when Clark emerged with Charmer from the massive door a minute before the roof clattered to the ground in a sickening thud of gray smoke. A gloom of melancholy draped the room. Clark and Charmer were alive, but how would they get along without shelter for the animals in the coming winter?

* * *

The following morning, like every day since the beginning of time, the day arrived with a promise of hope. Rory shuffled into the kitchen and joined the others at the table.

"We're off to town after breakfast, lass. Can I count on you to help Isabelle with the children?"

"You know you can, Jon. What are you hoping to find in town?"

"Lumber. We don't have much time to rebuild and without a barn the animals won't make it through the cold months."

Rory helped her sister feed the children and then took the twins outside for fresh air, sickened by the charred ruins near the animal pen. In the quiet moments of her life, she thought about the handsome man in the woods. Perhaps he was merely passing through the territory. She liked the outlaw moniker best; it suited his character. Recalling his wiry muscles and handsome features, she shivered. The dark stubble on his lean, firm jaw indicated he hadn't shaved for several days. She'd dreamed of running her hands through his midnight hair—his long, tousled midnight hair. Whoever he was, the die was cast. If she hadn't been such a ninny, she wouldn't have run from him.

Several hours later, Eliza's voice rang out, "Aunt Rory, Papa is home! See?"

Rory looked down the long drive. "I see, dear. And the wagon is loaded with new lumber."

"New barn, new barn." Sophia clapped her hands and danced in a circle.

"Yes, looks like a new red barn will be going up before long."

* * *

Dawson Finch concentrated on nailing the rafters in place from the highest peak of the Caldwell’s new barn. A carpenter by trade, he'd arrived with his father, Ward, that morning to oversee the barn raising. A pesky fly buzzed around his head, intent on disrupting his work. Placing the hammer near his thigh, he took a determined swat at the insect and looked at the sky overhead—turquoise splendor without a cloud in sight. The sun held court, its brilliance and warmth chased by a cool autumn breeze. A grand day to raise a barn.

His thoughts wandered to last night's conversation with his parents. His mother's desire to see him settle down provided the fodder for their casual talk. "The Caldwell's hail from Boston, I hear."

"Arrived a short time ago with eight children," his father had replied.

Miranda had shed a coy smile. "Isabelle Caldwell's sister journeyed with them, a beauty, Eleanor Cannon says."

Dawson popped a bite of biscuit into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before answering with mild irritation. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow whether Mrs. Cannon's vision needs improvement, or not, as the case may be."

"I'm beginning to think your sight needs correcting." His mother had rolled her eyes. "Not one young lady has garnered much more than a casual glance from you."

"Is my bachelorhood under scrutiny?"

"Nope, but it appears your love life is." His father offered a sarcastic grunt and a smile. "The Ladies Aide Society has you earmarked for wedded bliss."

"I'm twenty–two, not fifty–two; plenty of time to settle down."

"Eleanor claims she's never seen such lovely hair. I believe she described it as burnished copper." Miranda sighed. "Her eyes reminded Eleanor of lush, green pine needles."

Dawson's head came up. "Did you say auburn hair and green eyes?"

"I haven't met the young lady, Dawson. I'm relaying Eleanor’s gossip after calling on the Caldwell’s last week."

His father had raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen her, son?"

The image of the girl in the forest surfaced. How many young women in Guilford had hair the color of autumn leaves and jade–flecked eyes? Has to be the same woman. Dawson had leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a smirk. The forest sprite I thought I'd never see again. "No, I haven't met her, yet."

His mother's voice had breached his musings. "Probably too late in any event."

"Too late for what?"

"To court her. Frances' son Markham called on Rory last week."

"Potter? That dandy?"

"Yes, Markham Potter. What you consider effeminate, Rory might find charming."

Ward filled his wife's coffee cup and then his. "Forget about Markham, the ladies are all aflutter about having a woman in the settlement that delivers babies and administers to the sick."

"Yes, Isabelle is a midwife," Miranda had blown a huff of air. "And Rory assists her at times. We can use their expertise, at least until a bona fide physician arrives from the East."

A voice called out from below, ending his brief recollection of the conversation with his parents. "Need more nails, son?"

"No, I have enough." When the fly buzzed his nose again, his swift grab trapped the bug inside his hand. After crushing the insect, he tossed it into the air and picked up his hammer again. A vision of the girl swam before him. Where is this phantom beauty with the wild tangle of hair and luscious pink lips? If his forest creature lived here, he had a surprise for her.

Dawson took in the activity on the ground. Markham came into his line of vision, pencil and pad in hand. Dressed in tan trousers, a blue shirt and a vibrant red, brocade vest, the man reminded Dawson of a peacock strutting the yard. Employed by the town lumber yard, Markham knew numbers, but was at the end of the line when God handed out charisma. He'd known Markham since their early days in the one–room schoolhouse. Potter was the kid who never wanted to get his shoes dirty or put frogs down the girls' jumpers. Dawson couldn't think of one thing they had in common then or now.

Markham stopped writing down numbers and turned toward a voice near the porch, a pleasing, feminine voice laced with a pitch of throaty allure. Dawson had heard that cadence before but from his vantage point couldn't see the body belonging to the voice. For the second time, he put the hammer down and waited for the voice to appear. And she did. His pulse accelerated and his heart strummed a staccato rhythm. Long, reddish–brown hair tumbled down her back, and when she graced Markham with a smile, emerald eyes sparked. He couldn't tear his gaze from her face, the plump, pink lips, small nose and high cheekbones. The forest sprite walked toward Potter, and damnation, if her smile didn't burn brighter than the autumn sun. What he wouldn't give to have her smile at him. He couldn't wait for the noontime meal. He'd seek her out and watch her squirm when she realized they'd met before.