Chapter 6
Six
Addie shivered—less from the cold draft than from alarm. The cabin stood solid and in one piece. Mother hadn’t even stirred, but the three men remaining indoors looked ready to bolt. Except where would they go?
She hurried to the window and rubbed away the film of moisture on the inside, which did nothing to remove the blurring rain trickling down the outside. Leaning closer, she squinted, trying to see through the wavering gray curtain. At least fire posed no danger under these conditions.
Although she made out nothing but shadowy shapes of nearby trees, she remained at the window. Lord God, keep us safe in here. Keep Nash and Hawk safe out there.
A figure emerged from the rain. Air whooshed from her lungs as she made out Nash. Praise be to God. His boots thumped on the step. Then he entered the cabin, shaking water from his clothes.
“Is everything—?” She didn’t finish the question.
He hung his hat before he answered. “Another tree came down. This one caught the corner of the woodshed. I’m sorry, Shorty. There’s been some damage.”
“This mountain appears set on destroying me. It could be time for me to move on.”
Addie barely spared Shorty a glance. “Hawk is all right?” she asked Nash.
“A might aggravated at this delay, but other than that, yes.”
“Aggravated, is he? Harrumph.”
Neither Addie nor Nash looked toward Mr. Bertrand. Let him grumble and complain if he must. Addie didn’t intend to pay any attention. What did Preacher Stone say? “Grumbling is the death of joy,” she murmured the words under her breath as Nash moved closer in time to hear them.
He nudged her arm. “That’s the truth.”
“Father Stone said it often.” She edged in to whisper, “Is it as bad out there as it appears from inside?”
“If you mean, has the constant rain made travel treacherous?” He glanced back at the others and lowered his voice even more. “I have to say I feel like the whole side of the mountain might come down.”
“Nash! What do you mean?”
“Forget I said that.”
“No. Explain yourself.” Realizing the others were straining to hear, she moved closer to the cupboard and talked about making stew, so they’d assume the two of them were only concerned about the next meal.
“Perhaps I’m overreacting to so many trees coming down. But it’s all in the same general area, and I can’t help wondering why.” Seeing her struggle to open the jars of meat, he reached over to twist the lids free.
A deep rumble thrummed beyond the cabin walls, and she turned toward the sound.
It grew louder, echoing in her stomach and chest. The walls shook.
The cupboard and its contents rattled. She grabbed Nash’s arm, clinging to it to steady herself.
The vibrating floor rattled her teeth. The sound increased to a deafening thunder that seemed to last forever, though it could only be a few minutes. Then it faded. Ceased.
She released an overdue breath. Then there came another thud.
In the ensuing silence, no one moved. No one breathed. Mother hadn’t even stirred.
“Oh.” The word carried heat and embarrassment. She shouldn’t be hanging on to Nash. Good thing Mother slept. She dropped her hand to her side.
“What was that?” Mr. Zacharius’s voice trembled.
“I don’t know without checking.” Nash dashed from the cabin.
Had he even noticed that she’d reached for him? It appeared not, and she puffed out air.
From outside came the sound of voices. So Hawk was still in one piece. Wasn’t he?
Her lungs refused to work as she waited for the response to her question.
Voices faded away, leaving her without an answer.
Shorty hobbled toward the door. “I need to have a look.” He opened the door, took in the rain descending, shook his head, closed the door, and hobbled back to the cot where he sat. “Perhaps I will wait for one of them to tell me what has happened.”
Everyone but Mother stared at the door. Even Mr. Bertrand had nothing to say.
The minutes ticked by in heavy silence as they strained for any indication as to what happened.
“At least the cabin is in one piece.” Shorty’s words hung in the air.
Boots thudded on the step. Finally, they’d have some news.
Nash entered and faced the anxious group. “It was a small landslide.”
“Sounded big,” Mr. Bertrand managed.
“What damage?” Shorty asked.
“It missed everything of importance.”
But a frown pinched the space between his eyes. Addie stepped toward him. “You don’t sound relieved.”
“It’s possible it’s taken out the road.”
Mr. Bertrand came to his feet sputtering. “Are you saying we’re stranded here? For how long? It’s unacceptable.”
Nash dropped his hat to the peg. “We won’t know until it stops raining and we can assess the situation.” He scrubbed his hair back. “You might as well relax.” He smiled at Addie, though his eyes remained serious. “Let’s make dinner for this bunch.”
“Indeed.” She emptied the jars into the biggest pot Shorty had and set it over the heat. “I’ll prepare vegetables.”
Nash joined her at the cupboard. “While you do that, I’ll make biscuits.”
She blinked. “You?” The man proved to be good at a number of things. Though she had yet to taste the biscuits he made, so her assumption might be premature.
“I told you my ma cooked for Gib. I often helped her.” The big bowl he found thumped to the work surface. “There’s lard?”
“A whole tin of it.” She pointed to its location.
With the sureness of a man who knew what he was doing, he scooped flour from the bin into the bowl.
The vegetables forgotten, Addie watched. “Hmm. A man of many talents.”
“Thanks.”
“Who said it was a compliment? It might have simply been an observation.” She began peeling a potato.
“It was both. Admit it.”
Although he was right, she didn’t mean to let him know it. “Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding.” She bent to get another potato from the basket just as he bent to get more flour. Her head crashed into his, and she drew back. “Sorry.”
“My fault. I got distracted.”
“Distracted? How?” Did he mean her presence? No. She had no call or desire to build fanciful dreams.
“By your admiration of my skills.”
“My—” She sputtered. “Where did you get that idea?”
“From you.” He tapped her chin. “Whoops. I left a smudge of flour.” Taking up the nearest towel, he swabbed at her face.
She couldn’t blink, even though her eyes felt much too wide.
In his nearness, she made out the streaks of silver in his irises, the fan of tiny white lines at the outside edge of his eyes, and the dark growth of whiskers on his lower face. The towel hung from his hand, inches from her face. The moment stalled. Neither of them moved.
What did he see? Or imagine he saw? A disheveled spinster?
A lonely woman afraid to open her heart to possibilities?
She should dismiss that latter question because it wasn’t true.
Her life provided all she wanted or needed.
Reaching out to help those less fortunate.
As if by doing so, she might prevent the needless deaths of her parents. Why hadn’t anyone helped them?
That idea didn’t seem correct, but she couldn’t put her finger on the problem. Except her parents hadn’t died of neglect. Or illness.
Besides, helping others only meant she did her part to erase the result of man’s evil from the world.
The pot sputtered, and she jerked around to deal with it, stirring the contents far longer than required. Steeling herself to deal with her errant feelings.
Three deep breaths and she thought she could work next to Nash without doing, saying, or thinking anything silly.
While he chopped the lard into the flour, she continued peeling vegetables and adding them to the stew.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He spoke softly.
“No. No. You didn’t. Not at all.”
“Are you sure? You’ve grown very quiet.”
Maybe she had. But not out of being offended. Her reaction to his teasing had been unexpected. So unlike her. She had a reputation for calmness and—
An unfamiliar, mischievous imp drove away every other thought. “I was simply considering”—she dipped her finger into the flour—“how to get revenge.” She flicked the flour at him.
The surprise on his face brought a gurgle of laughter up her throat.
“Wait. I got some on you.” She grabbed the nearest towel, the same one he’d used, and wiped flour from his cheek.
Whiskers rasped under her touch. Her hand slowed, stopped, and hung at his face.
Her fingers refused to move. The muscles in her throat tightened so she couldn’t swallow. Behind her eyes, her pulse ticked.
A slow, heart-stopping smile curved his lips.
If she didn’t know it wasn’t possible, she’d say that smile left her knees without strength.
What was wrong with her?
He captured her hand and slowly lowered it. Slowly removed the towel from her fingers. He slowly swiped it at her nose. “I guess we’re even.”
Not even close, she wanted to protest. Not unless you are jerked off-balance as much as I am.
He set the towel on the cupboard and turned his attention back to making biscuits.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t—
“Your stew needs to be stirred,” he murmured.
Stew? Oh right. But her body refused to turn toward the stove. A spatter of hot liquid touched the back of her hand. Her fingers found a spoon. She stirred the pot.
Nash chopped lard until the flour mixture looked like tiny white peas. He dribbled in water until the dough became soft and pliable. He’d made biscuits often enough to do it without much thinking, which was good because he found himself distracted.