Chapter 6 #4
A few minutes later, while he removed another board from the remaining wall, he glanced back and realized Miss Owens had definitely not stayed put.
She had relocated herself to the stump, carrying the lunch hamper with her.
Now she was seated on the stump with her dirt-encrusted treasures in her lap.
Wilson shook his head. Apparently being told to rest and actually resting were two entirely different things in Miss Owens's mind.
Still, he let her be. Sorting through her assortment of finds seemed unlikely to cause further damage.
As he worked, he watched from the corner of his eyes as she wrapped several of the items in the linen napkins and cloths that had earlier protected their lunch. The little wooden horse received noticeably more care than the rest.
Strange thing was, he understood why.
Watching her handle the little carving, he found himself wondering about the child who had once owned it. Somewhere, years ago, a boy or girl had treasured that toy enough to wear the wood smooth.
Miss Owens would probably spend the next week trying to discover who that child had been. The thought should have struck him as excessive but somehow it didn’t.
And he suspected she'd uncover the story eventually. Miss Owens had a way of doing that.
Wilson shook off the thought and turned his attention back to the remaining board.
But the weathered plank proved more stubborn than the others—frustrating since he’d wanted to wrap this up quickly.
He patiently worked the pry bar beneath one end, shifted his grip, and leaned his weight against it.
The wood protested with a groan before finally pulling free.
A few minutes later he stepped back and surveyed the outbuilding.
What remained wasn't worth the effort.
The rear corner still sagged dangerously, held together more by habit than sound construction. Most of the lumber left standing was too rotted or split to be useful. They'd recovered everything worth saving.
Satisfied, he carried the board toward the wagon. Partway there he frowned. Miss Owens had the hamper hooked over her forearm and was carrying it to the wagon.
She should have waited for him to do that. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he gave a wry grin. He knew very well she wasn’t one to ask for help when she figured she could handle the task on her own.
He slid the board in the wagon and turned to see she’d tucked her burden beneath the wagon seat. He met her gaze. “Need help climbing up?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
With a nod he turned to the stack of boards that were still waiting for their nails to be pulled and lifted several, careful to keep the nails away from his skin and clothing. The sooner he wrapped this up the better.
But when he turned, he found she hadn’t climbed on the wagon as he’d expected. Instead, she was gathering tools. She currently had a hammer she was placing next to a pair of shears by the wagon wheel.
“I told you to rest."
She stopped and looked at him. "You told me to stop pulling nails. I did."
She had a convenient memory it seemed.
Miss Owens lifted her chin. "Besides, compared to carrying lumber, this is practically sitting down."
Wilson considered arguing. Then decided the effort would accomplish nothing. The woman possessed a remarkable talent for finding loopholes. And she’d just do as she pleased as soon as he turned his back—maybe even before.
Then her defiant look softened. “I appreciate your concern but I’m being careful to put as little pressure on my hands as possible.”
As little as possible would be not to use them at all. But he merely nodded and turned back to the stack of lumber. The best thing he could do right now was to get things wrapped up as quickly as possible.
Most of these boards still bristled with nails so he took extra care stacking them, turning the protruding points inward where they were less likely to catch clothing—or hands.
All the time he was aware of Miss Owens, slowly but steadily gathering up the tools and implements they’d used over the course of the day.
Though it felt considerably longer, less than half an hour later the tools were stowed, the remaining lumber loaded, the horse reharnessed, and he finally got Miss Owens to settle in the wagon.
Wilson gave the structure one final look as he gathered the reins. The old building had surrendered every useful thing it had to give. No doubt the next storm to come along would flatten what remained.
He glanced her way to find her studying the structure as well. After a brief "Ready?" he set the wagon in motion toward town.
The afternoon heat pressed down as they made their way along the road. For a time neither of them spoke.
The silence felt comfortable.
Wilson found himself oddly grateful for that. Earlier in the week he would have expected Miss Owens to fill every quiet moment with questions, observations, or plans for the archive. Instead, she sat quietly beside him watching the countryside roll past.
After a while her attention seemed to drift.
Twice he noticed her head dip slightly before she caught herself and straightened. The third time she looked down at her lap as though pretending she'd meant to do so all along.
Wilson hid a smile.
The woman was exhausted. Given the day she'd had, it wasn't surprising. By the time the first buildings of Hawthorn came into view her eyelids were definitely drooping.
Wilson guided the wagon through the familiar streets and turned into the livery yard. When the wheels rolled to a stop Miss Owens blinked and looked around, seeming momentarily disoriented. Her gaze traveled from the stable to him in silent question.
Rather than explaining himself, Wilson climbed down from the wagon and circled around to her side. He held out a hand. "Come with me."
Miss Owens blinked. "Mr. Porter?—"
"Just come on."
She hesitated a moment longer, then stood and reluctantly held out her hand.
When he saw the state of her palm, he understood why. Impulsively, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her from the wagon.
A moment later her boots touched the ground.
As soon as he knew she was steady, Wilson released her and stepped back.
He frowned at himself. The brief contact should have meant nothing beyond the practical mechanics of getting her down. Miss Owens's hands were what should be occupying his thoughts, not the feel of her beneath his hands.
Clearly the long day was catching up with him.
Wilson swept a hand toward the livery entrance. “This way.”
He automatically adjusted his pace to match Miss Owens's as he ushered her into the livery.
As soon as they stepped inside, Davey looked up from brushing down a bay gelding.
"Welcome back, Mr. Porter," he said with a wide grin.
Wilson nodded without pausing.
But the boy wasn’t finished. "Mr. Jenkins stopped by about renting a team next week."
"We'll talk about it in a bit."
"Yes, sir." Then Davey's gaze shifted toward Miss Owens, as if just noticing Wilson wasn’t alone, and his eyes widened.
Wilson couldn't entirely blame the boy. Most folks were accustomed to seeing Miss Owens neat, composed, and schoolteacher proper. At the moment she looked dusty, tired, hair mussed, and thoroughly worn out by a day of physical labor under the summer sun.
Ignoring Davey's reaction, Wilson continued escorting her toward the tack-room door.
When he lifted the latch and opened the door the familiar scent of leather, saddle soap, and oiled wood greeted him.
Sunlight slanted through the doorway, illuminating the workbench that occupied one wall.
Shelves lined the other, holding tools, spare hardware, and the assorted supplies accumulated over years of running the livery.
As she stepped inside, Miss Owens glanced around with open curiosity though, uncharacteristically, she still hadn’t said a word since he lifted her down from the wagon.
Pushing that image aside quickly, he crossed directly to one of the shelves and retrieved a small tin.
He turned and found her staring at the tin in his hand with dawning realization. "Mr. Porter, that's really not necessary."
"It is if you intend to use those hands again any time soon."
She looked poised to protest again so he spoke up first. “No point arguing. We are going to do this.” He pointed toward the stool beside the workbench. "Sit."
She opened her mouth. Then apparently thought better of it. A moment later she lowered herself onto the stool.
Wilson pulled a second stool closer and sat opposite her.
Outside came the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the occasional murmur of Davey's voice as he went back to work with the animals.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Wilson held out his hand. "Let's see them."
Reluctantly, Miss Owens extended her hands.
Wilson frowned. The damage looked worse than it had beside the outbuilding.
The broken blister along one palm had split further. Several others had swollen beneath the reddened skin. The skin around her fingers looked tender and irritated.
He glanced up though she didn’t quite meet his gaze. "Your stubborn insistence on helping finish up cost you."
A spark flickered briefly in her eyes. "I believe we've already discussed that."
"We haven't discussed it nearly enough."
To his annoyance, her lips twitched.
Holding back further comment, Wilson opened the tin. He carefully gathered a small amount of salve on his fingertips and touched it to the worst blister.
Miss Owens drew a sharp breath.
His gaze immediately lifted to hers. "Sorry."
She shook her head. "Not your fault."
Wilson waited a moment before continuing. This time his touch was gentler.
The salve spread easily across the damaged skin. Gradually her shoulders relaxed.
The room seemed unusually quiet. Or perhaps he was simply more aware of it than normal. More aware of the warmth of her hand resting in his. More aware of the trust required for her to sit here and allow him to tend her injuries. More aware of the woman herself.