Chapter Two #3
His face shut completely. Too late, Lottie knew she had stepped wrong. Her fingers slipped from the edge of the book, and it began to fall. Mr. Peterson reached out with his left hand and caught the book before it landed on the floor.
He steadied it, then let go at once. Lottie tucked it close against her chest, her knuckles whitening on the spine.
“Peterson will do,” he said.
Lottie swallowed. “I did not mean to pry.”
“I know.”
That small mercy nearly undid her. He knew she had not meant harm, and still the harm had found him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
His expression changed. A flicker only, but she saw it. As if an apology were not something he had expected from her.
“You needn’t be.”
“I do. I think a person should apologize when she has stepped where she did not know the ground was soft.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
In the parlor, laughter rose around Delly and Mr. Simms. Someone said pie again, and Mrs. Hanford made a noise of deep concern. The hotel reception rolled on, warm and crowded and absurd.
Mr. Peterson looked like a man standing outside a window.
“You speak strangely,” he said at last.
“I have been told that.”
“By your sister?”
“Mostly by my sister.”
“Does she always ask so many questions?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Only when I care about the answers.”
For one breath, Lottie thought he might stay. He might ask about the book or tell her an ordinary thing about himself. He might even say her name.
Then a man in a plaid shirt and leather suspenders called from the parlor doorway, “Peterson! Are you hiding from cake or women?”
A few men laughed. Mr. Peterson’s hand flexed in the pocket. Lottie could see the fabric move. His shoulders settled into a shape Lottie did not like, as though he had picked up a weight he knew well.
“Good evening, Miss Bellamy.”
“Good evening, Mr. Peterson.”
He stepped past the laughing men without answering them and went out the side door into the dark.
Lottie stood in the hall with a book held close against her waist. One of the younger loggers looked at her, then at the door Peterson had used. His smile faded. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, miss. Peterson’s just Peterson.”
“What does that mean?”
The young man rubbed the back of his neck. “Mostly that he doesn’t like folks asking what he means.”
That was not helpful. It was also, Lottie suspected, very true. She returned to the parlor because standing in the hallway after a man had left was not a dignified activity. Delly was now in active conversation with Mr. Simms and likely required sisterly supervision, whether or not she wanted it.
Delly’s notebook was open. Mr. Simms had a piece of cake. Mrs. Schulte looked delighted while Mrs. Beck looked overcome. Mrs. Hanford looked as though the entire concept of courtship had escaped its pen and was loose in the parlor.
“You have not answered my questions,” Delly said to Mr. Simms.
“I know.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Likely for the best.”
Lottie picked up a piece of cake and slid into the space beside Val.
Val looked at the book in her hand. “Did Mr. Peterson frighten you?”
“No.”
“Good. That would be a serious mark against him.”
“He told me Peterson will do.”
Val’s amusement softened. “Ah.”
Lottie glanced at her. “You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“About him?”
“A few.”
“Will you tell me?”
Val studied her for a moment. There was kindness in her face, but not the soft kind which gave a girl what she wanted simply because she asked sweetly enough.
“Some things are his to tell.”
“That is what people say when the thing is bad.”
“Sometimes,” Val said. “Sometimes it only means the thing belongs to the person who lived it.”
Lottie looked toward the side door. She did not like that answer. She respected it. Why was everything so inconvenient?
Across the room, Mr. Simms put down his empty plate and left without giving Delly one proper figure about how often he came home with blood on him. Delly stared at her notebook as though betrayed by both man and paper. Val watched the doorway with a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” Val said softly. “You poor lamb.”
Delly frowned. “I asked a practical question.”
“Aye,” Val said. “That’s the trouble.”
Lottie almost laughed. Almost. Then her gaze returned to the side door. She thought of the way Mr. Peterson had caught the book before it fell. The way he had not let their fingers touch. The way his face had closed when she asked about the initial C.
Peterson will do.
It was not the answer of a man who did not care what she called him. It was the answer of a man who cared too much. Lottie finally took a bite of cake. It was delicious. Wild Rose Ridge understood cake, which seemed promising for the future.
She looked down at Tennyson’s damp corner and smoothed it with her thumb.
Mr. Peterson—Peterson at his request—had warned her not to build too much on a man picking up a book. That was fair, but he had picked up the book.
He had caught it when she nearly dropped it. He had heard her apology and believed it. Lottie took another bite and decided, with as much wisdom as she could gather after one long day, she would not build too much.
Not yet.
She would not tear down the foundation either.