Chapter Four #3
The sounds of celebration carried across the grass behind them. Lottie watched Delly accept a slice of cake from Clara while Jeb stood close enough to steady her if the crowd became too much, but not so close as to crowd her. He was learning her already. After one day.
Was that what vows did? Gave two strangers permission to learn each other, as if the learning itself were holy?
Lottie looked down at the book under her arm. “I don’t expect our wedding to be like this one.”
Peterson’s hand closed around the brim of his hat. Lottie saw the question reach him, and she saw, just as clearly, the part of him that wished it had not. Whatever small ease had been between them a moment before disappeared behind his lowered gaze.
“I mean,” she said quickly, “I do not expect haste. Or the whole town already knowing before I do. Or borrowed lace, though it did suit Delly better than she will ever admit.” She drew a breath. “I only mean you needn’t look as if I have arrived with a preacher in my pocket.”
He said nothing, so Lottie continued.
“Though if I had, Delly would insist on interviewing him first.”
That won her the slightest breath of laughter. Then it vanished.
“Miss Bellamy.”
The careful use of her name warned her, but she held her ground. He looked at the cake in her hand rather than at her face. “You should not set your heart on me because a company put our names on the same paper.”
“I haven’t.”
His gaze lifted. There was that look again. Direct. Searching. Enough to knock the breath clean out of her if she were not careful.
“I have set my attention,” she said. “That is not quite the same thing.”
“No?”
“No. My heart is not foolish, Mr. Peterson. It is only hopeful, and hope should not be insulted merely because fear finds it inconvenient.”
He stared at her.
Lottie heard herself then and felt heat climb into her face. “That sounded better in my mind.”
“It sounded true enough out loud.”
Then he reached into his coat with his left hand and drew out a folded paper. For one wild, breathless second, Lottie thought it might be one of her letters.
It was not.
It was a small list, creased and worn.
“I spoke to Stafford,” he said. “The carpenter. Meeting hall shelves will need brackets if you mean to hold books of any weight. Wide planks. Not pine too green, or they’ll warp. I wrote what you’d need.”
He held the paper out.
Lottie took it carefully.
The handwriting was cramped and uneven in places, but legible. Practical. Thoughtful. Next to one measurement, he had written: for heavy books, not trifles.
She pressed her lips together because smiling too quickly might frighten him off.
“You made me a shelving list?”
“Made it for the library.”
“Of course.”
“It is only a list.”
“Of course.”
“A practical one.”
“Very practical.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he suspected her of enjoying herself.
She was.
Deeply.
“Thank you,” she said, and made sure her voice did not tease. “This will help.”
He nodded once.
Then, after a pause, he said, “Your sister’s right about ledgers.”
Lottie almost laughed. “Please never tell her. She is insufferable when confirmed.”
“Books lent out ought to come back.”
“Yes. I know.”
His gaze moved to the botany volume beneath her arm. “That one part of the library?”
“It is.”
“Botany?”
“Yes. Would you like to borrow it?”
“No.”
The words came out too fast. Lottie tilted her head.
His left hand flexed against his hat brim. “Not today.”
There was the gate again. Closed, but not locked, perhaps. She held the book out anyway, not toward his hands, only enough for him to see the cover. “Then perhaps another day.”
He looked at it for a long moment.
“Perhaps,” he said.
It was the second unfinished answer he had given her. Lottie was beginning to treasure them.
Mrs. Beck called from the church steps to say there was more cake and Mr. Peterson ought to stop skulking like a criminal, which seemed unlikely to produce the desired effect. He stepped back at once.
“I should go.”
“Yes,” Lottie said, though she wished he would not.
He tilted his head. “Miss Bellamy.”
“Mr. Peterson.”
He walked away toward the camp road, still carrying himself like a man braced for weather no one else could see.
Lottie unfolded the shelving list again and looked down at his careful measurements.
A western town on the edge of civilization, he had said last night.
Yet, he had thought about shelves.
She smiled before she could help it.
Behind her, Delly laughed.
Lottie turned, startled. Her sister stood beside Jeb near the church steps, one hand at her mouth as if the sound had surprised her more than anyone else. Jeb looked down at her with such quiet pleasure Lottie’s eyes stung all over again.
Weddings, she decided, were not endings at all. They were beginnings dressed up to look settled.
She looked once more at the road where Peterson had gone, then folded his list carefully and tucked it into the botany book for safekeeping.
Delly had married before supper.
Mr. Peterson had made her a shelving list.
The day had been entirely unreasonable.
Lottie, who had come west believing love would announce itself plainly, held the careful list against her book and wondered whether a man could begin courting a woman without meaning to.