Chapter Seventeen
The day after Cecil Peterson refused to marry her, Wild Rose Ridge continued preparing for a celebration.
Lottie found that rude.
Main Street had no consideration at all for broken hearts.
It went right on filling itself with bunting, pies, barrels of lemonade, hammering, wagon wheels, and children waving paper flags before the Fourth had even properly arrived.
Mrs. Beck stopped three times outside the bakery to adjust the ribbon that had offended no one except herself.
Mrs. Schulte carried a list so long it fluttered behind her like a patriotic banner.
Mr. Prentiss stood in front of the mercantile, arguing that penny candy arranged by color counted as a civic contribution.
The whole town seemed determined to be glad.
Lottie did not object to gladness on principle.
She wished it would only lower its voice.
She spent the morning at the meeting hall, entering returns in the lending ledger and refusing to look toward the schoolhouse lot any more than necessary. It proved difficult because the schoolhouse lot had become the most interesting place in Wild Rose Ridge.
The library walls had not risen yet, but more lumber had arrived.
Men came and went with planks on their shoulders.
Mr. Stafford’s measuring string appeared and disappeared.
Luke nearly dropped a stack of boards when Mrs. Hanford asked whether the future library would have a proper rule against tobacco stains.
During all the chaos, Cecil was there.
Not always where she could see him. Never close enough for speech. Every so often, she caught sight of him through the meeting hall window: tall and broad-shouldered in the sun, hat low, sleeves rolled, his wrapped hand visible as he pointed toward the marked foundation.
He had said he could not marry her.
He had also placed three windows in her library.
Lottie sharpened a pencil so hard the tip broke.
“That pencil has confessed,” Cornelia said from the shelf.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It has no more secrets to reveal.”
Lottie looked down at the broken point and set the pencil aside. “I am perfectly calm.”
“No one accused you otherwise.”
“You implied it.”
“I am a schoolteacher. Implication is one of my few entertainments.”
Lottie almost smiled.
Cornelia crossed to the lending table and set down a stack of children’s primers. “Have you eaten?”
“I am not hungry.”
“That was not the question I asked.”
Lottie narrowed her eyes. “You and Delly have been speaking.”
“Frequently. We live in the same town.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“At least you are honest.”
Cornelia leaned one hip against the table. “She is worried.”
“Delly worries the way some people breathe.”
“That does not mean she is wrong to want you fed.”
Lottie sighed and reached for the biscuit wrapped in a cloth beside the ledger. Delly had brought it that morning without comment, placed it beside Lottie’s inkpot, and left before either sister could become sentimental about bread.
Lottie took a bite because she loved her sister, and because hunger made a poor weapon against sorrow. She took a second larger bite, because a full mouth would mean she wasn’t required to talk.
Outside, another hammer struck. She looked toward the window before she could stop herself.
Cecil stood at the edge of the schoolhouse lot, speaking to Jebediah Simms. Jeb looked tired, even from a distance. Delly stood beside him with her bonnet strings untied, one hand resting near her notebook as if she had forgotten whether she was still using it.
They looked like two people standing on opposite sides of the same bridge and refusing to step. Lottie knew that feeling.
Jeb said something. Delly answered. Neither of them moved closer.
Cecil looked from one to the other, then away.
Lottie could not read his expression from across the street. She was grateful for that. Reading him had become dangerous.
By noon, the town’s work shifted toward the beach, where the men were preparing the festival grounds. The Independence Jubilee would not properly take place until Saturday night, but Wild Rose Ridge had decided preparation counted as wholesome excitement and therefore might be enjoyed early.
Lottie went down with Cornelia, carrying a small basket of ribbons and three clean cloths Mrs. Beck insisted might be useful for something.
The beach stretched below the town in a wide, pale curve, busy with motion. Fresh-cut lumber had been stacked near the edge of the sand. Men were setting posts for the temporary platform where the musicians would play.
A half-built frame stood nearer the water, meant to shade the food tables if Mrs. Schulte’s diagram could be trusted. Children were not supposed to be near the construction area, which meant several were lurking precisely near enough to be removed at regular intervals.
The lake shone bright and green beyond it all.
Lottie hated how beautiful the day was.
Beauty should have had the decency to pause.
She helped Cornelia hang ribbons near the food table. Before Lottie could ask what was next, a shout came from the platform frame.
Not a cheerful shout.
Lottie turned.
A long beam shifted where two men had been trying to brace it. One end dropped. Someone yelled for the boys to get back. Sand kicked up. Men lunged toward the timber, hands out, too late and too far.
The beam came down with a heavy, sickening thud, and a child screamed.
For one second, the beach became a confusion of running skirts, dropped tools, and men shouting over one another.
Then Lottie saw the boy.
Samuel Dawes lay pinned near the shoulder beneath the fallen beam, half in the sand, face white with terror.
Her stomach lurched.
“Jeb!” someone shouted. “Fetch Simms!”
Jeb was already moving. So was Delly.
Lottie took one step forward, then stopped because men were converging from every direction, and running blindly into the middle of the panic would help no one. That was a Delly lesson. An annoying one. Also correct.
Cecil appeared from the far side of the lumber stack. He had been carrying a coil of rope. It dropped from his left hand into the sand the moment he saw the beam. He ran toward Samuel with Luke, Olsen, and two other men close behind.
The bandage had fallen off his hand, but he made no move to hide it. Jeb reached Samuel first and dropped to his knees beside him. He looked down at the boy, and for one awful moment he did not move.
Her sister went straight to him. Not in front. Not taking the work from him. She stepped close and laid one hand against his chest, firm and low, speaking where only he could hear.
The whole beach seemed to lean toward them.
Lottie could not hear the words, but she did not need to. She knew what her sister was doing.
Not commanding.
Not rescuing.
Standing beside.
Jeb’s head lifted and nodded. His voice cut through the noise, rough and steady.
“Lever. Long plank. That block there. Four men on the far end, and no one moves until I count. We lift straight up. We do not drag him.”
Men snapped into motion.
Cecil seized one end of a long plank with his left hand and shoulder, then braced with his right before the weight could twist. Lottie could see the pain cut through him in the quick tightening of his mouth and the way he adjusted his grip.
She pressed both hands to her skirts to keep from calling out.
“Miss Bellamy!” Jeb barked. Lottie startled. “Cloths. Bring them.”
She ran. At last, a task.
She gathered the clean cloths from the basket and hurried across the sand, dropping beside Delly near Samuel’s head. The boy was crying, trying not to and failing, poor child. His hair stuck to his damp forehead. Sand clung to one cheek.
Delly had both hands steady near his face. “Look at me. Not at the beam. At me. What is your name?”
“Samuel,” he choked out.
Lottie unfolded a cloth with fingers that wanted to shake. Delly glanced at her once. “Behind his shoulder. Not under it unless Jeb says.”
“I know.”
She tucked the folded cloth where Jeb pointed, then moved back before she crowded him. Her eyes met Cecil’s over the beam.
He stood at the far end of the plank with Olsen and Luke; boots dug into the sand. His unwrapped right hand gripped the wood. The skin was pulled tight, and it had lost all its color as it strained to hold the beam still.
Lottie wanted to run to him.
Instead, she held Samuel’s loose hand when the boy reached blindly.
“I am here,” she said.
Samuel’s frightened gaze jerked to her. “Delly’s here. So is Mr. Simms. Half of the town is here, making themselves useful for once. You are not alone.”
His fingers clutched hers.
Delly tried to distract the boy again. “Samuel, tell me what your mother baked last Sunday.”
“Biscuits,” he sobbed.
“Were they good?”
“Burned.”
“Then you will need to live long enough to tell her I know it. Keep your eyes on me.”
Jeb positioned the men without looking away from the beam. “On my count.”
Cecil’s gaze stayed on Jeb.
Lottie’s heart ached with fierce, helpless pride.
“One,” Jeb said. “Two. Lift.”
The plank groaned.
Men grunted, shoulders straining. Sand slid beneath their boots. The beam rose an inch, then another.
Samuel cried out.
Delly caught his face between her hands. “Stay with me. Mr. Simms has you. Do you hear me? He has you. So does the Lord.”
The beam lifted enough for two loggers to pull Samuel clear. Jeb moved with him, already reaching for the injured shoulder, giving orders for bandages, laudanum, Dr. Paine, and Samuel’s mother.
Cecil held his position until Jeb shouted for the men to lower the beam. Only then did he release the plank. His right hand opened slowly, stiffly.
Lottie saw the tremor run through it.
She was on her feet before she decided to stand.
Then she stopped. Cecil had not looked for her.
He was looking at Samuel. At Jeb. At the work still being done.
A week ago, she might have gone straight to him, taken his hand, and wrapped what hurt before he could refuse her. A day ago, she would have called it love.
Now she understood there were moments when love stood ready, not in command.