Oh!” Strong arms caught her, and Sarah grabbed Mr. Bentley’s neck and shoulder. Instead of the scent of paint and fresh lumber, ever present on the new site, she inhaled something spicy mixed with the faint odor of engine oil. She felt his knees bend and then struggle momentarily to straighten as she dipped in his arms. She marveled that he could manage her and her ample curves so easily. She’d feared he’d fall. “Thank you, but I think you’d best set me down.”
This close, his pupils appeared large and black, with only a thin line of rich chocolate brown around the rim. He didn’t release her, nor did he seem to breathe. Perhaps she’d knocked the stuffing out of him. Finally, he sucked in a breath and blinked. “Miss Richmond.”
Gently, he lowered her. When he let go, a chill seemed to take the place of his warm hold. She crossed her arms and clutched them to her body. “I’m awfully glad you’re working today.”
Nearby, Mr. Hudgins pulled the ladder away, as a bevy of quilters watched, tittering. Goodness, Sarah could have landed on one of them. Denise joined her and Mr. Bentley. “Are you all right, Sarah?”
“Nearly broke your neck,” Mr. Bentley muttered. He bent to pick up his hat from the floor then dusted it off against his leg.
Sarah bit her lower lip.
Denise clutched her hands to her chest. “What your friend did was so brave!”
“I could’ve been knocked unconscious.” Mr. Bentley patted his thick hair.
Mortified, Sarah was at a loss for words. She glared at the irritating workman who’d possibly saved her life. “You might be too thickheaded for that to have happened.”
His handsome features contorted, and his face reddened. “Do you not think before you act?”
Mr. Hudgins strode back toward them.
“You got up on that ancient contraption.” Grant’s voice rose.
“Now, Grant …” Mr. Hudgins laid a hand on his friend’s arm, but Mr. Bentley shook it off like a snake.
“You could have died right in front of all these ladies. Can you imagine the horror that would’ve caused?”
Around them, heads turned and women gaped. The hall suddenly became eerily quiet.
A whisper-soft voice within her urged, “Forgive Arnold.”
Tears pricked her eyes at the conviction she knew was from God speaking to her heart. She’d thought she’d forgiven her fiancé for volunteering at the Wild West show, only to inflict horror upon the spectators, his family, and her when he was seriously injured. Worse yet, his lingering death without proper medical attention.
Mr. Hudgins ran his finger around his collar, bringing to mind Arnold’s priest, who didn’t seem to know quite what to say to Sarah. She wasn’t, after all, his wife. Would be no one’s wife.
Her eyes flitted back to Lee Hudgins’s collar. A decidedly white, starched, and possibly celluloid dress collar gleamed beneath his jumpsuit. Incongruous for a workman. She directed her gaze to Mr. Bentley whose Adam’s apple bobbed above a similarly pristine white collar. His eyes glazed over, as though he, too, was lost in thought.
“Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”
Once again, Mr. Hudgins tried to lay a hand on his coworker, but Mr. Bentley threw back an arm, almost striking the other man on the nose.
“Why would you put yourself in danger’s path and not consider all those who care …” His voice trailed off.
Sarah didn’t need a scene. Yet every word he hurled at her she’d spit out at Arnold after the accident. Almost verbatim. A chill swept over her. She could’ve sworn God stood right there with her. And of course He was with her. There was nowhere she would be without Him. Even in a pavilion full of ladies who’d just seen her make a fool of herself.
“I fear your conduct is becomin’ most ungentlemanly.” Mr. Hudgins’s accent thickened. “Miss Richmond is not your mother.”
Not his mother? Why would he say that?
Mr. Bentley spun on his heel and stormed from the hall.
Her heart beat wildly. Good thing she’d sworn off men. The last two she’d cared for had died. No more heartbreak, nor pining over what could have been. No putting up with male tantrums in a public setting. No more quilting long hours on a wedding quilt that would never be hers. No additional embellishments to this quilt. She spun around to see where her quilt had fallen.
Denise offered it to her.
“Thank you.” She pressed it to her bosom. The hours of wishes, dreams, and love that had gone into every stitch would soon belong to someone else. At least she prayed that would happen. If she attracted enough attention with it, she could sell it for a good price. And if somehow she beat out Miss DuBeau and the others for the blue ribbon and was interviewed by the papers, she’d be sure to point out that more state dollars needed to go for hospital care in the Upper Peninsula.
Lee Hudgins swept his hat off. “Forgive my friend, ladies. He lost his mother in an accident that he witnessed.”
“Oh.” How horrible.
“I fear you, Miss Richmond, received the wrath a twelve-year-old boy could not vent on his mother.”
Sarah drew in a long shallow breath. “I see. I’m sorry.”
Taking two steps toward him, Denise extended a slim hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced. I’m Denise Drefs, Sarah’s table partner.”
Mr. Hudgins stared for a moment too long at Denise’s proffered hand. Then he bowed, took her hand in his, and pressed a lingering kiss atop it. “Charmed, Miss Drefs. My name is Lee Hudgins, but I insist you call me Lee.”
Denise seemed to have swallowed her tongue. Lee was a very handsome man and eloquent for a groundskeeper. Perhaps he’d received a good education and had fallen on hard times. Why did neither man ever seem to have equipment with which to conduct their work? Odd.
Still rattled by her fall, Sarah set the quilt on the table and leaned in.
“Are you all right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, then.” Mr. Hudgins cocked his head at her. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait. You’re working right now, aren’t you?” Why were they there?
Mr. Hudgins cast a sly glance. “I believe we are, although I’ve been abandoned.”
“Would you hang my quilt?”
Stroking his golden mustache, Mr. Hudgins scanned the room.
When he didn’t move, Sarah’s ire rose. “If you’re going to wear the state fair uniform, they may expect labor from you.”
“At your service, Miss Richmond.” Grant’s friend bowed low. “I reckon you’re right, ma’am. If I were a worker here, I sure would be workin’ to get paid.”
If he were a worker? When he straightened, Sarah narrowed her eyes at him.
Lee strode to the wall and grabbed a sturdier-looking ladder.
Denise giggled. “He’s adorable, don’t you think?”
“Right now Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum aren’t exactly on my good list.” She crossed her arms. Something was strange about those two, a kind of Alice in Wonderland conundrum she’d unravel.
Lee returned, unfolded the ladder, and took the quilt from Sarah’s arms. “Ladies, do ya mind holdin’ the ladder?”
With wide doe eyes, Denise gazed up at him. “I don’t mind.”
Sarah stifled a groan. While Denise might be there to find a husband, she definitely was not. And she wasn’t about to join the coterie of ladies who gawked at the two men wherever they went. She had better things to do. But at the moment, she couldn’t remember what they were.
She rubbed her arms. Grant Bentley had just saved her life. She’d have joined Arnold in heaven or been severely injured if he hadn’t caught her.
Her heart had hardened after Arnold’s death. Now, despite his harsh words, Grant Bentley stirred emotions she’d crammed, like bits of stuffing, into each flower she’d appliquéd on the quilt. Flowers that couldn’t completely cover the pattern underneath. The hopes and dreams and colors beloved by a young woman hoping to marry and begin her life.
Grant paced in front of the Home Arts Pavilion. Why had he lost his temper with Miss Richmond? She could’ve been killed. Like Mother. He closed his eyes, recalling his mother taking the steeplechase jumps in their fields, unaccompanied. She’d been training to impress Father’s New York society friends. Following her on his pony, Grant got to her too late. He found her crumpled on the ground, arms and legs askew like one of his sister’s rag dolls. Then he’d screamed for his father.
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. Grant swiped it off. From somewhere nearby the faint music of a Southern spiritual rose up. He strolled in the direction of the a cappella singers. He recognized some of the Detroit African Methodist Evangelical church members. The choir stood, singing on risers that would be used for performances once visitors were allowed on the fairgrounds.
As they practiced “Give Me Jesus,” a thousand chills swept over Grant. Mother had loved the hymn. He blinked back moisture in his eyes. The chorus repeated and rose, drawing more people closer. When they finished, the onlookers clapped.
The director turned. “We give all the glory to Jesus, friends.”
The choir members stepped down from the stands and streamed out toward the main fairgrounds, some clapping each other on the back. A few of the quilting-bee ladies waved shyly at Grant, and he waved back, winking at Mary, who baked the best pies on God’s green earth.
Nearby, a trio of men unleashed a barrage of profanity. Luckily, the church members had moved out of earshot. A rant of cussing like that in the state of Michigan could land you in jail, and surely these men knew it. When the men removed their slouch hats and quarter-turned toward the home arts building, Grant recognized the two miscreant brothers from the cafeteria. The taller one elbowed the other.
Grant stepped back and pulled his cap low, wanting to see where they went. A bad feeling grew in his gut.
When the three passed, Grant overheard the older brother cajoling the other two. “You two chicken? She’s the fair’s greatest prize.”
What young lady did they speak of?
“She’s got this”—the scarred brother made exaggerated curving motions—“going on and more.”
Grant picked up some trash from the ground, tossed it in a nearby basket, and followed the men.
“Fresh as country cream. Unspoiled, if you know what I mean.”
“So you want me to keep an eye on her?” The other man, whom Grant hadn’t met, pulled a jackknife from his pocket and began cleaning his filthy fingernails.
“Me and little brother want to find a place where we can spend some time alone with that pretty quilting-bee lady.”
They had to be speaking of Sarah. Who else matched her description?
Confronting the men would do no good. He had no proof. But he could make sure someone followed Sarah. And warn her to never be alone on the grounds.
Thank You, Lord, for letting me overhear this. My temper got the better of me, but You used it for good, just as You promise in Your Word to use all things for our benefit.
From here on out, he’d be spending much more time with Miss Richmond. And he’d have to trust God with that, too.
Ten minutes into the process, Lee still awkwardly tried to even out the quilt.
Sarah cupped her hands around her mouth. “A little more to the left.”
Shouldn’t the Southern gentleman be more adroit with such a chore? And why weren’t Lee and Grant out doing whatever chores the fair workmen did?
Movement near the front of the pavilion caught Sarah’s eye. Mamie DuBeau whispered to another well-dressed woman, behind her lace-gloved hand. Even if Sarah lost to this privileged woman, perhaps she’d garner a purchaser. Miss DuBeau claimed if hers won, her father would have it displayed at his flagship store in Detroit along with the second- and third-place quilts. If she was a runner-up, perhaps someone at DuBeau’s would buy the quilt.
Thankfully, Miss DuBeau remained at the front of the building. Mr. Hudgins finally descended the ladder.
“Why did you and Mr. Bentley come here this morning?”
His mouth flapped open like brook trout, and he stared past her.
Grant Bentley, his face red, strode toward them. He leaned in and whispered something to his friend.
Lee’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, but I don’t think she saw me.”
“Who are you talking about?” Denise, like Sarah, was unaccustomed to people whispering to one another. It wasn’t polite.
Lee shoved his hands in his pockets. “Mamie DuBeau is here.”
Sarah frowned. Why should they care?
Moving slowly toward them, chattering with a plain woman dressed in a dun-colored walking suit, Miss DuBeau held center court. Not everyone could afford to bring in their own help, which the wealthy young woman had. But after all, wasn’t this what Mr. Bentley and Lee were being paid for?
Grant glanced up and scowled. He clambered up the ladder.
With a toss and a few tugs, he positioned her quilt overhead. Beside her, several women moved closer and gasped.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Gorgeous.”
Even though she could detect Miss DuBeau’s heavy scent nearby, a thrill of pleasure shot through Sarah. But when she turned and caught the malicious look the well-to-do young lady shot her way, her enthusiasm deflated.
“How did you appliqué those tulips over the rings without them puffing out too much?” Mamie’s friend inquired.
“And how long did it take?” an older woman with a heavy Polish accent asked.
Miss DuBeau narrowed her eyes. “That had to have been hundreds of hours. There’s no way you could’ve done that by yourself.”
“Five years …” and two wishes for marriage dashed and an extra pair of spectacles because her eyes had worsened from all the close work.
“Well then, I think that disqualifies you.” Mamie smirked, her green eyes glittering.
“What do you mean?” Sarah clasped her collar, suddenly feeling a choking sensation.
“I believe the guidelines state the quilt must have been completed within a year.”
“And you would know that how, Mamie?” Grant’s voice rang out behind her.
She turned to see his eyes shooting daggers at the beauty.
“Why, Grant Bentley, I know a great many things that might surprise you. Such as why you’re at this fair.”