8

Fleeta realized she should have at least changed her shoes. Not that she cared about ruining Elnora’s slippers, but the dratted things didn’t offer any traction. She’d been in such an awful hurry to get out of the house that she hadn’t thought this through. She said a word under her breath she knew wasn’t fit for a lady—or a respectable man, for that matter—but she didn’t care. Aunt Maisie had been relentless all day. Instead of being pleased that Fleeta had made an effort to dress appropriately and act like a girl, she kept harping on about that brooch. Why wasn’t Fleeta wearing it? Was true love such a terrible thing? Look at how happy she and Uncle Oscar were—didn’t she want the same?

“Ha,” Fleeta said, startling a squirrel.

“Hello.” The unexpected voice made Fleeta jump a foot.

She jerked her head up and looked all around. There, in the edge of the woods off the trail, sat Hank Chapin—looking awfully at home for a stranger.

“Where in the world did you come from?” she asked without thinking. Oh, she needed to start thinking.

Hank’s lips twitched. “I’ve been walking off my Thanksgiving dinner and settled here because I’m not altogether clear on which way is home.”

Fleeta stared at him like he had two heads. “The Markley farm is right over yonder, on the other side of those hills.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really turned around or are you just funning me?”

Hank held his hands up in surrender. “Guess I’m a flatlander through and through. Will you point—?”

Jack the blue jay dove between them, squawking. He seemed intent on Hank’s hand as he waved it toward the fields and trees. Fleeta gasped and pounced at him, grabbing the hand that held . . . her brooch. “Where’d you get this?”

Hank blinked rapidly. “Found it.”

Fleeta felt as if she’d been breathing the vapors from Merle’s corn mash. Had Hank been in her room? Impossible. “Where did you find it?”

“I have the impression that you recognize this bauble,” Hank said. “Is it yours?” He offered it to her, along with the embroidered bag. She took the items like they might suddenly disappear if she moved too fast.

“Sure looks like the brooch that belonged to my mother.” She pinned him with a glare. “Now where did you get it?”

Hank pointed at a half-rotten stump. “Tucked in there under some leaves.”

Fleeta examined the stump from every angle and poked around inside it. “Yes, I see where it was nested in here. And this”—she held up the bit of fabric Hank had let fall—“is the cleaning cloth I wrapped it in. But just this morning I hid it with my . . .” She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “In my dresser. Now, how in the world?”

She almost forgot about Hank as she circled the stump, examining the ground all around. Finally she found what she was looking for—a boot print with one heel worn way down. She tightened her mouth and stood, contemplating how to punish Simeon. Sure as shooting, the boy had stolen her brooch and hidden it here. She couldn’t think why he’d do such a thing, but she aimed to find out.

“Have you discovered the culprit?” Hank asked.

Fleeta spun toward him. “Maybe. You don’t need to trouble yourself about it, though.”

Hank’s eyes softened, and he tilted his head to one side. “I get the feeling that pin is special to you.”

Fleeta looked at the jewelry in her hand. “I guess it is.”

“You should be wearing it,” Hank said in that same soft voice. He stepped close, took the brooch, and pinned it near her right collarbone, in the softness of Elnora’s sweater. “There. That looks awfully nice.” His eyes flicked to hers, and Fleeta felt heat spread throughout her body and rise to her cheeks. “Pretty girl like you ought to have nice jewelry.”

Fleeta felt the weight of the pin against her shoulder. The sensation was strange and wonderful at the same time.

“Never have been much for feminine frills,” she said and grazed the gemstone heart with her fingertips. “This belonged to my mother. It’s supposed to come to me when . . . well, it’s special. My aunt Maisie gave it to me recently.”

Hank beamed at her. “I knew that was no run-of-the-mill jewel hidden in a stump. Now what cad spirited it away and hid it from you? I’ll trounce him for you if you’ll but name him.”

Laughter burst from Fleeta’s throat before she even knew it was there. Hank probably could trounce Simeon, but she wouldn’t betray her family. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I know who, but I guess he won’t do it again once I talk to him about it.”

“Well, if you’re sure, I suppose I can let it go this one time. But if he does it again, you’ll have to let me challenge him to a duel.” He paused and cocked his head the other direction. “Or maybe a wrestling match—that seems more suited to these parts, although I do have a dandy set of antique dueling pistols.”

Fleeta realized her earlier foul mood had lifted completely. Hank Chapin was all right. She granted him a smile. “Do I need to escort you home? Seems like you mentioned being a mite turned around.”

Hank stuck his arm out toward her, and she linked her hand through his elbow without hesitation. “I’d be a fool to turn down such an offer from such a lady,” he said.

And for maybe the first time in her life, Fleeta really did feel like a lady.

Hank was sorry when they arrived back at Abram’s farm. His walk with Fleeta Brady had been much too brief. The woman wanted to be a gunsmith of all things, and Hank had no doubt she’d accomplish it.

“I’ve been jabbering on long enough,” Fleeta said, slowing her pace as they approached the barn. “What about you? Is being a timberman what you’ve always wanted to do?”

Hank stopped and leaned against the weathered boards of the barn. He hoped to stretch the conversation out a bit longer. “No, not really. I guess I just fell into it. Started working for George Heyward when I was still in high school and worked my way on up to management.”

“Didn’t you ever have any dreams?” She sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Well, I guess when I was younger. With my parents gone, I mainly wanted to earn my own money. Might be George Heyward became like a second father to me, and then after I was with him for so long, I kind of adopted his dreams. But now . . .”

Fleeta looked at him with her lips slightly parted, as though truly curious to hear what he would say next. “Now what?”

Hank felt his normal reserve melting away in the light of her warm golden-green eyes. “Now George has an honest-to-goodness son-in-law to carry on Waccamaw Timber, and I’m thinking I might could turn my favorite hobby into a business.”

“And what hobby is that?”

A smile spread across Hank’s face unbidden. “Guns.”

Now she looked more than curious; Fleeta looked downright eager. “Guns are your hobby?”

“I’m a collector. I have everything from that modern Remington you fired to antique Civil War pieces that are pretty valuable. Mostly I collect guns for my own pleasure, but here lately I’ve tracked some down for friends looking for a particular firearm.” He felt his smile widen. “Now that’s some kind of fun.”

“And you figure people would hire you to find guns for them?”

“That, and I’d continue collecting pieces for sale. I think there’s good money in it if you do it right.”

Fleeta opened her mouth as though to speak, but it seemed they’d been spotted. James whooped and lit out across the yard, coming to an abrupt halt in front of Hank. “Who’s your lady friend?”

“Don’t you know Miss Fleeta Brady?” Hank asked.

James did a double take and squinted his eyes. “Why sure, I just ain’t never seen her in a dress.”

Grace followed her brother at a more sedate pace. “Don’t say ‘ain’t.’ Momma will tan your hide.” She too eyed Fleeta, from the pin at her shoulder to her scuffed and dirty slippers. “You look awful pretty. Why don’t you dress like that all the time?”

Hank looked at Fleeta out of the corner of his eye. She was the nicest shade of pink, clearly flustered by all the attention.

“’Cause she can’t hunt and shoot in a getup like that,” James said as though nothing could be more obvious.

Grace wrinkled her brow. “I bet she could if she wanted to.”

Hank decided it was time to rescue Fleeta. “Y’all sleep off that Thanksgiving dinner?”

James rubbed his belly. “And I’m about ready to eat again. A man gets powerful hungry after bringing down a big ole buck.”

“You weren’t hardly gone long enough to have worked overmuch,” Grace said. “And I bet the grown-ups did most of the work hauling that deer home anyway.”

Now it was Fleeta’s turn to rescue James. “You got a deer this morning? I didn’t get a chance to hunt, what with all the cooking. How big was his rack?”

James’s chest puffed out a good two inches. “Four points and this wide.” He held his hands a bit farther apart than was strictly accurate.

“You’ll make some lucky girl a fine husband, providing like that,” Fleeta said.

Grace pushed into the conversation, clearly feeling left out. “But you do your own hunting. Does that mean you don’t need a husband to do it for you?”

Fleeta considered the question. “I guess there’s more reasons than that to have a husband, but it doesn’t really matter since I don’t ever aim to marry.”

Hank felt a stab of concern, but Grace saved him from asking the question.

“Why wouldn’t you want a husband?”

“My mother died of grief not long after my father passed. And Aunt Maisie’s never had time for anything but taking care of kids. I want more than that.”

Grace looked as thoughtful as Hank felt.

“Like being a gunsmith,” Hank said.

Fleeta smiled. “Exactly. As soon as I save up enough money to take on Bud Lyons’s shop, I know I can get work. Everyone around here knows I’m good with guns, and they already come to me for carving.”

Hank perked his ears. “Carving?”

“Yeah,” chimed in James. “Come see Dad’s over-and-under. Momma got it done for him for Christmas last year.” He grabbed Hank’s arm and hauled him toward the house.

Judd and Abram were still splayed out in the sitting room when they burst through the front door.

“Dad, can I show Hank your over-and-under?”

Abram stretched and stood. “Sure. Go fetch it for him.”

Fleeta and Grace entered the room.

“Why, Fleeta, don’t you look nice,” Abram said. “James been bragging about your woodwork?”

Seemingly in a perpetual state of rosiness, Fleeta nodded. “He was. Guess it’s better than me bragging on it.”

“I don’t think anyone who’s seen your work would accuse you of bragging,” Judd said.

James reentered the room more slowly than he left it. Hank supposed he’d been taught—rightly—to take more care when holding a firearm. He handed the Browning to Hank. It had a 12-gauge shotgun barrel over a .22 caliber rifle barrel, and the walnut stock was a thing of beauty. An incredibly detailed apple tree had been carved there, with two children beneath it. An older boy held a bucket brimming with fruit, while a girl stood with an apple in her hand. The design continued toward the barrel with a swirl of apple blossom.

“Most folks get pictures of the animals they hunt or their dogs, but Dad got us,” said James. “Some folks think Fleeta’s carvings give ’em good luck hunting. Why, Merle Smallridge said he had to quit using the twenty-two Fleeta carved squirrels on. Said it wasn’t sporting anymore.”

Fleeta was absolutely scarlet now. “That’s pure nonsense,” she said.

Abram grinned. “I don’t know. That apple tree out back sure did produce an abundance of fruit this past fall.” He tousled James’s hair. “And these young’uns sure are coming along fine.” He winked at Judd. “Might be you should get Fleeta to carve a stand of timber into your rifle stock.”

Fleeta swatted at the air, dismissing Abram’s teasing, while Hank ran his fingers over the contours of the carving. He couldn’t come close with pencil and paper, much less a carving knife. He glanced over at Fleeta, who watched him with a slight frown. “A remarkable likeness.” The frown relaxed. “This boy looks like he could step right off this rifle stock and get his second deer of the season.”

James grinned, and the corners of Fleeta’s mouth finally tipped up.

Hank handed the gun back to James. He was getting an idea. “Say, Fleeta. You think you could carve a magnolia blossom into one of my rifle stocks?”

Fleeta pursed her lips. “I don’t think I’ve seen a magnolia. I guess I’d have to look at a picture first.”

“That can be arranged,” Hank said.

“Hold on,” she said. “You’re not wanting me to cut on that Remington, are you? That’s too fine a gun. I don’t think I’d have the nerve to take that on.”

“I’ve got a double-barrel shotgun with me as well. Twelve gauge. I’m thinking one of your flowers would dress it up nicely.”

Fleeta’s shoulders relaxed a notch. “Oh. Well, I expect I could handle that.”

“Question is, how quick can you get it done?”

Her eyes sparked, and he noticed they were the green of a meadow in late summer when the grasses start to turn gold. He decided a description like that was exactly the sort of thing that would get him in trouble with Fleeta Brady.

“How quick do you need it done?”

“I’m leaving next Wednesday.”

Now her shoulders sagged. “I can work fast, but not that fast. Plus, I ought to finish Vernon’s rifle before I start something new.”

“Well then, guess I’d better leave it with you and plan on coming back before Christmas.”

Fleeta gave him a sharp look. “You’d drive all that way just for a carved stock?”

Hank leaned in close. He could tell Fleeta was steeling herself not to pull away from him. Stubborn. He liked that. “Might be I’d have another reason for coming back this way.”

She swallowed hard and maybe leaned in a fraction. “What might that be?”

“Timber,” Hank said, stepping back. “We’ll make some offers to buy before we leave this trip, but I’ll need to come back and finalize any deals and get a timbering plan in place so we can get started before the ground goes soft in the spring.”

Fleeta’s mouth tightened. “Of course. I could have the work done in a few weeks if you find me a picture of that flower you want carved on there.”

“Y’all got a library?” Hank was enjoying himself.

“Not close by, but the bookmobile comes ’round on Mondays.”

Hank nodded. “We’ll give that a try.”

“Can we come?” Hank had nearly forgotten about the children standing with them.

“Miss Pearson lets me borrow three books every week,” Grace said. “So long as I take real good care of them.” She beamed at her brother. “And James has taken out every book of poetry at least five times apiece.”

James turned ruddy and ducked his chin. “That’s not worth bragging about.”

“Oh, but it is,” Hank said. “I don’t read near enough poetry. I should probably try some. What would you recommend, James?”

Grace hopped on one foot. “Tell him the cat feet poem—I can almost remember that one.”

James looked put upon, but squared his shoulders nonetheless. “It’s by Carl Sandburg—he’s real good. It’s about the fog, but I guess Mr. Sandburg lived in a city instead of the country like we do.” He cleared his throat.

“The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.”

James gazed absently out the window. “That’s how the fog is too. Can’t you just see it?”

Hank was surprised to realize he could. He looked at Fleeta and saw that she was watching him. Maybe to see if he’d poke fun at a country boy quoting poetry, which he would never do. He was a country boy himself, just from a different part of the country. He thought the poem could describe Fleeta as well as the fog. She kind of snuck up on a man, soft and quiet, although he had the definite sense he could no more hold on to her than he could a gossamer cloud of mist.

“Yes. I can see it,” Hank said, looking into those summer-green eyes. They widened, and then she looked away.