13

Hank rolled up in Abram’s front yard on December twentieth. Although it was a sight colder than in South Carolina, he supposed this was mild weather for being almost Christmas. He thought his sister would be put out with him for missing two major holidays in a row, but when he said he was heading back to West Virginia, she got a dreamy look in her eye and wished him a Merry Christmas. He strongly suspected Larkin had been talking to her.

“Mr. Hank!” The voice emanated from a blur of a boy rocketing toward him from the front porch of the house. Hank braced himself against James crashing into his side. “You’re just in time to go with us to cut some pine and holly for the banister and the mantel.”

“Let the man sit a minute,” Abram said from the front door. “That greenery isn’t going anywhere in the next hour.”

James let his head fall back in exasperation.

Hank leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Might be I won’t need to rest as long as your daddy thinks.”

James brightened and took Hank’s suitcase, hauling it toward the house with only a little listing to one side. That boy would be a man before long.

“Judd sent word to expect you,” Abram said. “Lydia’s thrilled clear down to her toes to have company for Christmas. Gives her an excuse to dress the place up extra nice.”

“Not for my sake,” Hank said.

Abram shook a finger at him. “Now, don’t you go ruining it by being polite. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her in a month of Sundays. Just say how nice the decorations look and she’ll be content till next December.”

Hank smiled. “That I can do.”

James lugged Hank’s suitcase inside while Abram lingered on the front porch. He leaned on the railing and eyed Hank. “I’m thinking it’s more than my wife’s good cooking and a parcel of timber that’s brought you back so soon.”

Hank shrugged and rolled his eyes skyward. “Could be, although Lydia’s a mighty fine cook.”

“That she is. I hear Fleeta Brady can’t cook a lick.”

Hank narrowed his eyes at his new friend. “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

It was Abram’s turn to shrug, but his eyes sparkled. “Nothing. Just thought I’d mention it. Now come on in—supper’s about ready.”

Fleeta couldn’t stand this much longer. Mary still hadn’t come around by the twenty-first of December. She’d been assuming Bud’s niece would stop by to tell her when the shop was ready, but then again maybe she’d just tidy it up and go on home. Might be Fleeta should mosey on over there and see if anything had been done. She couldn’t hardly stand all the holiday fuss Aunt Maisie and Elnora were stirring up anyhow. Too much baking and decorating and acting all mysterious about gifts. She’d found peace working on Hank’s magnolia carving, but that only went so far. What she really wanted was to scrub every inch of Bud’s old shop and get it ready to open at the first of the year. She’d put word out that she’d be operating out of that space soon, and if folks lived up to their promises, she’d have a fair amount of business right away.

So, on a mild morning just three days before Christmas, she packed some cleaning supplies, laced up her work boots, and set out to walk to town and the shop that was now hers. She had her head down, picturing how she’d display rifles on the back wall, when a car eased up beside her. She nearly jumped sideways, but controlled herself, feeling embarrassed that she’d been snuck up upon. Especially when she glanced to her right and saw it was Hank Chapin.

“Thought I’d better come check on that carving you’re doing for me.”

Fleeta felt a surge of happiness that she credited to being on her way to her very own smithing shop. “It’s purt near done, although I still have some fine-tuning to do. You in a hurry to have it?”

Hank shut off the car and got out to talk to her. “Not especially. Although I might like to see you finishing the work if an audience wouldn’t trouble you.”

This time Fleeta felt something clench low in her stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant so much as unnerving. He wanted to watch her work? “I don’t guess anyone’s ever asked that of me before.”

“It’s fine if you’d rather not. I’m just curious to see what tools you use and how it’s done.”

Fleeta warmed at the idea of someone being that interested in her carving. “It’d be all right, I suppose. You could come to supper one evening and I’ll finish it up after. That way you’ll have it before Christmas.”

Hank nodded and considered the bucket she was holding. “Where are you toting that bucket of cleaning stuff?”

“I’m on my way to check on my new gunsmith shop.” She delighted in his raised eyebrows.

Hank cocked his head at her the way Jack did when he thought Albert had a treat. “You found a shop?”

“I did,” she nearly crowed. “Bud Lyons is moving south, and he’s letting me rent his place, along with all his tools for six months, then hopefully I’ll have made enough money to buy it outright.”

Hank let out a whoop, grabbed her, and twirled her in the air, nearly sending the bucket flying. When he set her back down on her feet, one arm stayed around her shoulders as he looked into her eyes with such warmth that she forgot it was December. “I knew you could do it, I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.” He squeezed her shoulder and reached down for the bucket.

She almost wished he’d left that hand right there, warming her back so that it sent heat all through her. The thought made her want to shake herself like a dog and run off, but she willed herself to simply reach for the supplies he’d taken.

“Oh no,” he said. “You just march right on around this car and climb in. I’m driving you to your new shop.”

Hank hurried around the car and opened the door with a flourish. Fleeta hesitated, then grinned and slipped into the spotlessly clean sedan. Hank stowed the bucket in the trunk, then climbed back behind the steering wheel.

“You must be thrilled, and your family too,” he said as they started down the road.

Fleeta laughed, but it sounded breathy and unnatural. She cleared her throat. “I sure am, but the family doesn’t pay me much mind.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

“Aw, it’s not that they don’t care. There’s just so much to keep up with, and Aunt Maisie still isn’t right after losing her last baby.” She flushed. She hadn’t meant to mention that. “They’re glad for me—they just don’t show it too much.” She felt her cheeks get even warmer. They certainly didn’t grab her up in their arms and spin her around.

“I’m glad I’m here to celebrate with you then,” Hank said. “Can I help you set the place to rights?” She opened her mouth to reply, and he hurried to add, “Not that you need me, but I find a joy shared is often doubled.”

“All right then,” she said with a slow smile. Then Fleeta relaxed and let herself enjoy his easy company.

Hank felt like a schoolboy. But instead of carrying a girl’s books or lunch sack, he was helping her with a bucketful of cleaning supplies. He’d thought a lot about Fleeta in the weeks since he’d seen her and wondered if he was building her up too much in his mind. But the moment he laid eyes on her, obviously woolgathering as she walked along in her worn boots, denim pants with a patch over one knee, and overlarge man’s coat, he knew if anything he’d underestimated his feelings. There was definitely something about how unfussy and how independent she was that drew him in like the tide. And he knew that even if she ran him off, he’d roll in again and again until she let him stay.

“There it is,” she said, pointing to a ramshackle building on the edge of town.

Hank schooled his expression. The two-story structure sure didn’t look like much. He hoped the rent wasn’t too high. But then it likely wouldn’t be since it wasn’t exactly on the main thoroughfare.

“Do you have a key?” he asked.

“No, but Bud’s niece is supposed to be around. Should be unlocked.”

Hank didn’t say so, but he would have expected a gunsmith shop full of tools to be locked up tight. Maybe folks were more trusting around here.

Fleeta stepped up onto the rickety porch and tried the front door. No good. “Come on around back,” she called.

Hank followed her through knee-high dead weeds until they came to a back door. It too was locked. Fleeta made a face and began working her way around, trying the windows.

“Maybe we should wait until this niece turns up,” Hank suggested. “Someone might think we’re trying to break in.”

Fleeta grunted and heaved open a window. “Aw, folks know I’m taking this place over,” she said, scrambling through the opening. She poked her head back out. “Come around to the front door and I’ll let you in.”

Hank wasn’t sure this was the best protocol, but the look of utter delight on Fleeta’s face stifled any protest. He shook his head and walked back around front, tripping over an old tire on the way. The door was still closed when he stepped up onto the porch, but he could hear scuffling inside. Then the door flew open, and he froze at the look on Fleeta’s face.

“I must have misunderstood,” she said, turning back and raising the shades on the windows.

The room was dim and dusty and, to all appearances, empty. Hank breathed in the musty closed-up smell and finally set the bucket down on a sort of wooden counter that ran half the length of the wide front room. Fleeta was now behind that counter, running her hands over a shelf. She stood, cobwebs in her hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “There aren’t any tools here.” Her eyes were blank, staring off into the distance.

“Maybe they’re in another room,” Hank said.

Fleeta snapped her fingers. “He hid them in case anyone broke in. Of course. Help me look. You take the first floor and I’ll take the second.”

She was off and up the stairs before Hank could say anything more. He began a thorough search of the three rooms on the first floor. The main room ran the width of the building with a small kitchen and what appeared to be a storeroom behind it. The front room was profoundly empty. The kitchen included a chipped sink with a hand pump and drain board, a stove he doubted worked now if it ever had, and a Formica-topped table with a three-legged chair. The storeroom featured shelves with some dusty jars of canned goods and a wooden crate that, based on the smell, contained rotten potatoes.

No tools or anyplace to hide them.

Hank headed back out to the main room just in time to see Fleeta descend the stairs and plop down near the bottom. “I don’t understand it. I paid him for the use of the shop and the tools, and it’s obvious no one’s been here to clean.” She turned hurting eyes on Hank. “You don’t think he’d . . .”

Hank did indeed think Bud might have taken Fleeta’s money and run, but he wasn’t going to put that into words. “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he offered instead. “In the meantime, we can air this place out so it’s ready when we find out what happened to the tools.”

Fleeta shook her head. “I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been.” She leaned forward until her forehead rested on her knees. “And you’re here to witness my shame.”

Hank stood, the emptiness of the room yawning around them. He needed words but couldn’t think what they should be.

“And the worst of it is, I gave him Momma’s pin.”

Fleeta’s shoulders began to shake. Hank braced himself for the wails, but she was silent, tears dripping to the floor with her whole body curling in on itself. He took a step toward her, not sure what to do. Finally he sank down on the stairs beside her and laid a gentle hand on her back. He could feel the muscles there even beneath her coat. She was strong, but at this moment weakness had overcome her.

He quoted one of his favorite verses, without even thinking about it. “‘And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.’”

The shaking beneath his hand stilled, and Fleeta raised her face, blotchy and red. “I don’t feel the least bit strong.”

“Maybe that’s because you aren’t,” Hank said softly. “But God is. And maybe He has a plan to use this for His glory.”

Fleeta released a stuttering sigh and leaned her cheek against Hank’s shoulder. “I can’t see how. All I know is that my dream is gone, along with my mother’s pin, and I’m not sure which one hurts more.”

Hank slid a tentative arm around her shoulders and found she didn’t resist. He held her, whispering a prayer that God would show them both the good is this terrible turn of events, because for the life of him he couldn’t see it either.