Tucker watched her stalk off. It wasn’t enough that he’d lost his livelihood, and everything inside the sawmill; he had an unreasonable, irresponsible female to contend with. If this woman thought she could do this kind of damage, and then just walk away, she had another thing coming. She was going to accept responsibility whether she liked it or not.
John Franklin, owner of the blacksmith shop, approached. “Hey, Tucker. You doing all right?”
“As good as I can be, considering the circumstances.”
“Yep. Sure is a shame about the mill. People here depended on it bringing new life to the town.” He hesitated. “You planning to build back?”
“We hope to, John. It’s going to take a while.”
“No doubt. Well, when you’re ready, you can count on me. I can swing a hammer with the best of them.”
“I’ll remember that. Need all the men I can get.”
“I hear the new schoolmarm isn’t hurt. That’s good.”
“Yeah, she’s fine. She just happened to have five barrels of kerosene with her.”
John shook his head. “So I heard—well, that was real unfortunate. You reckon she’s too flighty to be a schoolmarm?”
Tucker frowned. “Thunder spooked the horse. Guess it could have happened to anyone.”
John smiled. “That’s awfully good of you, Tucker. A lot of people would be downright mad if this had happened to them. Takes a real man to have an attitude like that when all he owns is lying in ruins around him.”
Tucker colored at John’s praise. It had only been minutes ago that he was breathing fire and brimstone at Willow Madison. Now he was defending her?
A gust of wind sent sparks flying. A shout behind the men signaled a fresh batch of fires. Tucker walked on, rake in hand.
Wallace approached from the opposite trail. “Looks like we’ve about got it under control.”
Tucker eyed him sourly.
Judge smiled. “Good people here in Thunder Ridge. We help our own.”
Tucker nodded and was about to walk on when Wallace called out. “I’m sorry I can’t do more of the physical work. Bad back, you know. But I’m praying for you.”
Now what? Willow stood at her bedroom window, staring out. What a mess. She’d come to Thunder Ridge to begin a new life; instead, she’d been partly responsible for calamity. But the larger blame lay with Tucker Gray. The lumber wagon shouldn’t have been blocking the road, but in retrospect, she should have handled the mare more efficiently. She wasn’t a ninny. She could handle a horse or a team with the best of men, but that troublesome thunder had caught her off guard. She moved from the window and sank to the bed.
Her earlier encounter with Tucker Gray threatened to resurrect her head pain. She was going to sit in this room until she calmed down. Maybe all evening, if necessary. Judge was out for another of his strolls, and she simply couldn’t go out and face the stares again. Folks had been nice, but seemed a bit leery. Why would they trust her? Fear blocked her throat. What if they changed their minds and refused to let her teach? What then, Willow Madison? As expected, a headache bloomed.
Her eyes roamed the room. Uncle Wallace’s home. She’d had a blurred impression of the remainder of the house, but this room seemed quite nice. Besides the chiffonier, there was a scratched bedside table holding a boudoir lamp with a Portsmouth Pairpoint Roses shade. A dressing table with a beveled mirror, two rocking chairs, and a couple of occasional tables completed the furnishings. A braided, woolen rug covered the floor beside the bed. Yes indeed, a very comfortable room, and evidently a lot of thought had gone into the furnishings.
Perhaps tomorrow she would venture out, meet with the school board. Her shoulders slumped. No doubt her future pupils knew about their new teacher’s unorthodox arrival. Many fathers worked at the mill, relied on the income. What would the families do until the mill was rebuilt—if it were rebuilt? Where would all that money come from? Silas Sterling, no doubt, but she couldn’t begin a relationship with him based on debt, even an innocuous one. If she could be of service, she would be justified in the relationship, but if she was a freeloader, that was different. She’d work for all she’d acquired.
A light tap sounded at the door. She sat up straighter. “Yes? Uncle Wallace?” The Judge hovered around her like a mother hen. She wasn’t accustomed to such fuss.
The door opened and a short, gray-haired woman, round and plump as an apple, edged in, clutching a loaded tray. “Good evening. I’m Betsy Pike, Judge’s housekeeper. He hired me on a few months ago when he decided he didn’t know how to cook and clean.” She grinned. “I’ve brought your supper.”
The judge had a housekeeper? She must have taken a terrific knock to the head because she was totally unaware of the woman. “You didn’t need to go to all that trouble. I could come downstairs…“I’m Willow.”
“I know who you are, dear. Wish I’d have been here yesterday during all the fuss, but it was my day off. Are you feeling better now?”
“I’m fine.” Other than a bass drum pounding in her head.
Betsy set a tray on a small table, and drew up a chair. “You just sit down here and eat something. I saw the plate of chicken. Judge cook you breakfast this morning?”
Willow smiled and nodded.
“That man is going to grow feathers one of these days. How many times do I have to tell him you don’t eat chicken for breakfast?”
Willow obediently lowered herself into the chair, and spread the cloth napkin on her lap. Betsy lifted covers from the dishes, revealing three pieces of chicken, fried potatoes, and a slab of chocolate cake. A pot of steaming tea rounded out the repast. Willow’s stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. No wonder she felt faint.
Betsy settled back, apparently planning to sit and visit. She couldn’t imagine Claudine putting up with such familiarity if she were alive, though Willow welcomed the company. Aunt Claudine had been a strange choice for Uncle Wallace. It wasn’t that he was all that strict, but he had been a sharp contrast to his flamboyant wife. Willow knew her Aunt Claudine loved sherry and used it for more than cooking purposes. Sherry had been one of those family secrets everyone knew, but no one talked about. Willow had met Claudine once when Willow was a child, and again when Wallace and his wife paid a visit to Timber Creek when Willow’s parents were alive.
She remembered the occasion well. Claudine had tickled Willow under the chin, told her she was a pretty filly, and demanded to know where her mother kept the “spirits.” Willow assumed Claudine was asking about ghostly things until Willow’s mother had drawn her aside and whispered the secret. From that moment on, Willow had watched Claudine like a hawk for signs of drunkenness, but all she ever noticed was a nice older lady with a few black hairs sprouting on her chin, who told amusing stories.
Willow smiled at the memory. Uncle Wallace had been devastated when his wife died. The ways of love had always been a mystery to Willow. She believed in love, even if she’d never been in that happy state of confusion, but she did think people should be a little more sensible about the matter.
Copper claimed, according to the romantic stories she used to read in the women’s magazines, folks heard bells ringing and saw stars whirling overhead. It all sounded very irregular to Willow. She preferred a more practical approach to life. Tucker Gray’s image surfaced, and she grimly banished all thoughts of the man. She pitied his wife, if he had one.
“That’s right, eat it all,” Betsy said, breaking into her thoughts. “I like to see a woman with a good appetite.”
Willow glanced in surprise at her plate. How had she managed to eat all that food and not realize it? She quickly laid her fork aside. “I must have been hungrier than I thought.”
Betsy laughed. “You’ve been through enough to give you an appetite. That accident could have been deadly. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I suppose so.” She tried not to think about the brush with death. If she hadn’t jumped from the wagon when she did, she would have been on board when the kerosene ignited and burned everything in sight. She might have burned, too. She said as much to Betsy.
The housekeeper frowned. “Wasn’t your time, young’un. Lord still has plans for you.”
Yes. To marry Silas Sterling.
Betsy chattered on, barely stopping for breath, keeping up a running commentary on the town and its occupants.
“And the school?” Willow asked. “Is it close by?” Without her buckboard, she might face a long walk during the school term.
“It’s at the north end, sets off to itself a ways. Nothing fancy, just a one-room building, little more than a shack, but don’t you worry, the men of this town will get it in shape for you. We’re all excited to think a new teacher has come.”
Still, Willow sensed something evasive in Betsy’s manner. It concerned her somewhat, but she supposed she’d find out more for herself tomorrow. What Betsy might find unsuitable could very well be something with which Willow could make do. She wasn’t used to fancy.
“I trust the children are excited.”
Worry lines creased the older woman’s brow. “Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. I remember from my own school days it was a lot more fun to be able to run free instead of being cooped up in school.”
Willowed stiffened. “I hope to make it an enjoyable experience.”
“I’m sure you will. The thing is, the older boys and girls can be a handful. They’re not always on their best behavior, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re saying they will be hard to control?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Well, I’ve handled worrisome children before.” She’d faced Yankee guns without running, and a handful of troublemakers wouldn’t beat her, either. She was here to teach, and they would learn. Like it or not.
Willow viewed the empty tray. “We’re on the third floor. It was a long way for you to carry my supper up all those stairs. I’m sorry. I could have come downstairs.”
Betsy sighed. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Claudine was a good enough woman in her way, but she didn’t know beans about designing houses. This one reminds me of a knight’s castle you read about in them fancy books. Not nearly as big, but Judge should have put his foot down. It was ‘yes, dear,’ to anything Claudine wanted. Should have said no once in a while.”
Willow understood her concerns. “I understand all of my personal belongings burned with the wagon.”
Betsy nodded. “I’m afraid so. Miss Claudine’s clothes are still here, but she would have made two of you. They wouldn’t begin to fit.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.” She would feel strange wearing them anyway.
Willow insisted on carrying the tray downstairs. The journey would give her a chance to see more of the house. It was big, even bigger than she remembered. Plenty of room for Audrey and Copper, but the décor was decidedly overdone. Accustomed to sparser surroundings, Willow was overwhelmed by the horde of knickknacks.
In the parlor, a statue of a woman, fully clothed, thank goodness—although the stone draping of her gown seemed rather lacking in virtue—held a brass lamp with an amber shade. A bust of Shakespeare perched on top of a mahogany cabinet filled with porcelain figurines. Ruffled cushions in varying shades of blue and green were piled on couches and chairs. The cluttered fireplace mantel held a clock, vases, candleholders, and a large porcelain eagle.
Betsy shook her head. “Takes me all day to dust this stuff. It’ll be the death of me, but the judge won’t get rid of a single item because they belonged to Claudine. He really loved her, he did.”
She set the tray down on the round oak table. “Thank you for supper, Betsy. What time is breakfast?”
“Mr. Wallace eats at six, but I can fix yours earlier, if you like.”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t expect special treatment. I won’t have any trouble adapting to your routine.”
Betsy smiled. “I can tell we’re going to get along just fine. Anything I can do to make your stay here more pleasant, you just tell me.”
“I will, and no more hauling trays up to the third floor. I can come down here.”
Willow decided to return to her room. In the foyer, she bumped into the judge, who was just coming in from his stroll. He paused for a moment, assessing her. “Oh, my dear Willow. I thought you’d be in bed. You must rest, dear.”
“I’m fine, Uncle. I just brought my tray downstairs. Betsy was kind enough to carry it up to me.”
“Yes, Betsy is as good as they come. Claudine”—he choked over the name—“Claudine…would approve.”
She reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I know how much you must miss her.”
“I do. She was a wonderful woman. The townspeople never really understood her.” The faraway look in his eyes faded, and he focused on Willow. “My dear, you are even more beautiful than I remembered. Silas will be enchanted.”
Silas. How had she forgotten him? What would he be like? According to Uncle Wallace, he had good teeth and bone structure. But she’d heard horses described the same way.
Wallace patted her shoulder. “Run along, dear niece. You need your rest.”
She smiled. “Yes, I am rather tired. I believe I’ll turn in.”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning. I hope you rest well.”
“I’m sure I will.” She started the tedious climb to her third-floor room.
Later, Willow stood in the darkened bedroom, staring out the window at what remained of the mill. Thunder blasted overhead, and lightning crackled as another storm moved through. Suddenly, the enormity of her plan struck with the force of a blow. Could she do this? She had to. Like it or not, she’d set her course.
Flames had died to a smoldering pile of rubble. The wind calmed, and most of the overpowering smoke had blown away. Tucker leaned on his rake. The bunkhouse suffered minor damage, but it was still standing.
Pete Peevy paused and took off his hat. He’d worked twenty feet from Tucker the past half hour. “Guess that about does it, boss. Me and the boys drew straws to see who would take the first watch tonight.”
“No need for that, Pete. I’d planned to watch for new fires myself. You men need your rest. You’ve done enough.”
“So have you, and there’s more of us. We figure no one will have to be on patrol over an hour at the most. It won’t hurt us.”
Tucker reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks, Pete. Tell the men I appreciate it.”
Pete nodded. “We won’t leave you, Tuck. You can count on most of us staying through thick and thin. See you in the morning.”
Singly, or in small groups, the townspeople filed by, shaking his hand and expressing their sympathy at his loss. As the last of them trailed up the path to seek much needed rest, or hitched horses to buckboards, Tucker put out another small fire.
Caleb joined him. “Pete says they’ve got it under control.”
“After two days, I’d hope.” Tucker was dog-tired, but he wouldn’t sleep without worrying, so he might as well stand watch for flash fires tonight. His men had worked without stopping. They needed to go home to their families.
“We had good help. We could have lost a lot more than just the sawmill.”
Tucker agreed. “Could have lost the town, I guess.”
Caleb stretched weary muscles. “How you figure we’re going to meet wages and buy the materials we need to rebuild?”
“Don’t know. It’s going to be tight. Maybe we can take a second loan at the bank. Surely Horace will understand. Thunder Ridge is his home.”
Caleb snorted. “Using what for collateral? You’ve mortgaged everything you own and then some.”
“Guess I’ll have to come up with more. The bunkhouses, a couple of outbuildings—it’s all we have left.”
Caleb climbed the path toward home. Morning would be soon enough to assess the overall damage, and he had a meeting scheduled with Willow Madison. Might be once she cooled, she’d agree to damages, and he wouldn’t have to ask Horace for more money.
The possibility was about as likely as a pig trying to pass as a pack mule.