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DECEMBER 9, 1891
Lena tapped a finger against her lips as she stared at the new table Mr. Kincaid had constructed. “Let’s move the this.” Without waiting for help, she lifted one side of the table. “I think the window is a perfect place for it. There’s all this lovely light.”
Clara balanced her paint brush on the edge of the plate she was using as a palette, and trotted across the room to help. After repositioning the table a few times, Lena let out a heavy sigh and collapsed onto the stuffed chair. “I was hoping to finish the braided rug today.” She sighed again and chuckled. “But I may take a nap instead.”
Clara noted the dark circles under the woman’s eyes, wondering if she was sleeping well. Her uneasiness would be understandable, considering all that must be going through her head. “Would you like me to bring you some tea? And Jessie said she was baking muffins. I could bring one to you.”
Before she could act on her own suggestion, Jessie stepped through the door carrying a tray with just the nourishment she’d mentioned. “Here you go, ladies. Gotta keep your strength up. Trust a lady with twins. You better rest now before your little girl comes.” Jessie placed the tray on the table and poured a cup for Lena. “Drink that before you lift a finger to do anything else.” She stepped back, folding her arms over her waist, resolute in posture.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lena said. “I wouldn’t think of arguing with someone of your unquestionable experience. Besides, I live here too and I’ve seen first-hand what you mean. I’m certainly hoping Rebecca’s energy is less than Tommy’s. I’m exhausted and she isn’t even here yet.”
In the assertive voice she used with the twins, Jessie said, “You need to take a break, Lena. Clara and I can put up the drapes while you take a nap. I won’t hear any arguments on the subject.”
Lena frowned. “But I want to finish the rug, and there are— “
“No excuses! Get!” Jessie took the woman’s arm and led her from the room. “Go lay down.”
Lena called back as she moved down the hallway. “All right. I’ll rest for just a few minutes.”
“Don’t come back here for at least an hour. I mean it, Lena.” Jessie closed the door and took a step back, her forehead creased with concern.
It wasn’t really her place, but Clara asked anyway, “Is something wrong?”
Jessie waved a hand, like shooing away a fly. “Probably nothing more than me being a worry wort.” She pulled up a smile and looked at the drapes folded on the chair. “I can’t help right now since I have bread in the oven, but I can come back later and give you a hand. Is that all right?”
“Of course. I have more work to finish on the painting.” Clara picked up her brush and dropped to her knees to add final touches to the fox she’d nearly completed.
“I think I’ll try to convince her to go visit Dr. Reynolds.”
Clara swung her head around to see Jessie still standing at the door. “Mrs. Hartmann?”
“It’s just that she seems tired all the time, and I can’t get her to eat more than my little girl.” Jessie shrugged. She made a face and gave a light laugh. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing more than me worrying like I usually do. I guess I’d be a bundle of nerves too.”
By the time Clara finished cleaning her brushes, Jessie had not returned to help her with the drapes. She’d heard the sounds of twins thundering in the hall, and men’s voices drifting in from the dining room. Jessie was either distracted or had simply forgotten with all the frantic pace of running the kitchen and keeping an eye on her children. That might be something she could do to help.
Maybe after she’d finished the painting, she’d offer to watch the children. In the meantime, the drapes still needed to be hung. She stared up at the drapery hardware on either side of the window, and worked out what she’d need to do without a second set of hands. Lifting the draperies over her shoulder, she said aloud, “How difficult could it be?”
Half an hour later, Clara stepped off the ladder, muttering to herself, the drapes still over her shoulder. It was obvious what she should do. She should wait or go find help. But there was something of her father in her, actually there was a greater portion of her father’s temperament in her than her mother’s. A self-made man, defeat was not a part of his vocabulary. He’d taught her the satisfaction that could be found in tackling any difficulty with a do or die attitude. Well, that’s exactly what she needed at this moment.
She lay the drapes over the ladder, and positioned it against the right side of the window frame. Next, she scooted the table close to the wall beneath the left side of the window frame. If she could thread the casing of the right-hand drape on the pole, and rest it on top of the ladder, she should be able to thread the second drape onto the left side by standing on the table.
With a deep breath and a silent prayer, she climbed the ladder and managed to thread the drape onto the pole. The next part would present some athletic ability that she’d never really demonstrated. If she could keep the pole balanced on the top of the ladder, she should be able to step across the four feet of space between the ladder and the table. She studied the gap and swallowed hard. Nothing ventured, nothing . . .”
Reaching out with her left toe, she felt for secure footing on the table. She pressed the fingertips of her left hand to the window for support while holding the pole in her right hand. So far, so good. Shifting her weight slowly to the table, she brought her right foot to meet her left. She felt the table wobble and quickly slid her left foot farther to the side of the table to counter her weight. She remained in that awkward, somewhat spread-eagle position, her heart pounding. Glancing back to the ladder, she was relieved to see the pole with the right-hand drape still balanced there. So far, her strategy was working.
She reached down for the left-side drape and grabbed it while keeping her eyes focused to the right on the pole balancing precariously on the ladder. Slowly straightening again, she carefully threaded the pole through the drapery casing. The pole with the additional weight of the drapery was surprisingly heavy as she lifted it over her head. All she had to do now was place the left side of the pole onto the waiting hardware. Almost there. She drew in another deep breath and held it. It was as she was stretching her arms up to the limit of her five feet four inches, that the door opened.
Startled, Clara’s careful attention to the pole balanced on the ladder shifted. As she attempted to reposition it, the heavy fabric fell before her eyes and over her head. The table reacted to her sudden movements by tipping. Clara tried to slide her feet to compensate for the gravity pulling at the table. As she did, her heel caught in the drapery fabric. The rest was both an act of nature and providence.
As she felt herself falling, the drapery covering her like a shroud, she was aware of strong hands grasping her about the waist. The floor did not rush up to meet her, instead her landing was rather soft as she rolled into the arms of her rescuer with a loud expulsion of the breath she’d been holding. Desperate to fight her way out of the fabric, she flung her arms ineffectively to free herself.
“Calm down. I’ll get you free if you stop all the flailing.”
She froze at the sound of the man’s voice laced with the familiar Scottish brogue.
“That’s better,” he said. “Just don’t panic.”
How dare he suggest she was panicking! She wiggled, again trying to free her arms.
“Stop thrashing about,” he said, sounding less patient this time.
When he’d unwrapped her and she was standing amidst a pile of drapery, she tried to step away from him. Her heel caught in the fabric and she fell backwards. Humiliated, she watched as her feet flew up along with her petticoat, exposing her stockinged legs all the way to her knees. She sat up, tugging at her skirts, to see Mr. Kincaid watching her with an amused expression.
He squatted beside her. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine.” She diverted her eyes and smoothed her skirt.
“That’s good. You could have taken a nasty fall. Glad I was here to catch you.” He rose to his feet and offered his hand to her.
She ignored it and pushed herself to her feet, as she offered him a stiff smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced to the window, taking in the ladder and the table. “I take it you were trying to hang the drapes by yourself?”
Brushing her hair from her face, she bit back a sharp retort to his observation of an obvious fact.
“Looks like you could use some help.” He didn’t wait for her to ask, but stepped to the window and moved the table to the side. “I think I can reach it, if you think you can manage the right side from the ladder.”
He was indeed tall enough to slide the pole into place while she attached the right. As she descended the ladder, she felt his hand against her back, supporting her as she stepped to the floor. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Kincaid.”
She pushed the table beneath the window again, while Mr. Kincaid carried the ladder to the hallway outside. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.
Before she could ask, he said, “I was just talking to Bart Long about next year’s spring sheep drive. Think I’ve convinced him we can handle doubling the flock.”
Clara began collecting her paints and packing them while he spoke. She couldn’t imagine why he thought she’d be interested in the Hartmann’s livestock.
“If we do, well, if Mr. Hartmann agrees, we’ll be needing more herding dogs.”
So that was it? Clara rose to her feet and faced him.
“I was thinking you might be willing to sell your pups. They’ll be from good stock. Alec is a superior herding dog, and your bitch is bound to throw some fine pups. Would you—”
“Would I sell Daisy’s pups to you?”
He pursed his lips. Reacting to her sudden change of manner, his tone was defensive. “Well, yes, in fact. I thought you probably didn’t have the need or the place to raise them properly.”
“Maybe you thought wrong. And what do you mean by ‘raising them properly’? Haven’t I provided for Daisy? She hardly had a proper upbringing when I rescued her.”
He frowned. “I’m sure you did her a favor. But she’s a border collie.”
He said it as if that were the end of the subject, as though that was somehow explanation for her inability to raise her properly. “At least, part border collie. What’s your point, Mr. Kincaid?”
“My point, Miss Webster, is that the dog was bred for an express purpose. Have you ever noticed her herding the children who come into the bookshop? Have you? I have. She’s showing you what she was made to do.” There was steel in his eyes. “Are you planning on dressing up all your pups in fancy bows and leather collars, then?”
Clara stiffened, balling her hands into fists. “If I do, it’s my business, Mr. Kincaid. Mine alone.”