bring out the first box.”
Hank said, “I don’t need to be taken care of,” at the same time Aggie mumbled, “First box?”
Suddenly, she was too excited to finish her breakfast. She wanted to get to work. While Blue brought in supplies, she carried the box of weapons up to her little attic room. Sitting in the center of the floor, she examined each project. Always before, in her father’s shop, she’d been the helper. Now, she was the master.
She had almost finished looking over her work when Blue bumped his way upstairs. “Hank told me to rig you up a table.” He carried two six-foot boards. “It won’t be perfect but it will work until he can climb the stairs and make you a proper desk. He won’t brag on himself, but that man of yours is quite a carpenter.”
That man of mine has many hidden talents, she almost said aloud, but all she could manage to say to Blue was, “I know.”
The older man made three more trips before he put the boards over empty barrels. Between his loads she managed to slip down and carry up her two boxes of tools. On the second trip, she noticed Hank sitting in the big old rocker on the porch.
She walked to the door. “Will you be all right if I work a while?”
He looked lost but said, “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to staying in the house. I’m usually out by sunup.” The mild day didn’t reflect in his mood. “When Blue finishes with your makeshift benches, he said he’d carry the leather work up from the barn. I can do it as easy here as there. Maybe tomorrow the ground will be dry enough for me to hobble out there.”
Standing just behind his chair, she moved her fingers through his hair. “Hank,” she whispered and waited until he looked up. “You make me very happy.”
He looked puzzled. “Do I?”
Heat spread into her cheeks. She’d been thinking about her attic room, but realized he thought she meant their good night kiss. “Yes,” she answered, meaning both. The room was a grand place to work, but last night’s “one touch” had been a slice of magic, pure and unreal.
His eyes darkened as if knowing she was thinking the same thing he was, but he didn’t move to touch her. Both knew it wouldn’t be proper in the daylight. Both knew they’d wait.
When she returned to her work space, she decided the stool Blue had brought wasn’t high enough for the makeshift bench, so she tugged the old trunk over. Surprised at how heavy it was, Aggie looked inside the one thing Hank said was sent back home after his mother died.
Layered between tissue paper and smelling of cedar were several finely made quilts.
Odd, Aggie thought. The paper looked as neatly pressed as it must have been the day Hank’s mother packed away the quilts, and Aggie couldn’t help but wonder why Hank, or his father, had never bothered to look inside. Maybe the chest was simply something Hank didn’t want, but couldn’t leave behind for strangers to discover.
She spread the quilts out, realizing each was a work of art, made with great care. They transformed the tiny attic room into a field of flowers and plants, each reflecting a different season.
Finally, she folded them away—all but one. The last, a beautiful spread of bluebonnets, she couldn’t make herself fold. If she put it away the room would go back to being colorless. On impulse, she reached for two small tacks among her tools and hung the quilt on the wall. When she stepped back, she couldn’t help but smile. One wall with windows framing a view of winter across Hank’s land. The other wall now showed a spring field with all the warmth of a quilt made with love. She’d found the perfect place to work.
Time flew as she practiced the skills her father had taught her. In a strange way she felt at home with her hands moving over the weapons that belonged to strangers.
She checked on Hank several times during the day, but his mood never lightened. He was a man used to action who didn’t take to doing chores
Hank said, “I don’t need to be taken care of,” at the same time Aggie mumbled, “First box?”
Suddenly, she was too excited to finish her breakfast. She wanted to get to work. While Blue brought in supplies, she carried the box of weapons up to her little attic room. Sitting in the center of the floor, she examined each project. Always before, in her father’s shop, she’d been the helper. Now, she was the master.
She had almost finished looking over her work when Blue bumped his way upstairs. “Hank told me to rig you up a table.” He carried two six-foot boards. “It won’t be perfect but it will work until he can climb the stairs and make you a proper desk. He won’t brag on himself, but that man of yours is quite a carpenter.”
That man of mine has many hidden talents, she almost said aloud, but all she could manage to say to Blue was, “I know.”
The older man made three more trips before he put the boards over empty barrels. Between his loads she managed to slip down and carry up her two boxes of tools. On the second trip, she noticed Hank sitting in the big old rocker on the porch.
She walked to the door. “Will you be all right if I work a while?”
He looked lost but said, “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to staying in the house. I’m usually out by sunup.” The mild day didn’t reflect in his mood. “When Blue finishes with your makeshift benches, he said he’d carry the leather work up from the barn. I can do it as easy here as there. Maybe tomorrow the ground will be dry enough for me to hobble out there.”
Standing just behind his chair, she moved her fingers through his hair. “Hank,” she whispered and waited until he looked up. “You make me very happy.”
He looked puzzled. “Do I?”
Heat spread into her cheeks. She’d been thinking about her attic room, but realized he thought she meant their good night kiss. “Yes,” she answered, meaning both. The room was a grand place to work, but last night’s “one touch” had been a slice of magic, pure and unreal.
His eyes darkened as if knowing she was thinking the same thing he was, but he didn’t move to touch her. Both knew it wouldn’t be proper in the daylight. Both knew they’d wait.
When she returned to her work space, she decided the stool Blue had brought wasn’t high enough for the makeshift bench, so she tugged the old trunk over. Surprised at how heavy it was, Aggie looked inside the one thing Hank said was sent back home after his mother died.
Layered between tissue paper and smelling of cedar were several finely made quilts.
Odd, Aggie thought. The paper looked as neatly pressed as it must have been the day Hank’s mother packed away the quilts, and Aggie couldn’t help but wonder why Hank, or his father, had never bothered to look inside. Maybe the chest was simply something Hank didn’t want, but couldn’t leave behind for strangers to discover.
She spread the quilts out, realizing each was a work of art, made with great care. They transformed the tiny attic room into a field of flowers and plants, each reflecting a different season.
Finally, she folded them away—all but one. The last, a beautiful spread of bluebonnets, she couldn’t make herself fold. If she put it away the room would go back to being colorless. On impulse, she reached for two small tacks among her tools and hung the quilt on the wall. When she stepped back, she couldn’t help but smile. One wall with windows framing a view of winter across Hank’s land. The other wall now showed a spring field with all the warmth of a quilt made with love. She’d found the perfect place to work.
Time flew as she practiced the skills her father had taught her. In a strange way she felt at home with her hands moving over the weapons that belonged to strangers.
She checked on Hank several times during the day, but his mood never lightened. He was a man used to action who didn’t take to doing chores
Similar Books
