to a good start.
Reeve kept his opinions on the future of Sinclair Manor to himself. There was no way Deacon, with his lack of practical skills, could ever make it livable again. Not with the equipment at hand and the lack of pure grunt labor. Deacon was a soft aristocrat used to wielding his authority, not his muscle. He didn’t know the first thing about building or actual physical endeavor. Reeve shook his head to himself as he pulled on his heavy gloves. Patrice was going to need a place for her and her delicate mother to live. It wouldn’t be here at the Manor, it would be with him at the Glade.
Deacon could fend for himself.
He watched the stiff and proper owner of all the disrepair circle around from the back, scanning the eaves as if he had a notion of what he was looking for. Reeve waited for him to pronounce his findings, ready to pounce upon them as statements of ignorance.
Deacon stopped just short of standing next to him and cut right to it.
“Looks like the soffits are gone. There’s dry rot all over the west wing and the brick is in bad shape there by the south corner. Both will need to be replaced. Roof probably leaks, but I haven’t gone up under the eaves yet. That burned entryway needs to come down. And that’s just the outside. If I can get it buttoned up tight, I can worry about the interior rooms another time.”
Reeve gawked at him.
Deacon spared him a wry glance. “Did you think I spent all that time at school learning to taste wine? Man’s got to know what he’s dealing with, and right now, I’m dealing with a house that going to fall down around our ears unless some quick work is done.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
Without asking for suggestions, Deacon walked to the wagon to grab out several long coils of rope.
Hearing a soft tread come up behind him, Reeve turned to Jericho. He jerked his head toward Deacon. “He know what he’s doing?”
Jericho nodded. “My guess would be he does. Mista Deacon, he don’ start nothin’ lessen he looks at every angle first. Either jump in, Mista Reeve, or gets outta the way.”
Deacon strode by them on his way to the front of the house. He carried a three-pronged hook and was threading the heavy rope through a large eye in its handle. “Jericho, I’m going to need some pry bars. Have we got anything like that left around here?”
“Yessir, I believes we do.”
Taking a firm stance, he played out a length ofhemp, then balanced the hook in his right hand. With a powerful sidearm throw, he let it fly. Reeve watched in amazement as the hook swung around one of the ruined pillars to affix itself to its own tail. Deacon gave a sharp tug to make sure it was secured before looking to Reeve.
“Will that horse of yours pull on command?”
Catching his direction, Reeve nodded, and soon Zeus was tethered to the rope with Reeve at its lead while Deacon and Jericho worked levers under the base of the scorched column. At a signal from Deacon, Reeve guided the horse forward until the rope yanked taut and the animal began to strain.
“C’mon, Zeus. Dig in.”
Slowly, the timbers creaked, and plastering fell in huge chunks. With a great groan, half the front porch came down in a dusty heap. Ruefully admitting to the logical genius, Reeve backed Zeus to slacken the rope so Deacon could lasso the other support pillar. The second portion didn’t come down cleanly, the column breaking apart in the center with the heavy triangular entablature still attached to the upper story upon dangerously damaged supports.
Muttering an impatient oath, Deacon waved Reeve to the far side of the tottering structure, then arced the rope over the top to him. And they both began to pull. Nails screeched loose from brick. Weakened boards snapped. The whole thing groaned, hanging precariously, as if by some denying force of gravity.
“Jericho, get that bar between the brick and those timbers,” Reeve called out. “We go on three.”
Deacon set his feet, spat
Reeve kept his opinions on the future of Sinclair Manor to himself. There was no way Deacon, with his lack of practical skills, could ever make it livable again. Not with the equipment at hand and the lack of pure grunt labor. Deacon was a soft aristocrat used to wielding his authority, not his muscle. He didn’t know the first thing about building or actual physical endeavor. Reeve shook his head to himself as he pulled on his heavy gloves. Patrice was going to need a place for her and her delicate mother to live. It wouldn’t be here at the Manor, it would be with him at the Glade.
Deacon could fend for himself.
He watched the stiff and proper owner of all the disrepair circle around from the back, scanning the eaves as if he had a notion of what he was looking for. Reeve waited for him to pronounce his findings, ready to pounce upon them as statements of ignorance.
Deacon stopped just short of standing next to him and cut right to it.
“Looks like the soffits are gone. There’s dry rot all over the west wing and the brick is in bad shape there by the south corner. Both will need to be replaced. Roof probably leaks, but I haven’t gone up under the eaves yet. That burned entryway needs to come down. And that’s just the outside. If I can get it buttoned up tight, I can worry about the interior rooms another time.”
Reeve gawked at him.
Deacon spared him a wry glance. “Did you think I spent all that time at school learning to taste wine? Man’s got to know what he’s dealing with, and right now, I’m dealing with a house that going to fall down around our ears unless some quick work is done.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
Without asking for suggestions, Deacon walked to the wagon to grab out several long coils of rope.
Hearing a soft tread come up behind him, Reeve turned to Jericho. He jerked his head toward Deacon. “He know what he’s doing?”
Jericho nodded. “My guess would be he does. Mista Deacon, he don’ start nothin’ lessen he looks at every angle first. Either jump in, Mista Reeve, or gets outta the way.”
Deacon strode by them on his way to the front of the house. He carried a three-pronged hook and was threading the heavy rope through a large eye in its handle. “Jericho, I’m going to need some pry bars. Have we got anything like that left around here?”
“Yessir, I believes we do.”
Taking a firm stance, he played out a length ofhemp, then balanced the hook in his right hand. With a powerful sidearm throw, he let it fly. Reeve watched in amazement as the hook swung around one of the ruined pillars to affix itself to its own tail. Deacon gave a sharp tug to make sure it was secured before looking to Reeve.
“Will that horse of yours pull on command?”
Catching his direction, Reeve nodded, and soon Zeus was tethered to the rope with Reeve at its lead while Deacon and Jericho worked levers under the base of the scorched column. At a signal from Deacon, Reeve guided the horse forward until the rope yanked taut and the animal began to strain.
“C’mon, Zeus. Dig in.”
Slowly, the timbers creaked, and plastering fell in huge chunks. With a great groan, half the front porch came down in a dusty heap. Ruefully admitting to the logical genius, Reeve backed Zeus to slacken the rope so Deacon could lasso the other support pillar. The second portion didn’t come down cleanly, the column breaking apart in the center with the heavy triangular entablature still attached to the upper story upon dangerously damaged supports.
Muttering an impatient oath, Deacon waved Reeve to the far side of the tottering structure, then arced the rope over the top to him. And they both began to pull. Nails screeched loose from brick. Weakened boards snapped. The whole thing groaned, hanging precariously, as if by some denying force of gravity.
“Jericho, get that bar between the brick and those timbers,” Reeve called out. “We go on three.”
Deacon set his feet, spat
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