Chapter Text
A Tangled Continuance
Northwest Canadian frontier
1916
THE SUN WAS bright and hot in the clear sky, a burning tangle of sharp yellow and orange against the blue background.
A large Victorian house—wide porch wrapping graciously around the front and side—nestled welcomingly against a tall backdrop of green. Trees from the edging forest spread their hospitable boughs around the perimeter of the property, creating pools of shadowed shade on the neatly clipped lawn. Across from the house, a wide field spread out, knee-high wildflowers and tall summer grass rustling in the breeze, softly breaking the stillness of the lazy summer afternoon.
A willowy woman with a wide, intricately carved leather belt cinched around her slender waist, small burlap sack cupped in one hand and a glass of iced lemonade in the other, came down the worn front steps.
Her hair was long and partially pulled back in a simple style. It spilled thickly over her shoulders and down her back in waves of dark auburn that caught fire in the rays of the sun as she stopped rather abruptly on her trajectory. She tipped her head up, raising her gaze to the cause of a steady hammering noise that was competing with the rustling of the wildflower field.
A tall ladder leaned against the porch roof, wooden feet planted firmly in the freshly-mowed grass. A shorter ladder braced atop the porch roof led to the uppermost sloped roof of the two-story Victorian orphanage.
A man knelt on the top roof, face partially shaded from the intense afternoon sun by a buckskin Stetson, worn with the ease of one long accustomed to it. One leg outstretched, he braced himself against the slant of the roof. The soles of his rugged boots didn't budge on the shingles as he angled himself to get better leverage.
Heat waves shimmered across the surface of the roof.
Lillian Walsh, co-proprietress of the New Hope Orphanage, found her eyes, already half-dazzled by the bright sun, reluctantly caught by the sight, and her sensibly heeled feet, seemingly with a contrary mind of their own, remained at a stubborn halt in the sun-warmed dirt of the walking path.
Even from this distance, she could see the play of fabric across the man's shoulders; his dark blue work shirt, rolled up over sun-browned and corded forearms, shifting on his back as he hammered a shingle into place, reached for another and repeated the process, working steadily to repair the large area damaged by yet another of their summer storms.
The sight caught her with a sudden rush of deja vu and her mind drifted in the summer heat, going back a few months prior when another leak on this same roof had led to a similar sight.
Her leaking roof and Sam Tremblay seemed to be connected. It was her leaking roof which had, in a way, brought him into her life.
That, and a stroke of bad luck with an inspector who had chosen to show up on a day of sour fortune.
It had been a summer day much like this one. Warm. Bright. Robin's-egg blue had colored the wide expanse of sky.
A man had walked steadily up the path towards the house, little puffs of dust kicking up with every step of his scuffed boots. Worn hat. Clothes that had seen better days. A bag tossed over his shoulder.
She didn't remember much more about his clothing. But she remembered his words, his beard, his voice, and his calloused, firm hands. And those eyes.
Bang! Bang! The crack of hammer driving home a nail startled her out of her reverie.
She shook herself slightly. It wasn't like her to get lost in her own head.
Efficiently, she resumed the rest of her short trip to the base of the first ladder. With one hand she slipped the burlap sack into a pocket of her skirt. Gathering the moss green folds of her skirt in one hand and shifting them away from her feet, she made her way up the ladder, careful to keep one hand on its sturdy frame and the other firmly around the now dripping glass of ice cold lemonade. The process should have been easier by the time she got to the second ladder, but her secret fear of heights—which she was determined she could, would, conquer—tugged at her balance. Her head swam.
She glanced down—a mistake—saw the ground far away, too far away, and gave up on conquering heights for the day in a rush of exhaled breath and suddenly shaky legs. Easing back down onto the porch roof, she took a moment to try and steady her quaking muscles before drawing a deep breath and slowly releasing it.
I never should have come up here. The far more prudent thing to do—the thing I would normally have always chosen to do—was to stay on the ground and call up to Sam. But things have been so tense between he and I since—
"Sam?"
The sound of her own voice broke her thoughts, startling them into silence. His name had slipped between her lips while her brain had been preoccupied.
The hammering ceased. A strong hand lowered the tool, fingers loosening their grip as Sam turned to glance over his shoulder and down the length of the roof to her below.
Their eyes met. Lillian saw something still in his.
"Miss Lillian." His voice acknowledged her quietly even as his eyes shifted from her face and she knew he was sizing up her very . . . not Lillian-like . . . situation on the porch roof.
She indicated the glass of lemonade with a slight lift. "I thought you might be thirsty in this heat," she said briskly, ignoring the tremor of still-unsteady muscles of her legs.
"I am," he confirmed, already in motion, proficiently making his way down across the roof, sure-footed and steady. She was reminded again what a stroke of luck it had been the day he had walked up the path to her house. The orphanage had benefited greatly from his skills.
As have you, a small voice reminded her somewhere inside her head. She couldn't forget the unexpected manner in which he'd discreetly fixed the workings of Grace's music box before returning it to her, all wrapped, in time for her sister's birthday celebration. Or the ease with which he helped her refinish the exterior and fix the inlaid work that beautified its surface.
In spite of the ongoing tenseness between them in the aftermath of the bodyguard incident, it hadn't been long before she'd had to swallow her pride and go to him, to ask for help with repairs at the orphanage again, even though she'd as good as told him to leave in a flare of cold hurt and temper when she discovered he'd been protecting her because the local Mountie, Gabriel Kinslow, had asked him to. There was a seemingly endless list of work that needed done at the orphanage and, after several days of him working late into the night, his transition back to living full-time at the cottage next to the orphanage happened seamlessly—so seamlessly, in fact, that if she hadn't known better, it might almost feel that he'd never left. Almost.
She would never tell him so, but she felt safer with him there. Especially with her sister Grace so far away.
His booted feet came into view above as he climbed swiftly down the ladder and turned to face her. Without a word, she handed him the glass. He took a sip, a bead of condensation rolling down the side of the glass and melting into his fingers.
"Thank you. That's good lemonade," he said—and Lillian made a triumphant mental note to keep adding the fresh mint to her recipe. But then he added, "Mint from the garden?"
She bit her lip. He had noticed it. "Yes, I thought I'd change it up a bit, try something a little different."
Eyes—a penetrating deep blue that looked as though someone swirled smoke into a wild ocean, framed by tanned skin and a ridiculously thick sweep of tawny, gold-tipped eyelashes—had a smile flirting at their corners as he looked back at her; a smile which eased away as he glanced at the ground below them.
"Long way down." His voice was carefully neutral.
Lillian felt a slight flush of something—irritation?—at how easily he'd seen through her brave front. But when her eyes flashed up to meet his, she found neither mockery or goading waiting for her.
"Come," he said quietly, finishing the lemonade. "Let's get you down."
Agile, he went down before her, ladder jolting slightly against the edge of the roof with each step, and looking up from the bottom, waited as she started to descend. She carefully let herself down, trying not to let him see that she was still shaky, but sensed when he shifted closer to the ladder. Out of the corner of an eye, she glimpsed him set the now empty glass down to discreetly brace his arms on the ladder, ready to catch her. Wood scratched her palms softly as her grasp firmed with determination that his catching would not be necessary this day. The sole of her shoe scraped on the last few rungs before landing safely in grass at the base.
Unobtrusively, Sam eased back and turned to pick up the glass. It gave her a second to compose herself.
"Oh! And here . . . " She cleared her throat and pulled the burlap sack out of her pocket. "Freddie told me that you were running low on nails."
"I was. Thanks." He took it from her outstretched hand and hefted it in his palm. The nails jostled against each other inside, and she couldn't help but notice his smile at the homey sound. "He wanted to help but I'd like to keep him, and the others, away from the temptation of roofs and ladders." His voice was wry. "It's a very tempting combination for little boys."
"Especially ones who follow you around all day," she teased with her own wryness, surprised at how relaxed this moment between them felt. Little orphaned Fred had taken to their rugged handyman instantly, and she loved watching his confidence blossom as he shyly shadowed Sam's almost every move, watching, learning. "Don't worry; Eleanor's got him and the children inside, making homemade ice cream for dessert tonight."
She saw the glint enter Sam's eyes and laughed out loud when he teased, "Oh? Mint ice cream?"
"Yeeeeess, mint—with bits of chopped chocolate!" She defended the ice cream choice that utilized her new favorite herb. "The children were so excited to learn how to press the mint leaves and extract the oil for flavoring. I love teaching them things like that."
His steady gaze held hers. "I know you do, Miss Lillian. These children love you." His look searched hers, their depths turning serious. "Listen, Lillian, I—"
A burst of childish laughter wafted out through the open windows, interrupting him. They both glanced towards the house—and the moment broke between them.
He thumbed his hat slightly. "Let you get back to it, Miss Lillian. Thank you for the drink." He started back towards the ladder, then turned and called to her, walking backwards, "And tell Fred that stirring ice cream builds strong arms."
Lillian couldn't help the laugh that pulled at her. A tiny piece of the unspoken tension between them lifted ever so slightly; a tension that had been uneasily lowered over them for almost a week now, ever since Sinclair had been apprehended and Grace had left on that stagecoach for her long trip to London to deliver Helen McNeil to her long-lost grandfather. The incident had altered whatever their relationship had been before, after everything that had transpired with him being on bodyguard detail over her and their differing viewpoints on that situation, and they'd never quite settled back to normal.
Not addressing the topic hadn't helped.
Time enough for that later, she dismissed with a flash of nervousness.
"I'll tell him." She smiled slightly as she turned and made her way up the front steps and across the wide porch into the house, empty lemonade glass in one hand.
She was grateful he hadn't indicated knowledge regarding his newfound realization she was afraid of heights. Not by so much as the bat of an eyelash. The fear was a weakness that irked her. She was determined to conquer it, but instead, it had always conquered her—and today had been no exception, to her mortification.
It was only as she stepped into the cool interior of the big house that she loved, heard laughter and giggles from the kitchen, that she realized her legs had stopped shaking somewhere during the conversation with the steady handyman.
It felt good. It made her . . .
Unsettled.