The Lady Who Drew Me In. Thomasine Rappold
The ride along the logging trail was rough as hell. Jackson’s faith in the old buckboard dwindled with every mile, dip, and bump. Large boulders protruded through the narrow path; an overgrowth of thorny bushes scratched and clawed as they passed. Uttering a curse, he swatted furiously at another swarm of insects.
“That’s Cuffy’s place over there.” Daisy pointed toward a small shack up ahead.
“Cuffy?”
“He works at the lumber camps. He’s a giant of a man but terribly slow-witted. Always wears a cap with a set of antlers on top. Perhaps you’ve seen him around town?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Jackson uttered as he eyed the shanty nestled between the tall pines. Two neat stacks of chopped firewood flanked the door, but no smoke rose from the chimney. “He lives alone out here?”
“He spends much of his time at the camps, but he calls this place home. I met him for the first time when I came out here to collect ferns.”
“Ferns?”
“Barston has the best fancy ferns. Many shops in the city purchase their ferns from the local farmers, but they’re free for the picking to anyone inclined to make the journey this deeply into the woods.”
Jackson couldn’t imagine ever being so inclined. The isolation of the forest had always made him uneasy. Trudging through the woods to hunt for game was one thing, but fancy ferns? Ridiculous.
“You strike me as someone who prefers the city to the country,” she said.
Jackson swatted at a buzzing horsefly. “I prefer buildings and people to trees and insects. So yes, Mrs. Lansing, you can say I prefer the city.”
His sarcasm did nothing to dim her sunny chitchat. “I find nature so peaceful.”
He smacked another horsefly from his head. “There’s nothing peaceful about being a feedbag for a horsefly.”
Craning her neck, she peered over his shoulder. “Or a bear.”
He flinched, spinning around.
She laughed at his panicked response to her joke, and he couldn’t help smiling. There was something in the sound of her laughter he couldn’t resist. The honest-to-goodness joy she seemed to get from everything around her. She was bright and beautiful, and he found himself wondering about the circumstances behind her marriage to Lawrence Lansing. Surely a man of Lansing’s advanced age was no match for this vibrant woman. This passionate, sweet-smelling woman.
Jackson shook off his musings. What the hell was he thinking? He tugged off his hat, then ran a hand through his hair. He knew damn well what he was thinking, and it was lucky for him that she didn’t. Daisy Lansing made it easy to forget his fiasco in Troy—and getting caught with his hands up the skirts of a married woman, by her husband no less, was difficult to forget.
He was relieved when they finally made their way to the edge of the forest and into a sprawling field. Jackson steered the wagon onto the narrow road, which led to some semblance of civilization. At the four corners of the small intersection sat a blacksmith shop, a general store, a church, and a tavern. Everything required to call it a town, but not much more.
“The Rhodes house is up ahead, past the saw mill.” She pointed toward a large farmhouse behind a row of birch trees in the distance. Whitewashed stones lined the short drive to the house, where an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch. A small boy played at her feet.
“Are you Mrs. Rhodes?” Jackson called to the woman, who stood to scoot the child inside. She waited until the screen door slammed shut behind the boy before turning back to the wagon.
She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, a wary expression etched on her weathered face. “What’s your business here, sir?”
“My name is Jackson Gallway. And this is Mrs. Lansing. We’re here to see the boy.”
“What for? They already caught that murdering devil who orphaned the child. Leave him be.”
“It’s important, Mrs. Rhodes. We want to be certain the right man is brought to justice. You want to be certain as well. For the boy’s safety.”
“He didn’t see nothing. And he won’t say nothing, either.”
Jackson nodded. “I know. But we’d still like to try to talk with him.”
She studied him for a long moment before her gaze settled on Daisy. “Come on in then,” she said, her stern face softening a bit.
Jackson hopped from the wagon. He grabbed Daisy’s case of sketching supplies and then reached to help her down. Her small hand held his firmly as he assisted her. Their eyes met, a silent exchange that unified their mission, and the strength of her grip tightened inside his palm. He ushered her up to the porch where Mrs. Rhodes stood, holding open the door.
A shaggy black cat scurried from the house, and Daisy stopped short as it whizzed by her skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes. We’ll do our utmost not to upset the child.” She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “What’s his name?”
“Andy.”
They stepped inside, where two more cats sat like gargoyles on the deacon’s bench in the foyer. Jackson harbored no fondness for felines, and seeing so many in one place was unnerving. Staring straight ahead, he did his best to ignore their keen eyes on his back as he followed the women to the parlor. A stream of sunlight poured across the faded rug in the center of the room. Lace curtains blew softly on the breeze from the open windows. Andy sat nestled against the arm of the sofa, stroking the tabby cat on his lap.
“Hello, Andy,” Daisy said as she peeled off her gloves. “My name is Mrs. Lansing.” She waved a glove toward Jackson. “And this is Mr. Gallway. We’ve come to visit with you.”
The boy’s timid glances moved from Daisy to Jackson before he lowered his blond head and returned his focus to the cat on his lap.
“Sit.” Mrs. Rhodes gestured toward the table. “I’ll get some cider.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Jackson pulled out a chair for Daisy, then took a seat across from her. Andy watched closely as Daisy placed her case on the table and opened it wide. The boy craned his neck, his eyes narrowing in a curious expression as Daisy removed a tablet of paper and a charcoal pencil, then placed them on the table in front of her. She gazed across the table at Jackson, studied him for a moment, and then started sketching.
“What are you doing?” Jackson murmured.
“I’m sketching you,” she said. Her hand moved between glances at him and the sketch pad.
Jackson turned to the boy, who now stood and was moving closer. Very clever. Instead of approaching the boy directly, Daisy was luring him to her. She worked quickly, her slender wrist gliding the pencil across the page with swift, adept strokes. She used the tips of her fingers to smudge the lines into the desired effect, her lips pursed tight in concentration.
Before long Andy stood at her side, watching the sketch on the page emerge before his eyes.
Daisy held up the pad to the boy. “What do you think? Does it look like him?”
Andy smirked, and Daisy broke out laughing. Jackson watched the pair, wondering what they found so amusing.
“May I see?” he asked, feeling like the butt of some joke.
Daisy leaned toward Andy. “Should we show him?”
Her love for children was evident in her effortless talent for putting the boy at ease. With a nod, Andy smiled broadly, exposing a missing front tooth. She turned the pad toward Jackson. The sketch was a remarkable facsimile to him, except for the gigantic pair of ears protruding from his head.
Daisy and Andy absorbed Jackson’s reaction, giggling harder. “I don’t think he likes it, Andy,” she said playfully.
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