An Inconvenient Match. Janet Dean
on her hips. “The only person who can fire me is the person who hired me.”
“This is my house. I’m ordering you to leave.”
“In good time, but for now, you’ll have to put up with me.”
He shot up, sending the chair careening against the wall and him into a fit of coughing. As he gasped for air, his face turned blotchy, then purple.
Abigail rushed to his side on limbs hot with panic. His hound dog beat her there, stationing himself at his owner’s feet, whining as if his heart would break.
Unsure what to do, Abigail pounded on his back with her fist then steered him to the open window, praying the breeze enabled him to catch his breath. Finally the coughing eased then stopped, leaving an eerie quiet almost as unnerving.
With shaking hands she filled a glass with water and held it to his lips. He drank deeply, then dropped into the wheelchair she’d shoved near, leaning back, eyes closed, appearing exhausted. Yet the tone of his skin looked good.
“Are you okay?”
“For a schoolmarm you ask stupid questions,” he ground out. “You’re trying to kill me with that sassy tongue.”
“Your temper is to blame for that coughing spell, not me.”
“I suppose you’d point the finger at a man for dying, too.”
“You might faint from coughing, but you won’t die.” At least she’d never heard of such a thing, but she’d ask Doc Simmons to be certain.
“In that case, I may keep you on merely to relieve the monotony. But don’t get the idea you’re a giant-slayer.”
“Whatever you say,” she said with enough sweetness to make sour cherries appetizing.
He frowned. Obviously disappointed she hadn’t gone on the attack. Not an auspicious beginning. She might need to get a slingshot and start practicing. If she hoped to keep this job, she had to gain George Cummings’s respect. That meant giving him a dose of his own medicine. She wouldn’t allow an aging, ailing Goliath to ride roughshod over her.
Chapter Five
Silence greeted Wade as he opened the front door and entered the entrance hall. Smiling, he removed his suit jacket and hat and tossed them on a chair. Apparently God had answered his prayers for a truce between Abby and his father. Or did the eerie quiet mean they’d knocked each other out cold? He grimaced. A joke, but somehow not that funny.
The entire day he’d struggled to concentrate, wondering how Abigail was getting along with his father, not an easy man anytime, but especially now. He’d left the bank early. Early enough that he hoped to find time to work in his shop before Abby left for the day.
But first he’d see how she’d managed. He took the steps two at a time and strode down the hall toward his father’s room.
Abby appeared in the doorway. Only then did he admit he hadn’t expected her to last the day. Feared his father would kick her out or she’d make a run for it.
This woman had grit as he’d predicted. But what toll had a day with his father taken on her?
She held a forefinger to her lips then moved toward him. He took in the spring of her step, the tilt of her chin. She didn’t look worse for wear. Her regal beauty surpassed the splendor of her surroundings. That Abby graced his home socked him in the gut. Five years earlier he’d pictured her here, but held no such delusions now.
“Your father’s napping,” she said when she reached him.
Upon closer inspection he noted the weariness in her soft blue eyes, as if spending time with his father had sapped her energy and strained every nerve. As he’d assumed, her day hadn’t been an easy one.
“Pain has kept him from sleeping well.”
“Perhaps that explains some of his crankiness.”
What did a man say to that? No, cranky is the norm?
“To get his mind off his troubles, I offered to read several books from your library, but he had no interest. I persevered and selected The Red Badge of Courage. I’d read only a few pages when he fell asleep.” The corners of her lips turned up but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I suspect he prefers doing battle himself rather than listening to a fictional account.”
“Dad thrives on verbal sparring and relaxes with balance sheets. Fiction holds little appeal for him.”
“I can’t imagine life without novels.”
Evidently she appreciated a good book as much as he prized a fine piece of wood. “I suspect most teachers would concur.”
Her eyes lit with the glow of an activist. “Books open us to adventure, revealing a host of ideas and cultures to explore, bringing romance—” She cut herself off, pink tingeing her cheeks. “I thought reading might enlarge your father’s interests.” She sighed, the sound laden with frustration. “He’s like some of my bullheaded students who don’t welcome my efforts to expand their minds and aspirations.”
“He does share the traits of a stubborn adolescent.” He grinned. “Find a way to mature him and I’ll increase your pay.”
An infectious twinkle danced in her eyes, as if they shared a private joke. “I’ll work on that,” she promised with a giggle.
Imagine, someone who wasn’t intimidated by George Cummings.
“I suspect my father is too set in his ways to change, but hopefully your students can.”
“If only they could understand that education is the path to a good life.”
Education had merely postponed his plans. But for some, education opened the door to opportunities.
Clearly Abby cared about her students’ futures and took an interest in all facets of their lives. “They’re lucky to have you,” he said and meant every word. A startled look flitted across her face. Not surprising with their history. “My father is fortunate too.”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t agree.”
“You’re not planning on quitting, are you?” he said in a rush of words.
“I never run from a commitment.”
Despite her claim, she hadn’t met his gaze. Would she keep the job? The prospect of not seeing her each day slammed into him. Absurd. His concern about her quitting had to do with his father.
She glanced down the hall. “I’d better check on him.”
Well, at least she’d last the day. He removed his pocket watch from his vest. With a touch of a finger, sprang the lid. “Would you mind if I head out to the carriage house? I’d like to work in my shop.”
“As we agreed, I’m here until six.” She raised a slender brow and nailed him with a steely stare. “Not a minute more.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, feigning a salute.
Carrying her grin with him, he trotted down the stairs then made his way to the workshop built onto the back of the carriage house. The prospect of returning to his passion after a two-week absence lightened his steps. Without a piece of wood under his palms he’d felt less somehow, not whole.
He left the door ajar to catch the afternoon breeze and walked inside. In this shop he felt at peace, in charge of his realm. His gaze roamed the tools of his trade—hammers, miter boxes, levels, a host of planes and saws, his lathe, emery cloth, sandpaper, everything spotless and in its place. A broom rested in the corner, ready to sweep up sawdust and shavings, anything that might mar a damp finish.
As a young boy he’d watched Grandpa Brooks’s rheumy eyes shine as he’d talked about the satiny feel of polished wood under his palms. Something