Page 59 of Charlotte
His right hand was tucked near his coat, but not as deep as usual. The morning sun touched one side of his beard and picked out hints of brown and gold she had not noticed before.
He had come back.
With the book.
Not to return it, perhaps, but with it.
The girl turned. “You know flowers, Mr. Peterson?”
“Some.”
He took one step into the room. “Camas grows in the meadow. Blue-purple blossoms. Bulbs were used by the native people for food, though a man best know the difference between that and death camas before he puts anything in a pot.”
The little girl withdrew her hand from the flower.
Lottie smiled. “This one is safe to touch.”
“Aye. Safe to touch. Not safe to eat unless you know your business.”
“Do you know your business?”
His gaze moved to Lottie. “With flowers?”
“With the ridge.”
“Enough to stay alive on it.”
“That sounds like a useful beginning.”
A small warning moved through his eyes.
Lottie corrected herself at once. “A wise beginning.”
His shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Peterson crossed to the table and looked down at the flower without touching it. “Stem’s wrong in your drawing there.”
Lottie glanced at the open botany volume. “Yes. I thought so.”
“This book is eastern?”
“Painfully.”
He looked at the engraving. “Still pretty.”
The comment was quiet enough that Mrs. Beck, by the window, missed it. Lottie did not. She looked at the page, then at him. “Would you help me make a local nature section?”
Peterson’s brows lowered. “A what?”
“A place for pressed plants from Wild Rose Ridge. Not only the names from the book, but what people here call them, where they grow, and when they bloom. The children might like it. New brides too. I should like to know what belongs here.”
The last words slipped out before she had considered them.
What belongs here.
Peterson looked down at the flower. “Plants don’t trouble themselves over belonging. They grow where they can.”
“That is not entirely true. Some need shade. Some need rocky soil. Some need water. Some will not bloom unless the conditions are right.”
He looked at her then, and Lottie wished, not for the first time, that being looked at by him was less unsettling. He did not stare the way the dock men had. He did not glance over her bonnet, figure, or dress. His attention rested on her as if every word mattered. Lottie felt herself blush from the tips of her ears down to her toes.
