Page 90 of Charlotte
She stepped carefully over the twine and came closer.
“You keep doing this,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Putting your care into lumber, lists, brackets, and field pages, then pretending I am foolish for knowing care when I see it.”
His gaze dropped to the marked ground. “Care is not a promise.”
“No, but it is something.”
He suddenly looked tired. Not from work, though he had likely done too much already. This was the kind of tired that came from holding a door shut against a storm and knowing the hinges were weakening.
“I should not have kissed you,” he said. Her heart gave one hard, foolish leap at the word.
Kiss.
At least, he wasn’t pretending it had not happened.
“I did not ask you to regret it aloud in a schoolyard.”
His mouth pressed tight. “You deserve better than a man who has no proper house, no clean trade, and no whole hand to offer.”
“There it is.”
He frowned. “There what is?”
“The list you keep instead of courage.”
His eyes sharpened. Lottie was close enough now to see sawdust on his sleeve and a nick along one knuckle where the wrapping had shifted. His right hand was uncovered today. It hung at his side, the fingers stiff from yesterday’s overuse.
The sight of it made her want to reach for him.
She did not.
Not yet.
“You have a trade,” she said. “You work harder than any man I have ever seen. I’ve never met anyone who knows timber, tracks, flowers, and books. It was you who said we should make a shelf strong enough for children who lean. Your hand caught me before I struck the boards. As for a house, you are standing in the middle of one you began for me before you had courage enough to knock on my door.”
“It is not for you.”
The words came too fast.
Lottie looked around the staked rectangle. “Then tell me why the front window faces the lake.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me why the doorway is set where the afternoon light will reach the lending desk.”
His gaze dropped.
“Tell me why Mr. Stafford asked me whether I wanted two windows or three when I never knew there was a building to decide.”
“Stafford talks too much.”
“Stafford talks exactly enough.”
Peterson turned away, but only a little. Not a retreat. More a man gathering himself before saying what he believed was necessary.
