“What exactly are you feeling, Captain?” she challenged. It was as though being called a pirate to Drew had ignited such a rage within him, Brogan lost all control. “Am I correct in assuming there is more going on here than the fact that George happened upon us alone?”
Moving to the open doorway, she turned to flash the shipwright a cold stare. “Come, George. For your own sake and on behalf of my father, I feel a responsibility to see you removed before you insult his client further. In which case I do not know that I can trust Captain Talvis not to retaliate again.”
George made to hurry her out the door. “And so I’ve been trying to tell you, Lorena.”
“Wait.” Brogan eyed her, incredulous. “You defended me and yet . . . you are leaving . . . with him? None of what he says is true, Lorena. Don’t let this fool’s chatter sway you. We’ve done nothing here to be ashamed of.” He held out his hand to her. “Please, let me be the one to escort you.”
Lorena stared at his strong, extended hand.
“I am puzzled, Captain. I believe your desire for Drew’s good opinion to be genuine. Your regard for children bespeaks wisdom and compassion, yet you discredit such sensitivity by assaulting George when he never raised a fist to you. What inspired such anger?”
“My reaction was in defense of you.”
“Really? To my ears, it sounded like you were defending yourself. But as you say, there is more to you than what can first be perceived on the surface.”
Lorena waited. When no further response was forthcoming, when Captain Talvis held his expression in check and did not protest as she stepped with George into the open air, it was all she could do to hold back the tears.
She grew suspicious, clever girl.
Brogan remained in the deserted carpentry shop for near an hour, staring out the empty doorway, considering her.
What was it about Lorena Huntley that drew him?
Her loveliness and grace, obviously. That refreshing combination of innocence and intelligence? The lively spirit beneath her modest exterior? Perhaps her love for his son.
He only knew he was fast developing new respect for the girl, which if he wasn’t careful could grow into something more.
He could not help but feel she had taken the advantage, not the other way around, as Louder had claimed. She evoked sentiment in him that Brogan did not care to feel, making what he’d thought such a seamless plan increasingly more difficult to carry out.
But was attraction to Lorena Huntley more powerful than his duty to his son? Of course not! Then what was he to do? He’d have to make amends. Again. He’d have to exercise gentlemanly restraint at all times if he was to gain Lorena’s goodwill and trust. Without them, he could not hope to get close enough to restore his relationship with his son.
He’d been wrong to let anger get the better of him, but Louder had no right calling him a thief to Drew, no right to increase the distance between father and son with slander.
Brogan massaged his pounding temples. He was quickly running out of time. He had not come to Duxboro to make nice with Miss Huntley or defend himself to a weasel. He had come to claim his child.
He must push these feelings aside for the attainment of a much higher prize—his son—and stop allowing himself to be distracted by that graceful young dove.
He must not entertain thoughts of Lorena. No matter her beauty or how great her charm, he must keep his wits about him.
Somehow, this gentle, soft-spoken slip of a girl had proven a more formidable opponent than any he had yet faced.
7
August temperatures rose high enough without suffering the added heat of the baking ovens. To spare the household unnecessary discomfort, the summer kitchen had been built—a one-room structure located to the rear and separate from the main house. Outside its cottage door, Lorena’s flower, herb, and vegetable garden grew.
Scarlet poppies, cucumber and muskmelon vines, lettuce and cabbage heads sprouted alongside pink sweet Williams and the more savory parsley, thyme, and sage. Leafy greens like parsnips, beets, and radishes crowded around the leaden sundial until not one patch of naked soil remained.
Each time she passed, Lorena was reminded of the abundance God had provided her family. They had much to be thankful for, and yet, as she bent to the harvest—noting the imprints of Drew’s plump bare feet running in and among the green beans and the holes he’d left digging for worms—she felt an alarm go off in her conscience.
It was that same queer nervousness, an impression not in her head but in her heart, an uneasiness that warned she was headed into an area of potential harm.
Uncertainty of the future weighed heavily on her shoulders, yet what reason could she have for worry? By nature, she was careful in thought and deed. The household ran smoothly. Each of them was in good health. Her father’s business prospered.
Her thoughts wandered, so too her gaze, along the ground where movement by the old crab apple tree caught her eye. Among its gnarly roots she spied a pair of black buckled shoes with thick heels and lean calves covered in white silk stockings.