Dorothy Clark (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

H
e was clearly angry. Sadie watched Cole stride from the sitting room, waited until his footsteps faded away, then stepped to the game table and picked up her grandfather’s business ledgers. The back door opened and closed.

She wrapped her arms about the large books, pulled them against her chest and walked to one of the windows facing the carriageway. She couldn’t see the horse.

Her grip tightened on the books, her thumbs moving in small circles against the smooth leather. Cole knew she was suspicious of him. He’d said as much. So why had he brought the books? Because he thought she would tell her grandfather he had them?

I will be happy to stay and explain them to you if that will help.

Her nerves tingled; her body tensed. He hadn’t expected her to understand the ledgers. That’s why he’d brought them. No wonder he’d looked taken aback and angry when she told him she’d helped with the seminary accounts.

Horse’s hoofs crunched on the gravel outside the window and she stepped to the side. Cole rode by on Cloud, tall and straight in the saddle, his red shirt and brown twill pants silvered, his gray gelding looking like its name in the wash of moonlight. No golden chestnut with flaxen mane and tail tonight.

She wished she’d never seen that horse. But she had. And that gave her another puzzle to solve. Why had Cole been riding the chestnut when he’d rescued her from Sweetpea? And why had he come back so soon? The truth of where Cole had been and what he had been doing that day was linked to that horse. She was sure of it. She had tried to think of a reasonable explanation but had been unable to do so. Perhaps the answer would be found in one of the entries in the ledgers.

She looked down at the books, suddenly reluctant to examine them, wishing she could simply forget the questions that nagged at her. But she couldn’t. She sighed, shifted the books to one arm, lifted the oil lamp from the table by the settee and crossed the entrance hall to the library.

* * *

Cole drove the last pin into place to secure the iron brace centered on the bottom back rail of the chair seat, laid down the hammer and gave the small wheel at the other end of the brace a spin. The quiet whir blended with the murmur of the creek flowing beneath the deck, the peaceful sound at odds with his mood.

He frowned, caught hold of the wheel to stop its spinning, lifted the chair upright and stood back to look it over, much as Sadie was, most likely, examining the books he had left with her. But she wasn’t looking for mistakes—she was looking for deliberate theft. He was sure of that. Why else would she want the ledgers? Well, she would find neither theft nor error!

His fingers flexed against the chair and he rolled it backward and forward to make certain the axle turned the two large side wheels in unison, then wiggled the chair sideways and backward, trying to tip it over. The small third wheel angled out from the back balanced it perfectly. Manning would not have an accident due to a flaw in his design. And Manning’s granddaughter would not find a flaw in his accounting.

He scowled and took hold of the chair’s back rail, his fingertips brushing against the smooth heads of the studs that held the padded leather inset in place. Tomorrow night he would attach the gears and test the chair. If it worked right, he would take it to Manning the next morning. He snorted out a breath. What nefarious purpose would Sadie attach to his gift? She thought him incapable of any altruistic motive.

He pushed the chair through the office to his private quarters and draped the blanket over it, crossed to his bed and flopped down on his back, staring up at the rough wood ceiling. The wariness in Sadie’s eyes, the way she backed away when he neared her, sickened him. All his life he’d seen his mother do that with his father.
He’d
done it before he’d grown strong enough to make his father hold his temper in check when he was sober. Nothing could stop his father’s cruelty when he was drunk.

His body tensed and his hands fisted in memory. He’d taken a good many beatings to protect his mother from his father’s drunken rages. And it had gotten worse after he’d started secretly making shakes. No one in Pigeon Woods would hire an Aylward, and making and selling those shingles was the only way he could earn money to get his mother out of the village and away from his father.

He opened his hands and lifted them, staring at the scars where he’d missed a time or two with the froe and maul, and thought about his mother’s gentle touch as she’d doctored his cuts, the hope that would glow in her blue eyes as she’d talk about their secret. He’d have died to keep that hope alive for her, so he’d sneaked off and made shakes and hid the bundled wood shingles in the back of a deep cave where his father—afraid of closed-in places—wouldn’t find them.

A bitter smile twisted his lips. The cave had been the perfect hiding place. His father had followed him a time or two trying to discover what he was doing, but he’d easily eluded him in the woods. He should have known that wouldn’t stop a cunning drunk. His father had wanted the money from whatever he was doing to spend on his liquor, and that last day he’d waited for him to come home with a club in his big, meaty hands. If his mother hadn’t called out a warning when he opened the door...

Cole curled his fingers and thumbs, studied his large fists and remembered the satisfaction of burying them in his father’s distended gut, of landing them in strong jabs on his father’s belligerent chin, then picking that club up off the floor and walking out of the cabin and back into the woods. He should have taken the beating.

I’m sorry, Ma. I’m so sorry.
Guilt washed over him, soured his stomach and burned like acid on his tongue. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the image that never went away. He’d found her in a huddle on the floor, holding her stomach, her face swollen and bleeding from being battered by his father. It wasn’t the first time he’d come home and found her bruised and beaten—but it was the first time it was his fault. He’d wanted to wake his father from his drunken stupor and beat him senseless, but his mother had stopped him, told him to take the shakes downriver and sell them as they’d planned and then come back for her. She’d said she would be all right, that the beatings would stop when he was gone.

God help him, he’d believed her. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He’d believed her—and he’d been so afraid the fury in him would surpass his ability to control it and he’d kill his father, he’d done as she said. He’d kissed her goodbye and spent the night packing those shingles on one of the log rafts scheduled to begin their journey downriver the next morning.

If only he’d stayed home.

He straightened and blew out a breath to quell the memories roiling around in his head and knotting his stomach. He’d thought he’d buried them deep enough not to trouble him. But the fear in Sadie’s eyes when he came close to her was so like his mother’s when she’d looked at his father....

Did Sadie see something in his face he couldn’t? He lunged to his feet, crossed to the washstand and leaned close, studied his image in the mirror. The dark gray eyes looking back at him from under straight, black brows darkened. The mouth, with its full lower lip, pressed into a thin line surrounded by a black beard. Curling black hair hung wild around his face. The bile churning in his stomach surged into his throat. It might have been Payne looking back at him. Or his father. No wonder Sadie refused to look at his face.

He jerked back, shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out his jackknife, opened it and felt the edge with his thumb. It was good and sharp. He leaned toward the mirror again, grabbed hold of his black beard and lopped off a chunk.

* * *

Sadie gathered her long skirts and settled herself at the desk, opened the first book and read the words written at the top of the first page in her grandfather’s flowing hand.
Camp One. Lower quadrant (120 acres) of Owings purchase.
She lowered her gaze and scanned the column headings.
Timber, Wages, Expenses, Sundries, Profit.
The timber cut was sold to her grandfather’s sawmill. That could provide an avenue for theft.

She turned over the pages to reach the last entries and gazed at the writing that had changed to a bold slant. It looked like Cole, assertive and certain. There was a sureness about him that was comforting, if unnerving. It made her want to trust him. If only she dared.

She frowned and yanked her thoughts back to her quest. This wasn’t about Cole or the image he conveyed or how he made her feel. It was about truth. And protecting her grandparents.

She looked down at the figures on the page and pursed her lips. How could she prove if Cole was altering the numbers? She had no way of knowing the amount of timber cut off the land. Unless...

She flipped backward through the pages, checking the amount of timber logged and delivered to the sawmill in the past weeks after Cole had taken over management of the businesses against the totals on her grandfather’s pages. If Cole’s amounts were consistently less—
More?
That didn’t seem right....

Her brow creased. She checked the amounts again. The board feet of timber delivered from the logging camps had increased since Cole had taken over. Profits were higher in every camp.

How could that profit Cole? No answer occurred to her. Perhaps when she had more information she would understand.

She set the logging ledger aside and opened the one for the sawmill, glancing at the totals as she thumbed through the first pages. If Cole was stealing from her grandfather, the proof would most likely be found in this book.

If?
The word stiffened her spine. When had she started doubting? She mustn’t let that happen simply because Cole was kind to her grandparents—and to her. Whatever his purpose for returning early from wherever he had been, he
had
rescued her from Sweetpea.

The image of him standing there in the stable, holding Sweetpea’s reins and pulling the mare away from her, swarmed into her head, and the odd sort of tingling warmth she’d felt that day returned. She shook her head to rid herself of the memory, blinked a film of tears from her eyes and bent over the ledger. She couldn’t allow Cole’s actions to undermine her determination. She must remember his motives were selfish ones and that she was her grandparents’ only protection from him. “Lord, please help me to find the answers I seek.”

She took a deep breath, skipped to the last page and looked at the balances. Everything inside her went still. She was right. Cole was stealing her Poppa’s money. The proof was there on the page. There was barely a profit. Embezzlement was the only explanation.

Her stomach churned. She rose from the chair, smoothed the front of her long skirt with her palms, then crossed to the window and stared out at the moonlit night. She had expected to feel vindicated,
elated,
not...well...not the way she felt. Though it was likely natural to be disappointed when you learned a person’s kindness wasn’t kindness at all but rather self-serving obfuscation.

She tucked a wisp of hair that had fallen onto her forehead when she bent over the books into the thick roll at her crown and turned back to the desk. She had asked for the truth, and she had found it. Now she had to figure out how Cole had worked his scheme so she could discuss it with her grandfather. Heaviness weighed on her spirit. She resumed her seat and thumbed backward through the pages to where Cole’s accounting began, stared at the totals. A
loss?

Her face drew taut. He’d stolen all the profits from the sawmill. Anger joined her snarled emotions. How
dare
he steal from her helpless poppa! Well, that would stop right now.

She squared her shoulders, pulled the oil lamp closer and leaned over the ledger to learn how he had worked his theft. The totals of the various columns matched those in the book every time she figured them. Her brow creased. She tapped her foot, turned to her grandfather’s last entries and jerked back. A loss?

She held the page close to the light and examined the numbers for alterations, found nothing and turned back another page and then another and another. They all told the same story. The sawmill had been failing. Business had been falling off and the profits steadily dwindling for the past year. It had operated at a loss for the three months prior to Cole’s management. How could that be? Had her grandfather not been feeling well before his seizure? Had he been distracted by her grandmother’s failing mind? Poor Poppa. She had not been here when he needed her.

Tears stung her eyes. She swallowed hard and closed the ledgers, trying to absorb the facts. Cole hadn’t been stealing. He’d done the very opposite. He had increased business and brought her grandfather’s sawmill back to being a profitable venture.

I had intended to give them to you after supper....
Her—not her grandfather. Now she understood why he had brought her the ledgers. He knew she thought him a thief and thus had brought her the proof of his innocence. He had correctly assumed she would never have believed any explanation he might have offered. And, had he given them to her grandfather, she would have thought her grandfather’s assessment swayed by his need and Poppa’s pride would have suffered.

Shame washed over her. Willa was right. She had let Payne’s attack color her estimation of Cole, at least as far as him having a scheme to steal her grandfather’s money. Was she wrong to doubt his sincerity as well? Were his kindnesses truly that? How could she know? There were still those unanswered questions about the strange horse.

She wrapped her arms about herself and rubbed her left arm, her fingertips massaging the hidden lump. The sale of two wagonloads of clapboard to Dibble’s Livery were duly recorded in the ledger, one on the day he’d told them about the sale and one on the day after. It was delivering the clapboards himself he had lied about. And you couldn’t trust a liar. No matter how much you wanted to.