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For a moment she looked at him, then finally turned away. “Suit yourself.”
He took the bucket down another row of plants, watching and listening as she explained which way she watered what, taking care not to wet the leaves of some plants, not worrying about sloshing others, and crouching low to inspect the underside of a leaf here and there, looking for hungry caterpillars.
“By the way,” he said when they’d each emptied their last bucketful, “you said something about seeds the other day. Do you still have any to spare?”
“You still want ’em?” she asked doubtfully.
The captain nodded. “You told me to plant something every week, didn’t you?”
“Yep. I just figured since then—” She shook her head, falling silent.
“You figured what?”
She could feel a flush covering her cheeks. “Nothin’—you having company and all.”
“Nate? He just stayed three nights.”
She turned away, saying with a shrug, “Thought you’d be heading back to Boston by now.”
Leaving him, she headed toward the lean-to attached to her house. She unlatched the door and entered its shadowy interior. Firewood lined most of the walls, floor to ceiling. The air was redolent with the spicy scent of drying spruce and balsam. She turned to the shelf holding gardening implements and took down a jar. From it she extracted a folded paper. Inside it were minute specks. She refolded the paper and handed it to the captain, who had followed her into the shed.
“You can bring me back what you don’t use.”
He nodded absently and took the paper. “What did you mean—you thought I would be returning to Boston the first chance I got?”
She continued uncorking jars and extracting folded packets of paper. “It’s where you’re from. Didn’t think you’d stick it out here if you didn’t have to.”
The captain thrust out his hand to stop the motion of her hand on a jar. “I chose to come here. I didn’t have to. Do you understand the difference?”
She raised startled eyes to him. For a second their gazes met and held. The sunlight sliced through the open doorway, cutting a path across her face, leaving her feeling exposed, yet helpless to look away. His eyes traveled across her face, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“I jus’ thought—I mean—I didn’t think anyone’d come here to live. Not from Boston, anyway. Ain’t none of my business, anyhow.”
His hand still held her wrist. She jerked it away, and he immediately let it go.
He looked at the seed papers in his other hand. “How do I tell what is what?”
Again he’d caught her off guard. “Uh, I jus’ know by looking at ’em.” She unfolded one and said, “This here’s lettuce. It’ll grow quick. You should get enough through the summer if you plant some now, and then again in a week or so.”
“I should write the names of each on the papers.”
She bit her lip. “Uh, sure. I don’t have a pencil with me.”
He took one from his breast pocket. “Here.”
She looked at the pencil distrustfully. “You write. I—I’ll tell you what they are.”
“Good enough.” He unfolded the first paper and showed her. Then he refolded it and wrote the name she gave him on the paper. They continued until they’d labeled all the packets, though she gave him only the seeds she thought he should plant.
When they finished, he thanked her and left. She watched him walk back down the path to the road. Shame engulfed her.
What a fool she felt, not even being able to do so simple a task as write down the names of the seeds.
Chapter Three
Caleb walked down the dirt road that descended into the village. He’d hiked the three miles into town from the Point, enjoying the droplets of mist on his face the entire way, and now his clothes and hair felt damp.
Gradually the number of white clapboard houses increased until he was in the center of town, which consisted of a post office, a small store, a newly opened hotel, and a few warehouses along the three piers jutting out into the harbor.
Caleb entered Mr. Watson’s store and carefully shut the door behind him. He was glad to be out of the fog. The woodstove radiated heat throughout the store’s interior. A group of men sat around it, their eyes turned to him.
He nodded to them before turning to the storekeeper. “Afternoon.”
“Afternoon, Captain,” Mr. Watson answered.
Caleb ventured in a few feet. One woman looked at him over some bolts of fabric spread out before her. He removed his hat, acknowledging her. With a quick little duck of her head, she turned her attention back to the calico prints.
The men leaning back in their chairs by the potbellied stove continued eyeing him with undisguised interest, their boots propped against the fender of the stove. Although none of the men said a word, their mouths weren’t still. Two moved in rhythm working over plugs of tobacco and the third sucked on the stem of a pipe.
Caleb gave his list to Mr. Watson.
“Good summah we’ve been havin’ up until today,” one man in bib overalls commented.
“Yup,” another answered, his plump fingers interlaced atop his stomach. “I seen summahs the sun didn’t come out atall.”
“Was gettin’ a bit dry for the plantin’, though,” Mr. Watson put in from across the room.
“I seen you got a garden started down at the Point.” One of the three by the stove turned his light blue eyes on Caleb. He stood out from the other two by his neater appearance. His red beard was trimmed and his hair slicked back. He wore a suit and string tie in contrast to the others’ overalls and open collars. “It’s been quite a few yeahs since anybody’s tried to grow anything up theah.”
Caleb nodded, wondering when anybody had been by his place to notice his garden.
“Didn’t evah get your house finished, did ya?” the red-bearded man asked when Caleb didn’t volunteer any more information.
“No.” Caleb moved to examine the fishhooks at one end of the store. “But it’s fine for myself.”
“Ain’t too lonely for ya, after Boston?” one of the men in overalls asked from around his pipe.
Caleb shook his head without offering any comment.
“You could always knock on your neighbah’s door if you’re hankerin’ aftah some company,” the man with plump fingers laced atop his belly suggested. He seemed the boldest of the three, if the angle of his tilted chair was any indication.
The other two chuckled. “Hankerin’ after a bullet in his chest, you mean,” Bib Overalls put in.
“’Less, o’course, she was particularly ornery that mornin’ and aimed lowah,” Red Beard added, punctuating his remark with a well-aimed stream of tobacco juice at the spittoon.
All three men, as well as Mr. Watson, laughed at the implication.
“First he’d have to get past Jake,” Bib Overalls warned.
“Ain’t as if no one around here hasn’t tried to get past ol’ Jake.” Plump Fingers angled a sly look at Red Beard. “Remembah the time Elijah tried to sneak into her shack after dark? Wasn’t long aftah her pa passed on.” The others nodded, chuckling at the story to come. “Came back out in short ordah, a hole shot clean through his straw hat. We ribbed him some about that hat.” Plump Fingers slapped his knee, and the others laughed at the memory.
“I think ol’ Elijah learned his lesson,” Red Beard said with a nod of his head, shifting the tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.
“I’ll wager not everyone’s learned his lesson.” Plump Fingers lifted his sandy-haired fingers and stared at them, then looked across at Red Beard.
“I ain’t heard o’ no man who’s snuck past ol’ Jake at night, though it ain’t been for lack of wantin’,” Red Beard answered placidly, but with a gleam in his eyes that testified of his own desires in that direction.
“Gotta be careful o’ Ginny. Her ol’ man had a mean streak a mile wide and I think she inherited a good portion of it,” Mr. Watson explained to Caleb.
“She probably needs it, by the sounds of things,” Caleb said quietly, looking at the three men around the stove as he spoke.
All three chairs stopped rocking and hung tilted in midair as the men stared at Caleb. He could hear the murmur of the lady and Mr. Watson behind him die down.
Bib Overalls’ chair was the first to resume its rocking. “I think Genevar’s just waitin’ for someone who’s man enough to tame her,” he said, pointing his pipe first at Red Beard and then at Caleb. “What do you think, Cap’n?”
Red Beard’s smile had something nasty in it. “The cap’n has already lost one good woman. Just think, if he was to get turned down by Salt Fish Ginny, how’d he be able to lift his head up in public?” He slapped his knee and chortled. The other two men laughed more guardedly, awaiting Caleb’s reaction.
“It’s been my experience that the more a man boasts about his conquests, the less they exist in truth,” Caleb commented, leaning his back against the counter.
All the men except the red-bearded one laughed heartily.
When their laughter subsided, Mr. Watson smiled. “We’ve got some fresh eggs. Would you like me to add a dozen to your order?” he asked Caleb.
Caleb turned back toward the shopkeeper. “Half a dozen will do.”
“It’ll cost you more that way. Two bits a dozen, but fifteen cents for half.”
“I’ll take the half,” Caleb repeated.
When he faced the room at large again, he discovered the topic of Miss Patterson was by no means exhausted.
“You mustn’t blame Geneva for the way she’s turned out,” the woman from the other end of the counter piped up. “She used to be black and blue from the beatings her pa give her. It’s no wonder she’s unfriendly.”
Deciding he’d had enough village gossip, Caleb moved away, hoping that would end the subject. Looking at several stacks of denim overalls, he began to finger through them until his order was filled.
“Those are fine quality denim. Just the thing for gardenin’. Is there a particular size you’d like to look at?” Mr. Watson came to stand behind the stacks of trousers.
“Is my order ready?”
He watched the friendly expectancy on the shopkeeper’s face turn to surprise and end in frosty politeness. “Yes, of course. Is there anything else you be needin’ today?”
Caleb shook his head and walked back to the center counter.
“The way ol’ Jeb Patterson kept her out of school, it was disgraceful,” the woman said. “We tried to reason with him, but anytime anybody would come by, he’d wave that shotgun at us from the doorway, and all his hunting dogs would bark something ferocious. There was nothing to do but leave him to his own devices.”
Caleb watched Mr. Watson add the column of numbers on a piece of paper. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Geneva Patterson. The men’s conversation sickened him. He’d been curious about her. He’d realized the other day that she wasn’t as self-assured as she’d first appeared to him. She was also kinder-hearted than her gruff manner suggested. It was evident in her manner toward her dog.
He’d been intrigued about why she dressed like a man and hid any feminine charms she might possess. Now he understood why.
“And her mother, poor woman, Canuck—”
“Half-breed,” Bib Overalls put in. “Woman could barely speak English.”
Caleb ignored their talk. He paid his bill, aware of the silence that had returned to the store, knowing everyone was just waiting for him to leave so they could begin commenting on his past.
He put his hat back on at the door, tipping it to the general company. “Good day.” He heard the door bang behind him as he walked down the worn steps.
After he had arrived home and put everything away, he felt at loose ends. The fog had lifted but the day remained cool and overcast. Without a conscious decision, he found himself directing his feet back up the hill toward Miss Patterson’s. He’d seen her working in her front yard when he’d passed. He had no valid reason for visiting, but something drew him.
Jake started barking the moment Caleb came in sight. As he came up the path, the dog ran up and down alongside him.
“Hello, boy. Whatcha got there?” He examined the old buoy Jake had brought him.
Miss Patterson, her back toward him, was sawing a board on a sawhorse. Caleb went up to her and pushed her gently aside. “Here, let me do that for you.”
She jumped when she felt his touch. “Hey, what’re you doin’?” she demanded when his hand touched the handle of the saw.
“I can finish it for you.”
She scowled. “I can do it fine myself.”
“Give me that,” he insisted, trying to pry the handle away from her. Her fingers only tightened on the handle as she attempted to continue the sawing motion. They began a brief tug-of-war for the saw, but when Caleb realized how ludicrous it was, he let go and stepped back.
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re about as stubborn as a mule?”
“When they bother to talk to me, yes,” she answered shortly above the rasp of the saw.
At the words, Caleb felt a curious link with her. He knew how it felt to be singled out. He shook his head, never having imagined in Boston that one day he’d find something in common with a person such as Geneva Patterson. Taciturn, ornery, proud…
Caleb thought about what he’d heard at the store. He found it hard to fathom the men’s salacious gossip. If there was a spark of femininity in Miss Geneva Patterson, he couldn’t see it. He stepped back and watched her finish sawing the board. Without a word she carried it past him, to the front stoop, where she’d already pried off an old plank.
Carefully she placed the new board over the hole and lined it up with the rest of the steps. She took some nails from a piece of paper and picked up a hammer from the grass. As usual she was wearing that beat-up old hat, so Caleb couldn’t see much of her profile. Her eyes were fine, really, not black as he’d supposed, but deep brown, as he’d seen the other day in the light, like polished mahogany, and fringed with inky black lashes. They were about the only feminine feature she possessed, besides the braid that fell down her back like a black rope.
She had on her habitual flannel shirt, buttoned to the very top. His gaze wandered farther down. The bib of her overalls curved over her bosom. The baggy pants didn’t reveal much of her legs; he imagined they must be long and slim, like her arms and fingers. He remembered her gentle strokes over Jake’s fur.
The only woman he could really compare her to was Arabella, and the two were so different it hardly seemed a fair comparison. Caleb watched Miss Patterson’s long fingers position a nail and grip the hammer. Whack!
When she’d pounded in the first nail, she suddenly took off her hat and wiped her forehead with a sleeve. She didn’t put the hat back on, but proceeded to line up another nail on the board.
Her hair was pulled straight back into that one long, thick dark braid, giving credence to the gossip that her mother was a half-breed. She had high cheekbones, as well. But her looks were just as much Gallic—pale skin and dark hair and eyes—reminding him of the women he’d seen at the ports of Bordeaux and Marseilles.
The only thing relieving the sharpness of her features was the widow’s peak above her forehead. It occurred to Caleb that she used her entire mode of dress to hide behind. With those men hanging around like a pack of hungry wolves, she probably had no choice.
Caleb’s eyes narrowed as a memory teased the edges of his mind. Suddenly it came to him—a young woman tripping at the wharves, spilling all her vegetables, the last time he’d come to Haven’s End. On that occasion he’d played the gentleman, coming to her aid.
Before he could recollect further, Miss Patterson spoke without looking at him. “What’re you starin’ at?”
“Nothing. I’m just admiring your work.”
