Rekindled Dreams (14 page)

His whole mood changed. A remote expression glazed his eyes, and his face hardened.

With that single question, Vena knew their easygoing camaraderie was broken.

“No, but right now, I don’t even care what they say.” His boots scraped on the floor and he stood, brushing his hands down the tight legs of his jeans. “Bring down the tray when you’re finished.” He walked a few steps toward the hall.

Her chest tightened at the sight of his broad back moving away. She couldn’t let their time end like this. “Finn?”

He glanced over a shoulder, his expression still sober. “Yeah?”

“If I decide to go to this thing…” She swallowed against a dry throat. “Would you drive me? Once we’re there, you wouldn’t have to do anything else, even stay in the truck.” She watched his face, hoping for a sign of softening. In a small voice, she added, “I don’t think I could make myself go alone.”

The tan skin around his eyes crinkled as he grinned and flashed a thumbs-up.

After a shower and two cups of coffee, Vena felt ready to rejoin the human race. Too distracted by the morning’s emotions to write, she wandered downstairs and followed the crashing sounds coming from the center of the house.

Finn tore lath and plaster off the support studs in the dining room. He’d stripped off his shirt, and white specks covered his bare back.

She stood in the doorway, admiring the flex of toned muscles under his golden skin. For a moment, she wondered how he’d gotten such a tan in northern Montana. Her next thought was how far past his beltline the bronzed skin extended.

Before her thoughts shot her blood pressure too high, Vena stepped into the room. “Can I help? Let me repay your kindness from last night.”

When he turned to answer, she steadied her pounding heartbeat by practicing her yoga breathing. The expanse of his muscled chest and sculpted shoulders caused her breath to catch in her throat. Her gaze roved his chest, narrowing on the swirls of hair circling his brown nipples. Her fingers itched to tease them gently, tracing a path through his chest hair and...

Was the attraction so strong because he represented forbidden fruit? She shifted her stance, crossing her arms over a fluttering stomach. Memories of how her feelings of puppy love subtly changed into teenage passion during high school when he’d dated
Elthia. Having a perennially late sister provided Vena with lots of opportunities for talking with him as he hung around, waiting. With each chat, Vena had learned of a new trait or some achievement to admire.

Maybe her feelings had been a normal part of sibling rivalry. She couldn’t believe she’d been so shallow as to want him only because he was
Thia’s boyfriend. Or was Finn the buddy who was destined to never become a lover?

Whatever the reason, she wanted him now. More than ever. The ache low in her belly proved that. But too many issues blocked that path. This was one time she couldn’t go after what she wanted.

“Vena?”

She blinked and shook her head. “Say again?”

“I said this isn’t hard work, just dirty.”

Unable to stop the flush from flooding her cheeks, she simply nodded.

“Just pry a little on the edge with this claw and the plaster will crumble, then I’ll follow and pull off the lath.” He moved behind her and placed a hammer in her hands, his arms wrapping around her from the back. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Vena’s senses went on overload. Along the length of her back, she felt the imprint of his muscles. Heat from his body radiated as his hands guided hers in breaking apart the plaster. She breathed deeply, and the earthy scent of a working man tickled her nostrils.

In the past, he’d held her in this same position—when he taught her to swing a bat, to dive off the tree stump at the swimming hole, and lining up her first archery shot. Those times had been so different because she’d viewed him as a teacher.

Now she needed to satisfy her passion. And, more importantly, she had to know if he shared it, too. The memory of their kiss the previous night was muddled, but she thought he’d enjoyed it.

But the moment wasn’t right. “Thanks. I’ve got it now.” She moved enough to dislodge his hands and hack at the plaster in her own way.

“Careful.” His hand covered hers. “You’re not killing snakes. Pry gently.”

Warmth spread over her fingers, and she wished she could soak up more. “Sorry.”

“Plaster comes away easily. Don’t want to damage the support beams underneath.” His hand smoothed over the old wood he’d already uncovered, then rested at a junction. “This mortis method was sure sound. Look how sturdy it is after a hundred and thirty years.” Both hands grabbed the mortis joint and shoved. A small squeak of protest sounded from the wood, but nothing moved. “That’s quality. Pre-cut lumber and nail guns make me appreciate the old ways.”

A note struck in Vena’s memory. They’d had this conversation before, or a similar one. As a teen, he’d been forced to work for his father’s building salvage company and hated it. Besides the normal teenage rebellion, he’d objected to the destruction of the old frontier homes. He hadn’t seen the value in stripping houses of their unique features and selling them off individually.

“Yeah, I remember discussing this when we were in high school. You wanted to preserve the handmade features of houses.”

His gaze took on a faraway glint. “Those hand-carved balustrades and mantels, the built-in hutches and bookcases with beveled glass panels. The features that were the soul of the house.”

“You talked about restoring those houses to their original glory, one by one. What happened to those dreams?”

“You mean those idealistic dreams of our youth?” With a shake of his head, he spread his hands in front of him. “The real world happens. Projects like that take lots of money to start.”

She swung the tool to indicate the room where they stood. “I have to say, you still like doing the work, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Only a hobby now.”

Vena went back to prying at the lath. Did she know people who worked at the dream jobs of their youth?

“Would you look at this?”

Finn’s voice reached her through her musings. Vena stepped toward the wall and peered over his shoulder as he pulled a faded book covered with dusty cobwebs from a space between the wall studs and cradled the book in his hands. The cover had probably once been red crushed velvet with ribbons running diagonally across the outer corners. Over time, the ribbons had been either broken or been chewed, and only the straggly ends tucked into the cover remained.

“What was a book doing in there?” She reached out a hand to brush at the gray, flyaway strands clinging to the fabric.

“Maybe someone hid it and forgot about it when this room was divided.” He leaned closer to the half-demolished partition wall and gazed upward, squinting against the swirling dust. “Or it dropped down the wall from an opening upstairs.”

Vena fingered the fragile binding. “May I see the book? Please?” When he passed her the volume, she was surprised at its solid weight. With careful movements, she eased open the front cover, slowing as she heard a creaking sound. A silverfish darted up the inside margin and ducked into the spine. “Somebody made this with love and care.”

As happened at the museum when she started a new project, her heart beat fast with anticipation. A border of fancy swirls decorated the first page. About one t
hird of the way down the page,
Our Journey West
was written in bold calligraphy. At the bottom in small, spiky handwriting was a signature:
Minnie Anzelm Quaid, 1868, Cantrell, Illinois
.

“Finn, it’s a journal—must be someone from your family. Weren’t your ancestors in the group that founded Dry Creek?” She ran her fingers over the page’s uneven edge. “Feels like vellum.”

“Yeah, I think they were. Ask Moira, she keeps track of the genealogy stuff.”

“Vellum is good quality paper. Very expensive, especially back then. This was intended to be someone’s family heirloom.” She cradled the journal in her arms. “To be passed down to Minnie’s children.”

He stopped bagging the lath pieces and glanced over his shoulder. “How do you know that?”

“From college courses on the pioneer era. Women often wrote their daily experiences in a journal like this one. Then, upon reaching their destination, they used the information to advise friends and relatives who came later.” As she smoothed a gentle hand across the cover, her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’ve never actually seen a copy.”

Vena searched the room and headed toward a relatively clean spot in the far corner. She sat and spread the book open on her lap. Her breath came in short, quick gasps.

This was an authentic diary of someone’s life during the same time period as the focus of her museum project. Turning aside the title page, Vena prayed what she was about to read would help in her writing. With a quick glance, she scanned the next page and admired the neat, even lines of old-fashioned writing.

April 10, 1868: Day dawned sunny with a few clouds—a good omen. Still a nip in the air, saw my breath on the way to the outhouse. Been a bride five days today, and my husband (I love writing those words) and I are heading to Oregon. Hiram’s uncle writes the land is bountiful and there is lots of it, so we will claim our share. Our new Conestoga is piled high with wedding gifts and food—will buy farm tools there. Mama cried and clung tight, weeping she’d never see me this side of Heaven. I promised we’d visit in a couple years, kissed her once, and climbed into the wagon seat. Had to turn my eyes to the west and look to our future. The team is full of spirit, and each horse tosses its head high as we start for St. Louis. What an adventure we will have.

Vena read on, intrigued by the rich detail of Minnie’s account but, knowing the proven pitfalls of the wagon trail, already afraid for what lay ahead for the newlywed Quaid pair.

****

Finn brushed the dust and dirt from his hands and glanced at his watch. Since opening that book, Vena had been lost to the world. “Uh, Vena?”

No response.

He walked closer and tapped her shoulder. “Vena, do you know what time it is?”

She peered upward and blinked a couple of times. “What?”

That dreamy look in her eyes was one he enjoyed. If only he’d been the one to put it there. “It’s after one o’clock.”

“Already?”

He watched her stretch out one leg and then the other from the crossed position she’d been in for the last thirty minutes. “The protest…at two o’clock…?” Seeing her confused expression, he continued, “You remember, at the police station.”

With a groan, she shook her head. “Oh, that. Ugh.” She jumped up and brushed off the back of her skirt before bending and scooping up the book.

As she approached, her smile stretched wide, and a light of excitement danced in her eyes. “This journal is just what I needed. Minnie and Hiram are traveling on the Oregon Trail in 1868—not exactly the same time for the clothing collection, but the firsthand research can’t be ignored. Oh, Finn, she sounds so sweet, and trusting, and naive. By seeing the world through her eyes, I’ve found the spark that will put the right empathy into Lola’s story.”

Finn had always loved watching Vena when she got excited. When she latched onto an idea and made it her own, the expression that came over her was…beautiful. He leaned a shoulder on a nearby support beam and relaxed, enjoying the view.

“After reading this, I realize emotion was missing in what I wrote. The wishes and wants and dreams of the people I’m writing about. People can’t live a full life, and characters can’t sound like real people, unless they have them. And I’m the one who has to create those things, so—”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt this breakthrough, but the time.”

Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. “What was I thinking last night?”

“You weren’t. Tootie’s booze was in control.”

“Well, I can’t admit that. I’ll make a short statement and then leave before anyone starts asking questions. Or…” She turned, eyes wide and shining.

When he spotted the glow in her eyes, he straightened. What was she up to? “I know that look and I don’t like it.”

“I’ll write an apology for getting everyone out there, and you can read it. You know, like a spokesperson at a press conference.”

“Not a good idea.” Finn rubbed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved. You read it, and then say you’d prefer not to answer questions.”

The front doorbell rang, accompanied by a titter of female voices.

Vena dropped onto a nearby folding chair, jumped up, removed a hammer, and then sat again.

Finn opened the door to a porch full of the Gray Ladies. Looking at the group, he shook his head and shuddered. “Elfie, it’s for you.” He glanced over his shoulder and waited for her to appear.

When she came into sight in the hallway, a high-pitched cry went up. “There’s our leader. We’re behind you, Vena.”

Tootie
stepped forward, placard held high. “We’re here to escort you to the demonstration. What do you think of our signs?”

Finn watched Vena’s eyes widen like a scared rabbit caught within range of a hungry wolf.