Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(29)

She sighed, hands on hips.

Knowing what she needed to do, she still considered asking Tempy for help first. But Tempy, though strong, would be no better equipped to lift these pieces of wood than she was. Nor should a woman Tempy’s age be enlisted to do such a thing.

Aletta glanced in the general direction of Captain Winston’s cabin. He would help her, she had no doubt. But at what cost to her womanly pride? If only she hadn’t made such a point of telling him she wouldn’t require his assistance until the final stages of the project. She blew out a breath.

And here she was, not even started yet, and already she needed him.




A knock sounded and Jake paused in his sketching. Pencil and notebook in hand, he rose from the rocking chair by the fire and opened the door.

“Mrs. Prescott?” He glanced beyond her toward the main house, the cold forcing its way inside. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.” She tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. “I . . . have a favor to ask of you, that’s all.” Her gaze fell to the notebook in his hand. “If I’m not bothering you.”

He glanced down to see his partially finished sketch of the McGavocks’ pecan grove. “No, you’re not bothering me.” He hesitated, then gestured. “Would you like to step inside? It’s freezing out.”

Uncertainty shadowed her expression. Whether about his invitation or her reason for being here, he didn’t know. But she finally shook her head. “I need you to help me, if you would. With the nativity,” she added quickly.

And Jake suddenly realized it wasn’t uncertainty in her expression he saw. It was irritation. And he curbed a smile, knowing only too well—even just having met her—how much it likely rankled her to have to come here and ask for his help.

But how very glad he was that she had.

He laid aside the pencil and sketch pad, grabbed his coat, and draped it around her shoulders. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

They hurried into the barn, and he closed the door behind them. He wasn’t about to say “I told you so.” But it was obvious she’d realized she needed help building the nativity after all. Which was understandable. And he was only too glad to step in.

“Thank you, Captain Winston. Both for your coat and for your help.”

He accepted the jacket and laid it aside, choosing not to make her grovel. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how best to design the booth for the nativity, Mrs. Prescott, and it seems to me that . . .”

As he detailed his plan, perplexity shaded her features.

Finally, he paused. “Am I going too fast?”

She stared. “Not at all. But I didn’t ask you here to help me with the design. I already know what I want to do. I simply need you to move the wood so I can make some measurements. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

He looked at the pile of wood, then back at her. “So . . . you don’t need my ideas.”

She smiled and shook her head, a glint in her eyes. “Only your brawn, Captain Winston.”

Enjoying the smart little quirk in her tone, he felt only mildly insulted as he spent the next hour and a half moving the stack of wood, waiting while she measured it and consulted with her original plans, then moving it all back again, out of the way of foot traffic. All while conversation—and comfortable spaces of silence—settled easily between them.

“So you’ve lived here in Franklin all your life?” he asked as he moved the final board, measured and marked, back onto the stack.

She nodded.

“No siblings?”

“I was the only child born to my parents. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

Jake paused, fingering a callus on his palm. “I had a younger brother, Freddie. But . . . he died at Vicksburg.”

She stared at him, her gaze glistening in the glow of the oil lamp. “I’m so sorry, Captain Winston. My husband, Warren, wrote to me about what happened there. In far greater detail than I’d read about in the newspapers.” She briefly closed her eyes, her brow furrowing. “The images his letters conjured haunt me even now. I cannot fathom how . . .”

Her voice faded and a barrage of all too painful memories rushed in to fill the silence. For them both, Jake wagered by her expression. With no small effort, he concentrated on recalling Freddie’s smile, the way his brother used to laugh and poke fun every chance he got.

“I wish,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “I wish I knew how my husband died.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze. “All the letter said was that he’d been killed in battle, and that the army would inform me of the details as they learned them. If they learned them.”

Jake studied her features in the flame’s amber glow, wishing he could offer her more hope. But he’d walked the aftermath of war, and knew better.

She turned and began gathering the tools she’d used into a worn leather pouch. “I’ve forgotten how much closer I feel to my father when I have a hand plane or chisel in my grip.”

“Those were his,” Jake said softly.

She nodded. “Except for the mallet. Andrew and I gave that to Warren for Christmas three years ago.” Reminiscence softened her smile as she fingered the mallet’s red handle. “I’d told Andrew we were shopping for Papa, and when Andrew saw the mallet in the mercantile that day, he was convinced this was what we should get.”