Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides #1)(6)
But she only returned the smile, one that curved her lovely full lips in perfect symmetry but didn’t make it into the depths of her eyes.
She took a step back and thrust a hand into her coat pocket.
“Just make sure you don’t lay even the tip of your pinkie on Lily again,” Oren said, having the decency to look Connell in the eyes and nod at him. If the old man hadn’t been so stooped, Connell guessed he’d add another three—if not four—inches to his height. Oren was gruff all right, but there was also something in his expression and about his fierce protectiveness of the young woman that Connell liked.
As if Oren hadn’t scared the other men in the room enough already, he turned abruptly and swept the barrel of his gun across the wide eyes that stared at him. “And if any of you other shanty boys so much as thinks about touching Lily, I’ll see it in your eyes and come hunt you down. Then I’ll shoot you full of holes and feed you to the wolves.”
Lily patted the man’s arm and laughed, the sweet ring full of affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Oren grumbled under his mustache. His gaze swept hungrily over the table and the plates of untouched food.
“Mrs. Heller, we’ll need two rooms,” Lily said, “and the use of your cellar for a darkroom, if it’s available.”
“Then you’re planning on taking pictures while you’re here?” Vera asked the question that was on the tip of Connell’s tongue.
“That we are, among other things,” Lily said cheerfully.
Oren snorted and shook his head. Then he plopped himself down on the nearest bench and growled at Mrs. Heller. “How about serving me a meal before the food gets cold enough to grow legs and walk itself out the door?”
Connell made quick work of restringing the sock line and then situated himself back at his spot at the far table in the corner, where he could usually eat in solitude and work on recording and computing the day’s figures in his ledgers. His books lay open and his pen was dry, with a half-inch ink splotch on the page where he’d dropped the pen and tossed his spectacles.
He stabbed the tip of his knife into a slab of salted pork. The greasy gravy had already cooled and congealed. For several seconds he twirled the meat and stared at it. The minute Lily Young had walked into the door he’d forgotten his hunger.
And now, he was ashamed to admit, he was much more interested in studying the vibrant Lily Young than doing anything else.
She’d slept too late. From the sliver of light between the thin curtains, Lily could see that morning was already chasing away the darkness of the long winter night.
Hurriedly, she tucked the last of her unruly curls into a knot.
She hadn’t gotten used to the long winter nights of central Michigan, where the light disappeared at five in the evening and didn’t show itself again until about eight the next morning. Even long after the rooster crowed, the skies were usually cloudy and dark, making it seem that night lingered forever.
If only the sun could break through the dismal covering more often.
She shivered and crossed the frigid unheated room to the window. She yanked open the curtains, letting in the dull light, longing for the bright sunshine that could warm her soul, if not her body. Oren claimed that it took a couple of winters for Easterners to grow thicker skin and adjust to northern winters. But after two years, her skin was apparently still as thin as the day she’d arrived from New York.
With her fingernail, she scratched a circle in the frosted pane and caught a glimpse of Main Street, mostly deserted. She didn’t doubt the shanty boys were already hard at work. They didn’t spare a single second of daylight in their quest to strip the earth of its treasures—namely white pine trees.
At the clomping of horse hooves on the hard-packed snow and the whistle of a distant train, Lily spun away from the window and crossed the room. Oren had probably been awake for several hours and was hard at work setting up his makeshift darkroom in the cellar.
And here she’d been, snug under heavy quilts, lazing the day away. She stepped over the pile of her discarded clothes and the grain-seed sack that held the rest of her earthly possessions. The contents spilled out of the bag, the result of her hurried attempt at her morning toilet in the freezing room.
The glint of silver stopped her, and she reached for the oval picture frame among the folds of her wearing apparel. She held the miniature portrait to her mouth, huffed a breath of warm air onto the cold glass, and with the edge of her sleeve, wiped away the smudges.
In the dim light, she glanced around the small room. A chair with blue-chipped paint sat in one corner. Two pegs on the whitewashed wall awaited her clothes. Next to the sagging twin bed was a square bedside table holding a dusty lantern.
She stepped to the table, wiped off a layer of grime, and then gently set the frame on the clean spot, angling it so the picture faced the room.
Folding her arms across her chest, she stepped back and inspected her one attempt at making the room into the home it would become for the next several weeks. The silver frame was spotted with corrosion, but it outlined the dear faces of her mother and father. It was the portrait they’d had taken on their wedding day and was the only tangible reminder of the family she’d once had.
Lately, every time she looked at the picture, her parents’ unsmiling faces seemed to accuse her of losing Daisy, of not doing everything she could to take care of her little sister, of not keeping her safe enough.