Page 53 of Charlotte
The truth of that stung. Lottie picked up the cookie tin.
Delly lifted one eyebrow. “Are you taking cookies?”
“I cannot go empty-handed.”
“An apology is not improved by baked goods.”
“It may be steadied by them.”
Delly considered this and nodded once. “Do not offer too many words. You reach for words when you are nervous.”
“I know.”
“Do not explain so long he must comfort you for hurting him.”
Lottie closed her eyes. “That is painfully good advice.”
“I am often useful.”
Lottie opened her eyes and thought of Peterson flinching from that word.
“You are more than useful,” she said.
Delly looked surprised.
Lottie kissed her cheek and left before either of them could become sentimental about it.
The camp road rose through pines and shadow. Lottie had not gone far along it alone before, and each step reminded her she was very far from Chicago. The ground was uneven, the trees thick, and the evening air smelled of sap, sawdust, and smoke from the cookhouse. Voices carried from ahead, lower now than the midday shouts.
She found Peterson near the edge of the camp clearing, splitting kindling with his left hand.
The sight startled her.
Not because he was working. Of course, he was working. He had tucked the Tennyson on a stump nearby, far enough from the wood chips to keep it safe. A small strip of cloth marked his place.
He had been reading. The knowledge nearly undid her. Then he saw her, and the careful distance returned to his posture.
“Miss Bellamy.”
She stopped several feet away. Not too close. Not in front of the men. The cookie tin suddenly felt foolish in her hands.
“Mr. Peterson. May I speak with you?”
He drove the hatchet into the chopping block. “About what?”
“My mistake.”
His gaze dropped to the tin. “Cookies?”
“These are Mrs. Beck’s mistake. I am merely carrying them.”
A faint movement touched his mouth, but it did not become a smile.
He glanced toward the cookhouse, where several men sat outside with coffee, trying not to watch and failing thoroughly. Peterson lifted the Tennyson from the stump and nodded toward the path beyond the woodpile.
“Not here.”
Lottie followed him to a place where the trees grew closer and the sounds of the camp softened behind them. He stopped beside a fallen log and waited.
