Page 83 of Charlotte

“I know.” He glanced at her. Lottie smiled. “You hung it.”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer than it would have a week ago.

Then a voice came from the street. “Peterson! You courting bunting now?”

A few men laughed from near the mercantile. Peterson’s shoulders tightened.

Lottie turned and recognized the young man yelling across the road. “If he is, Mr. Hardy, the bunting is fortunate. It has been treated with more care than most women receive from men who stand in the street making remarks.”

Luke’s grin faltered. One of the other loggers laughed at him instead. Peterson looked down, but Lottie caught the corner of his mouth before he hid it.

Luke lifted both hands. “No offense, Miss Bellamy.”

“Then take care not to practice it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Beck made a small approving noise.

Mrs. Hanford said, “That was neatly handled.”

“I have sisters,” Lottie said.

“You have one sister.”

“She is sufficient.”

Peterson picked up the nail tin, but his right hand remained visible at his side. Visible.

For the rest of the morning, he used it more than he had meant to. Lottie could tell by the way he noticed after each task. He steadied the ladder with it. Braced another strip of bunting. Held the rail while he reached for the hammer. Once, when a child nearly knocked over the nail tin, he caught it with his right hand before it struck the boards.

Each time he looked down afterward as if surprised by what it had done. Lottie did not comment. Peterson didn’t need a speech about his hand. All he needed was one foolish girl who had fallen just far enough to prove it could still catch what mattered.

By late morning, the library front looked bright enough to be seen from the far end of Main Street. Red, white, and blue cloth framed the doors. A small sign reading WILD ROSE RIDGE LENDING LIBRARY sat beneath the bunting in Delly’s neat lettering. The first shelf could be glimpsed through the open doorway, the books standing straight in the summer light.

Peterson stood beside Lottie on the boardwalk and studied the display.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s high.”

“That is not praise.”

“It’ll hold.”

“That is also not praise.”

“It looks welcoming,” he said at last. Lottie turned to him. He kept his eyes on the meeting hall. “Like you meant it to.”

The compliment was plain, low, and better than any pretty thing he might have said.

Her throat tightened. “Thank you.”

His right hand flexed once at his side. This time, he did not hide it afterward. Lottie looked up at the bunting again. A square swag, hung by the right hands, was about the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Chapter Twelve

June 27, 1886, Evening — Behind the Meeting Hall