Page 32 of Magnolia Summer

If that didn’t drive Truett Beverly out of her thoughts, nothing would.

* * *

Truett couldn’t chaseCelia Wilcox from his thoughts. Especially the way she looked when she fainted, so pale and helpless. It had turned his insides to mush to see her that way. But he certainly liked the way she felt in his arms, soft and warm and . . . perfect.

He shouldn’t be thinking this way. After all, she had gotten mad at his teasing and yelled at him, telling him her family didn’t need him, then stalking off. But then, she had apologized. She was easy to forgive.

He had promised himself he would write her off as uppity and irritable if she did not think well of him after two weeks. But the unfortunate truth was, he still couldn’t quite forget about her. Whether she knew it or not, she and her family did need him. And now that he knew what she felt like in his arms, he wanted to feel that again.

But she wasn’t likely to faint in his arms again anytime soon.

However . . . the Fourth of July was coming up, which meant his mother was probably organizing a dance. A dance would afford a perfect opportunity to get her in his arms again.

If he had any sense, he’d forget about Celia. She didn’t even like him.

Although, she hadn’t exactly looked at him with hate in her eyes after he sewed up Will’s leg. As he recalled, she had looked quite grateful when she thanked him so prettily just before he lifted her onto the wagon seat.

It had taken more than two weeks, about three, in fact, but maybe she was coming around. And maybe he was plumb addled, but he still wanted her to admit she was wrong about him, that she had completely underrated him—his abilities and his charm.

Chapter 10

The next morning, Celia’s eyes flew open. Athunkseemed to come from the back door. She didn’t hear anyone stirring in Will and Harley’s room. Lizzie was still beside her. And Tempie and Mama never got up this early.

Carefully, to avoid waking Lizzie, Celia eased herself out of bed. She grabbed her robe off the hook on the wall and put it on. Only the barest gray light was visible through the windows. The clock on the mantle showed a quarter past five.

She tip-toed through the hallway to the kitchen and peered out the window, her breath catching at the sight of a man striding across the yard, milk bucket in hand. He disappeared into the barn.

Was this man trying to steal their cow’s morning milk? Well, he couldn’t have it—not unless he at least asked first!

But the milk might only be the beginning of what he wanted. Perhaps he was a drifter and would kill them all in their beds. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She’d read a newspaper account of that very thing happening somewhere in Kansas.

Should she go outside and confront him? Not in her nightgown and wrapper! But with his hurt leg, Will was in no condition to face an intruder. Nightclothes or not, if anyone faced the man, it should be Celia.

She padded softly into the breezeway and found her father’s old hunting rifle hanging on the wall on two wooden pegs. If only they had a smaller gun. But she’d have to make do with what she had. Good thing Daddy had taught her how to shoot all those years ago.

Still, it had been a long time since she’d held a gun.

Celia hitched the rifle up to her armpit as she stared out the kitchen window again. She quickly pushed the window up and propped the end of the gun barrel on the window sill, aiming at the barn. When he got close enough, she’d demand to know who he was and what he was doing there.

She waited, propping her hip against the sink as she kept her eyes trained on the barn door. The gun grew heavy in her arms, and the sky lightened even more. The rooster crowed, as he normally did around 5:30, but the man still had not emerged. Was he out there? Had he left without her seeing him?

Finally, the man, wearing a blue chambray shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows, came out of the barn carrying the milk bucket. He strode across the yard toward her and the house, but his eyes were trained on the ground as he walked. Celia leaned forward. Unless she was mightily mistaken, the man was Truett Beverly.

Her heart thumped double time as he approached the back door. He set the bucket on the top step and, without looking up, turned and strode back toward the barn.

She slumped against the counter and relaxed her grip on the gun.

Soon, Truett exited the barn again, this time pushing a full wheel barrow. Had he mucked the stable? After dumping that, he sauntered over to the wood pile, picked up the ax, raised it above his shoulder with practiced precision . . . and brought it down on the block of wood, splitting it in two.

Tears sprang to Celia’s eyes. She blinked several times to clear her vision. She wasn’t given to tears any more than she was given to fainting spells. Now, it seemed she was losing control at every turn—especially when Truett Beverly was around. It must mean that she was still sad about her father’s death. After all, she hadn’t allowed herself to cry very much when he died—besides that embarrassing display in front of Truett Beverly when he’d told her Daddy was dead. Crying didn’t help anything, and it wouldn’t bring her father back.

Truett set another block of wood on the broad stump. He lifted the ax and swung it down, splitting it with the first swing. Then he set up a much larger block of wood on the stump, tapping an iron wedge into the wood with the flat end of the ax. He then picked up the sledge hammer and brought it down on the wedge, which sank into the wood. He swung the hammer again and the block of wood split in two.

Celia had seen men split wood before, but never was she so fascinated before. His shirt was clinging to him, and it was already darkening with a patch of sweat down the middle of his back. She really shouldn’t be watching the play of muscles around his shoulders as he swung the sledge hammer.

“Who is that?”

Celia jumped and spun around, her hand over her heart as she gasped for breath. “Oh. Lizzie.” A guilty burn crept up her neck and into her cheeks.