Western Winter Wedding Bells Read online

  The sight of a woman, especially one as young and pretty as Chloe, seated beside the workbenches and storage bins in his solitary space contrasted like a graceful butterfly resting upon an anvil.

  “You’re my last hope,” she said. “I’ve come to beg you to help me. I can’t let the church my grandfather loved be hauled away in a pile of stone and brick rubble and replaced with a modern hotel.”

  He understood her attachment to the building. He had a special fondness for the architecture and workmanship himself. All those secluded hours within its walls had planted and nurtured his appreciation for beautiful craftsmanship. If not for that place, his future may have been shaped in an entirely different manner.

  “Richard is used to getting what he wants,” he said, thinking aloud. If Owen helped her, his participation would cause friction between the brothers—and maybe even within his family. He’d stopped rocking the boat a long time ago to keep peace.

  She nodded, her expression grim. “I know. And his opinion holds a lot of sway with the council.”

  “Not so much his opinions as his money,” Owen remarked.

  “At any rate, they listen to him.”

  Owen was a thinker. He’d never made a rapid decision in his life that he could recall. His quiet contemplation was something that drove Richard crazy. He mulled the options and different scenarios around in his head. He considered his current list of scheduled work, pondering the idea of how to fit in an undertaking this big in a short length of time.

  “I asked about the graves and Richard suggested the—” she paused and took a breath “—the remains could be moved out to Long View. I’ve had two days—and nights—to think about it. I know the people buried there wouldn’t know the difference. They’re long dead, but moving them seems…well, just wrong. Some of those sandstone markers are pretty weathered, and I don’t know how they’d make the trip. I’m sure Richard would just as soon see them replaced with fresh new headstones, but those are the markers their families set in place to honor their loved ones.”

  If Owen remembered correctly, one of his uncles was buried there, as well as a brother and sister his mother had lost only weeks after their births.

  “Some of the epitaphs are too worn to read,” she went on. “But most still have their inscriptions and designs intact. Do you remember all the lambs and trees and flowers carved into the stones? One of my favorites is a tall marker that reads Until the Day Break. Below it are the graves of a brother and sister who died days apart. In early summer, pink-and-white phlox weaves around between those old headstones.” She’d been gazing absently beyond his shoulder, but her attention focused on his face. “How can something like that be moved without destroying its sanctity and integrity?”

  “It can’t.” In the end it was Chloe’s passion that swayed his decision. Richard’s need to accumulate yet another property and put a feather in his cap paled in comparison to Chloe Hanley’s fervor regarding history, beauty and reverence.

  Her eyes widened in expectation, but she didn’t rush him. He liked that about her. She was patient.

  “I haven’t been inside for a long time,” he said. “I expect the first thing we’ll need to do is make a list of supplies and get them ordered. We can take a look around tomorrow and see how much can be salvaged and what needs replacing.”

  Chloe hopped down from her seat. “You’ll do it? You’ll help get the church ready by Christmas?”

  Chapter Two

  “I’m guessing if Richard thinks it can’t be done, he’s got good reason,” he said. “I don’t want to promise until I’ve looked at it and assessed the work. Five weeks isn’t very long. Without hiring a crew, it could be slow going.”

  “There’s a little money left over from fundraising,” she told him. “And I’ve got some savings I can use.”

  He nodded. “Let’s keep our decisions for tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at the church, and we’ll make a plan then.”

  Her eyes filled with grateful tears. “Thank you, Owen. This means so much to me.” She covered her lips with her fingertips for a moment while she gathered her emotions. “My grandfather would be so happy if he knew what we were doing. All along I’ve thought how heartbroken he’d have been to see the state the church is in. Now it’s going to look like its old self again.”

  “Like I said, we’ll have a better idea tomorrow.” He didn’t want her to get her hopes up if what she was planning would be impossible.

  “We can hold Christmas Eve services there,” she suggested with a bright smile. “It’ll be just like when we were kids.”

  He tilted his head to the side noncommittally. For some unexplainable reason, he didn’t want to disappoint her. She’d always seemed as frail as a delicate flower.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  He raised a hand to silence her. “Thank me later.”

  He stood, intending to lead her from his workshop, but without warning she launched herself toward him, wrapping her arms in her bulky coat around his middle and hugging him soundly. The embrace placed her head right under his chin, her silky hair grazing his neck. Her feminine scent paralyzed him for a moment too long. This wasn’t one of his sisters hugging him for all she was worth. He gathered his wits and peeled her arms away.

  “What time in the morning?” she asked.

  “Eight?” he answered.

  “Eight it is.” She took her fluffy white mittens from her pocket and pulled them on as he guided her toward the front door. She looked up at him again. “This means everything to me, Owen.”

  Her earnest gaze created as much havoc with his senses as her hug. He didn’t have a reply, so he opened the door. The sun had nearly set and shadows lurked in the doorways of the storefronts across the street. “Wait until I get my jacket. I’ll walk you home.”

  He grabbed his wool jacket and his hat and locked the door before joining her on the boardwalk. As they left the wooden walkway, dried leaves crunched underfoot.

  “I love this time of year, right before the first snow,” she said, tugging her collar up around her chin. “Like a promise, the air is saying, ‘Winter’s coming.’”

  They reached her street and walked in silence. Owen spotted the home where his mother had lived for the past two years since his father had died and Richard had handled selling the ranch. Owen had helped his mother find this place, where two lots separated Lillith Reardon’s house from Chloe’s. In spring, the scent of the lilacs that formed a border along Chloe’s yard wafted all the way to his mother’s dining room. Now they stood in bleak formation, neatly clipped back in preparation for cold weather.

  As they passed, he noted lights on in his mother’s parlor. He considered stopping to see if there was enough supper for him to join them, but he needed to get back to the shop and finish staining the doors, especially if he was going to lose work time tomorrow morning.

  They reached the two-and-a-half-story home where Chloe lived, and he stood at the bottom of the stairs while she hurried up onto the porch. The wicker furniture had been put away, and the porch looked large and empty.

  A light shone from the window overlooking the porch, and muted organ music reached them.

  “That would be Miss Sarah,” Chloe said. “My boarder. She’s probably just finishing up her evening recital.”

  He nodded. His mother had mentioned a renter.

  “Well, good night, Owen.”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “’Night, miss.”

  She opened the front door and knelt to prevent a furry calico cat from escaping before turning and disappearing inside.

  A bitter wind kicked up a dry batch of leaves and swirled them on the porch floor outside the door she’d just closed. Owen turned back the way they’d come, glancing absently again at his mother’s house.

  How long would it take for news of his agreement to work on Chloe Hanley’s church project to reach his family? He should probably tell his mother himself. He might be in time for dessert. Leaping the th
ree railroad tie steps that led up to the walk, he swung open the wrought-iron gate, noting it needed oiling again. He took in the rosebushes he’d covered for winter and the fresh coat of paint on her storm door. He’d done the chores while the weather was still warm, intending to cut enough wood to last them the winter, but now he’d probably have to have a load delivered. As if he didn’t have enough to do…

  What had he gotten himself into?

  Chloe hung her coat on the tree inside the vestibule. She’d better get out her boots and have them at the ready before snow fell.

  Antoinette sat in the center of the doorway to the study, her great long tail flicking back and forth in the air behind her. She meowed and gave Chloe an accusatory green-eyed stare.

  “What is it? Have I missed your suppertime? I haven’t eaten, either.” She knelt to scoop up the heavy cat and stroke her head and neck as she carried her into the room warmed by a snapping fire.

  Miss Sarah Wisdom had finished playing and was just settling into her rocker. She reached into the bag beside the chair and spread her knitting on her lap. She’d been working on a baby sweater since the previous summer. Chloe wondered if she deliberately tore out stitches so she had something to do the following night, but she wisely kept her silence. “Good evening, Miss Sarah.”

  “Good evening, Chloe. You’re late this evening.”

  “I had business to attend to after the food baskets were de livered.”

  “Did you walk all that way?”

  “No, Marcella hitched her buggy, and she and Jenetta accompanied me. We had heavy baskets, so walking would have been impossible.” The two widowed women she spoke of were sisters who shared a small home nearby. Though what some might consider up in their years, the two were Chloe’s most eager counterparts, sometimes even wearing Chloe to a frazzle with their energetic ideas.

  Sarah had never been married. From stories she had shared over the past few years, Chloe guessed she was probably old enough to be her mother, though she didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body. She obsessed over the smallest details of her appearance and her room, even being finicky about the kitchen and its contents. She rarely left the house, and when she did, she never asked if Chloe wanted to accompany her or needed anything while she was out.

  Chloe had become accustomed to her persnickety ways, and they shared the living space amiably. Chloe needed an income for monthly expenses and taxes, and because Sarah didn’t want her to take another boarder, she paid a goodly sum to live in this house.

  Sarah didn’t care for Antoinette, but the cat came along with the house and instinctively stayed clear of the woman.

  Chloe carried the cat into the kitchen, where she set her down and washed her hands before slicing cheese and an apple and pouring milk into a glass for herself and a saucer for Antoinette.

  After shaving a few scraps from the roast she had made the day before, she shared them. Antoinette ate, then dared to jump to the seat of the nearby chair and eyed the tabletop, but didn’t attempt the leap.

  Chloe was still basking in giddy delight over the fact that Owen Reardon had agreed to take on the church restoration. Well, all but agreed. He’d been hesitant to completely commit until he assessed things the following morning, but for some reason unknown to her, he seemed ready to take on the work.

  She’d have done it herself if she’d had the know-how and skill, but what she lacked in handiness, she would make up for with determination and dedication.

  She ate her meager meal with satisfaction, then put on water for a pot of tea and washed her plate and glass. Sarah had already washed and dried and put away the dishes she’d used, as she did each time she ate or drank.

  Chloe glanced around the roomy kitchen, noting everything in its place, the table and workspaces bare. The pie safe held a pie she’d made earlier in the week, and over half of it still remained. She broke off a bite of crust and nibbled it while waiting for the water to boil.

  Once it did, she poured it over tea leaves in her china pot and moved to glance out the window while the brew steeped.

  Lights were on in the house next door. Ever since Lillith Reardon and her daughter JoDee had moved in beside her, her own quiet existence had been pointed out on more than one occasion—especially weekends. Sundays were the most difficult, drawing out into tedious boredom, with Chloe aware that families were gathering elsewhere.

  On Sundays, Lillith Reardon made dinner for her growing brood, and they all came over to eat. During fair months, they played games in the yard. Children laughed and squealed, and parents sat on the shaded porch or joined them in croquet tournaments.

  Owen was always at the center of the children’s activities. At first she’d thought he must have married, but Lillith had told her all the children belonged to Richard and her oldest daughter, Millie.

  On Saturdays, however, before their gathering on the Sabbath, Owen always cut the grass with a push mower. As though thinking of the man conjured him up, Owen Reardon exited the rear door of the neighboring house carrying a bin. He stopped at the fire pit and emptied trash into the charred indentation in the ground.

  He lit the rubbish on fire and stood watching the flames. After a few minutes the fire died down. He banked the ashes and carried the bin back to the house. She remembered what it had been like when her grandfather had been alive and had needed her. Running his errands and preparing him meals had been satisfying. Owen obviously found the same reward in doing chores for his mother.

  Chloe turned to pour her tea. She carried a cup to the table and sat in the dim silence. If he was going to be occupied with the church and his own business, she would offer to help his mother with chores. She tucked away the idea for morning.

  It had been a long time since she’d had any hope regarding the building that held so many memories. In fact, it had been a long time since she’d had anything of consequence to look forward to. Things were definitely looking up.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning, Chloe handed the key she’d taken from its place in the top drawer of her grandfather’s desk to Owen and watched him place it in the wrought-iron keyhole and turn it.

  Even if she hadn’t been able to find the key, they could have removed boards from a window and entered the church. Owen pushed open the right portal of the double entryway door with a loud creak.

  The dark interior smelled like old wood and dust. “We won’t be able to see anything unless I let some light in,” he said. He strode back to the crowbar and leather bag he’d left outside the door and raised the flap, pulling out a hammer. Picking up the crowbar, he left the church, carrying both tools.

  A minute later, Chloe turned at the crack and squeak of wood and nails being pried, and squinted at a spot in the darkness. After a lot more pounding and creaking, a sliver of light opened along one of the tall stained-glass windows. A kaleidoscope of color pointed across the dusty wooden floor, growing longer and wider.

  With a final ripping sound, an entire square of light reflected on the ground. She raised her gaze to the intact window. “It’s perfect!”

  Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she placed her palm over her racing heart.

  She stood mesmerized as Owen uncovered three more windows, lighting the sanctuary in an ethereal glow. The exterior noise halted, leaving a calm silence.

  She turned to the doorway just as he appeared, silhouetted against the morning sun, tall and broad shouldered. He hadn’t worn a hat, and his wavy brown hair glinted with golden fire in the sunlight. Unlike Richard’s pomaded style, Owen’s ruffled hair always looked as though he’d left it to dry without troubling himself with a comb.

  His astute gaze moved from the windows to the colorful patterns on the floor and rose to the rafters and ceiling beams. Chloe followed his gaze upward.

  Owen stopped, mesmerized by the sight of Chloe standing in the spill of color. Her breath created bursts of white in the crisp air and tears glistened in her eyes. Her passion for this place moved him, b
ut her beauty distracted him from what he should be thinking about. He tilted his head back to focus his attention elsewhere.

  The dovetail joints and fitted grooves sang of the perfection and precision the builder had poured into every beam and arch and cross support.

  He immediately searched for the beam above the altar that had been carved with the faces and wings of angels and found it unchanged and breathtakingly beautiful after all this time.

  A cursory glance revealed that the altar area had suffered the most damage. Someone had taken one of the shorter podiums and broken it apart, most likely using the pieces of ash to strike at and damage the altar, the ancient organ and pipes, and one window. From his initial inspection, it appeared the only one broken.

  The interior windowsills were rotted and small animals had made nests under pews. At several places in the ceiling, boards hung down and underneath, flooring and pews were damaged from rain and snow.

  One entire wall and the flooring at its base had been splashed with whitewash.

  “What do you think?” Chloe’s voice interrupted his mental assessment. “Can we fix it all in time?”

  “The exterior windowsills are brick,” he said. “That means we only have to tear the wood away from the interior to replace what’s rotted. The roof will have to be changed.

  “A lot of these floorboards will have to come up.” He gestured to the wall. “We can probably clean all that off.” He turned. “I can do most of this—or hire it done—but that window…”

  Together they approached the broken window, still covered with boards from the outside.

  “Even if we find someone to make a replacement, the new one will never match the others exactly.” There were eight windows altogether, four on each side of the building, and the scenes in the glass depicted various Biblical events. “Do you remember what this one was?” he asked.