Page 27 of Christmas at Carnton

She didn’t wait for a response but strode toward the house, yet his quiet voice still reached her.

“You’re most welcome . . . General Prescott.”

Not daring to look back, she couldn’t keep from smiling.

Two nights later, after helping Tempy with Thanksgiving meal preparations for the following day, Aletta grabbed her shawl and slipped out to the barn, oil lamp in one hand, nativity design in the other.

Tired though she was, she was eager to at least get the measurements drawn onto the pieces of wood so she’d be ready to begin cutting come the weekend. And with Andrew situated before the hearth, tucked between Winder and Hattie as Miss Clouston read them a bedtime story, now was her chance to get the measuring done quickly. Without her precious son’s “assistance.”

“Measure twice, cut once,” she spoke aloud into the quiet, recalling her father’s treasured counsel. She’d get all the pieces of wood measured and marked tonight, then would check the measurements against the plans once again on Saturday before cutting.

Captain Winston had stacked all the boards atop one another on one side of the barn, placing the largest boards on the bottom. But no bother. If she could chop firewood, she could certainly move a few pieces of wood.

She hung the oil lamp on a peg and laid aside her design and shawl. First, to get the largest pieces laid flat where she could assess everything and get clean measurements, and make certain she wasn’t forgetting anything. She moved the bags of nails atop the pile, then started to lift the first piece of wood—

But it proved heavier than she’d wagered. Even the smallest pieces were heavy. Stubbornness demanded she try again. But sensibility and awareness of her body’s limits, especially being with child, swiftly won out.

She sighed, hands on hips.

Knowing what she needed to do, she still considered asking Tempy for help first. But Tempy, though strong, would be no better equipped to lift these pieces of wood than she was. Nor should a woman Tempy’s age be enlisted to do such a thing.

Aletta glanced in the general direction of Captain Winston’s cabin. He would help her, she had no doubt. But at what cost to her womanly pride? If only she hadn’t made such a point of telling him she wouldn’t require his assistance until the final stages of the project. She blew out a breath.

And here she was, not even started yet, and already she needed him.

A knock sounded and Jake paused in his sketching. Pencil and notebook in hand, he rose from the rocking chair by the fire and opened the door.

“Mrs. Prescott?” He glanced beyond her toward the main house, the cold forcing its way inside. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.” She tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. “I . . . have a favor to ask of you, that’s all.” Her gaze fell to the notebook in his hand. “If I’m not bothering you.”

He glanced down to see his partially finished sketch of the McGavocks’ pecan grove. “No, you’re not bothering me.” He hesitated, then gestured. “Would you like to step inside? It’s freezing out.”

Uncertainty shadowed her expression. Whether about his invitation or her reason for being here, he didn’t know. But she finally shook her head. “I need you to help me, if you would. With the nativity,” she added quickly.

And Jake suddenly realized it wasn’t uncertainty in her expression he saw. It was irritation. And he curbed a smile, knowing only too well—even just having met her—how much it likely rankled her to have to come here and ask for his help.

But how very glad he was that she had.

He laid aside the pencil and sketch pad, grabbed his coat, and draped it around her shoulders. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

They hurried into the barn, and he closed the door behind them. He wasn’t about to say “I told you so.” But it was obvious she’d realized she needed help building the nativity after all. Which was understandable. And he was only too glad to step in.

“Thank you, Captain Winston. Both for your coat and for your help.”

He accepted the jacket and laid it aside, choosing not to make her grovel. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how best to design the booth for the nativity, Mrs. Prescott, and it seems to me that . . .”

As he detailed his plan, perplexity shaded her features.

Finally, he paused. “Am I going too fast?”

She stared. “Not at all. But I didn’t ask you here to help me with the design. I already know what I want to do. I simply need you to move the wood so I can make some measurements. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

He looked at the pile of wood, then back at her. “So . . . you don’t need my ideas.”

She smiled and shook her head, a glint in her eyes. “Only your brawn, Captain Winston.”

Enjoying the smart little quirk in her tone, he felt only mildly insulted as he spent the next hour and a half moving the stack of wood, waiting while she measured it and consulted with her original plans, then moving it all back again, out of the way of foot traffic. All while conversation—and comfortable spaces of silence—settled easily between them.