getting his bid? She didn’t have to take it, and maybe then the man would leave. “I’d like to have two spare bedrooms attached, so that would make the overall building twenty by thirty.”
“Two spare rooms? For a future family, I suppose.”
The comment caught her by surprise.
“I mean,” he explained softly, “if you do remarry, and you might, you might need the spare rooms.”
“I’ll be using them to take in homeless children.”
The lines around his eyes deepened with respect. “I see. Unfortunately, Banff does get a few orphans. Mostly because of accidents. Sometimes an avalanche. Or consumption. Or a fire.” He stepped back and seemed to soak her in. “How many windows are there to cut?”
“Four.”
“Porch?”
“I’d like one around the front.”
“Well, that’s an easy estimate. I’d say it’d cost you roughly two hundred and twenty dollars.”
With an exclamation of surprise, she dropped into the soft grass of the riverbank.
“I know I’m under the other two bids. I always am. I can cut and saw lumber cheaper than anyone else in town.”
He was a lot under. Sixty dollars under. A world of difference.
“I paid Mr. Finnigan five hundred dollars for this piece—”
“What? You paid him five hundred for what?”
“For the shack, and the right to the property.”
That, for some reason, seemed to knock the wind out of him. He sank into the grass beside her. He really was surprised by Mr. Finnigan’s sale, wasn’t he? Well, it didn’t matter. The money had still gone into their joint sawmill coffers. And Amanda was sure five hundred dollars didn’t make much of a dent in the thousands of dollars of construction he saw in a year.
Standing up, he shoved his hat back onto his head. As she deliberated what to do, Tom dunked the buckets into the river and hoisted them to his shoulders. He did it with such ease, she wondered what it’d be like to have a man to help her here with the harder, backbreaking work. To spend the evenings together, to call on neighbors, to keep her body warm at night. But then, the last thing she wanted was another man. Some men couldn’t be counted on when a woman really needed them, and she had no desire to find out what kind of man Tom Murdock was.
When she bounded into the clearing, Grandma, in her split skirt, turned down the path on the bicycle. “Honey, I’m back.” Spotting Tom, she added, “I didn’t know we had company.”
“Howdy, ma’am. My name’s Tom Murdock.”
A smooth rider, Grandma gave a little gasp of delight as she dismounted. They gathered around the pounded earth by the logs where they usually lit the fire. With hesitation, Amanda introduced them. “This is my grandmother, Clementine Stewart.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Grandma, patting her thick gray braids. “But I thought you were too busy to come around.”
“I had a slight change of plans.” He smiled graciously as they shook hands, then glanced at Grandma’s dark clothing.
Grandma explained. “My husband passed away ten months ago. He was the dear fella who trained Amanda here. My poor, dear Scott, he taught this little lady everything she knows about medicine.”
Grandma rambled on, much to Amanda’s dismay. Grandma loved to visit, and if you didn’t watch, she’d spill every secret they had. “He was a doctor, servin’ the poorer folks in town, never insistin’ on payment, but those who could paid mostly with goods. Matter of fact, one of his customers gave him this here bicycle. What was his name? Mr. Withers, that’s right. He had gall bladder problems.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Tom leaned close to Grandma. “He didn’t get it from the bicycle, did he?”
“Heavens, no!” Grandma shrieked with laughter. It had been a while since she’d had visitors, thought Amanda, and she should be around more people, if this is how much enjoyment she was getting out of Tom’s visit.
“My sympathies on your husband, ma’am,” he acknowledged to Grandma, then turned solemnly to face Amanda. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you said you were widowed, as well. How long ago did your husband pass away?”
Grandma fell into a coughing spell at Amanda’s obvious lie.
Amanda’s heart lurched. The women stared at each other. They signaled wildly behind Tom’s back; Grandma urging her to tell the truth, Amanda adamantly refusing.
“Yes, dear,” Grandma said between coughs, “go on, tell us.”
Amanda clutched her apron. She already knew Grandma’s thoughts on this. That Amanda shouldn’t hide anything from her past. That she should stand up to everyone who asked. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. “It’s difficult for me to talk about, if you don’t mind.”
Glancing toward his mare that was ripping grass by the tree where he’d tied it, Tom tilted his dark head. “I understand.”
“What exactly is so difficult?” Grandma raised her wide gray eyebrows and spoke innocently. “Tell the man what he asked.”
Tom cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, getting trapped between the two women. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
Amanda pursed her lips at Grandma. “It’s difficult to talk about the painful things in my past.”
“Well, sometimes, they get less difficult the more you talk about them. Amazin’ things can happen. Sometimes, you can start talking about your widowed past, and before you finish the sentence and you’ve got it all off your chest, you feel like you’re not widowed at all.”
Grandma eyed her. Amanda eyed her back. It was her concern alone. A blunt man such as Tom Murdock wouldn’t understand.
Tom turned to Grandma. “Is that how you feel, ma’am, about being widowed?”
Grandma sputtered. “No.”
Rubbing his smooth jaw, Tom looked more perplexed. “Well, I best be going.”
He was probably leaving, thought Amanda with a twinge of embarrassment, because he thought they were talking in circles. Which they were. Something she and Grandma were good at.
Amanda followed as he walked to his mare.
“Do we have a deal then?” he asked, unhitching the reins from the branch.
“How soon could you start?”
“How does tomorrow morning suit you?”
“How quickly could you get it done?”
“Six weeks.”
“It’s a deal on two conditions.”
Tom groaned. “Go on.”
“Number one. I get the agreement in writing, and receipts for each deposit.”
“A handshake’s not good enough, I see.”
“Number two. For every day earlier that you finish before the six weeks is up, could you take off fifty cents?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’d like to help with the work. The other two builders agreed, and for each day of labor, I’d be getting paid fifty cents a day. But only if it saves you time, so you’re able to speed along to your next job.”
“How much time could that amount to? You could help with clearing brush, but the other work is too heavy. You might save me two days, so you’d earn…maybe one dollar?” He gazed over the shack. “If you really need—” He caught himself before he finished the insulting comment.