Unclaimed Bride. Lauri Robinson
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color had drained from her face, but she held her stiff posture. “I understand, Mr. Clayton, I wouldn’t expect any less. I assure you, the last thing I’d want is to see Angel injured.”
He held her stare. “There are many types of injuries, Miss Jennings. The ones we can’t see are often worse than the ones we can.”
She blinked, and respectfully bowed her head. “I agree, sir.”
The word grated his nerves too deep this time. “I’d appreciate if you called me Mr. Clayton, or simply Ellis.”
“Very well, Mr. Clayton.”
“I’ll run some figures by you tomorrow as far as pay is concerned. I ask that you complete a list of duties you feel should fall to your position.”
“I’ll have it ready first thing in the morning. I’d also like to document the funds I already owe you.” She clarified, “The coat, scarf and mittens.”
He stood and extended a hand. “Very well, Miss Jennings. I wish you a good night, then.”
She rose and gave his hand a surprisingly firm shake. “Thank you, Mr. Clayton. I appreciate the opportunity.” Pulling her hand from his, she nodded. “Good night.”
Straight-backed and head held high, she left the room. It wasn’t until the door quietly snapped shut that he repeated, “Good night.”
A log rolled in the fire, shooting sparks against the wire mesh grate. Ellis walked over and rather than remove the grate, slid the poker between the grate and the stones. Breaking apart the glowing log until it was little more than small-sized coals that would soon die out, he wondered about the arrangement he’d just agreed to. Constance Jennings hid a very large secret. It was written on her face as bold as the headlines of the Territory Gazette.
His brother Eli still ran the family plantation back in the Carolinas. He’d write Eli, ask a bit about pre-war plantations near Richmond. Protecting Angel came before all else, which meant learning more about Constance Jennings. After replacing the poker, he went to his desk and penned a short letter before he blew out the lamps and made his way up the stairs.
The lamp in his room had been lit, as well as the fire set. Tugging his shirt off, he paused near the dresser where the picture of Christine, taken shortly before her death, sat. He picked up the silver filigree frame. “I saw you tonight,” he whispered, “shooting across the sky. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She didn’t answer of course, but his mind did. Christine always knew what she was doing, and had rarely, if ever, been wrong.
He set the picture down. “There’s always a first.”
Day comes early on a ranch, and a morning that carried a blizzard meant the first set of chores would take twice as long as usual. Ellis donned layers, knowing how the wind could steal away the body’s heat, and made his way down the front set of stairs. A scent caused him to pause on the bottom step. Coffee? Beans never entered the house in the morning. He and Angel dealt with that meal themselves.
He made his way to the swinging door off the foyer.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton.” She didn’t turn from the stove.
The fine hairs on his neck stood. How had she known he was here? He’d barely pushed the door open, and it didn’t squeak. “Miss Jennings,” he greeted, stepping into the room.
“Coffee’s on the table. The biscuits will be done in a few minutes as well as the gravy.” Her trim hips swayed as she stirred a spoon about in the pan.
“I usually wait until after chores and breakfast with Angel.” He hadn’t meant to sound as rude as it came out, but his nerves were ticking again.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed with the storm you’d need to be out early this morning. I’m sure it’ll keep if you want to wait.” She pulled the pan off the heat and set it near the back of the stove before she spun about. Dressed in the same dark blue outfit she’d worn last night while they’d talked in his office, he wondered if she’d slept.
There were no bags under her eyes. Actually, she looked quite rested and healthy. Her black hair was neatly pinned in a bun, and she’d tied a flour sack around her waist for an apron, which enhanced the feminine curves he had to drag his eyes off.
He gripped the back of the closest chair, but needing something more to do, snatched the steaming cup off the table. The wondrous smells filling the kitchen had his stomach growling. “As long as it’s ready, I might as well eat. It may be a while before I make it back in.”
“Wonderful.” She spun back to the stove.
Did she mean it was wonderful that he wanted to eat, or wonderful that he’d be gone for a while? He sat, scratching his head at the conflicting thoughts. It was almost as if he was in the wrong skin, the way his nerves twitched and itched. Mere seconds later, a plate of biscuits smothered with glossy gravy was set down in front of him. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
She hovered near the table. “Angel gave me a tour of the house last night. I assumed our arrangement would start this morning.” Tugging her fingers apart, she pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.
Written in slanted, perfect penmanship, was a long list of duties. He didn’t take the time to read them all. “Yes, that’s fine.” He picked up his fork. “I’ll meet with you later today, to go over your wage and such.”
“Very well,” she replied, walking across the room. “Enjoy your breakfast. There’s more on the stove.”
There were times she acted like a scared little girl, others where she appeared to be a wise old woman and still others—especially when a slight hint of an English accent filtered her words—where he was convinced she should be sitting in a tea parlor surrounded by ladies-in-waiting. All in all, she made him feel as confused as a cat with two tails.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“I’ll wait for Angel.” She transferred the pan of biscuits into a basket and covered them with a cloth, and then stirred down the bubbling gravy.
He pulled his eyes back to the breakfast before him, and lifted his fork. Beans had never made something taste this delicious. The gravy had big chunks of sausage and had soaked deep into the golden-brown biscuits. He ate two helpings before he excused himself to gather his outerwear from his office.
A scraping noise said someone was in the front parlor when he reentered the foyer. Walking to the doorway, Ellis paused. Crouched down, Miss Jennings swept the cold ashes from the fireplace in the large front room and deposited them in the ash bucket. Frowning at the sight, he said, “Thomas Ketchum is my wood man.”
She flipped loose strands of hair aside with the back of her hand as she turned. “Excuse me?”
The action teased his mind, made him think of her attractiveness. “Thomas,” Ellis repeated, reminding himself of what he’d been saying. “I pay him to cut wood during the summer and tend to the fires in winter. He does other things as well. Part of his job is to clean out the fireplaces and keep them burning all day. He should be in any minute.”
She finished the job, replaced the ash brush to its holder and then stood. “I thought that was just because you were gone yesterday. He comes in even when you’re home?”
“Yes. That’s his job.” He gestured toward the front door. “A ranch this size requires a lot of wood. It takes one person dedicated to it.”
Wiping her hands on the flour sack, she said, “I do apologize. I’ll remember that in the future.”
He nodded, but a feeling as if he’d just chastised her for no reason settled in his chest. Shrugging against the sensation, he went to the door and stepped out into what might prove to be one of the biggest blizzards of all time.
Chapter Three