The Sugar House. Christine Flynn
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unmistakable jolt of heat that had caught him so off guard yesterday. She’d tucked the soft-pink turtleneck she wore into the waist of slender dark-gray denims, revealing sweetly rounded breasts and a waist small enough he could almost span it with his hands.
The thought of having his hands anywhere on her sexy little body had him looking away even as she tugged on the heavy flannel shirt that practically swallowed her whole.
He was far better off thinking of her as the skinny little kid who’d barely been big enough at one time to stand at the long metal sink without a step stool. He remembered her dragging that stool around the room as she followed her dad, stepping up on it so she could watch him measure the sugar in the sap or the syrup, climbing down to lug a single piece of split wood for the fire.
An unfamiliar disquiet had him heading for the large door at the end of the room. Remembering her with the dad she’d adored, he could only imagine how hard it must have been for her to lose him. He knew how hard it had been to lose his own father, and they hadn’t agreed on much of anything for years.
Not wanting to think about that, either, he pushed on the heavy door and jammed it open against the snowbank behind it. She couldn’t object to his bringing the wood in now. He had to wait for his coffee.
Tiny snowflakes still drifted down as he gathered and carried in two large armloads. He was on his way in with a third when he turned to see her standing at the threshold holding a pair of large, worn leather gloves.
“You really don’t need to do this,” she said.
He walked past her, unloading his load on the growing stack. “You didn’t need to make me coffee, either.”
The coffee hadn’t been an act of hospitality. It had been a hint. Apparently too courteous to point that out, she held out the gloves.
“Put them on. You don’t need splinters.”
He held his hand up, palm out. “Already got one,” he said, but took the gloves anyway.
Giving him a look of resignation, or maybe it was forbearance, she pulled on her own gloves and silently went to work beside him.
Within minutes, the half cord of wood that had been outside was now inside, bits of bark and wood had been brushed from their clothes, and the big door was pulled closed.
“Thank you,” she said, leaving him to toss his gloves next to where she’d just left hers on the replenished stack.
“No problem,” he replied to her departing back and pulled at the Velcro tabs on his heavy jacket. Even with the side door still open and the inside air cool from the bigger door having been open, too, the small task had quickly warmed his muscles. From the fire inside it, the metal arch radiated heat like a large, squat furnace.
Vaguely aware of her dog barking somewhere in the distance, he looked from the crowded worktable to where she pulled a hair clip from her baggy shirt’s pocket. “You don’t do this all alone, do you?”
“Not all the time.”
He was glad to hear that. Knowing she had help relieved him. A little.
“How much of the time?” he wanted to know, thinking Rudy’s barking sounded more like excitement than warning.
As if she’d done it a thousand times before, she deftly whipped her ponytail into a knot and anchored it with the clip. “Charlie Moorehouse usually helps me.”
He knew Charlie. Of him, anyway. He was one of the old guys who’d played checkers at the general store. “I thought Charlie had his own sugaring operation.”
“He retired and sold it to the Hanleys a few years ago,” she replied, speaking of another sugaring family in the area. “He gets cranky come sugaring time if he can’t make syrup, so I asked him if he’d work for me.”
Thinking it sounded as if she’d hired Charlie as much for the old guy’s benefit as her own, he nodded toward the open door. “Is that who your dog’s barking at?”
“Charlie won’t be coming today. His gout has been acting up and his big toe is too painful to get a boot on.”
Looking curious herself about who her dog seemed to be greeting, she was already moving to the doorway.
Curiosity promptly faded to caution when she stopped and looked back toward him.
“It’s Joe,” she said, and turned to check on the progress of the coffee.
Jack stifled a groan as he brushed back the sides of his jacket and jammed his hands on his hips. He’d figured he had another ten minutes to get the answers he sought before she started hinting again that he should leave. The absolute last thing he wanted right now was to be interrupted by a deputy with a chip the size of a tree on his shoulder.
“We still have a couple things to discuss, Emmy.”
As if she knew exactly what he wanted, she sent a look of utter patience across the aged plank boards of the floor.
“I already told you, I appreciate what you offered, but I don’t want it.”
He opened his mouth, promptly closed it again. He wasn’t going to argue with her now. Not with Joe on his way. There was one thing he thought she should know, however, in case the local deputy got any grandiose ideas about running him off.
“I’m not leaving until we’ve talked.”
“We have talked.”
“You talked,” he countered. “You said what you had to say, but I never got started.”
“Other than the property, there’s nothing else to discuss.”
“Actually there’s a lot more. We haven’t even started talking about you.”
It was as clear as fresh sap that she had no idea why she should be a topic of discussion. It seemed equally apparent that she had no intention of indulging his interest, but she didn’t have time to actually tell him that before Rudy ran through the door, tongue lolling, just ahead of the man who filled most of the doorway.
Wearing his uniform, his hat dangling from one hand, Joe absently leaned down to scratch the dog behind its ear. As he performed the apparently routine gesture, he looked straight at Jack.
His bold brown eyes locked on eyes of piercing blue.
“Everything okay here, Emmy?” Joe asked.
The chill suddenly permeating the room had nothing to do with the cold outside. Emmy had never known the area’s only law officer to be anything but easygoing. As far as she was concerned, Joe was a big, congenial teddy bear who spent more time checking in on folks to make sure nothing was amiss than doing actual law enforcement. But then she’d never seen him around anyone he held a grudge against. Or who obviously held one against him.
Her glance fixed on the scar at the corner of his mouth a moment before she turned it on the man pointedly holding his stare. Joe would see that silvery reminder of Jack every morning when he shaved.
Pure challenge marked Joe Sheldon’s usually affable expression. Despite his almost casual tone, that confrontational air snapped in his eyes, stiffened his stance as he rose.
“Everything is fine,” she hurried to assure him.
“He’s not bothering you?”
It sounded almost as if Jack sighed. Or maybe what she heard was exasperation. “I told you last night I’m not going to cause her any trouble.”
“I know what you said,” the deputy countered flatly, “but I’d prefer to make sure for myself.” One sandy-blond eyebrow arched in her direction. “Emmy? Is he bothering you or not?”
Jack Travers definitely bothered her. Though both men were the same impressive height and Joe was probably brawnier, it was the tension in Jack’s leanly muscular body that coiled around her, making her aware of him in ways she truly didn’t want to acknowledge