Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings. Jillian Hart
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prettiest gals always taken?”
“I’m not—” She tried to explain.
“I’ll be back for the baskets,” Joseph interrupted, before his Clara could correct any of the men’s notions about her. There was no way he was letting a single one of them think she was on the market. No way in hell. Protective fury raged inside him, and he felt like a pawing bull ready to charge a rival. He handed off the last food baskets to Old Man Riley.
There. The meal was delivered. He whipped around, surprised to find Clara a few steps behind him. Shock marked her innocent face, and she took a step back.
“You interrupted me, Joseph. Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”
He seized her by the elbow, gritting his teeth and doing his best to ignore the flare of another emotion. Desire coursed through him like a newly sprung river. “Are you lookin’ to marry one of them?”
“What kind of question is that?” She tried to wrench her arm free.
Not going to happen. He could feel the curious stares of the men nearby, unable to take their gazes off Clara. He wanted to punch every one of them for it, but he couldn’t seem to let go of her. “Just get in the sleigh.”
“And who are you to boss me around?” She kept her voice low, perhaps aware, too, of those watching them. “Let go of me, Joseph. And no, I don’t want to marry any of them. I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“Why not?” He released her and held back the blanket so she could settle more easily onto the cushioned seat.
“Because I don’t want someone plying me with false compliments on one hand and commanding me on the other, trying to win my heart and then running off when someone better comes along.” Her chin went up, all fight, all pride. She gathered up the reins in her slender hands. “I’m here to work. I need this job, because I have nowhere to go and little money left to get there. You, why, this is all simply amusement to you, isn’t it? Biding your time until your mail-order bride arrives.”
“There isn’t a mail-order bride coming for me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Her eyes shadowed, growing darker, and for a moment he saw behind her anger to the hurt and the fears beneath. “You never did mean to be friends, did you? You meant to try to romance me for amusement, did you?”
“For amusement?” That was the furthest thing from his mind. How had things gone so wrong so fast?
“The next time we meet, Joseph, you had best stick to our agreement.”
“What agreement?” What in blazes was she talking about? And why was his head in such a muddle that he couldn’t make sense of anything? All he could read was her unhappiness, the pain pinching in the corners of her soft mouth, the pride that kept her slim back straight and her elegant chin set. How had this gotten so out of control? Why wasn’t she making a lick of sense to him?
“The one where we agreed I was simply the hired help?” She gave the reins a snap, and Don Quixote, the traitor, pricked his ears, nickered as if in apology and stepped out, drawing the sleigh away.
“I thought we were at least going to be friends.”
“This is an official end to our friendship,” she called over her shoulder.
He stood, boots planted in the snow, heedless to the men’s murmurs behind him and the buffeting wind and snow. All he saw was the sleigh growing smaller with distance, leaving him hollow inside. As if she were taking a piece of his heart with her, and there was not a thing he could do to stop her.
Chapter Five
Every time she thought about it, anger speared through her. Whether she was dusting Mary’s knickknacks in the parlor or drying dishes in the kitchen, any mention of Joseph by the other staff made her blood heat with fury. The mere sound of his footsteps in the hallway could make her remember the claiming brand of his fingers on her arm.
He’s not like Lars. She swiped the last dish dry and placed it carefully on the growing stack on the counter. If Joseph had known at the train depot that he was not speaking with his betrothed, he never would have said those things to her about marriage. He never would have charmed her or behaved so familiarly.
“Girl, you keep your mind on your work.” Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper, reached for a dry towel to wipe her hands. “Mrs. Brooks does not pay you to stare blankly off into thin air. Now go throw out the dishwater.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara draped the dish towel over the wall rack near the cookstove, her face heating. She had heard the censure in the woman’s tone. Mrs. Baker was the type of woman who enjoyed finding faults, but this time she was not wrong. Thoughts of Joseph had distracted her. She unhooked her coat from the peg by the kitchen door and heard a stair squeak in the stairwell behind her. She recognized Joseph’s gait. She wasn’t proud of it, but she already memorized the rhythm of his step.
Don’t think about him, Clara. She drew in a breath, fortifying herself. As she slipped into her coat, she did her best not to wonder if he was heading to the library to choose a book from the collection of leather-bound volumes, or if he would retreat to the parlor to chat with his parents.
“After you bring in a bucket of water, you are done for the night.” Mrs. Baker lifted the stack of dishes without a single clink of porcelain and stowed them on overhead shelves.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Clara hefted the enormous washbasin from the counter, careful not to slosh dirty soapy water all over the front of her. The scorching sides of the basin seared her fingertips, but she kept going. Suds bubbled and frothed at the basin’s rim, and every step she took, she didn’t take her eyes from the water line. It sloshed with her gait, and a soap bubble lifted and popped in midair.
“Let me get the door for you.” Joseph’s baritone rumbled as if out of a dream.
Not that she had any. No, she had given up dreaming years ago. Her chin shot up, her gaze lifted and her breath caught at his grim expression. He towered over her, taller than she’d remembered, his face dark with shadows and his big, impressive body tensed, as if poised for a fight. This was a side of Joseph she had not seen and had never imagined was there. Gone was his easygoing charm and friendly good humor, replaced by a stoic strength she hadn’t guessed at.
“Th-thank you.” She feared her stuttering and wispy voice betrayed her. Head down, she slipped through the door he held and into the welcoming dark of the porch, but even that disappointed her. There were no shadows to hide in as the door shut with a crisp click. Frost crunched beneath his boots as he followed her to the top of the steps.
She had done her best to avoid being alone with the man. As she scurried ahead of him, her mind wandered. Why had it been him who had happened to be going outside at the same moment she was? How was she going to face him, after leaving him to walk the quarter-mile distance home in the snow?
Shame burned through her like a fire’s blaze, remembering what she had done. Acting more like a spurned schoolgirl than an employee. The water sloshed over the front of her apron, the hot water soaking through her coat, dress and corset to wet her skin. Shoot. She repositioned the basin, wishing she could refocus her concentration as easily. Her every nerve attuned to the man trailing down the steps behind her, his presence as unmistakable as the snowmelt dripping off the roof and onto the back of her neck.
Silence fell between them, uncomfortably loud. It drowned out the singsong dripping of buildings and tree branches. It muffled the watery munch of her shoes on the slushy snow. It penetrated her like an arrow, invading tender flesh. Her hands quaked, sloshing hot water everywhere, as she bent and placed it on the ground. With every breath, awareness of him ebbed through her. Wordless, he halted on the pathway and his big shadow fell across her, hands braced on his hips, emphasizing his magnificent shoulders, and planted his feet, legs spread.
The shadow before her on the moonlit snow drew her gaze, and she upended the basin,