by Linda Ford
Thrown by the question, she said, “Sally and I did the work while you were indisposed.”
“It was your idea, though.”
“Yes.”
“And the windows? You scrubbed them, as well.”
“We did, yes.”
Folding his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. “For a new employee, you’re awfully committed to the success of my café. Neither Sally nor Flo, whom you might say I inherited from the former owner, have shown a thimbleful of the initiative you have. While I appreciate your commitment to excellence, I have to wonder at your motivation.”
His gaze probed hers and, for a wild moment, Ellie wondered if he might’ve guessed her secret. But that was silly. No one else in the entire world knew about the precious baby she carried.
“I need the work,” she stated baldly. “I happen to enjoy cooking for people. It’s a rare occurrence to find a paid position doing what you love. I’d like to keep it.”
“You’re a recent widow, I understand. My condolences.”
Ellie stammered out something unintelligible, her tongue suddenly tied. It was his first mention of her loss. She’d gotten the impression he expected her to burst into tears if he broached the subject. He’d be wrong.
Her marriage to Nolan Jameson had been fraught with difficulty and failed to be the loving union she’d hoped for. She had mourned his sudden passing but rejoiced at this unforeseen chance to finally be a mother, to have a child of her own to raise. Her last two pregnancies had ended in tragedy. She’d beseeched God morning, noon and night on behalf of this baby, praying this time would be different.
“Tell me, do you have someone in mind for the changes you’ve mentioned?”
“I’m a decent seamstress. I’d be happy to do it.”
His dark brows lifted. “Will you have time?”
Ellie’s days were long and arduous. Six days a week, she woke before dawn in order to be at the café by five to start breakfast. The morning serving hours were from seven to ten. After a brief coffee break, she and Flo prepared the noon meal, available between the hours of noon and two. The afternoon break was longer, as supper didn’t begin until six o’clock. By closing time at nine, her energy was at its lowest point.
“I’ll make time,” she told him. “I can utilize my afternoons. Flo may be willing to take over the desserts for a week.”
“I’m not sure the customers will thank me for that.” He shot her a dry look. “Very well. I’ll inform Mr. Darling to expect you at the mercantile. Put the supplies on my account.”
“Don’t you want to approve the fabric choice?”
“I trust your judgment.” He made to walk past her and paused. “I’ll pay you extra wages, of course. Expect it with your next earnings.”
Overjoyed, for she would need yarn and thread to crochet blankets, and fabric to sew clothes for the baby, Ellie seized his hand and cradled it between hers. “Thank you, sir. You’re a godsend. First the cooking position, which I relish, and now this…” Her throat grew thick. “You can’t know what a blessing you’ve been to me.”
The roughness of his palm registered, as did the nicks and fine scars across the top expanse. She’d expected the slippery smoothness of a businessman’s hands. Without thinking, she traced the faded pink lines intersecting his skin. “You hurt yourself,” she murmured.
Alexander’s lips parted. Then his jaw hardened to stone. Yanking free, he glowered at her like a bear whose honey supply had been disturbed.
“It’s an old wound,” he gritted out.
Cheeks stinging, she sucked in air as an alarming bout of nausea assailed her. She knew how standoffish he was. This was one of the longest conversations they’d shared. He barely tolerated her presence, and here she’d been caressing his skin. How could she have been so forward?
“I apologize. I—I didn’t mean to…” Act with an absolute lack of professionalism? Make them both uncomfortable?
“It’s already forgotten.”
Striding from the room, his steps continued past the office and storage room and into the kitchen. The rear door slammed. Cringing, her stomach revolted and, hurrying to reach an empty pitcher on the hutch, she thanked the Lord no one was around to witness her humiliation—most of all, Alexander Copeland.
Copyright © 2017 by Karen Vyskocil
ISBN-13: 9781488017711
Montana Cowboy’s Baby
Copyright © 2017 by Linda Ford
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