“You know I can’t see much and you came anyway?”
“I don’t mind. I’m more bothered by the fact that you’re Irish, but I decided to give you a chance.” His words held a chuckle.
She choked back a retort, putting all her efforts into getting a look at him. Just when she found the wavy blond hair at his temple, he shifted, and she lost her place again. Grace lowered her eyelids, allowing the burning sensation to ease. Obviously she’d made him uncomfortable.
But so was she. A real live potential husband at her door, and she had no notion of what to do with him.
Her stare reminded him of a house cat watching a mouse hole. Clayton scratched the back of his neck and told himself those piercing brown eyes saw nothing. The color of strong tea, they’d already lost their usefulness, which was a shame. Still, protecting the ladies from the sight of his unbecoming mug was a habit. It’d take a bit to remember he didn’t need to bother hiding from Miss O’Malley.
Not that he intended to spend much time with her. He had to get registered and on the starting line before the gun sounded at noon on September sixteenth. The handyman advertisement didn’t specify the exact tasks to be completed, but this place needed more work than he had time for. Well, he’d do the best he could, working sunup to sundown, and see how much he could earn—hopefully enough to supplement his savings after he replaced Sal.
“I’m sorry for my hesitation.” Miss O’Malley’s hands folded before her, her impeccable posture sending a message of calm and control. “You caught me unaware. I need a bit of time to think this through.”
“What’s there to think about? You don’t have another man bidding for the job, do you?”
Bright spots appeared on her cheeks. “Well, no, but it’s not a decision I take lightly.”
Oh bother. Not one of those persnickety headmistress types. He didn’t have time for a lengthy consideration. “I’ve done this before,” he said. “I’m very experienced, so if you’re not satisfied, just send me packing. I won’t take it personal.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “You’ve been married before, Mr. Weber?”
He drew back. “I don’t know that that’s any of your business.”
Her chin firmed and her brow wrinkled. Talking to women never got him anywhere. Although she didn’t do the normal woman stuff most did when they saw his face—look away or pretend not to notice—he still couldn’t make any sense of her conversation.
Clayton shook his head. “If you must know, I’m not married, but let’s not meddle in private affairs.”
“One’s marital status should not be kept private.”
“Why does it matter? You obviously want my services, whether you’re hitched or not. Now, let’s get down to business.” Ignoring her sputters, Clayton spun on his heel. His fists rested on his hips as he surveyed the barnyard. “That sow’s going to have piglets soon, and they’ll run right through the slats. The pigpen would be the first improvement I’d make.”
She fumed in silence. Well, she couldn’t see what he was talking about anyway.
“You’ve got a nice roof on the house, but the barn could use patching, and your windmill is spinning catawampus. That’s all I see from here. Did you expect me to look about the house?”
For being blind, she sure knew how to glare. “The house is my domain. I’ll allow you to sleep in the barn loft for now if you promise to behave as a gentleman.”
His head snapped. Was she addled? Why would he act ungentlemanly? “Of course. I’ll go about my business and stay out of your way. Then as soon as this place gets put together—”
“Mr. Weber.” If her cheeks were pink before, they were blooming now. “I’ve never been in a discussion such as this, but I feel something is amiss. You take no pains to hide your interest in the land, but could you at least pretend I have something to do with this transaction?”
Schoolteacher, they’d said. He could see it in her posture, the commanding tone of her voice. She demanded his respect, even though she was making as much sense as a two-story outhouse.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m not sure what you expect. I’ve been a hand at a variety of spreads, and I’ve never had such a . . . personal . . . interview.”
She sucked on her lip. Her eyes floated across the horizon. “‘A hand,’ you say?” Her voice had lost most of its thunder. In fact, she sounded downright uncertain. “That advertisement . . . would you mind reading it to me, in its entirety?”
His eyebrow cocked. The ad contained nothing unusual beside the fact it had been circled with thick strokes so he couldn’t miss it. He snatched it out of his back pocket and spread it dramatically.
“Wanted: a handyman to assist at Grace O’Malley’s homestead. Money has been set aside at the Whitfield Bank to compensate anyone willing to be of service to a woman in need. Basic carpentry skills required.”
The lady stumbled backward, bouncing into the wall of the house. Before he could reach for her, she’d righted herself.
“A handyman? That’s what the ad says?” The pup’s head cocked at her incredulous tone. To be honest, Clayton was scratching his noggin, as well. “A handyman?” Her eyes sparkled at some private joke. “Wait until Emilie hears about this.”
Clayton didn’t want to interrupt, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What did you think it said?”
She touched her lips before folding her hands before her, much like the spelling bee winner the night before. “That’s unimportant.” She cleared her throat. “I approve of your suggested improvements. If more is required, please discuss it with me first. And since the money has obviously been collected by the school board, I’ll ask them to inspect your work before you are given your pay. Am I clear?”
Her dark hair shone in measured perfection. Her skin, so startling white in contrast, had regained its original fair shade. And she was treating him like an errant schoolboy. Clayton read again the words on the newspaper before him. Whether she admitted it or not, she was a woman in need, and he was beginning to see why it was easier to set up an account and pay a stranger to look after her than it was for the local men to lend a hand.
No matter. He needed money and he needed it fast.
“I’ll get started immediately.”
She nodded and stood still, face to the sun, for a long moment before entering the house.
Chapter 3
Grace paced the room, trailing her hand over the kitchen table, chairs, stove, and rocker. She repeated this short loop incessantly, memorizing the number of steps from one piece of furniture to the other, noticing where her footsteps echoed on the floor and where they thudded, assuring herself that nothing would vanish when her back was turned, closing her eyes and imagining that even the porthole of light that remained was lost. Was her world reduced to this? Not only had the canyon vistas been stolen from her, but also every printed word that had transported her to lands unknown. Her hand lingered on her Bible. How she wished she had committed more Scripture to memory. If God would give her another chance, she’d never take for granted the privilege of reading His Word again.
A rap sounded at the door. Grace fixed her location in mind and counted the steps. She swung the door open, although she might as well have spoken through it for all the help it was.
“Miss O’Malley, it’s well past suppertime.” The boards creaked beneath his feet. “Were you wanting my help in the kitchen, too?”
The handyman. She’d wondered if he’d return or just fade away like so much of her world.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve eaten already.”
He didn’t leave. She waited. Should she shut the door in his face?
“That’s dandy, but I haven’t had a bite. It’s nearly two miles into town. Were you planning . . . ?” His unfinished question ended with a self-conscience cough.
Grace’s fingers tightened on the knob. What kind of woman couldn’t put dinner on the table? What must he think of her? “I had cheese and bre
ad for supper with some pickled okra. My fare depends on who brings it out and what they have available.”
“You mean leftovers?”
Grace didn’t like the word or its connotation. “It’s more than they have to do.”
He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “And more than they want to do. How’re you set up for cooking? Can you use the stove?”
When she didn’t answer, he grasped her wrist. Grace recoiled at the sudden touch, but then it was gone. The air stirred as he marched past her. Pots clanged together. The stove door creaked open, then snapped shut. Cabinet hinges protested and heavy jars thudded on the table.
“You don’t have much here, but it’s a start. This winter will be lean, but once your pigs get big enough, you could trade for a goat and have milk and butter. Chickens would be easy for you to handle—”
“I beg your pardon?” Pulled as if by a magnet, Grace pushed between him and the pantry, forgetting to count her steps. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Starving.”
“I’m not prepared to split every meal with you.” After a day of solitude, she was itching for an argument. “I’ve barely enough to eat as it is.”
“A man’s got to have food. If you couldn’t afford me you shouldn’t have—”
“I didn’t place that ad. I have no way of feeding myself, much less you.”
The plate next to her clattered. She felt the vibration through the countertop.
“Cheese? Cheese and bread? Those are slim rations, ma’am.” He clomped to the table and dropped into a chair, scraping it against the floor. “If I had time I might scare up some game. A man can’t work without meat in his gizzard.”
Grace was on the verge of telling him that humans didn’t possess that anatomical item when he started in again . . . with what sounded like a mouthful of cheese.
“So you didn’t want a handyman?”
She rubbed her elbow, unsure what she wanted him to know, but definite on what she had to hide.
“I can’t afford one, especially one with a voracious appetite. That notice in the paper, it’s none of my doing.”
“But when I stepped on your porch, you warmed up to the idea quick enough, or were you expecting something else?”
She could feel his eyes on her. She turned to close the squat door of the pantry. “From what I can tell by my limited senses, this place is a dilapidated disgrace. No matter what my plans are, being burdened with this property in its present condition is a liability.”
He grunted. “Do you have any coffee?”
She’d hired him and he expected her to be the maid.
“Does it matter? I can’t tend a stove.”
His chair creaked. “What can you do? It’s going to get cold this winter. Unless you expect someone to sit by your fire—”
Her hands clutched her skirt and her voice rose. “You know, you’re a great one for pointing out the obvious. Going blind was not my idea, and now I’m torn between riding out my days in solitude, inconveniencing friends, or finding a stranger and—” Her mouth popped shut. While the husband option seemed the most logical to her, she’d not air it for him to ridicule.
A chair screeched across the floor. “Have a seat,” he said.
“You’ll not be telling me what to do in me own house.”
“Ah, there’s more of that Irish. Should’ve known I’d hear it plain when you got riled.” He munched as she paced, never more than a few steps away in the small cabin. What could she do? Throw him out? But he had to eat. Send him away? The work needed to be done. At the least she could insist on his taking the rest of his meals outside.
Benny’s tail thumped in the corner, reminding her that although she might not be able to see the invader, her actions could be very entertaining to him.
She stopped and found her place by the pantry, clearing his path to the door, should he decide to use it.
And he did.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” But she was talking to his back as his footsteps faded.
Supper was over. Why should she let him back inside? She’d throw the bolt and teach him a lesson. Grace rushed toward the door. Two steps and her knee collided with a low open cabinet door. Her skirt had protected her from direct contact, but when she reached to steady herself, she sent a canning jar careening off the countertop and crashing onto the floor.
Vinegar. Okra. No matter how disorganized her house had been, at least it had smelled good—until now. She dropped to her knees, only to gasp and roll away. The skirts didn’t protect her from the broken glass that sliced her leg.
Grace sat on the floor, collapsed against the cabinet door, and turned her face to the ceiling.
Why?
She’d gone from a productive, respected leader in Dry Gulch to a needy, helpless bother who couldn’t even throw a tantrum without help. What did God expect her to do? She’d go mad circling her room, waiting for Emilie to bring her food like some animal in a menagerie.
Boots clumped through the door. Grace sniffed and turned her face away from the man.
“I turn my back and look at the mess you’ve made.” He walked past her and dumped a load of firewood next to the stove. Legs turned toward her. “Be careful. You’ll cut yourself.”
She kicked his direction, gratified to see him hop. “If you hadn’t left the cabinet door open and the jar—” A dishrag dropped into her lap. A bowl clinked on the floor next to her.
“You’ll have to touch lightly to find the pieces. Go slow or you’ll tear your hands up, and you can’t afford to damage your fingers.”
Grace’s lips pinched together. He expected her to clean it by herself? Her chest swelled with indignation. Insufferable.
The door to the woodstove swung open. Wood rattled into the mouth.
“I might be able to see a person’s outline move in the sunlight, but I cannot find shards of glass in the dark.”
A match flared. A light glowed momentarily before she lost it again. The scent of sulfur mixed with the vinegar. “Where do you keep your coffee?”
“You, sir, have some nerve.”
“The name is Clayton—Mr. Weber if you prefer—and I get ornery when I’m hungry.”
“I’m not calling my hired hand by his given name.”
“That’s fine, Grace. I suppose the coffee is in your pantry. I’ll have you a strong cup in a jiffy.”
If only he’d leave so she could throw a decent fit. Something shimmered. Using the rag she plucked a jagged piece of jar off the floor and dropped it into the bowl. This would take all night. The glass had mixed evenly with the sopping okra. Once the rag got wet . . .
“Would you hand me a spoon?” she asked. “The wooden one . . . please.” It didn’t kill her to be polite, although she felt plenty sick about it.
She nearly sputtered the question again when he didn’t answer, but then he took her hand and pressed the slender handle into it. “There you go.”
Grace leaned as far as she could and scraped the spoon toward her. Methodically she began her next sweep just to the right of where she’d started before. The spoon grew heavier as it hit the pile of glass and okra she was amassing. By the time she tilted the bowl and swept the mess into it, the coffee was boiling on the stove.
“Not bad work,” he said. Coffee gurgled out of the spout and splashed into a mug. “It’s a good start.”
“I’ll sweep tomorrow when it’s dry.” She stood, but before she slid the bowl onto the counter, she performed a tentative brush to make sure it was clear.
“You cut yourself,” he said. “There’s blood on your skirt.”
She brushed her knee. “I’ll tend to it later.”
“But how are you going to see—”
“I’ll tend it later.” Her voice rang with a volume unreached since leaving the classroom.
“Just trying to help.” He slurped on his coffee.
She turned and found the pump handle. Havi
ng a man in the house was unnerving. She couldn’t tell where he was looking, what he was doing. How did she ever think she could run an ad for a husband? On the other hand, wasn’t Clayton proving how helpful one could be?
Now that the insides of his stomach weren’t rubbing against each other, Clayton repented of his foul mood. He’d been tough on her, but he wanted to know whether she was worth it or not. Why repair the place if she’d never appreciate what she had? Sure, she hadn’t been there long, but it would chap him if he was willing to risk his neck in a land run for a homestead and she wouldn’t lift a finger to keep hers.
Grace dried her hands and the motion drew his eyes. She was much younger than he’d expected, and the problem of being with a blind woman—there wasn’t any reason to stop staring. Her long white fingers looked out of place on the rustic spread, but they sure were nice to gaze at. Those hands connected to slender arms, and her figure curved where it ought, straight shoulders, and a narrow waist. She probably hadn’t had much experience running a household even before her affliction.
Well, he couldn’t waste time woolgathering. Besides, the way she searched for him when he spoke gave the eerie impression that she saw more than was possible. He rubbed his brow, feeling the familiar dent where the scar began before skipping through his cheek and ending at his jaw. He’d always avoided the ladies on account of his appearance. Eventually, they would ask what had happened, and if he answered vaguely they were insulted. If he told them . . . well, he’d never do that. He couldn’t stand their pity, their polite conversation while they looked over his shoulder for someone to rescue them from the marred man. But Grace had no problem speaking directly to him. He had the feeling she’d go toe-to-toe with him and like it.
She folded the towel. “Is it dark already?”
“Sure is. Your mug is here on the table.”
She took her chair, graceful once she knew where she was headed. Her hands skimmed the tabletop until she found the mug. Her eyes lowered. “Thank you. I haven’t had anything warm to drink for days.”
A Match Made in Texas Page 10