A Mail-Order Haven

by Janelle Daniels

  Her jaw dropped. "You'll do what?" she asked, although she could plainly see what he was doing. "And she let you?"

  "Well, you did say you wouldn't be cooking me dinner. I guess since she's not here, we'll have to eat my cooking," he said, with an amused grin.

  "I didn't say I couldn't cook!" She rounded the table and grabbed an apron off a hook, tying it quickly around her waist. "What can I do?"

  He eyed her doubtfully. "Are you sure you can cook? That's a pretty fancy dress," he said, and she heard the implication that because her dress looked expensive, she'd been pampered and had never learned to fend for herself.

  She rolled her eyes. "Of course, I can cook. Don't let the dress deceive you. Willow is magic with a needle."

  He rubbed spices into two steaks. "That makes sense. If you'd grown up wealthy, there would've been no need for your brother to rob banks, would there?"

  She shrugged. "Unless, of course, he craved the thrill of it. Which he does. I think even had we been born wealthy, he would still do it."

  Even as a child, Sam had tested his limits. If something was dangerous, risky, he did it. He hadn't even thought twice. Her parents always said he would die young, but that hadn't been the case. They had died young, torn with grief and embarrassment over their son's criminal behavior. At least they'd never seen Juliette brought to trial. Even though she was innocent, her poor, gentle parents couldn't have withstood it.

  Devon turned to the cast-iron skillet heating on the stove and seared the steaks. He added a slab of fat, and soon, the whole kitchen smelled heavenly. He motioned for her to chop some greens he'd left on the counter, and she performed the task efficiently, going a little faster than she normally would, but he had questioned whether she could cook or not. Not that she cared what he thought. She wasn't trying to impress him, she reassured herself quickly.

  When there wasn't anything left to do, she set the table in the kitchen. "You don't mind eating in here, do you?"

  "No. This is fine. Besides, eating in the formal dining room with only two people seems a bit haughty, doesn't it?"

  She snorted. "It does seem a bit lofty in my opinion, but I want you to feel comfortable." The bemused expression on his face intrigued her. Had no one ever wanted to take care of him, to see to his needs?

  When the food was ready, they served themselves, and began eating in silence.

  After a few bites, the meat melting on her tongue, she said, "This is delicious. How does a man like you learn to cook like this?"

  "A man like me?" He took a long drink from his cup.

  She flushed, realizing how rude she'd been. "A man all alone. A man always on the move," she added, hoping she hadn't given him offense.

  He must've sensed her discomfort. "No, I know what you meant. I wasn't always on the move, you know. And I didn't always have money, so if I wanted to eat well, I had to learn to prepare it myself. Now, I could eat out, but it becomes a hassle when you have to go somewhere else for food every time you're hungry."

  His explanation was practical, but there was also something more to it. He might've had to cook for himself, but a lot of men would have survived on basics. They wouldn't have lowered themselves to learn culinary arts, but from what she'd seen, Devon was accomplished. "Perhaps we should dismiss Sylvia altogether, and have you cook for us each night." She ruined the snarky comment by taking another bite of the delicious meat, moaning at the flavor.

  She opened her eyes to see Devon's amused expression. "Although I enjoy watching you relish the meal, I'd rather not have to prepare something every few hours."

  "We could trade off," she offered, but her heart really wasn't in it. She didn't mind cooking, but she didn't enjoy it, and most often, it took away from what she really wanted to do. Read. She found that if she wanted to cook without burning the food, she had to put her book away, and that was one thing she never liked doing.

  "I would hate to deprive Sylvia of her job, and besides, I won't be here much longer."

  He was right. He wasn't going to be here much longer, and the funny thing was, it seemed strange. In the short time he'd been here, she'd gotten used to him. She knew she was safe, and she never worried about it. She hadn't realized how often she’d thought of their safety out here all alone, but with Devon around, she'd been completely at ease. She was going to miss that, because no matter how much she prepared, no matter how well she shot a pistol or threw her knives, it would be up to her to protect herself. She'd always need to be on guard.

  She shifted in her chair. "That's true. But you know, I'm sure Sylvia wouldn't mind another night off." She offered him a smile, hoping it hid her unease about him leaving. She'd gotten attached to him, even if it was only for her safety.

  But as he smiled at her in return, the action seeming a little rusty, she realized it might be more than that. Devon affected her, and she'd have to be sure to keep her distance from him. He was dangerous to her.

  She cleared her throat and reached for her plate. "You cooked, so I'll clean."

  Before she could grab his empty plate, he stood, anchoring the plate in his hands. "You helped cook, too, so I guess that means we're both cleaning. I wash, you dry?"

  He was impossible. She chuckled. "I'll wash, you dry."

  "You have yourself a deal."

  She filled the sink quickly and unbuttoned her cuffs, rolling back the fabric to expose her forearms. Devon watched her actions, perusing her exposed flesh, and she tried not to fidget under his gaze. They were only arms, for heaven's sake.

  They didn't speak. Instead, they worked in tandem, handing things to each other as needed, working as a unit. It was nice, and in a way, relaxing. While they were working, the tension between them vanished. They were in harmony.

  She finished washing the dishes, and while he finished drying, she wiped off the counter and the table.

  He put away the dishes, and she leaned against the table, unsure of what to do now that she'd finished. She didn't want to just leave, but staying was also awkward.

  He turned around and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "It's still early. What do you want to do for the rest of the night? Read?"

  She'd read the last few nights he was here, catching up on her study material, but her books didn't interest her now. He interested her, and she wanted to spend more time with him, but what could they do? What was he interested in? "What would you like to do?"

  He cocked his head. "I don't have many hobbies."

  "Well, what have you been doing the last few nights I've been in my room?"

  She watched as a blush rose on his neck, and a look of chagrin crossed his face. Amusement tickled her, and she wondered what could cause such embarrassment.

  "Nothing much."

  She tsked. "Oh no, now I have to know."

  His jaw clenched, and she could tell he was warring with himself. He clearly didn't want to tell her, but from what she'd learned, he wasn't the type to lie, either.

  "I was reading," he mumbled.

  She leaned forward. "What was that?"

  Resignation filled his eyes. "I was reading," he said more clearly.

  Baffled, she shook her head. “Why does that embarrass you? You know I read every night."

  He pushed away from the counter, stepping closer to her. "Because I'm not reading books on martial arts and pistols."

  She tilted her head, keeping eye contact. "Then what kind of books are you reading?" All sorts of possibilities rushed through her mind. Mysteries, thrillers, scientific journals, even. She'd already decided he had a strong mind; scientific journals, or some other kind of nonfiction, would make perfect sense.

  She saw the decision in his eyes again, and prompted him. "Come on." She popped her hip out and folded her arms. "I read everything, and it's all worth reading."

  He gritted his teeth and broke eye contact. "Jane Austen. I'm reading Jane Austen, all right?"

  "Jane…Austen?" She squeaked. Out of everything she could've ever imagined, Jane Austen w
as at the bottom of the list. She cleared her throat and tried again.

  "Yes." His eyes squinted, as if he were searching for any sign of mockery from her.

  She could see why he hadn’t wanted to tell her in the first place. "I think that's wonderful. I enjoy her stories myself. In fact, I have several of them upstairs if you'd like to borrow one." She tried not to smile when he remained silent.

  He cooked like heaven, and he was secretly romantic under all those layers of muscle and protectiveness, if he was reading Jane Austen. It made her wonder, what else was he hiding, and even more, it made her want to find out.

  His shoulders relaxed, finally realizing she wouldn't make fun of him. She wondered how many times that had happened to him. "Thanks. If I finish my book before I leave, I might take you up on that offer. I haven't ever—" He froze, cutting off his sentence.

  Her brows furrowed. "Is everything all—"

  He brought his finger to her lips, silencing anything else she was about to say. He cocked his head and slowly lowered his finger. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

  She shook her head, unsure she was supposed to speak yet. Before he could say anything else, she heard a snapping sound outside. Her eyes widened as he pulled out his pistol.

  "Go to your room and close the door. Don't come out until I come to get you. Lock it, if you have a way to."

  Before she could say anything, he guided her to the stairs, watching the doors and windows as she headed up. He didn't glance her way, but once her door closed, she heard his steps. The front door opened and closed softly a moment later.

  She wanted to look out the window, but it wasn't safe. She stood by the door, leaning against it, since there was no lock. Her weight wouldn't keep someone out if they were determined to get in, but she had to do something.

  She reached down for her knife and unsheathed it, gripping it in her hand. If anyone tried to get through that door, they would regret it.

  She wasn't worried for herself. What worried her was that Devon was out there alone, that he was facing some unknown threat. He was strong, and this was his job. This was what he’d been trained for, but none of that mattered to her. She just wanted him to return safely.

  What scared her most was that he mattered.

  Chapter 7

  Devon stepped outside, softly closing the door behind him. The muzzle of his colt was lowered an inch, but it would only take a second to aim and fire. He crept along the outside of the house, keeping to the shadows, his ears attuned to the most minuscule sound.

  A barn cat rushed by him, but he didn't raise his weapon. The pitter-patter of the animal's feet hadn't alarmed him. No. He was looking for something bigger, heavier.

  Slowly, methodically, he searched the grounds, pausing every so often to reevaluate his surroundings, the sounds floating in the air. He searched for any footprints out of place, or fresh ones, but didn't find anything suspicious.

  However, when he reached the trees where they'd practiced martial arts, he frowned. He squatted down and sifted through the loose dirt at his feet. Their footprints were gone, at least most of them. But there were enough there to tell him someone had been there. And someone had raked the area.

  Grim understanding swept through him. At least one person had stood here, and that person was cunning enough to erase their tracks. If he hadn't been to this place recently, he probably wouldn't have even noticed. Whoever had done this was smart. They knew what they were doing.

  Had information about the mine already gotten out? It was possible, with so many workers excavating, but Devon had hoped the news would hold off a bit longer. It could be a fluke, but he didn't think so. And even more importantly, whoever had done this could still be out there.

  He stood slowly, a slight tingle traveling over his shoulders, as though he was being watched. He acted as though nothing was wrong, as if he didn't sense anything out of the ordinary. But once he'd gotten his balance, he turned with a speed that would match any gunfighter, aiming his weapon forward to take out any threat.

  Tree branches caught at his shirt, and he heard a ripping sound, but he didn't pay any attention.

  There was someone out here, he could feel it. But as he waited for another clue, for the person to show themselves, he realized they'd gone. All his senses had calmed.

  He lowered his weapon, cursing. The unknown intruder had gotten away, and Devon had no idea what they wanted. He supposed it was possible for this to be an innocent situation, but Devon didn't think so. If it had been, they would've shown themselves.

  No. This was nefarious. They had purposefully shielded themselves, covered their tracks, and stayed out of sight. This had to be about the mine; someone knew about it already.

  Frustrated, he made his way back to the house, to the front door. He stayed on alert, but his mind wasn't as clear. He entered and went directly up the stairs to Juliette’s door. He knocked softly. "It's me. Everything is all right. You can come out."

  He heard shuffling and then the door opened, revealing Juliette with a knife in her hand.

  He eyed her weapon, grateful she knew how to use it. He prayed it wouldn't happen, but it was possible she'd need the skill now. The desire to show her more ways to defend herself filled him. He never wanted her at anyone's mercy.

  She lowered her weapon and peered over his shoulder into the hall. "Did you find someone?"

  His lips hardened. "No. Whoever was out there is gone now."

  Her eyes widened slightly. "But someone was out there? You're sure?"

  He wished there was some way to save her from knowing the disturbing truth, but doing so would only endanger her. "I didn't see anyone, but I'm certain they were there. They covered their tracks well."

  "What do you think they wanted? Do you think they know about the mine?" She'd put her knife away, and now twisted her hands in front of her.

  "I don't know. We have to assume so."

  "You're right." She stopped wringing her hands and made fists at her sides. "Is there anything more we can do?"

  "No. Just go on as we have, and remain watchful. No more leaving the house without me. Everywhere you go, we go together." He was grateful now that he'd insisted upon that from the beginning.

  "All right. What do you think—" She looked down at his side, at the tear in his shirt, and frowned. "What happened?"

  He’d completely forgotten about the rip. He looked down at the open hole and cursed softly. It had been carelessness on his part. "It caught on a branch when I was in a hurry."

  "Let me see." He turned to give her a full view of the damage. She inspected it closely. "Let me fix that for you."

  "That isn't necessary. I’ve fixed many of my own shirts in the past."

  Her lips quirked. "Another acquired skill? Something like, if you hadn’t fixed them yourself, you’d have to wear holey shirts all the time?"

  He started with amusement. "Something like that."

  "I thought so. Still, I appreciate everything you're doing, and I would like to do that for you." She moved past him into the hall. "Follow me," she said over her shoulder, as she walked down the stairs to the parlor.

  He didn't think of denying her again. The fact was, he didn't want to sew his own shirt. It would be nice to have someone else perform the task for him. So, he followed her, moving closer to her when she beckoned him forward.

  She inspected his shirt again and turned to fetch a needle, and thread that matched. "You won't even notice it's there. I might not be as skilled as Willow, but I can stitch a hole in a snap."

  "You really don't have to do this," he said lamely, one last time.

  She arched a brow at him. "Take off your shirt."

  He smothered a smile. “Yes, ma'am." It amused him she didn't argue with him, just ordered him about.

  He reached for his shoulder and gripped the material, pulling it off in one smooth motion.

  Juliette had been sitting on the sofa, rummaging in her sewing basket while he took off the garment, but wh
en she straightened and gave him her attention again, she froze. Her jaw fell open as her eyes traveled over his bare chest and stomach.

  He knew he was pleasing to look at, but he’d never thought much of it before. His body was a weapon, a tool, and he kept it sharply honed. It was necessary in his line of work. He needed to be strong, needed to be able to move, to labor, to protect.

  But with Juliette's eyes on him, her gaze roaming over every ridge, every slope, it lit something within him. Something predatory and dangerous.

  As if realizing what she was doing, she cleared her throat and snapped her gaze up to his. "Um, I can take that, now."

  He didn't know what possessed him, but he took a few steps toward her, his eyes hungrily devouring hers.

  Her eyes widened slightly, but she held still as he approached her.

  Only a few inches away from her, he paused, neither giving her the shirt nor moving away. He allowed her to look over him again, reveling in the way she made him feel.

  "I'll just…I'll just take this," she said, before reaching out and grasping the fabric. Her fingers brushed along his abdomen, making the muscles jump, and sending shockwaves through his body. He groaned at the contact, and she jumped, but he couldn't have held it in if he tried.

  "I'm sorry!"

  She tried to step away, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist, gently holding her in place. "Don't be sorry," he said gruffly. "It felt good. I'm just not used to being touched so gently."

  Her eyes softened, and her body relaxed. She didn't try to move away again. "You haven't? I should think anyone who was with you, any woman, would be gentle."

  He shook his head. "You'd be surprised. Besides, with being on the move, there aren't many women."

  "A man like you would have women falling at his feet no matter where he went."

  "Women have. But none that I've wanted," he added softly.

  When her eyes slowly trailed to his, he saw understanding there. She knew he wanted her, but what was even more dangerous, was that she wanted him. He should step back, step away, let her sew his shirt, and retreat to his room.