by Jillian Hart
Because a tiny, forgotten part of her wanted the fairy tale.
Deep down, there lived a kernel of hope that there might be a true love meant only for her, a man who could see something special in the plain girl she was.
That man could never be Joseph, she reasoned. Surely, for now all he saw was a serving girl.
That’s what she was, and she was proud of it. She grasped the empty tray, curtsied and padded out of the room. Glad for this job, she closed her ears to the rising conversation behind her. Sure, she liked Joseph. He was a likable man. But she had to be practical. She could not believe in impossible and foolish fairy tales.
She gladly left the room and bustled into the kitchen, ready to help with the rest of the meal preparations. It wasn’t disappointment eking into her like frost in the night. She wouldn’t let it be.
* * *
Joseph couldn’t get over his shock. As he blew on his tea to cool it, his mother’s words taunted him. “After all the letters I wrote to her mother, you’d think the woman would have shown more courtesy. That poor girl, with a mother like that! I’m sure Clara will suit us just fine.”
So that’s what all the writing and mailing of letters was about.
A slight wind could blow him over. Stunned, he retreated to the sofa and settled on a cushion, stretched out his feet and took a swallow of hot tea.
“Seems like a girl in need,” Pa said as he set down his paper with a crinkle. “I noticed three patches on her dress, and I was hardly looking.”
“That’s why I hired her on the spot, the poor dear. I didn’t even check her references.” Ma took up her embroidery hoop from her lap and began to stitch. “Can you believe she came the entire way by herself? And just eighteen years old.”
“A shame she has no one to look out for her.” Pa shook his head from side to side. “You did right in hiring her. She has an honest look. She’ll do fine.”
“I think so, too. She makes an excellent pot of tea.” Ma squinted at her needlework, fussing with thread and needle before fastening her all-seeing gaze on him. “You will behave yourself, Joseph? Don’t think I didn’t notice you speaking alone with her.”
“I will be nothing but a gentleman.” His vow was a sincere one, but he wasn’t sure if he had masked the disappointment weighing on him. Gosh, but he had been sure Clara had come to marry him. Well, the joke was on him. He had leaped to the wrong conclusions—him, and no one else.
“I hope you didn’t leave my package in the barn again.” Ma glanced up at him, censure still on her face, but a smile, too. “I have need of the embroidery thread I ordered.”
His ma was a softy. Which was good luck for him. “I’ll go fetch it from the kitchen. I—”
“No need.” Clara’s melodic voice surprised him. She padded nearly soundlessly into the room and set the small box on the table next to Ma’s chair. Her skirts swirled at her ankles as she turned neatly. “Your cook said supper is ready for the table.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Clara.” Ma’s needle dove through the fabric. “We’ll be right along. Joseph, go—”
He knew that his mother was speaking to him, but could he make his ears work? No. They had seemed to malfunction right along with his eyes. His every sense felt harnessed to Clara as she waltzed from the room. The rustle of her petticoats, the lamplight turning her hair to spun gold, the remembered feeling of her in his arms and protecting her from the brunt of the arctic winds.
He knew her skin smelled like freshly budding roses.
“Joseph!” Ma’s admonishment was pure warning. “What did I say about that poor girl?”
“My thoughts were gentlemanly, Ma. Honest.” Gee, a guy couldn’t win. Was it his fault he was already sweet on her? He pushed off the sofa. “What did you want me to do?”
“Go fetch your brother. He’s in the library.”
“Figures.” When he was in the house, Gabriel was hardly ever anywhere else. Joseph strode from the room, just as his father muttered, “Five patches, Mary. That girl is in hard straits.”
Why hadn’t he noticed the patches? And why was it bothering him? He couldn’t accept that Clara wasn’t meant for him. The steely devotion in his heart was real. The lightness he felt from her smile was no fabrication. Instead of heading down the hall, he back-trailed and pushed open the kitchen door. The clatter of pots and the clink of dishes met him, along with a lot of steam as the cook poured the water off a kettle of boiling potatoes.
“Hurry, girl!” Mrs. O’Neill, the cook, screeched. “I’ll not get blamed if the potatoes are mealy!”
“Yes’m.” Clara was a flash of pink as she raced toward the basin with a bowl for the potatoes.
He let the door swing closed. He doubted she’d noticed him.
Doubted she would appreciate an interruption. Pa was right.
Judging by the look of things, she needed the work. He remembered how anxious she’d been when she’d asked about his mother and the letters of application. It all made sense now as he trekked down the hallway. Maybe he had imagined Clara’s sweet interest in him right along with everything else.
His knees went weak, and he grabbed the wall for support. His senses, attuned to her, made out the pad of her nearby gait.
Probably carrying the potatoes to the dining room. More footsteps joined her. The other maid and the chef’s assistant, both hurrying.
Maybe now was as good a time as any to pull her aside. He poked his head around the doorway. The sight of willowy Clara placing a second bowl on the table next to the steaming potatoes made the devotion residing within him double. Yes, there were tidy patches on her dress made of the same fabric, and the cuffs of her sleeves were threadbare and the edge of her collar starting to fray. He could see that now.
But there was something else. Something he could not deny.
He had never seen a lovelier sight. She stuck a serving spoon into the bowl, positioning it just right. Lamplight framed her like a blessing, and his heart gave one final, slow thump before it tumbled out of his chest, falling endlessly.
She was the one. He wanted to earn her love. He wanted to be the man who took care of and provided for her, who made her smile all the day long. And as for other things he wanted to do with her, well, that made him blush. As he’d promised his mother, he would be a gentleman. And he would, even in his thoughts.
But that didn’t stop his blood from heating or the tenderness from doubling within his soul.
Clara whirled on her heels to return to the kitchen, but she must have sensed his presence. Her eyes went wide and her rose-pink mouth shaped into a surprised O. High color swept across her porcelain features. Was she angry with him? Could she somehow know what he’d been thinking—or, rather, trying not to think?
Dark nights spent together, tucked cozily beneath the bedclothes, peeling off her nightgown and leaving a trail of kisses—
Hell, that is not gentlemanly, Joe. He squared his shoulders, drawing himself up straight. He could control his thoughts better than that, right? He focused on her pale face, weary with exhausting travel. She appeared vulnerable and more fragile than he’d realized. He wanted to brush a stray curl behind her ear and gather her in his arms. She was a mere slip of a woman, petite and frail-boned, and he tried not to notice her lush womanly curves. Gosh, it wasn’t easy to stay mannerly when it came to her.
“Perhaps we could talk.” She broke the silence, circling around the table with a swish of her skirts. “I think it would be best to clear the air between us.”
“Gee, that doesn’t sound good for me.”
“No, and I’m sorry for it.” As she waltzed nearer, he spotted the tremble of her chin, and her hands, terribly small when compared to his, clenched into fists.
Perhaps she had been able to sense the direction his earlier thoughts had been taking. Embarrassed, heat stretched tight across his face and he let his chin sink a notch. He couldn’t say he didn’t notice the gentle curve of her neck, lovely and elegant, and the rise of her bosom which was deeply
fascinating, or the tiny cinch of her waist—
“Joseph, I know what you’re thinking.” Her hushed alto caressed over him, as if with understanding and not censure.
“I doubt it.” If she did, she wouldn’t be so calm. He fought the urge to reach out and stroke his thumb along the satin of her cheek.
“I can only apologize. I knew something was amiss.” She stopped, her hands uncurling at her sides in a helpless gesture. “You were there to meet the train, for one thing. I knew your mother wasn’t expecting me, but I let myself think perhaps you met prospective employees at the train as a matter of course. Perhaps I was unsure of being alone in a strange town, and you were—”
“Accommodating? Friendly? Eager to help?” He offered her a smile.
“Yes.” Relief slipped off her in a visible wave. “I’m relieved it’s all been straightened out, and you know the truth about me.
I know I’m just the hired help, but I don’t want any strain between us. You have been kind to me, even though you thought I was someone else.”
“I only ever thought you were you.” He shrugged helplessly.
“I’m glad I was there to fetch you from the train, Clara. I would hate to think you would have made that long walk here alone and in the cold. I’m sorry for how forward I was. I reckon you think the worst of me.”
“Not even close. I understand.” Her shy smile said more than words ever could. The pinch of sadness around her eyes, the way she took a step backward, putting distance between them, the hitch in her words as she turned away. “Goodbye, Joseph.”
She didn’t mean goodbye, as in she was leaving. But in that she thought there would be no further contact between them. She had a job to do and a position within the house. And his mother would not be happy if he started courting the hired help.
But his heart had already chosen. When she walked away, she took his whole world with her. Standing as if in the dark, he had never seen his path in life more clearly.
Chapter Four
This was truly a good job, Clara realized as she stopped scrubbing the outhouse floor—the fifth of the morning—to dunk the brush into the nearby bucket of sudsy water. While this wasn’t the most pleasant of tasks, she was happy working for Mrs.
Brooks. She stretched her back as she dunked the brush again, taking a moment to glance over her shoulder at the white-capped mountains spearing straight up into a cloudy sky. Truly a beautiful sight. Tiny snowflakes danced and swirled nearly weightless to the ground. A great peace filled the vast spaces of mountainside and valleys. Joseph had been right when he’d told her it was the prettiest sight.
Joseph. Her chest gave a strange hitch whenever she thought of him. He had charmed her with his kindness, in spite of her better judgment. She grasped the brush, bent over and returned to her work, rubbing circles on the floorboards until her shoulder hurt.
You don’t want romance, Clara, she reminded herself, so why was she missing him? There was nothing left to say. His flattery had always been meant for another woman. No doubt the mysterious Miss Pennington was an accomplished, lovely young lady from a good family. Just as she should be, for Joseph was a kind man. He deserved a nice wife. That’s what she wanted for him. Really.
So why did loss weigh inside her, as cold as the morning’s wind? On her hands and knees, she backed out of the outhouse, scrubbing as she went. Her shoes hit snow, then her shins, then her knees. When visions of Joseph Brooks entered her mind, she polished them right out the same way she buffed the floorboards with a clean towel.
Her work done, she gathered up her supplies. The scent of soap and the dried lavender sprigs she’d hung on the wall made it pleasant. Pleased with a job well done, she reached for the door to close it. This was the life she had, and she was glad for it. She wasn’t lonely for a certain man’s low-throated chuckle, she thought as she turned on her heels and heard the steely clink-clop of horseshoes.
Through the snow-laden evergreen boughs she caught sight of a bay horse and a small black sleigh. Her spine melted vertebra by vertebra even before the driver came into sight. Joseph with his brawny shoulders and dependable smile.
The youngest Mr. Brooks, she reminded herself stubbornly.
Seeing him again was like the daylight bleeding from the sky, leaving only darkness. She straightened her shoulders, digging deep inside for as much dignity as she could muster.
“‘Morning, Miss Woodrow.” He drew the horse to a halt and tipped his hat brim. “How are you on this fine Saturday morning?”
“Miss, now, is it?” She gripped the pail’s handle tightly and waded in his direction. “A little more than twelve hours ago you mentioned marriage.”
“True. I’m the sort of man who likes to get right to the point.”
How dashing he looked seated in a small sleigh. A black wool coat hugged his magnificent shoulders and emphasized the manly strength of his chest. His Stetson caught tiny, airy snowflakes, and his dimpled smile shone as confidently as it had last night.
It was just as well that everything between them had changed.
“A mistaken point,” she corrected him, coming to a stop beside his sleigh. “As I was not your betrothed.”
“Not yet.”
Why was she laughing? “So, is that why you’ve come? To practice your charm on me until your fiancée arrives?”
“Am I charming you?”
Only by the flash of his midnight eyes. Clara steeled her spine and set her jaw with determination. “I don’t find you charming in the least.”
“Oh? Then I shall have to try harder.” He hopped to his feet, so that all six feet of him towered over her, impressive and breath stealing. “Are you wondering what I’m doing here?”
“Yes, as I’ve sure you have plenty to keep you occupied.
Don’t you help your father with the ranch?”
“Yes, and my morning work with him is done. I have some spare time.” He strode toward her, taking from her the bucket heavy with brushes and soap. “You said you didn’t know how to drive a horse, and I vowed I would teach you.”
“You promised a lot of things I hardly expect you to keep.”
“Why not? Do I seem like a lout to you? A liar?”
“No.” She smiled shyly.
“Then let me help you, Clara.” He set the bucket behind the seat, where covered baskets sat, huddled together.
“We should not be on a first-name basis, Mr. Brooks.” The wind chose that moment to catch the placket of her unbuttoned coat and ruffle the skirt of the full apron she wore, issued by the housekeeper. A reminder, of sorts. “I have work to do.”
“Yes, and do you know what that work entails?” The charm faded, leaving only kindness on his chiseled face. Goodness radiated from him unmistakably as he held out his hand. “You are to deliver the noon meal to Pa and the ranch hands. Three times a week you must drive into town for the errands and the mail.”
“Oh.” Things she could not do, for she had never handled a horse. She had never been able to afford one. “You have come to help me, and I thought you were trying to—”
“Flirt with you? You have the entirely wrong impression of me, Clara.” His gloved hand caught hers, cradling it as if tenderly.
Maybe it was nothing more than kindness. “I know how I seemed to you last night, practically proposing to you, a complete stranger, in a snowstorm.”
“You thought I was your Miss Pennington.”
“Who?” He blinked, surprise twisting across his forehead. He helped her onto the sleigh seat, his touch powerful and gentle at the same time.
“Perhaps it’s not my place to say.” She thought of what his mother had told her, and could not remember if the older woman had shared that information in confidence. “You should speak with your ma.”
“I tried, believe me. She has been very quiet on the subject.”
He leaned closer, bringing with him a winter wind and warm man scent. She shivered, stunned at her reaction, as he drew the warm bear fur and spre
ad it over her lap. “There is no reason why we can’t be friends.”
“Are you always friends with your household maids?”
“No.” Humor stretched his mouth into an amazing smile.
She didn’t remember settling farther over on the seat to make room for him, only that suddenly he was beside her. Her skin tingled with awareness of him. His big, capable hands were gloved, and when he took up the reins she did not feel a shiver.
Really. She did not remember how his touch had been as hot as a branding iron. Honest.
Fine, maybe she remembered a little. Okay, more than a little.
Sometimes hope was a terrible thing, making you want something you couldn’t have—something you were afraid to have.
“This is a first for me, Clara. You have to believe it.” His big hands gathered the thick leather straps. “You have to understand.
Surely this has happened to you before.”
“What has?”
“Captivating a man so he can’t see anything else save for you.”
“Why, yes. It happens constantly. It’s such a bother, really, how men fall at my feet. I can hardly walk for tripping over them.” How could this man be serious? “I know what your problem is. Your mother has to write to larger cities to hire household help and to marry off her sons. You aren’t used to being around women your own age.”
“Not true. In school, there were three girls in my grade. The trouble was, they fell in love with other fellows and married before I could snatch any of them up.” Although he tried to hide it, she could sense a hint of sadness. He inched closer and presented her with the thick leather straps. “You take the reins. Go on, grab them right behind my hands.”
“You have never beaued a girl?” She leaned closer into his heat and breathed in his fresh man-and-winter-wind scent. Her fingers closed around the reins inches behind his, and her shoulder bumped the warm iron of his arm.
“Got turned down when I tried.” When he tried to grin, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lara turned around and let Chuck Thomas court her. They married right after she graduated from school. I guess that smarted for a while.”