As much as he didn’t want Georgia to leave, he was more upset that he’d caused the beautiful woman to run and curl up, alone and sad.
He stood up, closing his laptop and pacing to the door and back. He had to find a way to make it up to her. He’d served her the best food money could buy. He’d given her almost free run of his home. But he had to do more. What good he’d done wasn’t enough to atone for his absence, which she didn’t understand, plus his unkindness, which neither of them understood.
He had to figure something out. He couldn’t spend another three and a half weeks like this, and he most certainly couldn’t expect her to stay after being treated the way he’d been treating her. Something had to change.
Chapter 4
Morgan pulled her legs tighter against her chest. The cold was starting to get to her, seeping up from where her butt sat on the wet cement. She’d needed the steadying power of the fresh air and wide-open sky after the fright she’d gone through downstairs. Scared at first, now she was more angry than anything. If the jerk didn’t want her in the room, it wouldn’t be that hard to get a piece of paper and some duct tape and slap a note on the door.
It was the duct tape that made her eyes water. She could hear Uncle Harry, plain as though he were standing right beside her, saying, “Ain’t no problem that duct tape can’t fix.”
She bit her lip, refusing to cry. She’d missed the farm and her aunt and uncle constantly while she was away working toward her dream, until the modeling career that she always wanted had become less important to her than the home she’d grown up in. Maybe it hadn’t been that sheer shirt that had ended her career but more of a subconscious decision on her part that she wanted to go back home.
She’d lived the glamorous life.
It was just as fake as margarine.
She’d missed the couple that had raised her. Even if the town did think that Uncle Harry was odd, which, since the rest of the country considered North Dakotans odd, was really saying something.
But everyone loved him. They just thought he was different, too.
Morgan leaned her head back against the bricks. She should go in. She was freezing, and her room was probably in the thirties since she’d left the sliding glass door open. With the way things were happening around here, she didn’t want to go out on her balcony, close the door, and have it lock behind her. They’d discover her frozen body next spring when the meter lady came to check the meter.
A sound came from her room. She tilted her head. Was that someone knocking on her door? She scrambled to her feet. It came again, definitely a knock. Wrapping her anger around her like a cloak, she stomped through the door, slamming it shut behind her. If it was Mr. Ford Hanson, he was going to get a piece of her mind. Maybe a few pieces. It’d been a while since she’d been this angry. Her chest burned, and her fingers flexed.
She wouldn’t mind shouting at him and maybe slamming her door in his face, too. That weasel. Hiding for two days, locking doors, yelling at her. People thought her Uncle Harry was a piece of work. He didn’t even begin to compare to Ford Hanson.
She yanked the door open.
The hall was deserted.
She looked left, even though hers was the last door, and right. Nothing.
At her feet, something caught her eye, and she looked down.
A silver tray with a long-stemmed bloodred rose and a pristine white notecard lay on the floor. She hesitated, looking left and right again and rising to her toes to peer as far over the balcony as she could without leaving the barrier of her room.
Nothing.
Should she?
She twisted her lips, thinking. She’d never been good at holding grudges, and she’d always been too curious for her own good. That was part of why she’d taken astronomy in college, knowing it wouldn’t lead to a paying job without a lot of schooling. But ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d looked up at the sky and wondered how it got there, what was actually up there, and what it all looked like.
Now, as she stared at the tray, she couldn’t keep from wondering what the note said. An apology? Was it her pink slip tucked into a white envelope? Her paycheck? Probably not. Surely it crossed some kind of boss-employee boundary to lay a rose beside a paycheck. Plus, she’d only worked a few days. And hadn’t really done anything anyway.
Finally, she couldn’t stand the suspense and picked the tray up, taking it into her room and closing the door. She went to her bathroom, the only place she’d found in the whole house, aside from the kitchen, where the light was brighter than a dim glow. Who lived like that, anyway?
She flipped the light on with her elbow and set the tray on the sink, picking the rose up first and holding it to her nose. Oftentimes, tea roses didn’t have much scent, but this one did. Sweet but not overpowering, it smelled like summer and wind and poetry and just a hint of the undertones of the notecard from yesterday. She closed her eyes and breathed in, her lungs filling. Her chest expanded with contentment and the scent that felt like a perfect complement to her soul. An odd feeling, but a good one.
She filled a small, disposable cup with water and set the rose in it, leaning it against the wall and balancing it so that the stem was in water. She’d have to find something better. Maybe make a trip to the kitchen. But that would wait.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the card. From anger? That had dissipated. Fear? No, she wasn’t afraid. Excitement? Not exactly. She wasn’t sure what emotions were tripping through her arteries with her speeding heart rate, and she wasn’t sure why. She quit trying to figure it out and opened the flap, which was not sealed.
A vase of flowers, slightly abstract, like it was a watercolor painting, graced the outside. Various shades of red and pink with some yellow and the green stems stood out on a sparkling gold background. Heavy and thick, the card said quality.
She opened it.
A business card fell out. Embossed in thin gold and dark green trim, it had Ford Hanson’s name, address, and phone number on it. “IT consultant and innovator” was after his name. She fingered the card carefully in one hand while she read the note.
I’m a beast. I’m sorry. Meet me in the solarium tomorrow evening at nine, please? – F
Same scratchy handwriting as the note on the table. Barely legible. She read it several more times. Apparently, she wasn’t working all day tomorrow, either.
Hmm.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and punched his number in as a new contact. It didn’t say on the card whether it was a cell phone or not, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Her thumbs flew over her phone.
If you don’t need me tomorrow, I’m going home to see my aunt and uncle.
His answer came back almost immediately. No!
Her neck tightened, but he was typing again, so she waited. I’m working on a project. I’ll need you when I’m done. Maybe tomorrow.
She dropped her phone and stared straight ahead, unseeing. She knew people like that. Designers and others. People who got so wrapped up in a project or their work that they lost all sense of time. Almost a manic-depressive personality.
Her phone buzzed. I’ve been a beast. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me if I try to do better?
Maybe she’d judged him too harshly, but it was easy to be nice on the phone. Her aunt and uncle would know more about him. She should have talked to them more before she came. But she hadn’t seen them for so long, and they’d had so much to say to each other, and they still had to get the ranch work done. There just hadn’t been time.
She could call them now, but she checked her phone. Almost ten. Way too late to call them since they went to bed between eight and nine. She would call them at five in the morning without a second thought, but it would take an emergency to call after nine p.m.
What should she say? Forgiven. That was easy. She didn’t hold grudges, and everyone deserved a second chance.
Will you meet me tomorrow night? he asked again.
It felt odd. Like a date in
stead of work. Although the astronomer in her really wanted to be in that room, she couldn’t get her fingers to type yes. Aren’t you working on a project?
Sometimes I forget to stop and take a break. If I have an appointment, I won’t forget.
I came here to work, she typed back.
I’ll give you your duties tomorrow at nine in the solarium.
That gave her pause. Georgia had said odd hours and that her duties would vary widely, but it still felt slightly off, like “duties” meant more than administrative assistant work. Or maybe she’d been a model for so long, she’d gotten too suspicious. She’d never gone to a casting call or into someone’s office without her agent or a friend. But this was North Dakota, and if Ford Hanson had a reputation of assaulting the women who worked for him, her aunt and uncle would have known and told her so.
She took a deep breath and typed, Okay.
Her phone was still, and she thought maybe their conversation was over for the night, but then he started typing.
She’d relied on her gut more than one time over the years. It had been right most of the time. Tonight, she was completely at peace with having just agreed to meet a total stranger, alone, in the back room of his house at nine in the evening. Had she left her hard-earned street instincts back in NYC?
Her stomach growled. Fabulous time to get hungry.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. Have your accommodations been acceptable?
She sat down on the edge of the tub, kicking her shoes off. Very nice. Thank you.
Has the food been decent?
More than decent. Amazing. Thank you.
Is there anything you need?
Her eyes landed on the rose on the sink. A vase for my rose. She almost asked for a snack, too, but she didn’t want him to get Mrs. T up just to fix her something. She didn’t know him well enough, yet, to know whether he was the type to do that or to fix it himself.
I’ll make sure you get one.
How was he going to do that? Again, she hoped he didn’t get Mrs. T up. She decided she wouldn’t worry about it. I’m taking a shower.
He didn’t answer, so she set her phone down.
~~~
Ford stopped pacing and stood in the middle of his room, his heart still knocking against his ribs. Why hadn’t he thought of texting her? Georgia had her number; he could have gotten it pretty easily. Although Georgia would have asked him a thousand questions about why he didn’t just walk to wherever she was in the house and talk to her.
Although, if anyone would understand how he felt and why he hadn’t shown his face to her yet, it would be Georgia. But Georgia wouldn’t give him much sympathy, either, because they hadn’t been brought up to cater to themselves or their weaknesses.
He shoved his phone in his pocket and took the back exit out of his room which was right across from the side stairs that led directly to the kitchen.
Morgan had seemed nice. She’d smiled when she saw the rose and tray. He’d taken that as a good sign. It had been tempting to watch her reaction as she opened his note, but that was a line he could never cross. In her suite, she had privacy.
He hadn’t expected her to text. It had been perfect. He couldn’t have planned it better. Plus, she’d forgiven him and agreed to meet.
He reached the kitchen and rooted around, finally finding a slim vase on a top shelf in the corner cupboard.
The project he was working on really had been taking up a lot of time, but he’d missed Georgia’s help. Morgan was obviously willing to do what she’d been hired for, but he wasn’t showing his face to her, so he’d just have to get along without help. That included putting off the news outlets that were clamoring for interviews since news of his prototype had leaked out. They would just have to wait for Georgia to come back.
On a whim, he grabbed a few crackers and some cheese along with a glass of ice water and put them on the tray with the vase. He also pulled another long-stemmed rose, this one a dark shade of pink, from the bouquet in the small cooler used solely for that purpose—to keep flowers fresh. Georgia loved making the beautiful bouquets, and he indulged her. Mrs. T always took the arrangements and placed them in the cooler at night, so they would last longer.
Georgia wasn’t here, but they’d still gotten their weekly delivery of fresh flowers. Mrs. T wasn’t as good as Georgia at arranging them, but her bouquet still looked pretty. Even minus two roses.
The water flowing through the pipes shut off. Morgan must be done with her shower.
He laid the rose alongside the water, vase, crackers, and cheese, then he hurried upstairs, wanting to have the tray set down and be out of sight before she got to the door. A whine stopped him. Lolli hopped out of the living room, her potbelly so big it was almost dragging on the floor.
After Georgia had found her by the road, barely alive, and taken her to the clinic—it was a people clinic, but they’d gamely stitched up the dog and finished amputating her leg—Georgia had brought her home. Ford had felt an immediate kinship with the dog and had been relieved when Georgia’s best efforts to find the owners had not yielded fruit.
It had been even more of a relief that the little thing had survived.
“What’s up, girl?” He balanced the tray in one hand, bent down, and patted her with the other, scooping her up after she put her good foot on his. She burrowed into his chest, and he cradled her in his arm.
A door closed, maybe Morgan’s bathroom door, and panic shot through his chest. He wasn’t ready for her to see him. Her beauty had dazzled him every time he’d seen her on his security cameras the last two days, making his lack all the more glaring.
He could hear her moving around in her room. Her footsteps coming closer.
The ice cubes clanked in the glass as he set the tray down with a tap that seemed to echo in the quiet house. Her doorknob rattled.
He straightened and moved quickly, opening and carefully closing behind him the door to the next bedroom, hoping he’d made it in time. He couldn’t slam another door in her face, and it was too late to lock this one without being obvious. He didn’t want her to see him, but he couldn’t hurt her feelings in the process of getting away.
He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard. Lolli seemed oblivious as she slept against his chest. Seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. Finally, her door clicked. Soon after, his phone buzzed.
Thank you.
He smiled, glad to have finally done something right. Sleep well, he said.
~~~
The next day passed, slow and, to be frank, boring. Morgan liked to read, but she’d finished seven books in the last three days. She was ready to do something else. Mrs. T had shooed her out of the kitchen, not that she would have been much good in there anyway. She could put a good salad together with already peeled and sliced ingredients, and she could boil water. That was about it.
She ate by herself, which she was slowly getting used to, then she wandered around the house, too restless to settle with a book, looking forward to finally finding out what she was expected to do to earn her paycheck.
Finally, at five ’til nine, she stood in front of the door to the solarium. Should she knock? After deliberating for a full minute, she reached for the handle and turned, pushing the door open.
It was just as dark as before. Thankfully the sky was clear again tonight, and the stars shone through brightly. There was no moon, which made them seem even more brilliant.
She walked slowly into the room, closing the door behind her. Her hand trembled, and she looked up at the stars to calm herself.
“Last week we had an impressive display of the aurora borealis.”
His voice came from the shadows to her right. She took a shaky breath as her heart stuttered. He hadn’t scared her so much, but his voice was dark and deep and evoked the same feelings that his scent did. The scent that was still shimmering in the air last night when she opened her door to a tray of crackers and cheese along with another rose, ice water, plus the vase sh
e’d asked for.
“I’ve been living in New York City for a few years. You don’t see the northern lights there.” The husky note in her voice was new. She cleared her throat. “My degree is in astronomy. This room is like a dream come true.”
She could hear his breath.
“I didn’t know. You’re welcome in here anytime.”
“I didn’t get that impression the other night.” She stared in the corner at the darkness where his voice came from.
“I’m sorry.” His voice pulled at something in her chest. He sounded sincere.
“No. I’m sorry. You apologized. I forgave you. I shouldn’t have brought it up again.”
“I was rude, and I...I have no excuse. I’d like to start over if we can.”
“We haven’t really had much of a start. Thank you for the crackers and water.”
“I owed you.”
“Okay. And now we’re starting over.” She moved closer to his voice.
He shifted, like her increased proximity made him nervous.
She took two more steps and held her hand out. “I’m Morgan Nelson, and I’m pleased to meet you.”
Long seconds passed. Silence fell so completely in the room, she could hear the blood tumbling through her arteries. Her hand grew heavy, and she was just about to awkwardly drop it back to her side when the shadow in front of her shifted and moved.
Tall. Taller than her six feet and an inch. She could wear her highest heels and maybe look him in the eye. But she wore her favorite tennis shoes with jeans and an old college sweatshirt. And she looked up, searching for even a glow of his eyes. Nothing.
He wore an oversized hooded sweatshirt, his face too far back and the night darkness too thick for her to make out any features.
He shifted again, the loose material falling back and revealing his hand. Just before it grasped hers, she could see it was oddly shaped.
He was missing fingers.
Her eyes widened, and she sifted through her memories.
The fingers he had left were long and narrow. Supple, as his hand touched hers.
An odd, prickly current seemed to rip through his hand to hers. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the strength of his grip. His hand was strong, but the skin smooth, as befitted a man who earned his living sitting behind a computer.
Cowboys Don't Marry the Beauty Page 4
