Morrow Creek Runaway

by Lisa Plumley

  “Mr. Callaway! Look! I got this big ’un.” With a grunt, Tobe Larkin hoisted a split log. Red-faced, he carried it to the pile, then dropped it flat. It landed with a thud. “See?”

  Miles squinted at him. “Are you sure you just turned thirteen?” Musingly, he squeezed the boy’s scrawny arm. “I reckon you’ve got the strength of a sixteen-year-old in here.”

  “That’s right. I do. And you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

  Tobe ran off, his sights set on a ludicrously large piece of wood. Miles grinned, feeling fond of the boy already.

  He’d been a lot like Tobe as a child. Tall, eager to prove himself and willing to talk up his own skills in the process.

  Another child lurched into view, his face hidden behind a precariously balanced pile of wood. Miles recognized the red hair visible just above the pile, though. That mop top belonged to Seamus O’Malley. Even now, the boy was jabbering away.

  Pretty much, Miles had learned, he never quit talking.

  “…so that’s how I got so many pieces of wood all at once,” Seamus was saying now, his voice muffled. “I just stacked ʼem up real good beforehand. I’m always thinkin’ up stuff like that. It’s just like playin’ baseball. I’m real good at that, too.”

  With an elaborate grunt, Seamus dropped his load on the growing pile. At the rate they were all working—for Miles had done his share of carrying and stacking, too—it would be at least six months before anyone in the household would need to take more than three steps from the kitchen to gather wood.

  His burden gone, Seamus chanced a glance at Agatha. He saw that she was engrossed in the puppy. His shoulders sagged. Evidently, he’d hoisted that heavy load hoping to impress her.

  Miles’s heart went out to the youngster. He knew what potentially unrequited love felt like for himself.

  “I reckon that’s enough wood for now.” With due solemnity, Miles studied the pile they’d made, hands on his hips. Loudly, for Agatha’s benefit, he added, “That last load you added plumb finished off the pile, Seamus. Well done. I’m impressed.”

  The boy perked up. He glanced at Agatha.

  She smiled at him, her glasses twinkling in the sunshine.

  Seamus all but bolted in her direction. Miles knew better. He clapped one hand on Seamus’s shoulder, holding him back.

  “Whoa, there, Seamus. Hang on just a minute.”

  “Huh? Why? Agatha just smiled at me! I’ve gotta go talk—”

  “Just wait.” Patiently, Miles watched Agatha.

  Any second now…

  “Hey, Seamus—do you want a turn holding Riley?”

  “That puppy?” The boy humphed. He made an exaggeratedly disgruntled face. “What kind of fella holds a dumb puppy?”

  Looking pleased to have presented himself as a tough, no-puppies-allowed kind of man, Seamus sneaked a peek at Miles.

  A few yards away, Agatha looked crestfallen.

  Miles shook his head. “When a lady invites you to do something,” he instructed the boy, “you always say yes.”

  Forcibly, he tucked in Seamus’s shirttail. He gave the boy’s unruly hair a swift, mostly hopeless smooth down, then examined his freckled face for good measure. It was a dirt-smudged mess. Fortunately, Miles’s shirtsleeve doubled handily as a scrubber. Within seconds, Seamus looked presentable.

  Miles nodded. “I reckon you’ll do. Go on. Start out by apologizing. Then think up a good joke. Keep it polite!”

  Eagerly, Seamus headed out. Then, two steps in, he turned.

  Beseechingly, he beckoned for Miles. Miles came over.

  “Can you fix my sleeves like yours?” Seamus asked urgently.

  Befuddled, Miles looked down at his rolled-up sleeves.

  “Your sleeves look like somethin’ a pirate captain would wear in a book,” Seamus explained. “I think Agatha likes ʼem.”

  Hiding a smile, Miles did as he was asked. He crouched to Seamus’s level, fixed his shirtsleeves, then shooed the boy.

  It made him feel downright satisfied to see Seamus approach Agatha with a little extra strut in his step.

  “So that’s how you do it,” someone said from behind Miles, sounding amused. “You roll up your shirtsleeves and then unleash an irresistible onslaught on the nearest hapless female.”

  Rosamond. Miles turned to find her watching him. Smiling.

  “Do you really think it’s fair to pass on this skill of yours to the next generation?” she asked. “Look at Agatha.”

  He did. Now she and Seamus were jointly petting Riley, each of them cooing at the puppy as if they’d invented baby talk.

  “She seems happy enough,” Miles observed.

  “She doesn’t know Seamus had help impressing her,” Rosamond pointed out. “As far as Agatha knows, Seamus never walks around with strawberry jam in his hair and cockleburs stuck to his britches. As far as Agatha knows, Seamus will love her forever.”

  “They’re not even five feet tall. Give them time.”

  “You rolled his shirtsleeves at a rakish angle!”

  “So? That’s just embellishment. Women like embellishment. They’re not gullible, though. Agatha eats breakfast with Seamus. She’s probably wise to the strawberry jam problem by now.”

  “All I’m saying is, don’t help him break her heart.”

  Miles gave Rosamond what he knew was a perceptive look. He didn’t need miles of book learning to understand what she meant.

  “It’s not my intention for anybody to break anybody’s heart.” Especially yours. “Especially Agatha’s.” Miles pointed. “Look at her—she’s single-handedly calmed down Riley.”

  “For that I’m grateful,” Rosamond admitted. “For the rest—”

  “You think I gave Seamus an unfair advantage.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Miles shrugged. “Agatha smiled at him first. Seems to me the die was cast then. Now all Seamus has to do is meet her halfway. He didn’t need help from me to do that.”

  “Well…she has a right to know his intentions.”

  At that, Miles chuckled. “You’re funny sometimes, Mrs. Dancy. They’re just practicing at behaving like grown-ups.”

  He saw her lips tighten at his use of her married name and wondered how long it would take Rosamond to let him address her less formally. It seemed to rile her every time he didn’t.

  Seeming irked even now, Rosamond put her hands on her hips. “How do I know you’re not using these children to spy on me?”

  “Easy. If I were, I’d know everything there is to know by now.” Miles grinned. “These youngsters love me to pieces.”

  She gave an impatient sound.

  “Also,” he relented, knowing she was wise to be at least partly serious about this issue, given his sudden arrival, “if I were spying on you, I’d want to know something else besides your favorite color and how much you like hotcakes for breakfast.”

  Rosamond seemed skeptical.

  “Blue,” Miles told her. “And a lot. Heaping plates full.”

  His bantering made her relax, just the way he wanted.

  “If I were spying on you,” Miles said, relaxing more now, too, “I’d want to know a lot of things. I’d want to know—”

  Whether that baby Lucinda Larkin is holding is yours.

  Dumbstruck, Miles stared toward the upstairs window where Tobe’s mother stood with a baby in her arms. He’d never glimpsed that baby before. Exactly why, he wondered, had it been hidden?

  He couldn’t be sure from this distance, but a baby that size might well be the correct age to be Arvid’s bastard. It seemed significant that Miles hadn’t glimpsed the child before now.

  “You’d want to know what?” Rosamond’s mischievous tone broke into his thoughts. “Go on. Finish what you were saying.”

  With effort, Miles swerved his attention back to their conversation. “I’d want to know if you’ll help me today.”

  “Help you? With what?”

  “With some of the chores I have yet to do.” He ges
tured. “Inside the house. Upstairs. There’s a stuck window up there.”

  “Really? Miss Yates hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

  “Do you know how to fix a stuck window?”

  Rosamond didn’t seem to want to admit it, but… “Not yet.”

  “That’s probably why she didn’t mention it to you. Everyone knows you get tetchy at the idea you can’t do something.”

  Rosamond harrumphed. “You must have me confused with some other Mrs. Dancy. Because this Mrs. Dancy can do everything.”

  That was just the Rosamond Miles remembered. It was a good thing, too. Because he needed to get inside the house quickly. If, as a bonus, he could watch Rosamond with that baby…

  Well, it would be enlightening, was what he was guessing.

  Not that Miles intended to report the results of his prying to Bouchard, the way he was supposed to. But as the man who’d admired Rosamond from afar for years—as the man who wanted more than mutual friendship and dancing from her now—Miles figured he had a right to know if Rosamond had run away to have a secret baby.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s go. You can hold my tools.”

  She gave him a chary look.

  “I’ll need more than brute strength to fix the window. I’ll need tools. Expertise. Finesse.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.” Rosamond grinned, seeming wholly unaware that Miles’s attention had become divided among her, Mrs. Larkin and the baby in the window. “You look as if you could just smile at that stuck window and it would fly open.”

  “I’m glad you’re so impressed by me.”

  “I’m glad we’re not going to the market yet.”

  Hellfire. Miles had forgotten that was his plan. He still wanted to help Rosamond face her fears of leaving the household.

  “Don’t get too smug, Mrs. Dancy. Our bargain still stands.”

  “I know.” Determinedly, Rosamond lifted her chin. “I fully intend to hold up my end of our deal, too.” She swallowed hard, then gave him a deliberately steely look. “I can’t wait to leave here and help you kit out your new lodgings at the stable!”

  For a long moment, Miles could only gaze at her with admiration. “I’m impressed. That almost sounded convincing.”

  “So did your dedication to fixing that window,” Rosamond pointed out. “Yet here we are, chatting away instead.”

  Miles laughed, knowing he should skedaddle inside but wanting this easy closeness to last between them…the way it once had every day. “You’re a hard taskmaster.”

  “I like to get things done, that’s all. Now that I’ve decided what to do, there’s no benefit to wasting time.”

  Miles disagreed. He crossed his arms, still studying her. “I think you’ll find that some things are best done slowly.”

  Her brow arched. “Like window fixing?”

  “Like kissing.” And embracing, and stroking, and undressing…each garment following the next, until there was nothing left but skin on skin, warm and soft, coming together…

  As if she could read his racy thoughts, Rosamond seemed uncharacteristically uncertain. “Kissing? I wouldn’t know.”

  “Good.” Miles couldn’t help dropping his gaze to her mouth. It looked full. Soft. Pink and kissable and lovely. “That was something else I was hoping to teach you about. Kissing.”

  Hazy-eyed, Rosamond examined his lips. He could have sworn he heard her give a regretful sigh. “I was hoping for that, too. Once upon a time, I was. Now…” She blinked and gazed up radiantly at him. “Well, now things are different, aren’t they?”

  “Not that different.” Miles hesitated, then decided he didn’t have time to squander. “I still want to kiss you.”

  Rosamond inhaled, eyes wide. Her gaze swerved to his.

  “I would kiss you slowly,” Miles clarified, needing to reassure her. Needing her to know how special she was. “I would hold your hand first, then maybe stroke your arm, like this—”

  Deliberately transferring his gaze from her face to her arm, Miles brought his hand there in the lightest of touches. Using his fingertips, he savored the warmth of her skin through her long-sleeved calico dress. Gently, he wrapped his hand around her arm. Soothingly, he stroked her with his thumb.

  “—then, when you felt very comfortable with that,” Miles went on, leaning the slightest bit nearer, “I would come a little closer to you, just like this. I would wait a minute, just to breathe in that rose perfume of yours, just to remember that you’re you, my Rose, the woman I’ve waited so long for—”

  Rosamond stood stock-still. Raptly, she watched him.

  “—and then I’d probably bring my other hand up to your face, like this,” Miles said, raising his free hand to her jaw. He caressed her, feeling the space between them grow heated and languid and full of yearning. “I’d tell you you’re beautiful—”

  Rosamond swallowed hard. She swayed a fraction closer.

  “—because you are, so beautiful,” he told her, knowing that his whole heart might pound through his chest at any second with the intensity of the need he felt for her, “and then I’d remark on how very soft and warm your skin is, because it feels like heaven beneath my palm.” Slowly, he caressed her, his voice growing husky as he went on speaking. “And I wouldn’t be able to help looking at your lips, because I’ve imagined them on mine so many times now, and I know that kissing you will be so nice—”

  Rosamond’s gaze parted abruptly from his. Her attention flew from Miles’s face to a point someplace over his shoulder, then returned. Skittishly, she took a step back. Damnation.

  “I think it would be better,” she surprised him by saying in all seriousness, “if I were the one to kiss you.”

  At the notion, Miles felt nigh on inflamed with desire.

  He wanted that. So much. Especially now that he’d touched her so familiarly—now that he knew what desire really was.

  “But since I can’t very well do that in a yard full of children,” Rosamond went on, sounding a little bit husky and bedazzled herself as she sought to gather her wits, “I guess we’ll have to fix that stuck window instead, won’t we?”

  Miles frowned. Gradually, the overlooked sounds of the children playing nearby—of Seamus jabbering away to Agatha—penetrated his awareness again. “Fix the window? What window? I don’t remember any window.”

  Gaily, Rosamond smiled at him. “Come on now. Time’s wasting.” She gestured. “Get your tools and let’s go.”

  “You know, the children don’t care what we’re doing out here,” Miles said. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but some of them wandered off when we started talking. The rest started a game over yonder near that tree. So I think we’re safe.”

  Rosamond shook her head. “We’re anything but safe.”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” Boldly, she took his hand. She tugged, pretending she could haul him her direction. “Quit dillydallying and start demonstrating your usefulness.”

  Not giving in, Miles persisted. They’d been so close…

  “I won’t ever hurt you, Rosamond. I hope you know that.”

  Her handhold went slack. She examined him for a minute, recalling what he’d said. Her hard gaze almost made him shiver. An evaluative stance like hers would have made a lesser man give up. But Miles wasn’t just any man. He would never give up.

  Rosamond would be a difficult woman to get close to. But Miles meant to try, all the same. If it took his dying breath, he meant to help Rose break free of all her restraints. He meant to help Rose be happy. He hoped her happiness would include him.

  “That makes us even then,” Rosamond told him. “Because I don’t intend to let you hurt me. So…shall we get started?”

  The window. Miles had never wanted to perform handyman duties less than he did in that moment. He wanted to get closer to Rosamond instead. He wanted to touch her again, to kiss her…

  “Yes.” He nodded. Then, because he wasn’t a man who back
ed down easily… “You’re going to be awed by my prowess. Let’s go.”

  *

  Following Miles’s broad-shouldered lead as he directed their way back inside her household, Rosamond knew that she already was awed by Miles’s prowess. Who wouldn’t have been?

  Already, her onetime favorite stableman had managed to accomplish more in a few days in Morrow Creek than another man could have managed in…well, forever. Because no other man had ever tempted Rosamond to stand close, close, closer to him. To breathe in the musky male scent of him. To look at his lips, to watch him speak, to soak in the good, familiar lilt of his voice and the sure, comforting promises inherent in his words.

  I won’t ever hurt you, Rosamond. I hope you know that.

  She did. More and more, with each passing moment, she did.

  Otherwise, why would she have allowed Miles to touch her? To caress her cheek, to speak so shamelessly, to tempt her into almost raising on her tiptoes and pressing her mouth to his?

  Frankly, Rosamond realized as she stepped into the cooling shade of her kitchen with Miles ahead of her, she’d gone considerably beyond wondering if Miles’s beard was soft or scratchy. Now she’d begun wondering if Miles’s mouth would feel as gentle as his words did, if his touch would feel as stirring as his declarations of feeling for her did, if being with him, intimately, would scare her half as much as the notion of being without him had already begun to.

  You’re you, my Rose, the woman I’ve waited so long for.

  Honestly. How could any woman be expected to resist sweet words like those? Rosamond was only human. She was only one woman. She already knew she needed Miles. In the space of a few days, she’d again been lured into relying on his kind nature, his laughter-inducing ways, his strength and his integrity. To know that he felt similarly about her…well, that was almost enough to make Rosamond throw caution to the wind altogether.

  In fact, she had abandoned reasonable prudence for a few dangerous moments. All because she’d been trying to distract Miles from the view of Lucinda Larkin and the baby he’d obviously caught in the window. Rosamond had seized upon the one opportunity she had to divert Miles’s attention and place it squarely on herself…only to succumb to his attentions for real.