by Pam Crooks
“Oh, that sounds heavenly.” So much so that the prospect suddenly appealed to her. “Would you teach me how?”
“To make a pie?” Dodie’s jaw lagged, her pale blue eyes widening. “You’ve never”—she caught herself and flashed a quick smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’d be right happy to show you. There’s a trick to getting the pastry just right, but the more you do it, the easier it gets.”
Morgana kept her chin high. She knew what the young housekeeper was thinking. That a woman of Morgana’s age had no experience in the kitchen, and what kind of wife would she ever be? How could she feed a husband and children when preparing meals was something she’d never done? Unlike Dodie, the oldest of seven children, who could run circles around Morgana’s domestic skills, and who would likely make the perfect wife for the young man who had chosen her.
Morgana’s stomach clenched. The arrival of her twenty-first birthday simply could not get here soon enough. Exactly two months and eighteen days from now, she’d be eligible for the trust her grandparents set up for her when she was born. On that very day, she’d move from her parents’ home into one of her own and begin her new life of independence.
Until then, this boredom of hers had to stop.
“Let’s begin making the pie immediately, shall we?” Morgana asked, infusing a semblance of authority into her voice.
Dodie appeared startled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“But first, I’ll bring glasses of water out to the workers. Each with a slice of lemon, of course. They’ll enjoy that, don’t you think?”
A small smile formed on Dodie’s lips. “I believe they will, yes.”
Morgana scooped up the tray with its pitcher and lone tumbler of water, sending the chunks of ice within clinking. “How many men are out there?”
“Five, I believe. No, six. A new one has only started a few days ago. A carpenter, ma’am, and he—”
Morgana swept past her, mentally calculating how many glasses the tray would hold. If she arranged them just right, they should all fit, but she’d have to carry them carefully lest they tip and spill. She halted at the kitchen cabinet where the crystal was kept and set the tray down, opened the door and pulled more tumblers from the shelf.
“Let me help you, Miss Morgana.” Dodie took the pitcher and pivoted, as if to re-fill it.
Morgana took the pitcher back again. “Thank you, but there’s no need.”
She smiled to soften the unintended firmness in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” Dodie took a step back. “The lemons are here on the table, and I’ve left the knife out for cutting.”
“Very good.”
After filling each tumbler, then adding ice, Morgana made precise cuts to the lemon, mimicking their shape like Dodie had done, then adding a wedge of the juicy citrus to each glass.
Dodie appeared uneasy standing there, nibbling on her lip with her hands clasped behind her back. “If Miss Lila came in right now, she wouldn’t be happy with me. I mean, it’s my job to work here in the kitchen, not yours.”
“You mustn’t worry. Mother is at her luncheon, and she won’t be back for a good long while yet. She’ll never know.” Morgana wiped her fingers on a towel. “Besides, even if she walked in at this very moment, I’d simply tell her it was my idea to prepare lemon water for the men, not yours. After all, they’re toiling in the heat to build her house, and she won’t have a logical reason to be upset.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dodie said, with considerably less conviction.
“All right. I’m ready.” Morgana took the tray, balancing its weight in both hands. “I won’t be gone long, and when I’ve returned, we’ll begin making the pie. How does that sound?”
“Sounds well enough, ma’am.” The young housekeeper hurried to open the door.
Which, of course, Morgana appreciated. It wouldn’t do to topple the tray before she even stepped out of the house, would it? Once she was outside, she walked as carefully as she could over the ground, dodging tools and assorted scraps of lumber as she made her way around the house.
At the side porch, two masons took a break from laying brick against the foundation to enjoy the refreshing drink. Continuing her way, she encountered a pair of carpenters, each trimming out windows, and next, the middle-aged foreman named LeRoy who was bent over a machine he explained was a lathe, making spindles for a widow’s walk her mother wanted built on the roof.
With each worker, she made sure to introduce herself, commit their names to memory and gush over their handiwork. They seemed to appreciate her conversation and refreshments, and by the time she found her way to the last man, she was feeling exceedingly confident in herself.
Except she couldn’t see him, though he must be up on the roof somewhere, judging by the pounding of a hammer. Indeed, from what she could tell, he pounded with a great deal of skill and confidence of his own.
She paused beneath scaffolding that had been erected near the porch and which held a pile of freshly cut spindles, a tin can of paint, a brush and a few tools she couldn’t quite decipher. Next to the scaffolding was a ladder, propped against the side of the house.
Peering up the length of the ladder, she debated what to do. He was too far up to notice her standing below, and he clearly worked with such intent and focus he wouldn’t think to look down, anyway. She tilted her head back, using her hand to shade her eyes. “Excuse me. Sir? Sir!”
The pounding continued. Given the racket he made, it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t heard her call, and well, of all of them, he’d be the one most in need of a cool drink, working up there under the hot sun.
Determined, she set the tray on the ground and took the remaining crystal tumbler in one hand. With the other, she lifted her skirt and stepped on the ladder’s bottom rung. Since she’d never been on a ladder in her life, she climbed slowly, rung after rung, hanging on to the sides like a lifeline while still being careful not to spill the lemon water, until she was high enough to see over the roof’s edge.
She found him, then. Squatted next to a partially constructed railing that would soon be the fashionable widow’s walk. Sweat plastered his blue shirt to his broad back, and his sleeves had been rolled up clear to his elbows. He’d halted in his hammering and appeared to be checking measurements, again engrossed in his work, and she almost hated to bother him.
But she hated being on the ladder more. Heights had never been her forte. She cleared her throat. Loudly. “Hello? Sir?”
He swiveled with a grace that belied his stance on the steep pitch of a roof. The angular planes of his face registered his surprise, and his skin showed tan beneath the brim of his Stetson.
His surprise gave way to something else. Amusement, perhaps, at seeing a woman—or at least, the head and shoulders of one—two stories up across an expanse of shingles.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Name’s Trace.”
“Mr. Trace.” That gaze of his—eyes a rich brown, intense. Intrigued. Oh, heavenly goodness, he flustered her with that gaze, and she could hardly think straight. She held up the crystal glass, ice clinking. Or what remained of it. “I’ve brought you water to drink.”
“Last name’s McQuade. First name’s Trace.” He set aside his measuring tape, laying it next to his hammer and a small bucket of nails. He rose, as lithe as a cat, and strode toward her like he walked on level, solid ground instead of a slanted roof.
She hid her dismay at her silly mistake about his name, brought on by that fluster. “Of course. Trace. Oh, please, don’t fall.”
“Haven’t yet.” Reaching her, he squatted again, stretching the fabric of his denim Levi’s across his muscular thighs. He took the glass, barely avoiding touching her fingers, and raised it toward her, like a salute. “Mighty kind of you.”
He tilted his head back and drank with an enthusiasm that made his throat bob again and again. She forced herself to keep from staring at that strong, sweaty throat. By the time he lowered the glass, pretty much all that remained were a few pathetic chunk
s of ice and the wedge of citrus.
“Tasted good,” he murmured, again eying her with undisguised amusement.
“It’s the lemon,” she said, serious.
“That must be it.” He regarded her. “You the hired help?” he asked, making no effort to return the glass.
“Me? Oh, goodness, no. I live here.”
His dark brow lifted. “That so?”
She nodded. “My name is Morgana. Goldwater. Morgana Goldwater.”
He propped his elbow on his broad knee. For a busy worker, he seemed in no hurry to return to his hammering. “As in Lila and Stanford Goldwater?”
“Their daughter, yes.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Again, he smiled, hooking her like a carp on a string with its power.
“Likewise.” She blew out a breath. If she wasn’t careful, she’d swoon in a heap, and she’d best get off this ladder before she did. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the drink. I won’t keep you from your ... hammering.”
He held out the glass. “Mind setting this on the scaffolding on your way down? I’ll finish it later.”
“I don’t mind, no.”
She held the crystal in her hand and felt for the next rung down with her foot. She hadn’t thought climbing down would prove more precarious than climbing up. Something about not quite seeing where her feet were going, and what if her toe caught on the hem of her dress? Or what if she missed a rung entirely and toppled to the ground? Down another rung and she was able to set the tumbler on the scaffolding just fine, which freed up her hand to grip the side of the ladder better.
Down, down she went, watching over her shoulder where she was going, her confidence increasing the closer to the bottom she got. And just when she was almost there, three more rungs to go, she did what she tried so hard not to do, and that was step on the hem of her dress and lose her footing.
Only a hard grasp on the ladder and a fast jump to the ground kept her from falling backward, but she almost took the monstrosity with her. The thing wobbled and jerked from the sudden shift of her weight and slid slideways into the scaffolding.
The crystal tumbler careened over the edge and sailed toward the ground. The paint can—which she only now realized wasn’t tightly sealed—followed like a duckling after its mother, spewing a stream of white paint in a perfect arc, splattering Morgana’s dress, her face and landing in a messy plop on top of her head.
Chapter 2
It happened so fast, Trace couldn’t reach her in time.
Didn’t help that he was perched on the edge of the roof, two stories up and pretty much stranded with the ladder off-balance and precarious. He didn’t trust the thing to hold him in a climb down, not without having it righted and secured first.
But Morgana Goldwater’s debacle tugged at his heartstrings. He’d kept his eye on her, making sure she made it back down safe enough. She was careful as anyone could be. Never in a million years could he have guessed her stumble would knock the ladder askew and spill a good portion of paint onto her head, covering that pretty mane of dark hair.
Damned shame, and her shrieks of dismay only made it worse. He shot a glance toward LeRoy, who’d stopped his spindle-making to see what the ruckus was about. Trace slid a sharp whistle through his teeth, and that got the man’s attention, too.
“Right the ladder for me,” he called out. “Hold it so I can get down.”
“Sure will, Trace.” LeRoy hustled over to lend a hand. In moments, he maneuvered the ladder to make it secure again.
Trace clamored down and, with LeRoy on his heels, sprinted around the side of the house, then the front and around to the other side.
He found Morgana with another woman, working a pump as fast as she could make it go. Morgana bent over the stream of water, frantically pulling pins from her hair until the thick, white-streaked mass hung over her face and dangled to the ground.
“Got any oil in the pantry?” Trace asked.
“Olive oil, yes,” the woman said.
“Best thing there is to get that paint out.”
“Hurry then, Dodie!” Morgana urged. “Bring the Slidall’s Soap, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lifting her skirts, Dodie rushed into the house.
Morgana peered at Trace through a veil of dripping hair. “Is it coming out?”
“You’re doing a good job of it, yeah.”
Though he hunkered down to her level, he had to clench his fists to keep from helping her. Wouldn’t be proper to touch her so freely, even under these circumstances. They’d only just met, and she was the boss’s daughter, after all.
Thankfully, Dodie returned in no time, carrying a half-gallon can of French olive oil and the soap. She set both down, away from the soggy ground. Winded, she frowned. “I forgot to bring a towel.”
“You’ll need an old one,” Trace said. “Going to take some doing to get the paint out.”
“Yes, sir.” Dodie turned and rushed back into the house.
“Will you pour the olive oil, Trace?” Morgana asked, her fingers working through her hair again and again. “I don’t want the paint to set in.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
She paused, sending him a scowl. “Why would I mind?”
He hesitated. It’d been a while since he spent much time with a woman. Maybe he was being too cautious with her. “Just checking, that’s all.”
“Sounds like you have things well in hand, Trace,” LeRoy said. “I’ll get back to work on them spindles. Holler if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Trace unscrewed the lid and poured freely over the dark strands, rubbing the oil on the remaining paint, rinsing, then repeating.
“Is it coming out?” she asked, her voice muffled over the water streaming from the pump.
“It is.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She made a sound of disgust. “What a stupid thing for me to do.”
“Reckon it was an accident, Morgana. If anyone is responsible, it’s me. I should’ve made sure the can was sealed tighter after I stirred. Hand me the soap, will you?”
She complied, and he lathered both hands before washing her hair, rubbing his fingertips over her scalp then lifting a soggy clump of hair and washing that, too. After a couple go-rounds, he gave her a final rinse, and while she squeezed the excess water out, he shut off the pump and went for the towel Dodie brought.
He hadn’t noticed her standing there quietly, watching. Might be she’d never seen a man wash a woman’s hair before, or she felt compelled not to intrude, but either way, he was glad she hadn’t. Getting the mess out of Morgana’s hair was the least he could do.
Besides, he enjoyed doing it.
He draped the towel over her head; she gathered all her hair into its folds and twisted it, turban-style. He stood, took her hand and helped her up.
For a moment, she gazed up at him. She had pretty eyes, deep green, like the emeralds he’d seen once in a jewelry store case. Long lashes, too, that were spiked and wet. Skin that carried a sheen of dampness and a hint of pink from the cold water. A small smear remained on her cheekbone. Using the corner of the towel, he wiped it away.
“There.” His mouth curved. “No more paint.”
“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” she murmured.
“Don’t thank me yet. Your dress is probably ruined.”
She glanced down at the splatters on her damp bodice and shrugged. “The dress can be replaced. My hair, not so easily.”
“Be glad for that. You have ... nice hair.”
Her head cocked. A faint gleam of pleasure shone in her pair of emeralds. “How kind of you to notice.”
Hell, yes, he’d noticed, and he couldn’t pull himself away from the power of her gaze if he tried.
Which he didn’t.
Until the memory came crashing through that Emma had eyes like hers. Green and full of guile, and he’d fallen for that guile, like a stupid fool.
His jaw hardened, and he stepped back.
This attraction to Morgana Goldwater had to stop. Starting now. Trace had no plans to stick around Wallace, Kansas. He was on the move, headed to the sandhills of Nebraska to start a new life, and if he didn’t get that damn widow’s walk done, he’d never make it there.
Grim, he strode away from both women, leaving them standing there watching him go.
Later That Afternoon
Trace pulled up alongside the sorry excuse for a corral and dismounted. If he had more time, he’d straighten the posts and replace the weather-worn planks, more as a favor to the livery master who’d rented him this place than out of any sense of duty or pride. But Trace figured he wouldn’t be staying much longer anyway, so he’d just save himself the trouble.
Main thing was, the corral kept his sorrel safe and even had a sorry excuse for a tack room to go along with it. After going through the corral’s gate, he pulled off the horse’s saddle and blanket and laid both over the top rail. He’d put them away later, after he filled his belly with a decent supper.
He headed toward the small cabin he’d called home since arriving in Wallace. Wasn’t much to it, but it kept out the wind and rain, and it suited him just fine. He preferred it over a room at the local boardinghouse, and it was close enough to town to make for an easy ride. Besides, with his thoughts often heavy with regrets over his mistakes, Trace wasn’t much for company these days. Never considered himself much of a loner, but he sure was turning into one.
Tonight would be no different. Just him, a can of beans, some bread and a bottle of whiskey to help stave off his loneliness.
And thoughts of Morgana Goldwater, who shook up his loneliness and made him think of things he could never have.
A woman.
At least, not now. Not in Wallace, Kansas.
Not until he got himself settled on his own ranch in Nebraska.
Would he find the perfect woman, even then? A wife he could claim as his own forever? Who would want him, anyway, once they learned he’d shot a woman?
