As he’d promised, Marcus came by her bakeshop every day. He arrived after the noon meal, after seeing his mill off to a good start each day, and stayed till late, hammering and sawing and making repairs. His diligence was inspiring. Never had she seen a man work so hard.
Never had she seen a man appear more attractive to a woman’s eye as he did so.
Each time Marcus wielded his hammer, she sneaked peeks from her worktable. Each time he strode along a length of wood—the better to measure it—she abandoned her bread dough to surreptitiously admire the strength of his legs, the width of his shoulders, the muscled curve of his backside. Each time he sawed, Molly watched his forearms flex; each time he plucked a nail from the cache held between his pursed lips, she sighed.
Like one of Sarah’s impressionable schoolgirls, she followed his movements with her chin in her hand. Like those silly gigglers, she blushed when Marcus caught her looking. Twice she knocked over bowls of cake batter in her efforts to seem nonchalant. Three times she iced her hand instead of a cinnamon bun. Finally Molly just gave up.
“Thirsty?” she asked, stopping by Marcus’s side at the faulty window. She knew she looked at him with worshipful eyes, but she simply couldn’t help it. He was doing all this work for her sake. It was powerfully kind of him, now that she’d decided to allow it. “I brought you a glass of water.”
He glanced up distractedly, hammer poised in midair. Three nails dangled between his lips. “Mmm?”
“Water.” Molly held up the slippery glass. “For you.”
His faint smile made those nails wobble. Marcus plucked them away, then set them, along with his hammer, aside on his sawhorse. Sunshine streamed through the window to bathe his face as he wiped his forearm over his damp forehead. At the play of light over his features, she nearly sighed again. That golden glow made his eyes more amber, his dark hair shinier…his perplexed look truer.
He glanced at the water glass. “It has leaves in it.”
“Oh, those are—”
With a decisive gesture, Marcus took the glass. He fished out the greenery with two fingers, then flung it aside. Molly started as the garnish she’d offered landed amidst broken glass, bent nails and sawdust.
“Those are wild mint leaves!” she protested.
“Mmm?”
“They’re meant to make the water more refreshing.”
“Mmm.”
Marcus drank deeply, his Adam’s apple moving with each long swallow. He tipped his head back to drain the glass, then returned it to Molly. A grin lit his face as he wiped his palm dry on his wool pants.
“Thank you. Most refreshing.”
“It’s more refreshing with the mint.”
“Not possible.”
Molly dragged over a chair from the several Marcus had shoved in a corner to make room for his repairs. She settled into it. “Definitely possible. You simply haven’t learned to appreciate the finer things in life, that’s all.”
“Finer things? If they include floating weeds in my water, I’m happy without them.”
“You should at least give them a try.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine as I am. I’ve never had much, and I don’t need much.”
Molly gawped at him. Oblivious, Marcus grabbed his hammer, flipped it end over end in a move doubtless designed to impress her, then straddled the sawhorse over which he’d arrayed the new window frame pieces. He surveyed them.
“Never had much? You have a great deal!” she argued. “Your house is fine, your lumber mill is prosperous—”
“Either of them could vanish in an instant,” he disagreed.
“Not with you in charge of them, they couldn’t. Why, you’ve already measured that new window more carefully than any carpenter would have. I counted three separate measurements, at least.” She should have been stoning raisins for pies, not ogling Marcus as he worked, but…that was neither here nor there. “Don’t you realize how extraordinary you are?”
He paused with his measuring instruments in hand, squinted at the cut lumber before him. “There’s no harm in being certain.”
“You go beyond certain,” Molly disagreed. “All the way to perfect. I’ve been watching you, you know—”
“You have?” Rakishly he angled his head toward her. “Do you like what you see?”
“Very much. But I—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. I mean—”
He winked. “Go on looking, then. I don’t mind.”
“I have work to do.” With dignity, Molly stood, clutching the empty water glass. She flounced away, skirts swishing. “You can get your own water from here on out. I won’t be watching to see if you need it.”
“Oh, yes. You will.”
“I won’t, because I’ll be too busy with my own work.”
But she wasn’t. Despite her best intentions, Molly found herself pausing amidst grating nutmeg to admire Marcus’s deft handling of the windowpane replacements he’d bought. Sunshine sparked off the glass as he set it into the proper grooves in the new frame. Naturally the fit was perfect.
Intrigued, Molly continued watching. Eventually Marcus had mounted the whole assembly in the window opening. He stepped back to examine the finished job with a satisfied nod.
Of course, it had taken the better part of an afternoon to accomplish that task. Marcus never hurried, never seemed to take shortcuts, never diverted his attention from the matter at hand. The way he worked, it occurred to her, was very akin to the way he lived. He gave every task his every effort.
He brought the same sense of concentration to measuring lumber as he did to running his mill…as he did to kissing her. ’Twas heady stuff, to be the object of such attentiveness, such intensity. Perhaps that was why Marcus appealed to her so strongly, Molly thought. He was exactly as driven to succeed as she was.
But then, Marcus had accomplished a business of his own and a household of his own. Both were thriving enterprises, even if one was given to boot jerky accoutrements. She had a business, too, but it thrived only with Marcus’s help.
Only with Marcus’s help. Why should that be? Absently shelling walnut meats for later, Molly pondered the question. She knew she was just as determined to succeed as Marcus. She knew she worked every bit as hard as he did. So why were his efforts fruitful…and hers so often disappointing?
Distractedly dusting her hands with flour, she began rolling out piecrusts. She transferred the jagged circles she formed to the waiting tins, her gaze mostly on Marcus as he tested her wallboards for rot. Several needed replacing, Molly knew. There was a leak near the ceiling. The occasional rainfall brought water down the length of her wallpaper and wainscoting all the way to the floorboards.
Marcus crouched, running his hand along the top edge of the chair rail. He angled his head and closed one eye, peering at the wallpaper. He slowly crept along the wall, occasionally thumping it with his knuckles.
“If you were any other man, I’d think you were doing this job slowly in order to spend more time with me.”
His grin flashed. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“The fact that your molasses-slow methods seem to work, however leisurely. Also the fact that you haven’t taken the liberty of kissing me once today.”
“Not once?”
“Not once.” She raised her chin, pretending indifference.
“Are your workmen usually so forward as all that?” He paused, pretending to consider it. “In that case, I’m surprised you were so reluctant to have me make these repairs.”
The rogue gave her a scandalous look. In response, Molly’s fingers fluttered unsteadily over her piecrust crimping. A delicious sense of flirtatiousness sprang to life inside her, engendered by Marcus’s teasing. She quite deliberately finished the tin she’d begun.
“Well, that’s easily explained. I was reluctant to have you here because…”
Because you’re so very overwhelming. Because you make me long for things I thought I wouldn’t. Because…because you
came to me with notions other than helpfulness in mind.
The statement he’d made while examining her ledgers returned to her. You don’t trust me because you believe it’s the matchmaker I seek. Not you.
“…because I was being silly.” Sooner or later, she would have to trust him, Molly told herself. It may as well be now. With that decision, a sense of lightheartedness filled her. “It was foolish of me not to…accept your help.”
And trust you, her heart finished for her. It was foolish of me not to trust you. After all, even if Marcus had believed her the matchmaker at first, what were the odds he still did? Surely the time they’d spent together had changed his mind. It wasn’t for nothing that Molly had strived to keep her secrets close.
“I’m glad you see the sense in it.” Marcus strode to her worktable, his clothes streaked with sawdust. He reached one muscled forearm toward the stack of date cookies she’d piled there on a plate. “Most women would have done so long ago.”
She watched two cookies disappear beneath his gargantuan bites. Marcus chewed—then chewed and chewed and…perhaps his teeth weren’t as strong as they should be. Molly frowned.
“Most women aren’t as capable as I am,” she said.
He coughed. “As you say.” One meaty fist pounded his chest. “But a man likes to feel needed, Molly. He likes to help. He likes to know he’s done all he can for his womenfolk. Doesn’t your matchmaker have something to say to that?”
“The matchmaker believes in equality between the sexes.”
“Equality is impossible.”
“It is not!” Molly was glad Grace wasn’t present to hear such heresy come from his lips. “My sister would trounce you with her bronze Suffragette Of The Year cup to hear you say such a thing.”
“Men are stronger. We’re meant to care for women. It’s as plain as that. If we can’t do that much at least, then what good are we?”
“Some women don’t need to be cared for.”
Marcus shook his head. “I’d like to change your mind.”
The notion shook her. Molly didn’t want to consider it, nor dwell on wondering why Marcus might feel that way. In this, they were incompatible to the extreme. There were no two ways about it.
“Babies should be cared for. Competent women should not.”
With a clumsy jerk of her rolling pin, she transferred the next bit of pastry to its tin. Before she could begin crimping it, Marcus was there.
He raised her chin in his fingers, forcing her to look at him. “I need a woman I can care for. I need a woman who needs me,” he said bluntly. “I want that woman to be you.”
Molly felt her eyes widen. He wanted her. Jubilation swept through her, followed by an answering need for him. Marcus was the only man she’d ever considered wanting for her own. To know that he wanted her, too, now—
But only on his own terms.
Only as a needful person Molly could never allow herself to be. Otherwise, what was the sense in proving herself now…only to surrender herself to someone later? To Marcus, later? Her family already believed her incompetent, treated her like the child she no longer was. Today Marcus claimed to want those same belittling rights for himself.
Didn’t he?
Caught within his grasp, Molly hesitated. She sensed powdery sawdust against her jaw, smelled the faint, honest sweat and no-nonsense determination that clung to him. A part of her did want to give over to him. But the rest of her knew that doing so would prove too dangerous by far.
“Why do you think I’ve done this work on your shop?” he prompted fiercely, his gaze never leaving hers as he nodded toward the lumber and equipment spread everywhere. “Why do you think I’ve called on you, and kissed you, and let you turn me inside out with your locksmith pranks and your Chautauqua donations and your baking lessons? Lord, Molly! Do you think I wanted this?”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
She jerked her head to break free. Marcus didn’t let her. His grip remained fast.
“I can do things for you. I can help you. You don’t have to shoulder your burdens alone.”
“I do. I must.” Didn’t she?
“Let me help.” He tipped her chin higher, brushed his lips against hers. “Let me, Molly.”
His mouth touched hers again persuasively. His free hand cupped her shoulder, holding her steady as he deepened his kiss. Wavering beneath it, Molly found herself unable to resist. Her palms rose to the broad wall of his chest before she’d so much as willed it; her body softened into his before she’d even realized she wanted the welcoming connection of their hips and bellies and thighs coming together. She moaned beneath his kiss and gave herself to Marcus, if only for this one perfect moment because later, when she’d refused him, wouldn’t she need the remembrance of this to sustain her?
She would, because refusing his help was what she fully intended to do. Later. Now, right now, all Molly wanted was to feel protected in his arms. To feel beautiful and beloved. To feel all the things Marcus made her feel…and to pretend that he didn’t want so much from her that she couldn’t give.
“See?” he said when they broke apart at last. “There are things you need from me. Things only I can give you.”
Dazed, Molly opened her eyes. “What?”
“You need me, Molly. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
With a masculine nod, Marcus released her. As cool air swept between their bodies, she felt instantly bereft. She knew there was something in Marcus’s statement she ought to object to. But as Molly watched him stride back to his sawhorse and go to work again, she could not for the life of her figure out what it was.
She touched her lips. Pondered the coziness she felt, with Marcus here and the two of them working side by side. Shook her head, with a dismissal she’d like to have felt more truly.
Marcus thought he wanted a helpless woman, a woman who’d need his aid time and again. He was mistaken. All he needed was to be shown the true appeal of an independent woman, Molly vowed, and promised herself she’d become that woman. For him, and for herself.
With that in mind, she watched carefully as Marcus carried his measuring instruments to her wall’s wainscoting. She scrutinized his methods, committed them to memory, learned as she observed. She recalled the days’ worth of such lessons she’d witnessed. Then she nodded.
For her next batch of cinnamon buns, Molly hauled out the flour and measured it. Then she measured it again, and again a third time. To her surprise, her initial measurement had been off by a few spoonfuls.
Next she grated a cone of sugar, making a pile of the sweet, sparkly stuff on her work counter. She measured it thrice as well. With an occasional pause to observe Marcus’s progress on his repairs, Molly concentrated fully on the steps in making her special cinnamon buns. She consulted each step in her recipe and was surprised to realize that, although she’d thought she’d had the process committed to memory, she nearly forgot to proof the yeast.
She almost forgot to add the salt, as well. Thoughtfully, Molly stopped. She examined Marcus’s work area, seeking out more hints from the man who’d fostered both a successful lumber mill business and a successful household of his own. Although the space initially looked messy to her, when she studied it more closely, Molly realized the tools and supplies looked messy because they were all laid out, ready to be used for the job at hand.
Glancing at her worktable, Molly reconsidered. Customarily she kept her baking supplies tucked away for neatness’ sake. Was it possible that doing so had led her to occasionally forget an important ingredient?
On the off chance it was, she hauled out everything else she needed. Salt. Cinnamon. Butter. Milk. Then she continued. When she’d reached the kneading stage, she squeezed the dough she’d formed with amazement. It felt different. It felt good. It felt right.
A new encouragement filled her as she set it to rise, then later, rolled it out to form the cinnamon buns with. She buttered the dough, sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar and her spe
cial secret ingredient, rolled it into a soft, puffy log and sliced it into sweet spirals.
Resisting the temptation to whack through the dough quickly in order to get on with the next recipe, Molly measured three times and cut carefully. Evenly. She laid the cinnamon buns aside for their final rise, then went to find more wood for the stove. In the past, she’d occasionally let her fire die too quickly, which had necessitated baking the buns at a lower temperature for a very long time.
It occurred to her that long, low temperatures also were used to produce beef jerky. Had she, without knowing it, been baking cinnamon bun jerky?
With a sinking feeling, Molly poked a fingertip at this morning’s first batch of cinnamon buns. A hollow thud sounded in the shop. She picked up the sweet and rapped it on the counter.
“Someone’s at your front door,” Marcus said, his attention all for the wall he’d been repairing. “I heard knocking.”
Appalled, Molly looked at the cinnamon bun in her hand. Tentatively she raised the thing and sniffed it. She licked it. Sweet icing tingled on her tongue. Encouraged, she took a bite.
“Ow!”
Immediately Marcus was there. “What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself? Let me see.”
Looking concerned, he grasped her forearm and turned it upward. The offending cinnamon bun—without so much as a dent in its supposedly tender surface—caught his eye. He gave her a curious look.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Molly twisted her arm, hiding the sweet. Her tooth ached fiercely, making her eyes water. “I’ve just realized there may be something to your philosophies, that’s all.”
Marcus brightened. Pleasure shone from his face. “The truth hurts, hmm?”
Molly made a face.
Too pleased to be bothered by it, he nodded. “I’m glad.”
He kissed her again, then swaggered back to his work. He cast her a fond glance over his shoulder. Smiled. It occurred to Molly that Marcus looked awfully delighted for a mere…oh. He thought she’d decided to agree with his “I need a woman I can care for” philosophies, not his orderly work ways.
Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 01] Page 15
