by Jillian Hart
“I want this to work out, I truly do.” Her confession rolled off her tongue before she could stop it. She winced, hearing the ring of her far too honest words in the stillness between them. Now she was the one being too forward, speaking as if she already had the job.
Joseph did not seem to mind. His leather gloves gripped the back of her neck. His was a tender touch; his voice when he spoke was like satin. “I have a good feeling. I want this to work, too.”
They must be sorely hurting for a maid. And Joseph Brooks was too charming for his own good. There was something amiss, something out of place she could not put her finger on because of his touch. He smoothed her long hair out of the way, his touch almost like a caress. Very inappropriate, and she opened her mouth to say so, but not a single word emerged.
As he tugged her coat off her shoulders, she was aware of every solid inch of him. The strange jolt returned, zinging through her like a lightning strike. Her pulse screeched to a halt, and it was as if her heart would never beat again.
Whatever this strange, emotional pull was, she had to resist it. She pressed away from him just a tad, steeling her spine. Her face heated and she didn’t know where to look. It would be very easy to come to care about Joseph.
“Are you blushing?”
“I’m not used to such attention.”
“Then you had best get used to it, pretty lady.” His baritone knelled rich and intimate. “I know you are worried, but I’m not.
I’m glad you came, Clara. I can’t think of anyone better.”
How sweet. “Except for the fact that you don’t know me at all. I could be a laze-about.”
“Beauty and wit, too. I think you and I are going to get along just fine.” His hand brushed her cheek. “I will be good to you, I swear it. I’ll build us a place of our own.”
“What?” A place? As in, a house? Had she heard him correctly? And why was the floor spinning? The cabin seemed to tilt at an odd angle. “A place of our own?”
“Yes, I know it’s soon to talk of such things, but we both know why you’re here, Clara.” His gloved finger folded a lock of hair behind her ear, the gentlest of all touches, and he towered over her, pure gentleman and dazzlingly tender. “I’m already sweet on you. I know it in my gut. I just know. We are going to be the happiest married couple in these parts.”
“M-married?” she stuttered. No, surely there was something wrong with her hearing. Perhaps it was the aftereffect of train travel or from choosing to skip the noon meal to save the cost of the food. Any moment now her mind was going to stop sloshing around and settle down to working correctly, and Joseph was going to start making sense to her. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s a fault of mine.” He took her coat from her; bits of melting snow shook loose and fell to the floor. “I promise to give you all the time you need. If I’m not mistaken, here’s Ma now. I’ll let you two get acquainted while I stable my horse. He shouldn’t be left standing in this weather.”
“No, of course not, but—” The long last look he threw at her felt like stardust’s gentle glaze. She felt a magical warmth surround her, something she could not touch or see but felt all the same. Places in her heart came alive, places she never knew were there before.
Transfixed, she watched the wide-shouldered man hang her coat on a peg by the door and open it to a pleasant, apple-faced woman with her hair piled loose and tall on her head. The two exchanged words; Joseph strode out into the dark. Clara stood as still as an end table in the parlor, her pulse thumping bizarrely.
His bold comments rang in her mind. I just might have to marry you. I’ll build us a place of our own. We both know why you’re here, Clara.
“Miss Pennington? Hello, there. I’m Mary Brooks.” The pleasant woman tapped closer, wrapped in a fine cashmere shawl and wearing a tasteful brown velveteen dress. Nothing but kindness and happiness marked her round, pretty face. “I saw Joseph walk past the kitchen window with you in tow. I’m delighted you decided to come a bit early. How lovely to meet you.”
Miss Pennington? Suddenly it all made sense. They were expecting someone else. Someone else had already been hired for the position and, by the sound of things, had some relationship with Joseph. He’d simply mistaken her for Miss Pennington. That was why he behaved far too familiarly. Her ears began to buzz, disappointment settling like a weight in her chest. “Mrs. Brooks, I’m so pleased to meet you, but my name is—”
“That Joseph, putting you in the maid’s quarters. What was he thinking?” Mary Brooks threw out both arms and wrapped Clara in the sweetest, tightest hug she’d ever imagined. A mother’s embrace, welcoming and comforting. “You must come to the main house with us immediately. I’ve had the cook set an extra plate at the table. Your room should be ready in a bit, as we are currently without a second maid. How were your travels? My, you are such a dear thing. As pretty as a picture.”
Overwhelmed, Clara could only search in vain for words. A terrible falling began somewhere in her midsection, and it felt as if it took all her hopes with it. Mary Brooks was not expecting a maid. No, not at all.
“What did you think of my Joseph? Isn’t he a dear?” Mary squeezed Clara’s hands gently, telegraphing both need and joy.
The mother’s love sparkling within her was impossible to miss.
“I think you two would be perfect together.”
“I’m sorry, but you were expecting a bride for him?” She couldn’t say why she felt desolate, but at least some of the pieces were starting to fit.
“Yes, dear. Of course. Isn’t that what those months of corresponding between the two of us were about?” Mary’s face drew into a perfect visage of concern. “Don’t tell me we are not what you expected, that you’re disappointed in us? I know you are used to many conveniences, Boston is surely a fine city, but I assure you, a remote location like this has much to offer. And there is no finer man anywhere than my son.”
“I’m sure that is all true.” Her voice sounded wooden. All Joseph’s kindness toward her and this woman’s motherly concern would vanish as soon as she said the words. But they must be said. “I am not Miss Pennington. My name is Clara, and I’ve come for the maid’s job, if it’s still open.”
“The maid’s job? I don’t understand, child.”
Her knees wobbled, and beneath her mittens her palms went damp. She refused to let herself wonder what Joseph would think. She refused to acknowledge any feelings toward him at all. This was the moment of truth. The reason she had sold everything she owned to travel far from everything she knew. “Nan Woodrow is my mother. You had been corresponding with her about a position in your home.”
“Yes, of course. Where is she? Did something happen to her?”
“You could say that. My ma isn’t the most reliable of people.
I’m afraid she ran off.”
“Ran off? You’ve come all this way, and alone?”
She nodded miserably. What Mrs. Brooks must be thinking!
Shame crawled through her, but she firmed her chin. “I assure you I am nothing like my mother. I work hard and I need this job. Please, would you consider hiring me?”
Chapter Three
Joseph swiped the towel one last time across Don Quixote’s withers. “What do you think of Clara?”
The stallion stomped his right hoof and tossed his head.
“That’s what I think, too. Woo-wee.” He patted his horse’s neck.
“Looks like there are going to be a few changes around here.”
Don Quixote whinnied low in his throat as if in complete understanding.
“I wonder how things are going up at the house.” He closed the stall gate and pried open the grain barrel. He grabbed the scoop and filled it, pleasantly recalling just how good it had felt to cradle his betrothed against his chest. Mighty fine, indeed. “I bet Ma has Clara warming by the fire and talkin’ her ears off.”
Don Quixote didn’t comment as he dove into
his trough and gobbled up his tasty grain. After all, first things first.
“Yep, I bet that’s how it’s going. Clara and Ma are probably fast friends by now.” He hardly remembered tossing the scoop back into the grain barrel and getting the lid down tight. Because every thought in his head centered on Clara—his wife-to-be. Emotion filled his chest, a feeling that was too embarrassing to say out loud.
Recalling how she looked with the firelight caressing her skirts and the melted snow in her hair glistening like diamonds made the emotion in his chest double. Was he already in love with the girl?
“See you later, buddy.” He couldn’t remember ever being so eager to get back to the house and it wasn’t because his stomach was grumbling, either. He buttoned up and grabbed Ma’s package before heading outside. The cold blast of night air hardly troubled him as he closed the stable door tight and started the hike up the hillside. He felt as if he walked in summer sunshine. That’s what love could do to a man.
Why, he couldn’t remember a better evening. Hazy moonlight penetrated the thinning clouds and threw silver across his path like a hopeful sign. This late-season storm had nearly blown itself out. New leaves rustled on tree boughs as he trekked past, and snow dropped in chunks to the ground. He followed the darkly gleaming snow along the garden gate toward the house, knowing Miss Clara was inside.
Clara. What a fine lady. His chest puffed up with pride and something buttery warm and too wonderful to name. He couldn’t say his boots touched the ground as he hiked along the wind shadow of the house. He almost turned around to see if he left any tracks in the snow behind him, but his attention turned toward the lit windows. Already his eyes hungered for her. His whole body tingled, remembering how dandy it had been to hold her in his arms. He sure would like to do that again.
He took the porch steps two at a time, already making plans in his head: the log house he intended to build with an appealing view of the Rockies’ peaks and the mountainside below; all the fineries he wanted for his wife. No doubt she would want a fancy kitchen and a sewing room with a new-fangled sewing machine and all the pretty things a woman required. He shook the snow off his clothes and stomped his boots, determined to take the best possible care of Clara, when he spied her through the kitchen window.
Golly, but she made a pretty picture standing there at the counter. He drank in the sight of her, as fragile as a porcelain doll but all woman. No doubt about that. Not to be disrespectful, but she had a very fine bosom. He tried not to think overmuch on her bosom for his face heated and he fumbled with the doorknob.
He tumbled into the mudroom, losing sight of her. His heart, however, clutched the image of her close. As he peeled off his boots and coat and hung his hat up to dry, every fiber of him ached to see her again. The low melody of her voice rumbled pleasantly through the wall as she spoke with the cook.
What a fine lady, to be so polite to the help. She was down-to-earth. He liked that about her. That, and every single thing he knew about Clara Woodrow. Sure, he was falling awfully fast, but he had been looking forward to this day for a while. He hadn’t expected an instant attraction to her; he had never experienced the like of it before. As he pushed open the door and burst into the kitchen, his gaze went only to her, to his Clara, turning from the steeping teapot to offer him one perfect smile.
His heart squeezed so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He had never beheld such perfection. In full light, her beauty paled next to the gentle goodness he saw shining within her. It outshone her significant outward beauty and made the faded pink calico dress she wore look like the finest gown. His entire being changed in that instant, heart and soul forever surrendered to her.
So this is what love is. He closed the door behind him, his world forever changed. Commitment and devotion filled him like water in a well, rising up until he brimmed with it. Fierce protective urges rolled through him, making him feel ten feet tall.
He would do anything for her, give his life for her if he had to.
He set the brown-wrapped package on the counter, a stone’s throw from Clara. “I can’t believe Ma let you escape her. I expect she’s waiting for you in the parlor?”
“Yes, I believe she’s taken up her needlework.” Her shy smile touched her soft mouth, and she averted her eyes, turning to fuss with the tray on the counter in front of her. “Would you like some tea to warm you?”
“Why, I surely would.” He was touched that she would be offering. Already she had slipped into the woman-of-the-house role. His chest swelled with happiness. That had to mean she felt this attraction, too. “Let me carry the tray for you.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t let you do that. Let me wait on you.” She might be soft-spoken, but she was no wilting flower. Determination deepened her blue eyes and sharpened the dainty curve of her finely carved chin.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He would do anything to please her, and he liked that she wanted to take care of him, too. He could see their future, each taking care of the other. “I aim to please, pretty lady.”
“There you go, flattering yet again.” She added a third cup to the tray.
“I can’t help myself.” He chuckled, following her through the kitchen. “You bring out the worst in me.”
“I suppose I shall simply have to get used to it.”
“Yep, because I reckon it isn’t going to get any better.” For instance, there were plenty of flattering things he could offer as they strolled through the house together. The sway of her hips, subtle and terribly feminine, drew his gaze. She had tied back her hair into a single loose braid, and it framed her face like a golden cloud. She held herself with an inner grace, which made the serving tray she gripped with both hands look out of place.
She was like a thoroughbred in a herd of donkeys.
“You seem more relaxed than when I first spotted you on the train platform.” He had a thousand questions for her. He wanted to know everything about her. “I hope you come to feel at home.”
“I already do,” she confessed.
“Now that you see my folks are good people, and you’ve met me, you have to know—” He caught her elbow and drew her to a stop. “I’m going to do my best to make you happy.”
“Happy? No, not me,” she denied gently with a shake of her head.
“I would like to take you for a sleigh ride tomorrow.” He kept right on talking. “Just you and me. Now, I know for your reputation, it is best if we’re chaperoned, but I think we need to get to know each other better. After all, we have a future together, you and I—”
“Mr. Brooks, there’s something I must tell you.” The tray she held quaked enough to rattle the cups in their saucers. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“What do you mean?” Tenderness rang in his voice. “You think I can’t see who you are? A fine lady, fallen on hard times.
The same thing happened to my sister-in-law, as I told you. I care about you, Clara, and I—”
“Joseph!” Mary interrupted, calling loudly from the next room. “Is that you? Have you finally come in from the stable?
I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m finally here, Ma.” He rolled his eyes, looking sheepish.
“She still scolds me as if I’m twelve. She can’t help it. Come, let’s go sit with her.”
“Yes, she’s no doubt waiting for her tea.” She had no time to explain as he had already started in the direction of the parlor, only a few steps away. His fingertips around her arm seared through her garments like flame.
Why did this man affect her so? Whatever the reason, she would do best not to consider it. Joseph was now her employer’s son, and the moment he realized it, his charming nature toward her would vanish. The bright admiration would dim from his eyes. She may as well brace herself for it.
She broke from his touch and carried the tray straight to the table beside Mary’s rocking chair. The china clattered; the tea sloshed. As hired help, she tried not to listen to the conversation between parents and s
on. She lifted the teapot with wooden fingers and poured.
“…what luck Clara came instead,” Mary was saying.
Her face heated. She was not ashamed to work as a maid for her living; it was a far better job than her last one, which for all the long hours she worked barely paid the rent. Stubborn pride held her up as she set down the pot and carried the full cup, without sweetener as ordered, to the older Mr. Brooks, who gazed over the top of his newspaper, listening to the story.
“Come all the way from Illinois, did you?” he asked, peering at her through his reading spectacles. He was a man who worked hard for his living with callused hands, a burly frame and a weathered face.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, trying not to listen to Mary’s final explanation. She returned to her tray and stirred two sugars into the woman’s tea.
“So that’s how Miss Woodrow has come to work for us.” As quietly as those words were spoken, they thundered like dynamite in Clara’s mind. “She will be a fine addition. You mind your manners, Joseph. We haven’t had a young lady on staff for quite some time.”
“Yes, of course, Ma.” His baritone sounded strained and hollow.
Was that his disappointment she felt, or simply her own? And why was she disappointed? She did not come here looking for a charming man to romance her. She served Mrs. Brooks her tea, careful to keep her back to the man standing near. Was it her imagination or could she feel his gaze scorching her?
It’s your imagination, Clara. It has to be. Now that he knew who she was, he would not be trying to charm her. She stirred honey into the final cup, per Mary’s orders, hurting strangely.
She was not interested in a courtship. Love had not treated her well. It was certainly not a consideration here. So, why was her heart aching? Why couldn’t she keep her head down and her attention fixed on the cup and saucer she served him, instead of meeting his gaze?
