The surprise in his eyes stayed only a breath, but the smile remained, his face full of a warmth and invitation that made most women instinctively lower their lashes as they returned his smile. Lorna pinched her lips together.
“Holt. Julius Holt, Mrs. O’Reilly.”
She folded her arms across her chest and spoke through tight lips. “Had much experience, Mr. Holt?”
He smiled still. “More than most.”
Her lips pursed, her earlier vexation gaining strength again. “How about at farming, Mr. Holt?”
“Born to it, ma’am, in Oklahoma on my grand-daddy’s farm until it went bust and my father moved us to California to try our luck there. I was about seven I recall.”
His tone had turned conversational, as if ready to tell her anything she wanted to hear.
“And did you have any?”
“Ma’am?”
“Luck? Did you and your family have any luck in California?”
He shook his head, the easygoing smile joined by a dry chuckle. “Not a speck.” His face sobered. “We were living in an old boxcar set on concrete blocks when my daddy had a cerebral hemorrhage.” He leaned in, the laughter gone and those blue eyes electric. “Dead.” He snapped his fingers. Lorna jumped. “Right before my eyes. Just like that.” He leaned back. “The biggest surprise was the drink didn’t get him first. Ma hung on for a while, raised chickens, had a big garden, but eventually the drink did take her.” His delivery became matter-of-fact. “I worked the farms in the valley beside the Mexicans almost a year before the State caught up to my sister and me.”
“How old were you?” She hadn’t meant for the question to come out so soft.
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen?” Lorna tipped her head, eyeing him. She’d heard lies before.
He leaned in too close again. He knew she wanted to step back, but she didn’t. He liked that in her. “By twelve, I could buck hay all day.”
The woman raised her chin, the high flare of her nostrils giving her a haughty expression that instinctively provoked him. He tilted his own head, about to give her the old once-over when he noticed the garish green of her outfit again. His belligerence slid away to amused appreciation again for this odd woman with a penchant for outlandish colors. He let his grin widen, wearing it as boldly as her flamboyant colors, knowing both their affections were only to deflect focus.
He looked around, casual-like, assessing the farm instead of the woman. Past the set of her shoulders, he saw the buildings, one so dilapidated he wondered why winter winds hadn’t taken it out of its misery. The others needed repair also. He saw stretches of tarpaper where shingles once had been. An old car with no wheels sat rusting beside one low-roofed building. A door hung by one hinge off another. Farther on, he saw fallen trees flattening the brambled remains of plantings. Enough work here for an army of men, let alone one man who never seemed to stay a month or two before circumstances or need drove him on.
Still he had to admire that orchard with its bull-necked trunks stretching out in every direction. Real pretty country once he’d gotten past the new subdivisions beginning to surround the main part of town. He saw the pond in the lower field thawing at its edges, looked to the slopes of the land resting at the horizon. A man could sit, take a breath and feel whole here. Julius’s gaze moved back to the tight-mouthed woman. His pleasure receded. Pretty land and loud colors aside, the schoolmarm and he weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. He met her snooty expression and the urge to needle her arose as naturally as the smile still on his face.
“The ad said starting salary was seven dollars an hour?”
She nodded. “Plus room and board.”
“Seven dollars an hour?” He was incredulous. He didn’t think it was possible, but her mouth pinched even tighter. He was enjoying himself now.
“It’s a reasonable wage.”
He let out a laugh. “It’s an allowance, sister.”
She squared her shoulders. His gaze dropped as her nicely shaped breasts thrust up.
“I am not your—” Her lean, long frame weaved as if to fold up on itself once more.
“Whoa.” He caught her elbow, moved beside her and supported her lower back with his other hand. “No law says we can’t sit while we negotiate, is there now?”
Her body tensed beneath his touch. She shook him off, easing herself onto the steps without his help. He saw the fine flush of sweat across that high, proud brow. He patted his pants pocket, hoping for a tissue. One pocket was empty except for a worn wallet with no pictures and little money. In the other pocket, he found a cocktail napkin with a name and telephone number that he’d never call scrawled across it. He shoved the napkin at the woman.
She glanced down at the wrinkled square he thrust at her.
“The Fat Dog Grille” was imprinted in a curve across its top. Beneath it, the name and number were written in a feminine flourish. The woman looked up at Julius. “Lulu? You actually know someone named Lulu?”
He smiled slowly. “And she’s not even the first Lulu I’ve known…nor the last, God willing.”
She snatched the napkin from him, her gaze stern even as she tucked her lip as if biting back a smile. She paled and pressed the square to cheek. She flattened her hand against her stomach.
“You gonna be sick?” His alarm was real.
The woman took a deep breath and sat up yet straighter, which until then, Julius hadn’t thought possible. Her spine stiff and her expression inflexible, she handed him back the napkin. “There is no negotiation, Mr. Holt. The pay is, as stated, seven dollars an hour with room and board.”
Pursing his lips in imitation of the woman, he studied the acreage as if actually considering her offer.
“You put up those shutters?” He glanced away from the bright rectangles quickly, catching her off guard, her expression unschooled. He didn’t want to see what he saw. He knew she didn’t want him to see it either—the flash of desperation. His impulsive smile disappeared. Those gray-green eyes were going to be her undoing. His, too.
He was about to say goodbye when he saw a keen challenge in her gaze.
“Don’t change the subject, Mr. Holt.”
He sat on the steps, spread his knees so his body took up more space. He plucked a piece of grass. “Are you offering me the job, Mrs. O’Reilly?”
She inched to the opposite side of the steps. “No.”
“So, negotiations are still open?”
“No, Mr. Holt. There are no negotiations.” She stood too quickly, grasped the rail. He reached for her arm but she twisted away from him, steadied herself on the rail.
“Liver,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” She swiveled her head toward him; her eyes gradually refocused to find him.
“Eat some liver. It’s full of iron.” He took in her slim frame. Her legs were long as a restless night. “You take a multivitamin?”
She folded her hands at her waist. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holt, but I’ll be fine. Thank you for coming by.”
He’d been dismissed, but only his gaze moved to his pickup on the shoulder of the dirt road, then back at the woman with her neon-green sweatshirt and her crazy yellow shutters and her colorless face. “Had a lot of others apply for the job?”
“You’re the first.”
He liked her for not lying. He smiled. She sank onto the steps as if even her slight weight was suddenly too much.
“Yes,”