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 newfangled 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.