Now he was tucked away in the small room, his dark head peaceful on the pillow. Meanwhile Emily had dishes to finish and the last of the dry sheets to put back on the spare beds before she could call it a night.
She heard Luke come in through the screen door and her heart did a little leap. It seemed so personal, having the run of his house, making herself at home. She heard the thump of his boots as he put them on the mat by the door and pictured him behind her. Now her pulse picked up as she heard his stockinged feet come closer. To her surprise he picked up the frying pan and moved to put it in the cupboard.
“Mr. Evans … you don’t have to do that.” She avoided his eyes as she picked up the last plate to dry.
“It’s no biggie. I’m done for the day and you’re not.”
His shoulder was next to hers as he reached for another pot, the close contact setting off the same sparks as she’d felt at dinner. His jeans had been dirty with a smear of grease on one thigh, and his T-shirt had borne marks of his afternoon of work, but he’d gone into the downstairs bath and come to the table with clean hands and face and a few droplets of water clinging to his short hair.
It had been the wet hair that had done it. The tips were dark and glistening, and paired with the stubble on his chin it was unbelievably attractive. The economical way that he moved and how he said exactly what he meant, without any wasted words. He’d spoken to Sam only briefly during dinner, making little conversation before heading outside again. He hadn’t even commented on the food, even though she’d pulled out all the stops and fussed with her favorite veal-and-pasta recipe. Emily tried not to be offended. Perhaps it was just his way. Perhaps he’d lived alone so long he wasn’t used to making mealtime conversation. And that was quite sad when she thought about it.
“But our agreement …”
He put his hand on her arm and she stilled, plate in hand. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, the color would seep into her cheeks. He was touching her. Touching her, and her skin seemed to shiver with pleasure beneath his fingers.
“Please,” she said quietly. “This is my job. Let me do it.”
“Pride, Emily?”
He used her first name and the sound of it, coming from his lips in the privacy of the kitchen, caused her cheeks to heat anyway. His hand slid off her arm and she realized she was holding the plate and doing nothing with it. She made a show of wiping the cloth over its surface. “Just stating the obvious.”
“Who do you suppose cleans up when I’m here alone? I didn’t realize putting a few things away would be a problem.”
Oh, lordy. What right did she have to be territorial? “That’s not what I meant,” she replied hastily, putting the plate on the counter and reaching into the sink to pick up the last handful of cutlery. “Of course it’s your kitchen …”
“Emily.”
“You have more right to it than I do.”
She was babbling now, growing more nervous by the second as she felt his steady gaze on her. She bit down on her lip. She wouldn’t say any more and make a bigger fool of herself. What did it matter if he put a dish away? She was the one caught up in a knot, determined to do everything perfectly. And why? She already knew that trying to be perfect didn’t mean squat when it came down to it. She let out a slow breath, trying to relax.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
She did then. She looked up into his eyes and saw that the blue irises were worried, making it impossible to maintain the distance she desired.
“You’re paying me to do a job, so I should be the one to do it. If that’s pride, then so be it.”
“You’re a stubborn woman, aren’t you?”
Her lips dropped open and then she clamped them shut again, trying to think of a good reply. “I prefer determined.”
“I just bet you do.”
“Did you get the baler fixed?” She was desperate to change the subject, to turn the focus off herself and her failings. “I expect you’ll be glad to be back in the fields tomorrow,” she carried on, sorting the last of the cutlery into the drawer. The thought of the fields and waving alfalfa made her smile, gave her a sense of well-being. It had to be the peace and quiet, that was all. It had nothing to do with Luke Evans, or picturing him on top of a gigantic tractor in a dusty hat and even dustier boots.
“I can’t expect the boys to handle things alone. I’ll be glad to be back out with them again. I may be late for dinner tomorrow. Just so you know.”
Oh, goodness, they were back to that again. She brushed her hands on her pants and inhaled, trying to appear poised. How could she explain that she’d actually enjoyed cleaning the homey farmhouse? That she’d felt more at home cooking a simple meal than she’d felt in a long time? Cooking anything elaborate for her and Sam seemed pointless, and she’d missed it.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll plan something that keeps well, then. If you don’t mind Sam and I going ahead.”
“Of course not. Emily …” he paused and she gave in to temptation and looked up at him. He could look so serious, but something about his somber expression spoke to her. There was more to Luke than was on the surface. She was sure of it.
Their gazes clung for several seconds before he cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is, it is just great to have supper on the table when I come in and something better than a sandwich. It’s a real nice thing to look forward to.”
It was as heartfelt a comment as she’d guess Luke could come up with, and she took it to heart. She couldn’t find the words to tell him that though, so she simply said, “Sam doesn’t have such discerning taste. It was nice to have a reason to put together a real meal.”
His gaze plumbed hers. “There was a reason I advertised for a housekeeper. The place looks great. And dinner was really good, Emily. I probably should have said so before.”
She’d been slightly put out that he’d barely acknowledged her efforts earlier, but the compliment still did its work, even though it was delayed. “I’m glad you liked it.”
Why was he being nice to her now? She should be glad, relieved about all of it. But it threw her off balance. She furrowed her brow. Either she wanted his compliments and approval or she didn’t. She wished she could make up her mind which.
“You’re a very good cook.”
“It was.”
She paused. So what if it was what she’d used to make for special occasions? She was tired of giving Rob any power. He had no business here. He had no business in her life anymore. He’d forfeited that privilege, and she’d done her share of crying about it. The only person keeping him front and center was her. “It is one of my favorites.”
“So what’s the story of Emily Northcott?” Luke folded up the dish towel and hung it over the door of the stove. “I mean, you must have a place in Calgary. Sam’s father must be helping. Why pick a position that takes you away from home?”
Of course he’d ask right at the moment she’d decided not to mention Rob again. But the question struck a nerve. Somehow she wanted him to know. She wanted him to realize that she had tried everything she could to make things right. She already thought of him as stubborn rancher, a bit of a strong, silent type but she’d glimpsed moments of compassion, too. How would he remember her after she moved on? Not as a victim. Never that. She wanted him to see what she wanted to see in herself. Strength. Resourcefulness. Pride, but not vanity.
“I was a stay-at-home mom. Once I got pregnant and my ex started working, we agreed on a plan. I had my degree in science, and I put Rob through school by working for a laboratory. The idea was for him to start work and then he’d support me as I took my pharmacy degree. But then we had Sam, and Rob said he would support us both. I