didn’t answer of course, but his mind did. Christine always knew what she was doing, and had rarely, if ever, been wrong.
He set the picture down. “There’s always a first.”
Day comes early on a ranch, and a morning that carried a blizzard meant the first set of chores would take twice as long as usual. Ellis donned layers, knowing how the wind could steal away the body’s heat, and made his way down the front set of stairs. A scent caused him to pause on the bottom step. Coffee? Beans never entered the house in the morning. He and Angel dealt with that meal themselves.
He made his way to the swinging door off the foyer.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton.” She didn’t turn from the stove.
The fine hairs on his neck stood. How had she known he was here? He’d barely pushed the door open, and it didn’t squeak. “Miss Jennings,” he greeted, stepping into the room.
“Coffee’s on the table. The biscuits will be done in a few minutes as well as the gravy.” Her trim hips swayed as she stirred a spoon about in the pan.
“I usually wait until after chores and breakfast with Angel.” He hadn’t meant to sound as rude as it came out, but his nerves were ticking again.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed with the storm you’d need to be out early this morning. I’m sure it’ll keep if you want to wait.” She pulled the pan off the heat and set it near the back of the stove before she spun about. Dressed in the same dark blue outfit she’d worn last night while they’d talked in his office, he wondered if she’d slept.
There were no bags under her eyes. Actually, she looked quite rested and healthy. Her black hair was neatly pinned in a bun, and she’d tied a flour sack around her waist for an apron, which enhanced the feminine curves he had to drag his eyes off.
He gripped the back of the closest chair, but needing something more to do, snatched the steaming cup off the table. The wondrous smells filling the kitchen had his stomach growling. “As long as it’s ready, I might as well eat. It may be a while before I make it back in.”
“Wonderful.” She spun back to the stove.
Did she mean it was wonderful that he wanted to eat, or wonderful that he’d be gone for a while? He sat, scratching his head at the conflicting thoughts. It was almost as if he was in the wrong skin, the way his nerves twitched and itched. Mere seconds later, a plate of biscuits smothered with glossy gravy was set down in front of him. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
She hovered near the table. “Angel gave me a tour of the house last night. I assumed our arrangement would start this morning.” Tugging her fingers apart, she pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.
Written in slanted, perfect penmanship, was a long list of duties. He didn’t take the time to read them all. “Yes, that’s fine.” He picked up his fork. “I’ll meet with you later today, to go over your wage and such.”
“Very well,” she replied, walking across the room. “Enjoy your breakfast. There’s more on the stove.”
There were times she acted like a scared little girl, others where she appeared to be a wise old woman and still others—especially when a slight hint of an English accent filtered her words—where he was convinced she should be sitting in a tea parlor surrounded by ladies-in-waiting. All in all, she made him feel as confused as a cat with two tails.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“I’ll wait for Angel.” She transferred the pan of biscuits into a basket and covered them with a cloth, and then stirred down the bubbling gravy.
He pulled his eyes back to the breakfast before him, and lifted his fork. Beans had never made something taste this delicious. The gravy had big chunks of sausage and had soaked deep into the golden-brown biscuits. He ate two helpings before he excused himself to gather his outerwear from his office.
A scraping noise said someone was in the front parlor when he reentered the foyer. Walking to the doorway, Ellis paused. Crouched down, Miss Jennings swept the cold ashes from the fireplace in the large front room and deposited them in the ash bucket. Frowning at the sight, he said, “Thomas Ketchum is my wood man.”
She flipped loose strands of hair aside with the back of her hand as she turned. “Excuse me?”
The action teased his mind, made him think of her attractiveness. “Thomas,” Ellis repeated, reminding himself of what he’d been saying. “I pay him to cut wood during the summer and tend to the fires in winter. He does other things as well. Part of his job is to clean out the fireplaces and keep them burning all day. He should be in any minute.”
She finished the job, replaced the ash brush to its holder and then stood. “I thought that was just because you were gone yesterday. He comes in even when you’re home?”
“Yes. That’s his job.” He gestured toward the front door. “A ranch this size requires a lot of wood. It takes one person dedicated to it.”
Wiping her hands on the flour sack, she said, “I do apologize. I’ll remember that in the future.”
He nodded, but a feeling as if he’d just chastised her for no reason settled in his chest. Shrugging against the sensation, he went to the door and stepped out into what might prove to be one of the biggest blizzards of all time.
Chapter Three
The wood man, Thomas Ketchum, turned out to be a bulk of a man with a cheerful disposition. Upon his arrival, he’d not only cleaned out and set fires in the fireplaces but had refilled all of the wood boxes—which totaled over a dozen—shortly after Ellis had left the house. During the morning hours, Constance had explored the home thoroughly, making notes of things that needed immediate attention, such as cobwebs in hidden corners a child or man wouldn’t notice. She’d noted other things that could use slight adjustments in the future—rugs showing wear and curtains that had become sun-faded—but overall the home was in excellent condition and was well run.
During that quiet, early morning time, the expanse and elegance surrounding her had childhood memories dancing in her head like a figurine on a music box. Matter of fact, part of her had wanted to skip along the halls and slide down the wide banister. The house, the surroundings, produced a contentment she’d never found in England, one she already cherished.
Curiosity had led her to ask Angel why the home was so large, for just her and her father. “Pa said he promised my mother the exact home she’d left behind in the Carolinas—only bigger,” Angel had said.
Now, several hours later, Constance listened with one ear as Angel explained the upcoming holiday party. The other ear was tuned into the doors of the ranch house, both the front and back. Ellis had yet to return. Noon would soon be upon them, the roast a ranch hand had delivered to the back door which she’d seasoned and set to bake was nearly done. She’d gone to the door several times, wondering if she heard something, but the blizzard created a whiteout that made seeing the edge of the front porch impossible.
She and Angel were settled in the large yet cozy front parlor, where the fire roared with warmth and the wide windows, despite the blizzard, filled the room with light.
“Last year, I made divinity. I found the recipe in
