and their gazes met. His gut tightened. She gave him a tentative smile and went back to whatever she was doing with the typewriter, but the look in her eyes had said more clearly than words that she was uncomfortable with his attention. It was the same look she’d given him when she’d caught him looking at her aboard the Griffith. The woman made him feel like some lecher, and that would end right now! He sucked in air, shoved his chair back and rose. “Miss Gordon...” Her head lifted again and her unusual, expressive gray eyes fastened on him, uneasiness shadowing their depths.
“Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”
His remonstrance died unspoken. It was the woman’s first day and he was her boss. No doubt his presence made her uncomfortable. He should have thought of that. “I will be in the composing room, should you need my assistance.” He stepped toward the connecting door, paused at the pound of shoes against the stair treads.
Boyd Willard burst into the room headed for his desk, glanced his way and changed directions. “Hey, boss. I—” The reporter’s gaze shot to the back of the room and a roguish grin tilted his lips. “Who is this?”
Charles stepped forward, annoyed by the predatory look in Boyd’s eyes. He’d heard the reporter’s claims of his many conquests. “Miss Gordon is the Journal’s correspondence secretary.” He led the way to her desk. “Miss Gordon, this is Mr. Willard, the Journal’s reporter.”
Boyd Willard whipped off his hat, stepped close to her desk and smiled. “Correspondence secretary? I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from you, Miss Gordon.”
“That’s enough, Willard.”
The reporter stiffened, jerked his gaze to him.
“This is a workplace, and Miss Gordon is an employee. You will treat her with respect.” From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Gordon turn her head and look up at him. Those gray eyes held what...incredulity? Irritation surged. He gestured Boyd Willard to his desk with a flick of his hand, then strode back to his own. So much for leaving the room to make Miss Gordon more comfortable. He would stay at his desk until Willard left to rove about town in the search for stories...or whatever he did with his time.
He pulled the article he’d been editing toward him then glanced toward the back of the room. His gaze crashed against Miss Gordon’s and she quickly looked back down at the pages in her hand, but not before he’d seen the relief in her eyes and felt the power of her tenuous smile.
* * *
“It’s the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen, Mama!” Clarice lifted her supper tray from her lap and rose from her chair. “It really does print out words on paper. You push down the key with the letter you want printed on it, and this skinny metal rod they call a ‘type bar’ comes up and strikes the underneath of the cylinder, and there’s the letter on the paper!”
She put her tray on the table by the bed, glanced at her mother’s tray and frowned. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re too thin. Would you like me to spread preserves on your biscuit for you?”
“I’ve had enough, Clarice. I don’t get very hungry being in bed all day long.”
“Half a biscuit, then. Mama, you told me last night that you need something to do with your days...” She slathered preserves on the top half of the biscuit.
“You’re not going to scold me again for mending Mrs. Duncan’s chemise, are you?”
“I wasn’t scolding, Mama. I just don’t want you to—” She glanced at her mother, spotted her smile, grinned and handed her the biscuit top. “Stop teasing. Or I’ll make you eat the other half of this biscuit.”
“That’s better. You fret about me too much, Clarice. I know it’s hard for you to see me this way, but—”
“I wasn’t fretting, Mama. I was about to ask if you would help me with some work.”
“Help you?” Her mother cast a suspicious glance up at her. “How?”
“By writing down some of your recipes for me.” She slipped her mother’s tray away so she had no place to put the biscuit. “And perhaps some of the ways you’ve found to save time or do a better job of cleaning or gardening.”
“Oh, Clarice...” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I am a burden to you. You’ve spent all day thinking about how to help me stay busy.”
“I did not. And don’t ever say that again, Mama!” She piled the supper trays and started for the door.
“Then tell me how my recipes and household tips can possibly help you.”
“I’m going to make them into fillers.”
“Fillers?”
“Yes.” She balanced the trays and opened the door. “They’re short items of general interest that Mr. Thornberg uses to take up blank space when he composes the pages for the newspaper. He’s running out of them, and I intend to keep him supplied. I’ll explain after I take these supper trays downstairs.” She stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.
“Clarice, come back! You forgot this biscuit!”
No, Mama. You did. She grinned and hurried down the hall to the stairs.
* * *
Charles laid his book aside and stepped out onto the small balcony that overlooked the street. Captain Nemo and his adventures held no interest for him this evening. He rubbed the back of his neck, blew out a breath and stared into the distance. Miss Gordon had gotten into his head. There was no denying it. It was her smile. It was so soft and warm, the exact opposite of her prickly disposition. And rare. He found himself waiting for her to smile, like some schoolboy hoping to catch a favorable glance from his secret crush. He scowled, raked his fingers through his hair and rocked back on his heels. It was the surprise of her smiles, of course. And the way her eyes changed...
A breeze rose and cooled his face, the skin exposed by the unbuttoned neck of his shirt and his bare forearms protruding from his rolled-up sleeves. The flow of air carried the scent of rain. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to close the door. He liked sleeping with it open. It helped to cool the accumulated heat of the day.
He leaned back against the stone wall of the house and gazed up at the night sky. No stars. Rain clouds must be closing in. Her hair was as black as that sky. So were her eyelashes. And they were long. They looked like shadows against her fair skin as she sat reading the directions for operating the typewriter.
He pushed away from the wall, stepped to the railing and shoved his hands in his pockets. Why hadn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have had some. That section on changing the rubber bands and the one on adjusting the spacing dogs were quite technical. Not to mention the one on cleaning and oiling the machine.
Perhaps she hadn’t read that far yet. His lips skewed into a lopsided grin. He was quite certain the prickly Miss Gordon didn’t know the tiniest bit of the tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her lips when she was concentrating. It was most distracting. Every time he’d seen it, he’d wanted to go and help her.
And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed Miss Gordon’s winsome way. Willard had stolen glances at her all day long. One more reason it wasn’t
