fine man was not interested in a housemaid or such a plain girl. She had no illusions about that. Her mother had told her often enough, and there had been Lars who—
She tamped down that thought. Do not think of him, she ordered herself.
“Give me your hand.” Mr. Brooks had swung up into his saddle and looked mighty imposing on the top of his powerful horse. He removed his boot from the stirrup. “Put your foot here and I’ll help you up. We’ll make a western girl out of you yet.”
“How do you propose to do that? Surely there is more to it than horseback riding.”
“Why, who knows? I just might have to marry you.”
That surprised her. She gasped, not knowing what to say. Perhaps he felt this, too, this unusual and instant pull between them. She blushed furiously. “You must stop teasing. I’m not the kind of woman who just accepts any man’s proposal.”
“No, I don’t suppose you are.” He laughed, and the warm rich sound was as cozy as butter melting. He held out his hand. “Proposals aside, think you would like to come home with me?”
“I suppose. I need to stay somewhere.” She tried to keep a straight face but somehow they were laughing together.
Snow tumbled against her face as she laid her hand against his palm. His fingers wrapped around hers, vibrant with strength and vitality. Longing filled her as she hiked up her skirt ruffles and slipped her toe into the leather stirrup. Suddenly she was airborne, the ground falling away and the snow blinding her. She settled on Mr. Brooks’s lap, safely tucked in his arms. His grin was wide and tempting and her heart gave a little flip-flop.
This was not what she had in mind when he’d offered to share his horse with her. She shifted, but that didn’t seem to improve the situation. Surely this was not the way to impress her future employer, by showing up in her son’s embrace. Perhaps it would be prudent to push him away, but something prevented her. Maybe it was the worsening beat of the storm making it impossible to speak, or the howling wind that would drown out her voice.
A warm sweep of rightness wrapped around her. She had been lonely for so long, and what a relief it was to finally feel in safe hands. There was something about Joseph Brooks she liked very much. It was almost as if she knew him from somewhere before. She didn’t, of course. It was quite an odd sensation, but not as strange as the rock of the horse’s first step that jarred through her. She gasped and reached out for something—anything—to hold on to.
Mr. Brooks. His arms held her tight and kept her from falling. “You’re safe with me, Clara.”
She didn’t doubt that one bit. She blinked the snow from her lashes, leaned against the hard plane of his chest and felt the smallest seed of hope. The snow sharpened, driving at her like needles, and the wind blasted ice all the way to her bones. Let the wind blow, she thought, for here in his arms she felt as if no amount of cold or storm could diminish her chance for a new start.
“Look up and tell me what you think of your new home.” His voice rumbled through her intimately, as his warm breath brushed her temple.
Home. Coziness bubbled through her, and she couldn’t rightly say if it was due to the notion of having a place where she might belong. Perhaps it had more to do with the handsome man who was kissing-close. Her heart lurched. Her lips tingled, simply from his nearness.
“You can hardly see much because of the storm.” His baritone vibrated pleasantly, invitingly. “But come dawn, you’ll open your curtains to the prettiest sight in these parts. Next to you, of course.”
“There you go, being charming again.” What was she to do about the bold man? Oh, he was a gentleman, she could tell that about him. He had been nothing but proper on their long, unchaperoned ride together. He had held her politely and cordially, always respectful, even if she was seated on his lap and pressed dangerously close to his chest.
And if a measure of warmth flushed across her face, probably reddening her cheeks, she decided to stay in firm denial of it. She certainly was not attracted to her prospective employer’s son. Really, and there was no reasonable chance he would be interested in her. She thought of her carefully patched dress and coat, and felt shabby.
There was nothing shabby about the view spreading out before her. Buffeted by snow, cloaked by night, the forest gave way to a stunning sweep of fenced meadows and gardens on a gently rising hillside. On the crest of that hill glowed the lamp-lit windows of an impressive home with the hint of a veranda and gables and two stories. No curtains covered the glass, and from where she sat in Joseph’s arms she could plainly see a well-appointed parlor, a fire roaring in a riverrock hearth. A kindly looking salt-and-pepper-haired man reclined in a wingback chair, obviously enjoying the fire’s warmth, studying his open newspaper with great seriousness.
“Is that your father?”
“Yep, that’s my pa.” Love warmed his voice, revealing him. This was not the kind of man she was used to, she suspected. Although she hardly knew him, it was plain to see the honest affection for his sire. “I suspect you know enough about him to know he would spend all day just like that if he could get away with it, reading newspapers by the fire. He cares about politics and the nation’s happenings.”
“I remember reading in your mother’s letters that he receives quite a lot of newspapers by mail.” One of her duties, should she get the job, would be to keep the newsprint piled in the parlor to a minimum and to fetch the mail when she was in town on house errands, which would include several newspapers.
It was a lovely house, and she suspected it would be a pleasant job. When she’d read Mrs. Brooks’s letter of inquiry, she hadn’t imagined something so down-to-earth. The big house looked comfortable rather than fancy, a family home rather than a showy palace. This was not a wealthy family, she suspected, but they did prosper.
“You look disappointed,” he rumbled against her ear. “You were expecting something better?”
“You mean richer?” She blinked snow from her eyelashes, because the burn in her eyes could not be from emotion. “Yes. I was afraid of not meeting expectations. Of not fitting in. The last job I had was cleaning for several taverns near my house.”
“We’re normal folk. You’ll see that when you meet my ma.”
The seeds of hope within her took root. This was truly a chance for bettering her life, much more than she had dared to imagine. She could see the polished, sensible dining table through the pristine windows, and candlelight flickering off gleaming crystal and silver. What a boon to work in such a room, rubbing wax into the lustrous cherry wood and taking care of this family’s beloved home.
Maybe I have a chance here. Maybe I can find happiness here. Her head felt fuzzy as she realized Joseph was pressed against her, his hands encircling her upper arms. Heat blazed through the layers of his gloves and her garments, and again she felt that strange blast of electricity telegraphing down her spine and into her toes.
“I won’t let you fall.” His promise shivered through her, and the icy chill fled from the wind as did the sting of the snow on her face. He lifted her powerfully from his lap and for an instant she was airborne, anchored only by his touch.
Chapter Two
Her patched shoes landed lightly in the snow, and she sank to her ankles. Joseph’s touch remained like a brand. His lips brushed her hair as he
