task, began trembling. She washed and dried them and hid them in the folds of her skirt. Her rebellious gaze returned to his exposed limb. His skin was paler there, like rich cream, and incredibly pleasing to the touch, his flesh firm and warm.
Irritated with herself, she marched to the coatrack, retrieved his tattered coat and dropped it in his lap.
“You may have some bruising around the stitches. I advise you to have Doc Owens check it as soon as you’re able.”
“I’m confident you did a perfectly acceptable job.”
Ben stood and eased his arm into the sleeve, wincing as he did so. His color was good, she reassured herself. And he looked steady on his feet.
“He may have something to help dull the pain.”
He deftly buttoned his coat, starting from the bottom and working up. Lamplight glinted off his dark red hair. Cut short around his ears and along his shirt collar, the front strands were slightly longer and slipped forward into his eyes. He might be too handsome for words, but Isabel was immune. Did it matter if his classic features could’ve graced any of the world’s great sculptures? Or that his skin was smooth and sun-kissed, stretching over prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw?
None of that mattered if his character was lacking.
“Pain will keep me alert tonight. I can stay in the warming hut,” he said, referring to the structure near the gristmill where customers gathered to wait for their corn or wheat to be ground. “It’s within view of the cabin. If our thief decides to pay you a visit, I’ll be here to protect you.”
“He doesn’t know my name or where I live.”
“I can’t be one hundred percent positive he didn’t follow us here.”
“He’s after the money, not me. Sleep in the bank.”
His lips thinned. “You’d rather take your chances with a dangerous criminal than have me on your property?”
She sighed. “You want proof I can handle myself?”
Lowering one knee to the floor, she removed the small dagger from its sheaf below her calf and, with deadly accuracy, hurled it through the air. The pointed end dug into her bedroom door frame.
Ben shot her a disbelieving look before striding across the room to retrieve it. “You had this on you the whole time?”
“I would’ve utilized it if I’d had the chance.”
“But I foiled everything by coming to your aid.” Sarcasm laced his voice. He bent his head and studied the carving in the wooden handle. “Expert craftsmanship.” He tested the blade. “I wouldn’t mind having one like it. Where did you get it?”
She extended her hand. He placed it in the center of her palm, curiosity making his eyes appear a shade lighter. Isabel was loath to reveal the truth, but she wasn’t going to lie. “I made it.”
His brow furrowed in disbelief. “You cut and carved the wood and forged the steel?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Not for the reason you’re thinking,” he said drily. “You can obviously do whatever you put your mind to. You’ve looked after your sisters’ well-being and managed this farm, all while operating a gristmill. I simply haven’t heard a whisper of your skills.”
“That’s because very few people know.”
“I assure you, a man would pay a high price for one of those.”
“I do sell them, just not in Gatlinburg.” Returning to the table, she cleared her sewing supplies. “I knew when my mother left that I’d need additional income. My uncle, my mother’s brother, is a blacksmith. He stayed with us for about a year when I was sixteen, and he taught me many things, the art of knife making among them. Papa hated the idea of one of his daughters learning a man’s job.” She smirked, remembering his tirades. “That’s probably why Uncle Alejandro did it. They despised each other. Small wonder.”
“You turned a valuable skill into a moneymaker.”
“My knives are stocked in several stores, mostly in Maryville and Sevierville.”
While she wrung out the cloth she’d used to clean his wound, he discarded the dirty water outside. The waft of cold air raised goose bumps on her arms. She put the kettle on to boil and debated whether or not to offer him coffee. It was the polite thing to do, especially after his valor tonight, but he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted hanging around her home. Honor had a steady beau, but Carmen...the girl had nothing but fluff and romance between her ears.
He hovered in the kitchen doorway, his magnetic presence making her nerves skitter and scatter. Did he see the hole in the rug? Had he noticed the curtains were faded and needed to be replaced? She worked hard to provide for her sisters. God had met their basic needs—they had plenty of food, durable clothing, and their home was in decent shape—but there wasn’t a lot of money for extras. Sometimes her many responsibilities threatened to overwhelm her. Maybe that’s why the thought of the thief stealing from hardworking families had outraged her to the point she’d foolishly challenged him.
“Isabel, you shouldn’t have to travel to a whole other town to sell your knives. And you shouldn’t have to feel like you have to wait until almost closing time to shop. Your father’s behavior doesn’t reflect on you.”
“Don’t pretend to understand what I’ve been through,” she retorted. “You haven’t walked in my shoes, haven’t felt the condemning stares or heard the whispers as you walk past.”
Granted, not everyone in their mountain town had treated the Flores women as if they were morally tainted. There were those who’d treated them with respect and compassion. The situation might have improved with time, considering her parents were out of the picture, but past wounds ran deep. She preferred to spend much of her time on this farm. Her sisters’ companionship was enough.
“I know what it’s like to be the subject of gossip,” he said gruffly.
She didn’t attempt to hide her scorn. “You court speculation with your blatant flirting.”
How anyone would willingly do such a thing was unfathomable. Isabel went out of her way to remain above approach, to avoid the stinging whip of judgment. She’d had enough of that throughout her childhood.
He held up his hand in defense. “I’ve made no secret of my decision to remain a bachelor. Everyone in this town from the age of sixteen to ninety-five is aware of my no-marriage policy. I’m not to blame if a girl chooses to believe she can change me.”
“Such arrogance and flippant disregard for others’ feelings! What would cause a man to go around kissing innocent women, I wonder, leading them on a merry dance that will only end in heartache?”
“Hold on, sugarplum.” His laconic smile remained fixed, but his eyes glittered righteous fire. “Who said anything about kissing? That’s crossing the line of friendship, something I would never do. That sort of behavior is reserved for serious romance.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” she huffed, slapping a single mug on the counter.
“I
