snapped his fingers. “The crib. Let me check the hayloft in the barn. That’s where most of the old furniture winds up.”
His tantalizing masculine scent teased her senses. A shock of awareness coursed through her. She recognized the store-bought soap she’d used this morning, but there was something else, as well. There was hay and barn and a decidedly male musk.
She backed toward the stove. “Does Woodley do the cooking?”
“Yes. Such as it is.”
He winked, and a shiver went down her spine. He left her feeling reckless and out of breath. Steeling her wayward emotions, she glanced away. He flashed that same impish wink when he asked for extra potatoes at the café. Whenever she felt herself weaken at his flirtatious behavior, she’d remember that she was getting the same treatment he gave the waitress when he wanted a second helping of a side dish.
This wasn’t exactly a promising beginning to her vow of indifference. She had to work harder at keeping a separation between them, at being cordial—but distant.
“I could take over the job of cooking,” she said. “If you want.”
“That’s Woodley’s job.” Sterling’s mouth quirked up at the corner in a half smile. “He’s been hired to do the cooking. Though I don’t suppose the boys would be opposed to a pie or a loaf of bread now and again to break up the monotony.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
Standing this close to him, she felt something akin to fear. Years ago she’d climbed a tree and slipped from one of the taller limbs. She recalled the feeling of falling, of being out of control and crashing to the ground. The air had whooshed from her lungs as she lay there stunned. She loathed that feeling—the feeling of tumbling out of control. When she gazed at Sterling, she felt as though she was climbing that tree again, inching across a branch that was bound to break at any moment.
Her decision had seemed so simple when she was sitting alone in the schoolhouse. Everything had been neat and orderly in her mind. Logical. And then when he was near, all thoughts of logic and order fled. She didn’t appreciate the confusing jumble of thoughts and feelings, because she hadn’t planned for them.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You looked worried.”
He was gazing at her with an intensity that left her knees shaky. She must remember that he was only asking those things to be polite. Like complimenting her on her bonnet or lacing his fingers around hers for a step when she took a seat in the wagon. Those were polite, impersonal gestures, meant only for show. He treated the waitress at the café the same as he treated the mayor’s wife. She wasn’t special.
Heather forced a smile. “I was thinking about what a beautiful house you have.”
“My ma designed the house,” he said, his voice quiet. “And my pa supervised the construction. I can’t take any credit.”
He wasn’t gazing at her with those mischievous, blue eyes anymore. They were back on neutral ground. She was learning to read him already.
“Why did you agree?” she blurted suddenly.
“What?”
“Why did you agree to the marriage?” She gathered her courage. If she knew the answer, she’d know how to proceed. “You didn’t have to. With your family’s name and reputation, you could have walked away, but you didn’t.”
“We’re friends, right?”
“I guess.” Her hip bumped the stove. “I’ve never thought about us that way.”
“I don’t know why we were thrown together. We may never know. I suspect my name was chosen because of my family’s wealth. If someone is going to abandon a child, why not choose a rich family? If I’m right, then this was a chance for a Blackwell to do right by you, for once. I saw how much you cared for Gracie. I had a chance to help, and I took that chance. My family has treated you poorly over the years, and I figured we owe you, one way or another.”
His words rang true, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
He felt sorry for her. The realization was lowering, though not entirely unexpected.
“You don’t have to thank me. I knew what I was doing, Heather.” He tipped his hat. “I’d best get back to work. I’ll have supper with the boys.”
There was a hesitation in his voice, as though he considered the whole arrangement temporary. As though someone might come for Gracie at any moment. But he was wrong. Folks didn’t come back for girls. He’d discover the truth soon enough.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the milk.”
“If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”
He left, and the light in the room seemed to dim. He looked so tall, so strongly built, with a brilliant force of leashed energy running powerfully through him. When he left, he took that compelling energy with him.
Gracie reached above her head for a glass set near the edge of the table, and Heather rushed to her side, averting the disaster. “No. No.”
The child flopped onto her bottom, her lower lip thrust out in a pout. “Gra!”
“You’re not doing a very good job of convincing your new pa he made the right choice.”
“Gra!”
Yet she knew she’d made the right decision. Now all she had to do was convince Sterling he’d done the same. Duty was a poor substitution for affection, but at least that was a place to start.
* * *
The first thing Sterling noticed were the blue chintz curtains on the parlor windows. The second was that he’d rapidly become a stranger in his own home.
The blanket assessment wasn’t entirely fair, he amended. He’d become a stranger in exactly half of his home. The floor plan was comfortable without being ostentatious, and lent itself well to the separation. His ma had favored quality over quantity, and his father had provided her with a home that reflected her tastes. The front entry included an ornate carved banister and checkerboard tiled floor. The parlor sported wainscoting three-quarters of the way up the walls, topped by a picture ledge and peacock-strewn silk wallpaper.
Following his mother’s death, his father had ceased entertaining, and the dining room had been transformed into a study with books and ledgers piled on the center table, and a sitting area with overstuffed leather chairs arranged before the fireplace.
Near as Sterling could tell, Heather had not ventured up the main staircase since the brief tour he’d provided the day after their hasty marriage. Instead, she gained access to the second floor exclusively by the kitchen stairs.
The two crossover points were the kitchen and the second-story washroom. They were forced to share the spaces, which meant awkward encounters that he suspected neither of them relished. No matter how he tried, they never seemed to get past the superficial. Their conversations were polite, generic and brief—a fact he found oddly
