keep it to a minimum.”
He raised one sandy brow. “You have changed.”
She laughed, realizing as she did so that it was the first time since Nick had died that she’d really, genuinely laughed. She quashed the instant welling of pain that seemed to always be there, ready to swamp her any time she let her guard down and thought of the man who had been so much more to her than just a partner.
“You mean I never used to care if I was a nuisance or not?” she managed to say lightly.
He smiled, as if her laugh had pleased him. “Something like that.”
“Only around you,” she said. “And probably only because it bugged you so much.”
His smiled turned wry. “I had a sneaking suspicion even back then that that was why you did it.”
“If you had really ignored me, I probably would have just gone away.”
“Now she tells me,” Grant said with mock sarcasm.
This time, they both laughed, and Mercy felt a slight lessening of the steady ache she felt as if she’d been carrying forever, although she knew it had been only since the grim night Nick had died in her arms, five weeks ago.
She grabbed up her shearling jacket and tugged it on as they walked down the stairs to the main part of the house. It was a story and a half, in a rambling floor plan which seemed bigger than it probably was, because of the steep pitch of the roof, which was designed for heavy snows. The three bedrooms were tucked up in that well-insulated roof area, to take advantage of the warm air generated by the wood stoves Grant had told her he preferred to rely on.
“We’ve got propane heat,” he’d said as they passed the big storage tank, “but I try not to use it if we don’t have to. Cooking and hot water takes enough.”
“Hot water?” she’d said teasingly. “Kristina told me this was roughing it.”
He’d given her a long look, as if gauging whether she was serious; she’d realized then that he must really think she was a pampered city girl. She hadn’t tried to tell him he was wrong; that wasn’t the kind of thing you proved with talk. She’d just keep out of his way and take care of herself.
“I like long showers,” he’d said, rather shortly, and Mercy had been disconcerted enough at the unexpected images his words caused to be unable to answer. She’d thought herself long past thinking about Grant McClure that way, but there was no denying that the thought of him standing naked in a steamy shower did strange things to her heart rate.
“Everybody keeps an eye on the fire in here during the winter,” he said now, gesturing toward the sizable wood stove that sat on a brick slab in a corner lined with the same brick. “It’s easier to keep the place above freezing than it is to get it warmed up from freezing.”
She shook off the lingering effects of the unwelcome and surprisingly erotic memory. “I’ll bet it is,” she said, noting the sizable stack of wood against the inside wall. “Where’s the woodpile?”
He nodded toward a closed door a few feet from the stove. “There’s a lean-to outside that door. We try to keep enough dry inside to get through a week. If we’re lucky, that’s the longest whiteout blizzard we have.”
She nodded. If he was expecting shock from her at the idea of such weather, he was going to be disappointed. Yes, she lived in the city, but that city was Minneapolis, and she was no stranger to harsh weather. Although as she looked up at the Rockies on the ride out here from Clear Springs, she’d felt a tiny shiver up her spine that made her think that perhaps those mountains had a thing or two to teach anyone about real weather.
“Chipper seems like a nice kid,” she said as she followed Grant out the front door.
“He is just that,” Grant said. “Nice, but a kid. He just signed on full-time after he graduated high school.”
Was there a warning somewhere in those words, Mercy wondered? Or was she again reading things that weren’t there into Grant’s words? She’d hardly been able to miss the boy’s reaction to her, the way he’d blushed and stammered the whole ride back to the ranch. But what did Grant think she was going to do, toy with the affections of an innocent kid? Suddenly the irony of it hit her, and she smiled wryly.
“Lord, did I look at you like that? All cow-eyed and red-faced?”
Grant stopped his long strides and looked at her sharply. Then, slowly, a smile curved his mouth. A smile that hadn’t lost any potency in the past twelve years.
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was flattering, even when it was embarrassing.”
“I never meant to embarrass you. I promise,” she added solemnly, “it’ll never happen again.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Too bad. Now I might appreciate it more.”
He turned on his heel and walked on before she could respond to that. So Grant McClure still had a wicked sense of humor, she thought. Because he had been joking. He had to have been.
She trotted a few steps to catch up with him. He didn’t slow to accommodate her shorter strides, but she was used to that, and just walked faster to keep up. It helped keep her in shape, she reasoned, which was a good thing, no matter how annoying it might be.
“So Chipper just started working here?”
“Year-round, yes. He worked summers before, and used to come out on weekends, with his mother.”
His mother? Mercy thought. “Oh?” was all she said.
“Rita does some cooking for us.”
Rita. An image of a dark, flashing-eyed brunette passed thorough her mind, and she couldn’t stop herself doing the math. Chipper was eighteen; if his mother had married young, she could be as young as thirty-six now. Only six years older than Grant. Hardly a prohibitive difference.
She hoped Chipper’s father was big and burly and cranky, then chastised herself for the thought. What did it matter to her, anyway?
“She only cooks on weekends?” she said brightly.
“Yes, but she cooks up a storm. Enough for the whole week, and we freeze it. And she taught a couple of us enough to get through the winter when we run out of her stuff.”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” she said.
“The cooking in advance, or teaching us to cook?”
“Both,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not much of a cook myself, as Kristina can tell you.”
“She already did. Right after she informed me of how politically incorrect it would be of me to assume that because you’re female, you would cook.”
“Well,” Mercy said in exaggerated relief, “I’m glad that’s out of the way.”
“I’m sure her warning saved me from a horrible fate.”
