think about. But it irritated him just the same. His hands moved over the gentle curves of the wood as he considered, picturing her flawless skin, her waterfall of soft hair, her sweetly curved body... She was tall and long-limbed and, despite being jet-lagged, moved with an innate grace he admired.
Maybe he’d been working with physical disabilities too long if he could make that complete an assessment of her based on a five-minute acquaintance.
As usual, working with the animals helped him sort out his thoughts. While the ranch catered for children with visible disabilities, he was well aware that not all problems could be seen by the naked eye. He dedicated his life to helping people look beyond the scars and disabilities of others. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of Brad and how they’d planned a life that was no longer a possibility. It was the driving force behind Bighorn Therapeutic Riding, after all.
Maybe, just maybe, he owed that same courtesy to Hope. If he didn’t, he’d be as closed-minded as all the people who had turned away from him over the years. So, he mused, as he turned out the barn lights and closed the door, he’d put his first impressions of Hope aside and give her the benefit of the doubt.
It was silent inside the house, and for a minute Blake wondered if Hope had taken a nap. She’d been dead on her feet, her eyes slightly unfocused as she’d stared at him in her room. The scent of roasting meat, garlic and bay leaves permeated the hall from the kitchen and his stomach growled. Should he wake her for dinner or save her a plate?
And then he found Hope sitting at the breakfast counter, laptop open, her delicately arched brows wrinkled in the middle as she focused on something on the screen, prissy little glasses perched on her nose. The stylish kind of spectacles that looked more like an accessory than anything else.
“So, not asleep, after all?”
She started at the sound of his voice. “Oh, goodness!”
“You didn’t hear me come in?”
“I tend to block things out when I’m editing,” she explained, tucking a silky sheet of her hair behind her ear. “Sorry.”
“Editing?”
“Of course. I find the imperfections in the pictures and then work to make them better. Come look,” she said, turning the laptop a few degrees so he could see the screen better.
He was off step again, expecting one thing and finding another. He’d been about to apologize for his earlier coolness and here she was looking refreshed and businesslike, as if things hadn’t been awkward at all.
He went to the counter and peered over her shoulder.
The picture was of a female model, posed in a white overcoat and stilettos, her hair artfully blowing around her face.
“Looks good,” he said. Truthfully, it looked a bit sterile and lifeless. There was too much white and the model looked like she might be blown away with the first stiff breeze to ruffle her umbrella. With her hair blowing like that, and a coat on, he would’ve expected an outdoor shot rather than...what? It looked like she was standing inside a cube. Why would she need an umbrella in a cube?
“Let me show you the original.” She brought up another picture and put them both side by side. “See?”
Her smile was wide and expectant as he looked at the screen again. Honestly, he couldn’t see much difference.
“You’re clearly a pro,” he commented, stepping back.
Her brows knit closer together. “Don’t you see? Look right here.” She pointed to the model’s jaw. “This line is totally different now. And that spot?”
He had to lean right in to see where she indicated.
“It’s gone in this one. And I lightened everything just a bit as the exposure wasn’t quite right. It’s totally different. Now it’s nearly perfect.”
“And perfection is important?”
She looked at him like he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head. “Of course,” she chattered. “I mean, I’m always looking for the perfect shot. That’s what I do. I haven’t found it yet, but I will someday.” Her lips took on a determined set. “Until then I keep trying, and I tweak and fix what I have. It’s so different than in the old days, before digital.”
Perfection. His mood soured. If she was looking for perfection, boy, was she in the wrong place.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always been a point-and-shoot kind of guy.”
He went to the counter next to the sink and took the cover off the Crock-pot. Steam and scent assaulted him and he breathed deeply. No one did elk roast like Anna.
“Dinner’s in ten—I’m going to make some gravy,” he said, taking out a large platter.
He put the roast in the center and scooped out potatoes, carrots and golden chunks of turnip, arranging them around the roast. Then he tented them all with foil while he poured the broth into a saucepan and set it to heat, mixing flour and water to thicken it. He marveled at the change in her. Not only had she traded her wet clothes for dry, but the dazed look in her eyes was gone and she seemed full of chatter. Like she was two entirely different people. Which one was the real Hope?
The chatter was annoying on one hand but somehow pleasant on the other. The house often felt too quiet with just him here in the winter months. He supposed that one of these days he should get off his butt and think about having a family of his own.
And yet every time he considered it something held him back. Something he didn’t want to examine too closely. Things were better the way they were now.
“Mr. Nelson?”
He paused, his hand on the flour bin. “It’s Blake, remember?”
“I just... I want to apologize for earlier. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was terribly tired, you see...”
Her voice trailed off, but her blue eyes looked both hopeful and perhaps a touch bashful, which surprised and pleased him. They were both aware that she hadn’t slept, so he saw the apology for what it was—trying to smooth the awkward moment over. He could be graceful and accept it, or reject it. Considering they had to spend the next week and a half together, rejecting it probably wasn’t such a smart idea.
“What brought you around?” He chose to move the conversation along and start over. “When I left you, you looked ready to drop.”
He turned his head and looked her square in the face, waiting for her answer. To his surprise she smiled.
“Your coffee. It’s very good.”
“Kicking Horse. Comes from a place a few hours that way.” He thumbed ambiguously toward the west.
“Oh. Well, it’s delicious. And I snooped in the pantry and happened to find a jar of the most delicious cinnamon cookies. Caffeine and sugar have given me my second wind.”
“Good to know.”
He turned back to his broth, now bubbling on the burner.
“Can I help?”
“You
