minus the leaf-green eyes and the chestnut hair, the shapely feet and the virginal but see-through white nightgown.
“Mr. Stockwell, can you handle it?”
He looked up at her then. “Where were you born, Ms. Miller?”
She hesitated, but then she did tell him. “Oologah. That’s in—”
“I know where Oologah is. Birthplace of Will Rogers. Have I got it right?” She nodded. He asked, “What did your daddy do?”
Another hesitation. Then a sigh. “He ran a gas station. I was pretty little, but I still remember those gasoline trucks pulling into our station to fill up the tanks. They had your name on the side of them. Stockwell Oil.”
“Your folks still live there, in Oologah?”
Something happened in her face, a barrier descending behind those green eyes. “No, Mr. Stockwell. They do not. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you think you can put Becky to bed by yourself?”
“Yes, Ms. Miller. I believe that I can.”
“The monitor’s on the windowsill. I’ve got the receiver in my room. Just speak up if you need me.”
He held her gaze for much longer than necessary before he answered, “Thanks. But I’m sure I can manage just fine on my own.”
She turned for the door. He glanced down at Becky. Looking at his daughter kept him from watching the bit of white gown that fell below the hem of her robe, and the outline of Ms. Miller’s calves beneath it, not to mention the unconscious invitation in her gently swaying hips as she walked away from him.
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