Courtship of the Recluse by Linda Rigsbee (ereader for textbooks txt) 📗

She took a bite of hersandwich and glanced up when he finally spoke, his tonebrusque.

“She died of a broken heart. I thoughteverybody around here knew about the Cade’s.”

“I’m not from around here. I grew up thirtymiles to the north.” She paused and her voice took on a sardonictone. “Where Cade wasn’t a household word,” she concluded.

He glanced up sharply, his gaze searching herface.

She stood, picking up a plate. “I apologizefor badgering you about your mother. I didn’t realize you were sosensitive about it.”

“I’m not sensitive.” The words were curt.

In spite of her irritation, she couldn’t helpsmiling. Actually there was nothing sensitive about Russell Cade.He was merely a private person - private and unsociable. She knewthat when she accepted the job so any complaint at this point wouldbe out of line.

She shrugged. “No, I suppose not.”

He watched her intently for a few momentslonger and then turned his attention to his food. How he did it,she couldn’t say, but when he finished his meal, not even a crumbwas left on the plate.

He strode to the door, clamped on his hat,shrugged into his coat and left the house without so much as agood-bye. She watched him head for the barn and wondered how hecould stand being out in the cold all day. He was probably used toit. The snow was coming down in big heavy flakes now. She rubbedher arms again. Why didn’t he do something about this cold house?But he had warned her about the cold - warned her about the snow.Would they be snowed in for a week now? No point mulling over adecision she had already made. The best way to beat the cold was towork up some heat. The first thing she needed to do was the dishes.Then make that list.

An hour later she found herself staringvacantly into the fire again. She shook her head free of pointlessthoughts and began dusting. There was enough to do around here andshe intended to earn her pay - without supervision. First shedusted the dining room and polished the silverware. Then she begancleaning the family room. Carrying a chair from the kitchen, shestretched to dust the top shelf of one of the bookcases beside thefireplace. A large green book caught her attention. The LonelyHills, by Elizabeth Cade. She removed the book from the shelf andopened it to the dedication page. “To my only friend, RussellCade.” His mother or his wife? She leafed through the book, lookingfor a clue.

The screen door squeaked and the kitchenfloor complained as someone crossed it. Cade? She stared at thekitchen doorway, waiting breathlessly for the person to appear.When Cade finally stepped through the doorway holding a cup ofcoffee, her breath escaped in a long sigh.

“I wasn’t sure who came in.”

She lifted the book to replace it and henoticed the cover.

“Were you reading that?”

Her face felt hot again. “No...Well, yes. Iglanced through it.” Was he angry?

He eyed her sardonically. “You’re welcome toread anything in the house. It isn’t necessary to cover up yourinterest.”

She shoved the book back into its place andgave the shelf a last swipe, curbing her tongue as she dismountedthe chair. She lifted the chair and ignored his offer to carry itto the kitchen for her. He was outspoken and direct, but why did itsound so much like he had caught her in a lie?

He followed her to the kitchen. “Are youangry with me?”

She scooted the chair under the table andtossed the rag in the hamper. “Does it matter? I’m here to do ajob.”

He was quiet long enough to rouse herinterest, and she glanced up to determine the cause of his silence.He was lounging against the kitchen doorway, staring down into hiscoffee cup. Finally he glanced up and met her gaze.

“It matters.”

She turned and rested her hands on the backof one of the kitchen chairs.

“Look, Mr. Cade.”

“Russ,” he interrupted irritably.

She lifted her palms in resignation. “Allright, Russ. All you have to do is lay down the ground rules. Ifyou don’t want to talk about your mother, we won’t. But if I’msupposed to avoid the subject, don’t act like I’m in the middle ofsome deceitful act when I try.”

He was clearly surprised. “What makes youthink the topic of my mother is...” He stopped mid-sentence andshrugged in resignation. He strode across the room and poured hiscoffee in the sink. “All right. It’s a subject I’d rather notdiscuss. Not because she did anything wrong, though. I hold myselfresponsible for her death.”

The statement was an open invitation but shewas several conversations wiser now, and waited for him tovolunteer the rest of the story. He obviously considered thesubject closed and remained silent. So on to something else.

“The book I was holding. Did your motherwrite it?”

He nodded. “That and a couple dozen others.She had a short career as a writer.” He rinsed his cup and turnedfrom the sink. As he strode across the room she chanced a lastremark.

“I’ll try not to be so inquisitive.”

He stopped and turned, frowning down ather.

“There’s no harm in a healthy curiosity. It’sflapping jaws that get people into trouble.”

She stared at him. “Do you think my jaws flaptoo much?”

His expression became sour. “I can get intoenough trouble without people squeezing imaginary insults out of mywords.” He turned and headed for the family room door again. “I’mgoing to take a warm shower. Do you think you could scare us up awarm snack?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

She glanced at her watch. It was three pm. Awarm snack? What kind of snack could she whip up in fifteenminutes? She mused through the kitchen cabinets, her attentionsettling on the can of cocoa. That would do, but what aboutsomething to eat with it. Maybe her favorite would work. It wasworth a try. She turned on the broiler and buttered some bread.

When Cade came into the kitchen she placed acup of hot chocolate and a saucer of cinnamon toast before him. Hequirked a brow.

“An interesting combination. Smellsdelicious.”

She smiled. “I hope you like it. It alwayshits the spot for me on cold days.”

He tasted the toast and nodded approvingly.“One thing you should know.” He glanced