Tanner Ties. Peggy Moreland

lifted her head and wiped sweat from her brow. “What?” she asked impatiently.

      “I’m going to need at least four sheets of tin to replace the damaged ones I’ve found so far. Maybe more. Do you have any on hand?”

      She stifled a groan, wishing she’d thought to request tin when she placed her order with the lumberyard earlier that week. The owner charged her exorbitant delivery fees. Probably because her last name was Tanner and he assumed she could afford to pay whatever price he named. Hoping to avoid an extra delivery, she racked her brain, trying to remember if she’d seen any tin lying around.

      “I think there are some extra sheets in the barn,” she called to him.

      She heard the thud of his footsteps as he crossed back to the ladder, then saw his boots appear on the top rail. The ladder shook beneath his weight as he clomped down. Upon reaching the ground, he angled his body in profile to her to avoid looking at her. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll check and see if they’re in good enough condition to use.”

      It irritated her that he wouldn’t look at her when he spoke to her, but it irritated her even more that she couldn’t see his face.

      “Fine,” she snapped. “Look in the loft. I think that’s where I saw the tin.”

      She watched him walk away, her frown deepening. His gait was long and easy, his shoulders square. And his head was up, which added another level of irritation to her already miffed mood. He could look at the barn but not at her? The man was beyond weird.

      And he was big. He had to be over six feet tall, since the top of her head hit him about chin level. He had wide shoulders and a broad chest that tapered to a slim waist and hips. His legs were long and muscled beneath his jeans, and he had what she’d heard referred to as a cowboy butt—nicely rounded and muscled—as well. His hair—or what she could see of it beneath his ever-present cowboy hat—was a sandy brown. Other than that, she had no idea what he looked like.

      Frustrated by his secretive behavior, she attacked a rotted board and pried it up, taking pleasure in the grind of nails and splintering of wood as the board snapped free. She tossed it aside and crawled along the porch until she reached the next damaged board. In spite of the earliness of the morning, it was strenuous work and sweaty, but she relished the burn of muscle, the sense of accomplishment with each finished task. And she was grateful at the end of each workday for her weariness, knowing she’d be able to sleep that night and not toss and turn, haunted by old memories and worries over her future.

      A loud crash had her snapping her head up, her gaze going to the barn. Fearing that Luke had fallen out of the loft, she leaped to her feet and ran. Inside the building she stopped to stare, her chest heaving, as she struggled to catch her breath. Luke stood in the alleyway, looking down at a pile of tin, a shovel gripped between his hands like a weapon.

      “What happened?” she asked, pressing a hand to her chest to still her heart’s beating.

      He braced the shovel against the ground and shook his head. “Rattler. Must’ve been curled up between the sheets of tin. When I pulled ’em down, he came down with ’em.”

      Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she eased closer and saw the rattlesnake—or what was left of it—on the ground, and shuddered. “D-did he bite you?”

      He puffed his cheeks and released a shaky breath. “No, ma’am. Wanted to, though. I heard the rattle and grabbed the shovel from the wall and whacked it before it had a chance to strike.”

      She shifted her gaze to Luke and froze, noticing for the first time that his hat was missing, which offered her a clear view of the left side of his face. Crepey skin, shades lighter than the rest of his face, covered a portion of his cheek. A thin line of puckered flesh trailed from his eyebrow up toward his hairline. That he’d suffered some type of injury was obvious. Exactly what kind, she wasn’t sure. The scarring wasn’t hideous by any stretch of the imagination, but she thought she understood now why he always kept his face hidden.

      He glanced over and she found herself looking into eyes colored a soft, warm brown. Kind eyes, she thought. Gentle. The kind of eyes a woman could trust. The kind she could fall into and drown.

      When he realized she was staring at him, he quickly turned away and scooped his hat from the ground, his face stained a deep red. After snugging the hat down over his head, he took up the shovel again.

      “As soon as I get rid of the carcass,” he said, keeping his face averted, “I’ll bring the tin up to the lodge and get to work on the roof.”

      It took her a moment to find her voice. She wanted to ask him what had happened to him, to tell him he shouldn’t be ashamed of the scarring, that it wasn’t that bad.

      Instead, she said, “All right,” and walked from the barn, leaving him to deal with the dead snake, and the questions to whirl in her mind.

      That evening Lauren sat slumped in one of the Adirondack chairs on the lodge’s front porch. Rhena sat beside her, shelling black-eyed peas. The rhythmic click of peas hitting the pan she held on her lap was a soothing sound in the darkness.

      “What do you think happened to him?” Lauren asked thoughtfully.

      “Who?”

      “Luke. How do you think he got all those scars?”

      “How the heck would I know? If you want answers, you’ll have to ask him.”

      “I wanted to,” Lauren admitted guiltily. “But I couldn’t bring myself to ask him about something that he’s obviously so self-conscious about.”

      Rhena snorted. “Since when has that stopped you from sticking your nose in somebody else’s business?”

      Lauren looked at her in surprise. “Are you saying I’m nosy?”

      “Need I remind you about the day you asked Florence when her baby was due?”

      Lauren pursed her lips. “I was eight years old. I thought anybody with a tummy was pregnant. Besides, all the household staff was wondering the same darn thing, including you,” she added. She jutted her chin defensively. “I saved y’all the embarrassment of asking.”

      “And cost Florence her job.”

      Lauren felt a prick of guilt, but quickly dispelled it. “Was it my fault she was sleeping with the gardener? Florence knew Dad’s rules. ‘Employees of the Tanner household shall not fornicate with other employees of same household.’ I believe that was rule number five, which was preceded by, ‘No employees of the Tanner household shall gossip about happenings within the Tanner home or about family members who reside in said home.’”

      “Your father was a careful man and expected complete loyalty from his employees,” Rhena replied judiciously. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

      Frowning, Lauren slumped farther down in her chair. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up with a bodyguard shadowing your every step.”

      “No. My parents were dirt poor. They didn’t have anything anybody else would want, including me.”

      Lauren glanced uneasily at Rhena. “You think I’m spoiled, don’t you?”

      Rhena dropped her hands to her lap and looked at Lauren in disgust. “Now that’s downright insulting. I had a hand in your raising, and I never spoiled you. Not once.”

      “My father did.”

      Pursing her lips, Rhena picked up another pod to shell. “He might’ve tried, but he didn’t succeed. If he had, you would’ve run home with your tail tucked between your legs after you and Devon divorced, and let your daddy take care of you. But you didn’t,” she said with a nod of approval. “You took what you had left and put your back into it in order to survive. In my book, that’s gutsy, not spoiled.”

      Reminded of the challenge she’d taken on, Lauren gazed out at the darkened landscape. “Daddy thinks I’m