Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings. Jillian Hart

I believe she’s taken up her needlework.” Her shy smile touched her soft mouth, and she averted her eyes, turning to fuss with the tray on the counter in front of her. “Would you like some tea to warm you?”

      “Why, I surely would.” He was touched that she would be offering. Already she had slipped into the woman-of-the-house role. His chest swelled with happiness. That had to mean she felt this attraction, too. “Let me carry the tray for you.”

      “Oh, no. I couldn’t let you do that. Let me wait on you.” She might be soft-spoken, but she was no wilting flower. Determination deepened her blue eyes and sharpened the dainty curve of her finely carved chin.

      “Fine. Have it your way.” He would do anything to please her, and he liked that she wanted to take care of him, too. He could see their future, each taking care of the other. “I aim to please, pretty lady.”

      “There you go, flattering yet again.” She added a third cup to the tray.

      “I can’t help myself.” He chuckled, following her through the kitchen. “You bring out the worst in me.”

      “I suppose I shall simply have to get used to it.”

      “Yep, because I reckon it isn’t going to get any better.” For instance, there were plenty of flattering things he could offer as they strolled through the house together. The sway of her hips, subtle and terribly feminine, drew his gaze. She had tied back her hair into a single loose braid, and it framed her face like a golden cloud. She held herself with an inner grace, which made the serving tray she gripped with both hands look out of place. She was like a thoroughbred in a herd of donkeys.

      “You seem more relaxed than when I first spotted you on the train platform.” He had a thousand questions for her. He wanted to know everything about her. “I hope you come to feel at home.”

      “I already do,” she confessed.

      “Now that you see my folks are good people, and you’ve met me, you have to know—” He caught her elbow and drew her to a stop. “I’m going to do my best to make you happy.”

      “Happy? No, not me,” she denied gently with a shake of her head.

      “I would like to take you for a sleigh ride tomorrow.” He kept right on talking. “Just you and me. Now, I know for your reputation, it is best if we’re chaperoned, but I think we need to get to know each other better. After all, we have a future together, you and I—”

      “Mr. Brooks, there’s something I must tell you.” The tray she held quaked enough to rattle the cups in their saucers. “I’m not who you think I am.”

      “What do you mean?” Tenderness rang in his voice. “You think I can’t see who you are? A fine lady, fallen on hard times. The same thing happened to my sister-in-law, as I told you. I care about you, Clara, and I—”

      “Joseph!” Mary interrupted, calling loudly from the next room. “Is that you? Have you finally come in from the stable? I’ve been waiting for you.”

      “I’m finally here, Ma.” He rolled his eyes, looking sheepish. “She still scolds me as if I’m twelve. She can’t help it. Come, let’s go sit with her.”

      “Yes, she’s no doubt waiting for her tea.” She had no time to explain as he had already started in the direction of the parlor, only a few steps away. His fingertips around her arm seared through her garments like flame.

      Why did this man affect her so? Whatever the reason, she would do best not to consider it. Joseph was now her employer’s son, and the moment he realized it, his charming nature toward her would vanish. The bright admiration would dim from his eyes. She may as well brace herself for it.

      She broke from his touch and carried the tray straight to the table beside Mary’s rocking chair. The china clattered; the tea sloshed. As hired help, she tried not to listen to the con-

      versation between parents and son. She lifted the teapot with wooden fingers and poured.

      “…what luck Clara came instead,” Mary was saying.

      Her face heated. She was not ashamed to work as a maid for her living; it was a far better job than her last one, which for all the long hours she worked barely paid the rent. Stubborn pride held her up as she set down the pot and carried the full cup, without sweetener as ordered, to the older Mr. Brooks, who gazed over the top of his newspaper, listening to the story.

      “Come all the way from Illinois, did you?” he asked, peering at her through his reading spectacles. He was a man who worked hard for his living with callused hands, a burly frame and a weathered face.

      “Yes, sir,” she murmured, trying not to listen to Mary’s final explanation. She returned to her tray and stirred two sugars into the woman’s tea.

      “So that’s how Miss Woodrow has come to work for us.” As quietly as those words were spoken, they thundered like dynamite in Clara’s mind. “She will be a fine addition. You mind your manners, Joseph. We haven’t had a young lady on staff for quite some time.”

      “Yes, of course, Ma.” His baritone sounded strained and hollow.

      Was that his disappointment she felt, or simply her own? And why was she disappointed? She did not come here looking for a charming man to romance her. She served Mrs. Brooks her tea, careful to keep her back to the man standing near. Was it her imagination or could she feel his gaze scorching her?

      It’s your imagination, Clara. It has to be. Now that he knew who she was, he would not be trying to charm her. She stirred honey into the final cup, per Mary’s orders, hurting strangely. She was not interested in a courtship. Love had not treated her well. It was certainly not a consideration here. So, why was her heart aching? Why couldn’t she keep her head down and her attention fixed on the cup and saucer she served him, instead of meeting his gaze?

      Because a tiny, forgotten part of her wanted the fairy tale. Deep down, there lived a kernel of hope that there might be a true love meant only for her, a man who could see something special in the plain girl she was.

      That man could never be Joseph, she reasoned. Surely, for now all he saw was a serving girl.

      That’s what she was, and she was proud of it. She grasped the empty tray, curtsied and padded out of the room. Glad for this job, she closed her ears to the rising conversation behind her. Sure, she liked Joseph. He was a likable man. But she had to be practical. She could not believe in impossible and foolish fairy tales.

      She gladly left the room and bustled into the kitchen, ready to help with the rest of the meal preparations. It wasn’t disappointment eking into her like frost in the night. She wouldn’t let it be.

      Joseph couldn’t get over his shock. As he blew on his tea to cool it, his mother’s words taunted him. “After all the letters I wrote to her mother, you’d think the woman would have shown more courtesy. That poor girl, with a mother like that! I’m sure Clara will suit us just fine.”

      So that’s what all the writing and mailing of letters was about. A slight wind could blow him over. Stunned, he retreated to the sofa and settled on a cushion, stretched out his feet and took a swallow of hot tea.

      “Seems like a girl in need,” Pa said as he set down his paper with a crinkle. “I noticed three patches on her dress, and I was hardly looking.”

      “That’s why I hired her on the spot, the poor dear. I didn’t even check her references.” Ma took up her embroidery hoop from her lap and began to stitch. “Can you believe she came the entire way by herself? And just eighteen years old.”

      “A shame she has no one to look out for her.” Pa shook his head from side to side. “You did right in hiring her. She has an honest look. She’ll do fine.”

      “I think so, too. She makes an excellent pot of tea.” Ma squinted at her needlework, fussing with thread and needle before fastening her all-seeing gaze on him. “You will behave yourself,