Milky Way. Muriel Jensen

know about you, but weeks of traction wouldn’t fit into my schedule.”

      “I...can’t hold on with one hand.”

      “When you let that hand go, I’ll have you.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Absolutely.”

      She believed him. She wasn’t sure why. Possibly because she wasn’t in a position not to. Closing her eyes, she dropped a hand and reached out blindly. She uttered a little scream as her other hand lost purchase and she fell, landing solidly against hard muscle. Sitting on his arm, she was swung sideways over the railing, then deposited on her feet.

      For an instant she couldn’t breathe or speak. All she could do was stare.

      Her Good Samaritan was long-legged and lean, with just enough thickness in the shoulder to make her grateful he’d been the one to come along and not spindly Chuck Stuart, who rented part of her pasture.

      With eyes the color of maple wood and dark blond hair side-parted and perfectly groomed, he bore a startling resemblance to Kevin Costner. His recent exertion hadn’t disturbed his good looks at all. There was a confident, capable air about him that was comforting and alarming.

      She watched him shrug his coat back into place and straighten his tie.

      She began to emerge from her trance when she noticed the subtle elegance of everything about him. His finely tailored suit probably cost more than her monthly food budget. And he wore cuff links—gold and jade, if she wasn’t mistaken. Antiques, probably. His shoes were shined to perfection.

      She pulled herself together and folded her arms. “You’re from the bank,” she accused.

      “No,” he said.

      “An attorney, then.”

      “No.”

      She frowned, her shoulders relaxing. “Then who are you?” Jake had never seen hair that color. It rioted around her face in soft curls and ended in a fat braid that rested on her shoulder. It was the shade of a ripe peach, a sort of pink-orange with gold highlights. He judged by the generous spattering of freckles on her face that the color was natural.

      Aware that he hadn’t answered her question, he offered his hand and a smile he was sure had to be at least a little vague. “Jake Marshack,” he said. “And you are...?”

      She studied him uncertainly for a moment, then shook his hand. Her fingers were long and slender, but her grip was firm. “Britt Hansen. Thank you for rescuing me.”

      He indulged in a poignant memory of an armful of soft, round hip, then immediately dismissed it. “The...widow Hansen?” he asked.

      She laughed lightly at the title. “One and the same. For a minute I thought you were the villain come to tie me to the railroad tracks. Instead you turn out to be a genuine Dudley Doright. Come on inside. A gallant rescue deserves at least a cup of coffee.”

      She beckoned the dog with a slap to her thigh. “Come on, Daffy.”

      Jake hesitated on the threshold as she opened the back door. Dudley Doright he was not. “Mrs. Hansen...”

      But the ring of a telephone at the far end of the kitchen made her hurry inside. She gestured for him to follow and pointed to a chair at a large round table. The dog settled under it.

      Feeling an annoying little niggle of guilt, he sat. He’d left his notebook in the car because he’d found that official papers and copies of bills always made people defensive, and he wanted them willing to work with him. Of course, in her case, he doubted she had anything to work with.

      Chatting happily to someone he judged by the conversation to be a neighbor, she washed her hands, poured coffee into two mugs, then walked the full extension of the phone cord to hand one to him. He stood and reached across the table for it.

      “No, I was happy to lend it to you, Judy,” she was saying, “but if you’re finished with it, I’ll come pick it up. I was trying to repair the porch roof with my short ladder and almost broke my neck!”

      She grinned at him, and he heard a loud expression of dismay from the other end of the connection.

      “No, no, I’m fine. Dudley Doright rescued me.”

      “Who?” came across the line loud and clear.

      “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it when I pick up the ladder. I’m going to town tomorrow—want me to bring you anything?”

      While she made notes on a pad stuck to the refrigerator, Jake sipped his coffee and studied the enormous kitchen. It was a large square room papered in a soft blue-and-cream pattern. The woodwork was Williamsburg blue and the high cupboards were oak. Children’s artwork and schedules covered the beige refrigerator, and something with a rich, beefy fragrance simmered in a deep pot on the stove.

      The table at which he sat was bordered on two sides by sparkling countertops. The third wall was painted creamy white and covered with what appeared to be antique kitchen implements and an ancient pitchfork that must have been hand-carved all of a piece. He was wondering who had used it how long ago when three kittens, one white and two spotted black-and-white, suddenly ran across the kitchen from the room beyond. They tumbled over one another in a rolling heap, then raced back the way they’d come.

      He had turned his attention to the pitchfork again when the widow Hansen joined him at the table.

      Pale blue eyes smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “My great-grandmother pitched hay with that,” she said, “and once held an amorous neighbor at bay while my great-grandfather was off hunting. I believe her father carved it. Would you like something to go with your coffee?”

      “Ah...no, thank you.” He straightened in his chair. It was time to state his business. “Actually, I’m from Winnebago Dairy. I’m here to talk to you about...” He looked into her eyes and experienced a glitch in his thought processes. His brain disengaged and he couldn’t remember simple words. All that seemed to work were his eyes, which couldn’t stop looking into hers.

      They were like Lake Geneva under a cloudy sky, softly gray-blue and suggesting unimagined depths. He felt pulled in, like a diver who’d forgotten to draw a breath before jumping.

      “About?” she prompted. She lowered her cup and a subtle change took place in her cheerful, friendly expression. That helped him pull himself together.

      “About your bill.” He forced out the words and groped for his professional persona. “You’re eight months overdue, Mrs. Hansen.”

      She looked at him levelly across the table, her eyes now like the lake in February—with a six-foot, impenetrable ice crust. “So you’re not Dudley Doright, after all,” she said, pushing away from the table.

      Jake half expected her to order him to leave. Instead, she went to the sink, a deep old porcelain one with ancient faucets, around which a more modern counter and cupboards had been built. She looked out the window, and he supposed she could see the cows grazing.

      “You’re here to cut me off,” she guessed.

      He mentally went through all his options. It didn’t take long. There weren’t any. “I’m afraid so,” he said finally. He added, “The moment you pay the outstanding balance, I’ll send a truck out with the order you put in two days ago.”

      She turned and leaned against the edge of the sink, both hands behind her, gripping it. “I can’t pay right now, but I’ve been to the bank about a loan. I should have an answer in a few days. And I’m getting a desserts business going on the side for extra money. I—”

      “Our rep,” he interrupted quietly, “said you thought you’d be able to pay when you rented out pasture.”

      She nodded. “It went to the mortgage. I thought having my payments almost current would give me a better shot at getting a loan.”

      Robbing Peter