The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux. Carolyn Davidson

take them through the winter, he said, and she’d agreed, after noting Noah’s slight nod. In the meantime, the chickens were turned out to forage for themselves every morning. The pullets and young roosters were growing rapidly, and there were more hens wanting to nest, one of them determined to settle herself in the bushes near the house.

      The sound of hammering caught her attention and she put the milking stool aside in haste. The man was up to something again, and it was barely past breakfast time. Sure as the world, he’d found another project to lay his hand to, and she hastened from the barn, following the noise of his labor. The remains of two old trellises lay on the back porch, Shay kneeling amid the fan-shaped designs, adding a strip of new wood. He caught sight of her and rose, watching as she walked toward him.

      It made her quiver inside when he did that. Not that his perusal was intimidating or in any way worrisome. It was just that his gaze made her aware of herself. Aware of the way she walked, the way her hand dipped into her apron pocket, the way her hips swayed in rhythm with her steps. And he didn’t miss a shred of it. His lips moved just a little, the bottom one twitching a bit, and his eyes darkened, if that were possible.

      She hadn’t been so studied, not ever in her life, as she had lately. Carl had paid attention to her, mostly in the bedroom, sometimes when he was feeling randy. But Shay was a different sort, more intense, more observant, and that intensity was focused on her, more often than not. As if each movement she made was unique, each word she spoke worth hearing.

      It could be heady stuff, she decided, climbing the two steps to the back veranda, where he watched and waited. His hand reached for the milk pail and she gave it to him, unthinking. “I’ll take it in to Isabelle,” he said. “Wait here a minute. I want you to tell me where to put this trellis. There are roses blooming all over the ground on the east side of the house. They’d be better off with something to climb on.”

      Jenny nodded. His request was reasonable, no matter what Isabelle thought. A whispered warning early this morning had brought quick color to Jenny’s cheeks. “You watch out for that man, Miss Jenny. He’s a dark one, with thoughts about you he shouldn’t be thinkin’.” Isabelle’s eyes were sparkling with indignation as she spoke. “He’s lookin’ at you like you’re an available woman.”

      I am. Jenny closed her eyes as she remembered the words. Available for marriage, anyway, though I doubt that’s what Shay is thinking of. The screen door slammed as he returned, and he lifted one finger as a signal.

      “Just another couple of nails and this will be ready. Have a seat, ma’am.” His words encouraged her to linger, and she perched on the edge of the veranda, arms wrapped around her knees as she watched him. Long fingers held the nail, and the hammer hit it twice, driving it firmly into the wood beneath. Another nail was pounded home and Shay set aside the hammer, lifting the trellis with him as he stood.

      “I knew the roses were being neglected, but the wind kept blowing them down, and I didn’t know how to fix…” Her voice trailed off as Shay carried the trellis past her, a nod of his head urging her to follow. She stood quickly, brushing her skirts down. A movement at the door caught her eye and she waved at Isabelle, flashing a smile as she trotted behind her new handyman.

      Thorny branches, profuse with roses, lay beneath the library window. “I’ll bet you can smell them at night,” Shay said, leaning the trellis against the house. The sun was climbing rapidly into the morning sky and its warmth brought forth the scent of the flowers, rising from the ground to surround them with its aroma.

      “Yes,” she agreed, hands shoved into her apron pockets, watching as he lifted the heavy branches aside, making room for himself to stand. Curtains caught the breeze and billowed into the room as she watched, and past his bent form she caught sight of her bed. Covering the mattress was a pieced quilt, one her grandmother had made years ago, now the only memento she had of the elderly woman who lay in the churchyard. Her nightgown was tossed carelessly against the counterpane and Jenny wished fervently that it had been folded and put away in her chest of drawers.

      Carl had told her more than once that she was always in too much of a hurry, anxious to move on to the next moment. Isabelle had called from the kitchen this morning as Jenny dressed and she’d hastened from her room, leaving an unmade bed and general disorder behind. Now it was exposed for anyone to see. For Shay to see.

      “Here, hold this,” he said over his shoulder, nodding with his head toward the place where he wanted her hands to rest. She did as he asked, standing beside him, stretching to grip the wooden frame. He knelt, one knee on the ground, the other bent, and dug with a small spade he’d carried along. The hole was narrow and deep enough to hold the bottom of the trellis, the earth piled up around it as he plied the spade.

      “Let’s drop it in,” he told her, grasping the frame, allowing her to balance it above his hands. And then he lifted his head, looking inside her room, his hands unmoving as the curtains billowed, revealing the unmade bed and the white gown she’d left behind. He glanced up at her once more, his expression harsh. “Ready?”

      She nodded, lowering the trellis, then held it steady as he packed dirt in the hole. He stood, brushing off his hands, stomping the loose earth to hold the latticework firmly in place. “I think I’ll nail it in two places to the siding on the house,” he told her. “That way the wind won’t take it again.”

      She stepped back. “I thought you wanted me to tell you where to put it.”

      “You want it somewhere else?” His eyes glanced at her over his shoulder and her smile faltered. His mouth twitched. “I decided for you, ma’am. By the time I mend the other trellis and set it on the other side of the window, there won’t be enough room for anyone to climb inside without getting stuck by the thorns. Thought it might be wise.”

      “Who’d want to climb in my window?” she asked incredulously. “There’s only Noah and the boys and Marshall, and they can go right in the back door. Isabelle would never make it over the sill.”

      He was silent, that faint movement of his mouth turning into a slow grin. “And I’m upstairs. Reckon we don’t need to worry about keeping you safe and sound, do we?”

      “I’ve never worried for a minute,” she said stoutly. “There’s no one hereabouts to fear.”

      “Then why do you suppose Isabelle’s been sleeping in front of your door? She was there again this morning when I got up early.” He bent to pick up the hammer and spade and straightened to face her. His smile twisted the scar, lifting one side of his mouth, and her eyes were drawn there. With an oath that took her by surprise, he turned away.

      “No. Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t turn from me. Please.”

      It was the addition of that small word that halted his retreat. She’d said please, and not for a moment could he deny her the courtesy of facing her again. “I know my face is beyond ugly, ma’am. I don’t blame you for looking.” His words became softer as he attempted to placate her with a touch of humor. “I’ve had babies cry, and women scream for mercy, just looking in my direction.”

      Jenny’s eyes left his and moved again to that puckered scar. As if she had reached to touch it, he felt a welcome warmth the length of its twisted ridge, and his own hand rose to tug at his hat brim, effectively hiding it from her sight.

      “How did you get it?” she asked quietly. “It looks painful, but I suppose it’s not, really.”

      “It’s been a long time,” he said. “You might say I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.” That he’d fought for a man’s life in the prison camp in Elmira, fought and won, was something she didn’t need to know. The Yankee guard had been buried quickly, and their captors had been too busy dealing with the water that overflowed the camp to make a fuss. They’d been in a deluge, wading in ankle-deep water in their simple shelter for three days. He’d shivered with cold and listened to men weep unashamedly.

      “Was it in prison?” she asked, her eyes bleak as she probed for the answer.

      “No,” he lied. “In a saloon,