Courting Miss Callie. Dorothy Clark

work to be done. She squared her shoulders, pulled the door open and strode out into the kitchen.

      Empty.

      Thank goodness! She collapsed against the worktable and blew her breath out in a sharp gust.

      The back door opened.

      She whipped around, watched in dismay as Ezra, his arms again loaded with stovewood, backed into the room, held the door from slamming with his booted foot, then turned toward the woodbox. Their gazes met. She stiffened, waited for his comment on her abandoned appearance at their earlier encounter.

      He dipped his head. “Good morning, Callie. I’m sorry if I startled you earlier, but I noticed the woodbox was almost empty when I finished supper last night and thought I’d fill it.” He emptied the load in his arms into the box, straightened and smiled. “I wanted to be sure there was wood enough for you to make breakfast. And some of that good coffee.”

      She gave a stiff nod.

      “Well, I’ll get out of your way.” He stepped up beside her and picked up an old, dented lantern sitting on the worktable. The circle of golden light around them wavered. He nodded and headed for the back door.

      He wasn’t going to say anything about her appearance? No comment about her long, curling tresses? No flowery compliments about her beauty? The tension in her shoulders eased. “If you’ve no pressing work to do, I can have coffee ready in a few minutes. It’s the least I can do in return for your bringing in the firewood.”

      He stopped, and turned. “That’s not necessary—but there’s no work pressing enough to make me miss a good cup of coffee.”

      It was impossible not to respond to his grin. Her lips tugged upward. “Then if you will light the lamps, I’ll start the coffee.” She turned to the stove and reached for the door to the firebox, felt the heat radiating off it and glanced at the dampers. They’d been opened a bit. “You started the fire?”

      “Yes. I hope that’s all right?”

      He was close behind her—too close. In her experience that meant he would try to steal a kiss. She braced herself, gripped a cooking fork and glanced over her shoulder. He was standing with his back toward her, lifting down one of the lamps that hung over the worktable. The tension flowed from her. “Of course. Thank you.”

      She frowned, grabbed the coffeepot, lifted the tin of ground java off the shelf and inched to the side. She hadn’t thought about how close they would be while he was lighting the lamps. She scooped some of the coffee into the pot, replaced the tin on the shelf, then moved to the sink cupboard and ladled in water from the bucket.

      He adjusted the wick on the first lamp to a steady flame, hung it back on its hook over the worktable and moved to lift down the second lamp.

      He certainly had broad shoulders for a lean man. She eyed the narrow space between his body and the stove, changed direction and walked around the other end of the table.

      “Bringing in firewood and starting the fire brought back memories. It made me feel right at home.” He gave a soft, low chuckle that made her want to share the memories. “When we lived on the farm, I did those chores for my mother before I headed out to the barn to help my father.”

      She set the coffeepot on the front stove plate where it would heat rapidly, and let her mind form a dream of such a life.

      Light swayed side to side on the wall in front of her, shadows danced, then steadied. He’d hung the second lamp. She heard him step toward the dining table and let out a quiet breath of relief. He’d be out of the way now. She could start breakfast.

      She turned toward the worktable, collided with his solid body and bounced backward toward the stove. He shot out his hands, grabbed her upper arms and yanked her back toward him.

      “Sorry. I should have warned you I was behind you. I was after the lamp on the shelf. You didn’t burn yourself?”

      She gazed up into his blue eyes warm with concern and shook her head. “No. You caught me in time.” Heat from his hands passed through her sleeves and warmed her skin, spread out into a shiver. She held herself from leaning forward to breathe in the blend of fresh air, hay, horses and witch hazel that clung to him.

      “You’re trembling.”

      His eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to her mouth, jerked back up to her eyes. His brows knit together. His hands lifted from her arms and cold replaced the warmth. She shivered and stepped back.

      “I think you were more shaken than you realize. Perhaps you should sit down and rest a moment.”

      She shook her head, avoided his eyes. “I’m fine. And I’ve work to do. The guests will be wanting their breakfasts. Some of them like to leave at first light.”

      Speaking of the commonplace settled her shaken nerves. She checked on the coffee, stepped to the pantry and gathered the dry ingredients for griddle cakes, placed them on the table and walked to the door. She draped her cloak around her shoulders, snatched the basket off its peg and stepped out onto the porch.

      The sky was brightening in the east. Dawn was on the way. She’d have to hurry. She moved down the steps and headed for the buttery to get eggs and milk and bacon. Her steps lagged by the door. She glanced down the pathway where Ezra had come striding to her to ask for food and her mood went as gray as the sky in the west.

      Why did he let them think he was a logger? What was he hiding? Mr. Ezra Ryder was most certainly a liar. She’d best not forget that just because he had a disarming smile and told charming tales of living on a farm.

      * * *

      Ezra turned at the sound of quick, light footsteps, spotted the tall, slender woman hurrying through the stream of sunlight coming in the barn door and stepped out of the stall. “Good morning, Mrs. Sheffield. May I be of service?”

      Surprise swept across Sophia Sheffield’s face. “You’re still here, Ezra?”

      He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment. “The stalls are cleaned, but I have not yet finished cleaning the barn.”

      “Well, gracious, I didn’t mean you had to set the whole barn to rights in exchange for a meal and a night’s sleep.”

      “We made a deal, Mrs. Sheffield. And I am a man of my word.” Would it work? Would she allow him to stay?

      “Hmm.” Sophia gave a small nod and stepped to the stall on her left, peered inside and moved on to the next.

      He thought of his head groom at home, tamped down his amusement and stood quietly and waited. It was odd being on the other end of such a decision—made one want to squirm. He’d be a little more patient and understanding of job applicants from now on.

      “Where is Joseph?”

      “He went to the apothecary to get some ointment. His back is troubling him.”

      “I see.” Sophia turned to face him. “You’ve made an excellent job of cleaning these stalls, Ezra. You said you were raised on a farm?”

      “Yes.”

      “And did you handle the horses?”

      He smiled and nodded. “I did indeed, madam. My father always said I had a gift for handling them.”

      She nodded, gave him a speculative look. “Would you be interested in staying on to help Joseph? I would pay you a fair wage in addition to your meals. And you would keep your sleeping quarters in the equipment room.”

      He hid his elation with a small bow. “I would be most appreciative of the opportunity, Mrs. Sheffield.”

      “Then you will help Joseph with the horses as well as cleaning the stalls, but mind you, my guests’ horses must be fed and cared for as their owners dictate.”

      “I understand.”

      “Very well. You may start your employment by hitching Star to the shay and bringing it to