Читать книгу Daddy, He Wrote - Jill Limber, Jill Limber - Страница 13

Trish couldn’t look at Mr. Miller. She stared into the fire, sure that when he got over the shock of hearing about Billy’s death he’d come to his senses and fire her.

She was so lost in her misery that when he spoke she jumped. She hadn’t heard him walk up beside her.

“Do you need any help with the arrangements?”

Her mind went blank. Arrangements? What was he talking about?

He waited patiently for a moment. “The funeral. Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

Of course. He thought Billy had just died. He didn’t know she’d been widowed for two and a half months—because she’d been afraid of losing her job so she’d covered it up.

His kindness nearly undid her. She shook her head. “No. It’s all over.”

She hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. There really hadn’t been anyone to attend, anyway. She’d asked Billy’s best friend to get his ashes from the funeral home because she didn’t have a car to go and pick them up.

A few days later he’d called to tell her Billy’s drinking buddies had had a memorial service for him down at the Stumble Inn, their favorite establishment. Apparently, it didn’t occur to them to ask her to come. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the ashes.

“When did he die?”

She would have to tell him, then he’d know she’d been lying to him all along. “Two and a half months ago.” She looked up into his startled face.

“I see.” He picked up his bag and, without another word, turned and left the room.

She watched him go, then choked back tears as she looked down at her sleeping daughter and whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She could actually feel her security slip away.

She had been foolish to think she’d be able to deceive everyone and keep both their jobs so she’d have the old stone house. Swallowing a sob, she stared miserably into the fire. What was she going to do?

Trish hated feeling sorry for herself. She’d learned a long time ago it was a waste of time and got you nothing.

Knock it off, she told herself fiercely. He hadn’t actually said he was going to fire her, and she had been taking care of things since Billy died.

Heck, she’d taken care of things since she’d discovered she was pregnant and moved in with Billy.

He’d usually been hung over in the mornings and stayed in bed, then he would take off in the afternoon to drink beer with his buddies or fish or go hunting.

Trish decided to go and talk to Mr. Miller and present her case before he had too much time to think about what he had just learned. She had to convince him to keep her on. She’d proven she could do the job, hadn’t she?

She tucked the blanket around Emma and then raced into the utility room behind the kitchen. She couldn’t go talk to him in pajamas with ducks all over them. She pulled her laundry out of the dryer, yanked off her pajamas and scrambled into a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.

She checked on Emma again, banked the fire and then headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. She paused at the first door with the light on. There was a black case on the big worktable under the window, and his wet overcoat was draped over the chair, dripping water all over the floor, but no Mr. Miller.

She continued on down the hall to the next room and stopped dead in the doorway. He was standing at the closet with his back to her.

His bare back.

Her eyes lingered on the smooth expanse of skin covering his broad shoulders and tapering down to a trim waist.

Trish felt her mouth go dry. The man was built like a Greek god. Who knew that much male perfection lay under his beautiful clothes?

She must have made a noise because he glanced over his shoulder at her before she could back away.

“Do you need something, Ms. Ryan?” he asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed, his words muffled as he pulled a sweater over his head.

She could feel the color burn in her cheeks. He turned and watched her as she tried to remember why she had charged up the stairs.

She’d been too impulsive and hadn’t given herself time to think about what she was going to say. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up her future employment. She needed to be really sure he was in a good mood before she broached the subject.

Desperately she searched for a reason to be standing in the door to his bedroom. “I was, ah, wondering if you needed, that is, if you wanted anything to eat?”

Absently he rubbed his hand over his flat stomach, now covered by a soft sweater that brought out the incredible blue of his eyes. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

Trish brightened. She knew her way around the kitchen. A full stomach would put him in a good mood. “Of course. Ham? Turkey?”

She had shopped yesterday when a neighbor had offered her a ride to the market. Gratefully she had accepted. It was so much easier than dragging Emma and the groceries on the bus, so she had stocked up.

He seemed to carefully consider his choice. “Ham. With everything on it. And coffee if you have it.”

She nodded and turned to leave. “Ms. Ryan?”

“Yes?” She had to brace herself not to flinch as he studied her. She couldn’t read his face. Was he going to give her notice before she could even make him supper?

“I’ll eat up here. I’m going to use that first room as an office after I move some of the stuff out of it. Would you bring the sandwich up here?”

“Sure.” Trish exhaled a long breath as she turned to leave his bedroom.

“And, Ms. Ryan?”

She swung back to face him. “Yes?”

“When I’m working, do not disturb me, for any reason. Understood?”

She nodded. How could anyone not understand that tone of voice? “I understand.”

She left quickly and stopped by the first bedroom and grabbed his coat to take it downstairs so she could hang it to dry, and reminded herself to bring a rag up to mop the water on the floor when she brought up his sandwich.

When she returned with his sandwich and an insulated pot of coffee, he was already at work on a laptop computer, his long, strong-looking fingers flying over the keys. She set the tray down at his elbow, and he mumbled something without looking up.

She mopped up the floor and left the room quickly, not wanting to disturb his work. If anything would get her fired, she guessed it was that.

She decided not to change into her pajamas in case he needed anything else. She lay down on the couch and tried to doze, but found herself wide awake, trying to come up with what she was going to say to Ian Miller to convince him to keep her on as the caretaker for Blacksmith Farm.

Emma began to stir and Trish scooped her up before she could cry.

She nuzzled the sleepy baby’s sweet-smelling neck and cooed, “Hungry, pretty girl?” Emma gurgled a reply and, one-handed, Trish deftly undid the buttons on her flannel shirt, then settled into the corner of the couch and nursed her baby.

Trish whispered down at her daughter, “Don’t worry. We’ll convince him we can do this job.” She picked up the mystery she’d been reading and read aloud to Emma as she nursed.

Trish hoped she was right about being able to win over her new boss, because she had no idea what she would do if Mr. Miller decided to get a new caretaker.

Trish finished feeding Emma, changed her diaper and settled her back in the basket. She lay down on the couch, physically exhausted, but with her mind churning, unable to sleep.

Finally she got up and prowled through the downstairs looking for something to do. She’d already cleaned the house from top to bottom. She plumped the cushions on the couch in the front room and straightened the rag rugs, then headed back to the kitchen.

She could get a head start on dinner for tomorrow night. Cooking always gave her time to think. Maybe she could come up with a plan while she put together the ingredients for a stew.

She gathered up what she needed from the refrigerator and began peeling and chopping and browning. The rhythm of the work made her relax.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her.

He was standing there with the coffeepot in his hand, a thunderous expression on his face.

She just couldn’t seem to do anything right tonight. “I’m making dinner.”

He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “It’s 2:00 a.m.”

“For tomorrow night.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, I guess since it’s after midnight it would be for tonight.” Great, now she was babbling.

His scowl got fiercer. “You look exhausted. Why are you cooking in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She wanted to ask him why he was up, but bit back the question. He didn’t look tired. He looked wonderful. His hair was a little mussed, as if he’d run his fingers through it, but it just made him look even more appealing.

He thrust the coffeepot at her. “Well, stop.”

She took it from him, then turned and surveyed the kitchen.

Pots and pans filled the big sink. She was halfway through the preparation of two more dinners. She looked at the mess on the counter and the casserole dishes lined up. She had intended just to put together the stew, but then things had gotten away from her.

There was at least an hour of work left. She didn’t want to stop now.

“I’ll make you more coffee,” she said cautiously, hoping he’d go back upstairs so she could finish. Maybe he only wrote at night. She’d read that some writers did that.

“I can make my own coffee,” he said gruffly and reached to take the pot back, his hands covering hers.

Trish stood still for a moment as the warmth of his palms caressed the backs of her hands. She pulled away, trying to ignore the pleasurable sensation the slide of his smooth, warm palms caused over her chapped, reddened skin.

Taking a deep breath to calm her fluttering pulse, she turned and put the jug down on the counter. “I’ll do it,” she said, still facing away from him.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. “I just have to put this stuff back in the refrigerator before I go to bed. I’ll bring the coffee up to you.”

“I will not tolerate any interruption of my work,” he said, repeating his earlier admonition. He stared at her for a moment, then turned abruptly and left the room.

From the way she saw things, he had interrupted her. Annoyed, she filled the coffeemaker with fresh ground coffee and water, then raced to tidy up the counter as the fragrant brew dripped into the pot.

The last thing she needed to do was make him angry, although she couldn’t figure out why her cooking in the middle of the night would be a problem for him. He wasn’t paying her by the hour.

She poured the coffee into the insulated pot, wrapped a handful of store-bought cookies in a napkin and took everything up to him.

He sat hunched over the laptop computer, his broad shoulders blocking the screen. He didn’t look up when she set the coffee and cookies on a corner of the huge worktable he was using as a desk.

Trish tiptoed downstairs and finished up what she was doing and got ready for bed. She nursed Emma and settled her back in her basket, then she lay on the couch for a long time, trying to get to sleep without visions of Ian Miller crowding into her thoughts.

Ian stood at the window of his office, moodily looking over the roof of the barn to the old stone farmhouse. He’d spent the morning moving some of the room’s furniture out, including an old iron crib he’d disassembled. For now everything was stored in the small bedroom at the end of the hall.

He glanced around. The room suited him very well as an office. He hoped he’d be able to keep getting work done, but he wasn’t optimistic. All the pages he’d churned out last night were probably just a lucky break.

He was stuck with the housekeeper sharing the house until the blizzard stopped. Her presence was always in the back of his mind, and he kept wondering what she was doing, even when he couldn’t hear her or see her.

She was such a jumpy little thing, acting as if he was some kind of ogre, and it annoyed him.

The creative streak he’d had last night had been a fluke. It must have been. He’d never been able to write when someone else was around. He turned his attention back to the scene outside.

His car was completely covered. According to the morning news, the blizzard had dumped three feet of snow, but in some places the drifts were up to the eaves.

If he didn’t remember where he’d parked, he would never know his car was there. In fact, the scene looked the way it must have two hundred years ago when the stone farmhouse had been built. There was nothing he could see that could be identified as twenty-first century. The pristine quality of the countryside had a magical look to it.

The meteorologist on the local weather channel had announced there was another storm coming in behind this one. They could expect more snow tonight.

He wished the inside of his house was as quiet and peaceful as the landscape. He’d bought the farm as a retreat, to be alone so he could write. He had anticipated having the house all to himself. Now he was sharing it with a woman, a baby, a cat and a dog.

What had surprised him more than anything was he had been able to write last night. In spite of the chaos inside the house he’d written two chapters that pleased him. He was never pleased with a first draft.

The book he was working on was important to him, more important than any of his best-sellers. It was the book he had always wanted to write. The book his agent and publisher had steered him away from. They kept telling him it wasn’t what his fans wanted, what they expected. Ian thought his fans would understand. And if they didn’t, he thought sourly, they could skip buying it.

He suspected that was the reason everyone was having a problem with this project. His agent and editor were afraid it wouldn’t sell well and make the big money his other books had.

He didn’t care what they thought. The time was right for him to write this story, and he was going to finish the book. He would like to blame his writer’s block on them, but he couldn’t. He wanted so much to do a good job on this book he was pretty sure he was the one standing in his own way.

He forced his thoughts away from the book and back to the practical. He needed to make sure they had enough gasoline for the generator so they could stay warm. From the looks of the refrigerator, they didn’t need to worry about food for a month. His housekeeper cooked like a madwoman.

And what was he going to do about her? She couldn’t continue to do all the work around this place. It was too much for one person, especially a slender little thing like her. He wondered how old she was. She looked about seventeen.

How long had she been married? How had her husband died? There were so many questions he wanted to ask. The need for answers surprised him. He never wanted to get involved in other people’s private lives.

He’d have Joyce tell the property manager to find someone to help around the farm with the grounds. Trish could still do the housekeeping and live in the stone farmhouse. The caretaker would have to be a day job.

He bent down to jot a note to himself to ask Joyce to look into it the next time he talked to her. Then he wrote a note to himself. “Ignore the housekeeper. She’s none of your business.”

He straightened up and scowled at his own handwriting.

He crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash. Since when did he need to remind himself of something like that?