A Kiss in the Morning Mist Page 9

  She stared at the doorway where Granny had disappeared without really seeing it. Idly, she raised the mug to her lips and sipped at the dark brew, but her thoughts were far away from the coffee.

  Take a lover? Me? But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t dare.

  A small smile found its way to her mouth. In the two and half years Henry had been gone, she had thought she would get married again if she could find the right man, but never, not once, had she ever considered taking a lover. Now that Granny suggested it without really saying the words, she supposed it could be a possibility.

  Since I’m telling myself the truth, I can admit that I’ve missed the closeness and intimacy Henry and I shared. I may not get that again, but it doesn’t mean I should shut myself off and not even be open to the idea. What have I got to lose? Not only is he handsome, kind, and well read, Eamon MacDermott is a good man. I know it deep in my bones, just as I know he’s hiding something.

  She shook her head as she took another sip of coffee, the thoughts in her mind whirling faster, becoming more appealing as a flush heated her from the inside out and the warmth in her belly grew.

  Why not? I’m young. I’m fairly attractive.

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. I’m being ridiculous. Am I convincing myself to do it? Or trying to talk myself out of it? What about Eamon? Would he consider . . .

  He’d given her no reason to think he wanted to be involved with her—romantically or in any other capacity than he already was—except for that look in his eyes. That look said more than words ever could. That look conveyed . . .

  Darn you, Granny, for making me think of this, for making me realize the possibilities and the pitfalls. What if . . . I asked him to consider an “arrangement”? What if he said no? She drew in her breath, and her heart thumped in her chest.

  But what if he said yes?

  “Theo?” A decidedly masculine voice came from the doorway, and it wasn’t Quincy or Lou or Wynn. It was his voice, the man she’d been thinking about in the most inappropriate yet enjoyable way.

  Theo jumped, startled, and turned in her seat, her gaze locking with Eamon’s eyes. Humor danced in those eyes as he sent her that look. Her heart beat faster and heat flooded her, rising up from where it had settled in her belly to burn her chest, neck, and cheeks. He couldn’t know what she’d been thinking, but how much had he heard of her conversation with Granny? How long had he been standing there?

  “Gabby, Charlotte, and I collected the eggs after I performed minor surgery on Gabby’s doll.” He stepped into the kitchen, a basket filled with eggs slung over his arm, but she wasn’t looking at the basket or the eggs.

  Instead, she was looking at . . . his smoky-gray eyes beneath the dark slash of his brows before her attention was drawn to the lushness of his thick mustache and the stubble on his chin and cheeks. She drew in her breath. She had never kissed a man with a mustache, but she certainly wanted to right this moment. Her gaze moved lower and stopped on the strands of dark hair at the base of his throat, exposed by the open collar of his red shirt. The urge to unbutton his shirt and lightly rake her fingers through that hair on his chest raced through her.

  The seed had been planted, the idea more than appealing, and in that realization, subtlety fled to the far corners of the earth. Indeed, the compulsion to touch him surged through her blood like a racehorse coming off the starting line, leaving too much heat in its wake.

  He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and strode toward the icebox without another word.

  Goodness gracious, look at that behind! And how long his legs are!

  “Th-thank you,” she stammered, trying desperately to find her composure. Again, he flashed that smile as he opened the icebox door and glanced in her direction. Her hard-won poise simply vanished. “I’ll . . . I’ll meet you at the stable.” She fled outside, her face burning as she grabbed her hat from the hook beside the door and attempted to escape the emotions that suddenly overwhelmed her.

  The dog, cats, and duck followed as Theo let herself into the stable and closed the door behind her.

  “Good morning, my lovelies,” she greeted the horses as she always did and received the same greeting from them in return as she walked among them, hoping their calming effect would slow the quick beat of her heart and the riot of thoughts going through her head, but it didn’t help. She stopped at Pumpkin’s stall, grabbed the halter hanging from the post, and raised the latch holding the gate closed. The horse chuffed and moved forward, ears perked, as she slipped inside. “What do you think, Pumpkin? Should I? Could I?” She guided the halter into place, then smoothed her hand down the side of his face.

  Pumpkin nuzzled her pockets, looking for a bit of sugar or an apple, but she hadn’t thought to bring either with her.

  She led the horse outside and placed him in one of the smaller paddocks, Happy, Mallory, and the cats close on her tail. After closing the gate, she stepped onto the bottom rung of the fence and leaned over the top rung. Pumpkin sidled close to the fence, then nudged the hat from her head. “Oh, Pumpkin, I wish you could talk. You knew Henry as well as I did. Would he approve of Eamon and me?”

  Pumpkin didn’t offer any advice. He nuzzled her hand once more, nickered softly, and then strolled toward a small grouping of shade trees beside the stream. She turned and studied the menagerie that had followed her down the grassy path and now waited patiently for her attention. “What do you think?” None of them held the answer she sought.

  She turned, intending to head back into the stable, but stopped as a sharp whistle rent the air. The other horses were coming through the open stable door, their hooves kicking up clods of dirt and grass as they ran up the wide path between paddocks, Eamon behind them. He waved his hat, then pointed to the enclosures. Theo understood his intention and rushed to open the gates on either side of the path.

  The horses thundered into their usual fenced areas, neighing to her and to one another, racing against each other, full of energy and the taste of freedom.

  After locking the last gate, Theo breathed a sigh and turned, expecting Eamon to be close by, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was Electra and her heart skipped a beat. The mare was close to foaling. Had her time come? Had Eamon noticed something before he led the other horses through the stable door and deliberately kept her behind?

  She rushed toward the stable but slowed her pace as she neared the open door, captivated by the most pure tenor voice coming from inside the building. She peeked inside. Electra was there, her belly still bulging with the foal yet to be born, her eyes full of adoration for Eamon as he approached her with a currycomb in hand. His rich voice vibrated against the walls and ceiling, vibrated within her. She hadn’t known he could sing. How could she? There were days when he hardly spoke. She never expected such a beautiful voice to come from this man, nor did she expect how it made her feel.

  Her heart thudded in her chest, not from the exertion of putting the horses in their paddocks, but from desire, liquid and hot, as the melody and his wonderful voice floated over her like the gentle mist that covered the farm in the mornings. She may not have thought herself ready to fall into any kind of romantic entanglement, but her body remembered the pleasure of making love and had a mind of its own. It had been too long since she’d been touched by a man.

  She slipped into the stable, but remained near the door, unable to take another step. Despite the earliness of the morning, it was warm inside the building. Too warm. Or perhaps it was the rush of heat to her belly and lower. Eamon stood before her, his bold red shirt conforming to his broad back, his black trousers hugging his behind—the one she wanted to caress. Theo looked her fill. She could see the muscles in his back ripple as he used the comb to loosen the dirt from Electra’s creamy, champagne-colored coat. She licked her lips. He was so gentle with Electra, so patient, she couldn’t help wondering if that was how he made love . . . slowly, taking the time to leisurely touch every inch of her skin, building the flames of desire until
he . . .

  The bell beside the back door rang, signaling that the morning meal was finally ready, breaking whatever spell she’d been under. Theo jumped, startled, and raced from the stable before Eamon saw her, certain that her face was the color of his shirt. She needed a moment or two or ten to find her control and banish the erotic thoughts that had crept into her head.

  Chapter 7

  Keeping his distance from Theo proved to be an impossible task. How could he? They worked together every day, side by side, with the horses. And her unending kindness demanded that he respond in ways he never thought he could again.

  It wasn’t just Theo, either. It was himself, too. He could easily walk away . . . find a new town, a new job, like he always did, but now? Eamon couldn’t ignore the fact he’d grown comfortable here on the farm. There was a peaceful flow to the days that appealed to him. No one hurried, but all the work got done. And there was a lot of work, hard work that helped him sleep at night. The nightmares had only plagued him twice, which was an improvement, and the dark circles shadowing his eyes, like bruises from a fistfight, had disappeared.

  It hadn’t taken long to settle into a routine. After the morning milking with Lou and Wynn, Eamon led the cows out to the pasture where he and Quincy would stand at the gate and watch the mist dissipate before heading into the house for breakfast with the family.

  He liked Quincy Burke. And therein lay another problem. He found Quincy easy to talk to. Too easy, like his own father, Shamus, had been. Both men had a certain way about them that invited confidences, but Quincy was not the exception on Morning Mist—he was the norm, along with Theo, Granny, and Marianne. The care and concern they had for each other had been extended toward him without question or hesitation, though, in his opinion, they should have had reservations about taking him into their fold. For their own protection.

  He wasn’t quite sure how to handle all the caring, feeling deep in his heart that he didn’t deserve it—not after what happened. He wanted it, though. Like the misty morning air he drew into his lungs, he grasped at the kindness they offered. Especially from Theodosia Danforth.

  A little more than a week had passed since he stumbled upon this little piece of heaven, and he’d yet to meet Theo’s husband, although she talked about him all the time. Her statement when he’d first met her—that Henry wasn’t with them—still sparked his curiosity, but he just couldn’t bring himself to ask her. “Where is Henry?” he blurted out, his interest getting the better of him as he helped Quincy ready the wagon for town.

  Quincy glanced at him but didn’t answer as he backed one of the draft horses toward the buckboard and proceeded to connect the harness traces to the singletree. He patted the horse’s shoulder, then repeated the process with one of the other draft horses.

  Eamon waited for a response, his eyes following Quincy’s every move as he checked the ropes holding the canisters of milk against the side of the wagon. He suspected the man was biding his time, perhaps trying to figure out the best way to answer, which meant the answer wasn’t an easy one. Had Henry Danforth built his wife this beautiful place, then abandoned her? He couldn’t see that happening. From what he’d been told and by the way Theo spoke of him, Henry was a fine man. He wouldn’t have done that. Something else had happened, and it wasn’t good. A trickle of unease rippled up his back.

  “I keep forgetting you’ve only been here a short time.” The big man took a deep breath and glanced at him as he adjusted a harness strap. The horses shifted, moving the buckboard slightly. “Easy, boys,” Quincy murmured, calming them with his soft voice and soothing touch. He turned his attention back to Eamon. “Henry . . . passed away.”

  “I’m sorry. Was it the diphtheria epidemic that took Tom and Charlotte’s folks?”

  Quincy shook his head as he led the horses and wagon from the barn into the barnyard. “Henry was killed.”

  “Killed?” The word shocked him, like a sucker punch to the gut—unexpected and painful. He’d learned over the past few days that Henry was loved by everyone, so who would kill him? Why?

  “Got caught in the crossfire with an outlaw gang. He never had a chance.” Quincy brought the horses to a halt, then sauntered to the back of the wagon, checking the ropes around the canisters one last time while he waited for the children. He didn’t stop speaking, though his voice had grown hoarse. “They were coming out of the hotel when the first shots rang out. Henry stepped in front of Theo to protect her while trying to push her back into the building. He ended up catching a bullet in the heart.”

  He turned, and Eamon caught the sadness in the man’s eyes. It was obvious Quincy had held the man in high esteem and his passing still hurt. Along with the mental and physical ache, there was anger, too. Eamon sensed it in the way the farm manager stood, his body tense, one hand clenching a leather strap, knuckles white.

  “He died in her arms.” He watched the door for the children, and Eamon got the distinct feeling the young ones didn’t know the details of Henry’s death, nor should they. “Henry was a good man, the kind that never met a stranger. He’d give you the last penny in his pocket if he thought it could help. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I loved him like a brother.” Quincy drew air into his lungs, then blinked several times in quick succession, as if that could keep the telltale shine of tears in his eyes from showing. “He and Theo hadn’t been married for very long when Marianne and I first met them, but I saw right away how much they loved each other. They’d already done so much for being so young—raced Pumpkin on every track that offered a purse and some that didn’t from Georgia to New York, then traveled across country and built this farm from nothing, but they did it together. They were devoted to each other.”

  He turned away but not before Eamon saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I didn’t think Theo would ever recover from his death, and there are times even now, when I look at her, that I know she’s thinking about him. I’m sure she would tell you the same about me. I think of Henry often. I miss him. It took me a long time to accept the fact he’s gone. My biggest regret is that I should have been there that day. I could . . . ” He stopped speaking, perhaps realizing there was nothing he could have done or because the memories were too painful, then he plodded back into the cool shadows of the barn, his steps slow and heavy.

  Eamon’s own heart was heavy as sympathy washed through him. Who better than he to know the pain of loss? The grief and guilt that could cripple a man? He should say something to Quincy. And to Theo. Offer his condolences for Henry’s loss. Something.

  They would be just words though, and no matter how heartfelt they might be, they wouldn’t be enough. In the end, he said nothing. He waited a moment or two for Quincy to return, but when the man didn’t reappear, Eamon headed toward the stable to begin his chores with the horses, remorse for opening old wounds filling him. He shouldn’t have asked, should have left well enough alone.

  The big heavy door to the stable was already opened wide and he stepped inside, only to stop short and drag in his breath. Though he assumed Theo was already there, waiting for him, he wasn’t prepared to see her. The horses were still in their stalls, the gates closed. The dog, the cats, and the duck waited in silence, their attention on Theo, who stood with her forehead pressed to Daphne’s nose, as if the two shared a secret.

  She pulled away from the horse and turned to look at him, those eyes of hers, as bright as new blades of grass sprouting up from the earth, crinkled at the corners with her smile. “Ah, there you are.”

  Eamon blinked and shook himself, as if suddenly aware he stood in the middle of the aisle, gawking at her like an idiot . . . or like Nessie’s besotted calf, who now followed him around whenever she could. “I was helping Quincy.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the barn.

  “I know. I saw you when I passed by.” She gave Daphne a final scratch behind the ears. “You seemed to be in deep conversation, and I didn’t want to interrupt.” She tilted her head as
she walked up the aisle toward him. “What were you talking about?”

  If there was ever a time to offer his condolences, it was now, but he couldn’t. Saying the words out loud would take the smile from her face, and he didn’t want to be responsible for that. How she managed to remain kind and loving after how Henry died, he didn’t know, but his admiration for her grew. He hadn’t done so well with his own grief. Perhaps she could teach him, show him how to let the past rest and look toward the future.

  An image popped into his head as she traversed the aisle between the stalls. He was used to thinking of her as an angel, but now? With the mist at her back, that strange cool glow all around her, she looked like a bride. The only thing missing was a veil and flowers.

  His heart hammered in his chest and he blinked several times, but the vision remained. Could it be possible he’d fallen in love with this woman? In such a short time? Even though, up to this moment, he had thought she might be married.

  He couldn’t breathe, the air stuck in his lungs with wanting . . . wanting something he couldn’t have. Yes, it was possible . . . and terrifying.

  In fact, he’d have to be made of stone to not fall in love with her. Anyone with eyes—and a brain—in his head would fall in love with her. She was everything good in the world, everything right.

  And he was wrong. He wasn’t good enough for her, would never be worthy of her love. He took a step back, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Tobacco.”

  Theo snorted with surprised laughter, a most unladylike sound he’d heard on occasion, and whatever spell he’d been under, broke. He could breathe again. Thankfully. Once more, she was Theo Danforth, dressed not in bridal lace, but in her usual uniform of a split skirt, this time a dark brown suede, and white blouse, the long sleeves already rolled up to her elbows.

  “Tobacco?”

  He nodded, his gaze on her face. “I asked Quincy if he’d get me a tin of pipe tobacco after he drops off the milk and eggs at the hotel.”