Daddy, He Wrote. Jill Limber
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