almost hugged her. Instead, he swooped to the floor and presented her with her disobedient fowl. Instead of looking pleased, Letty seemed further irritated.
“And why couldn’t I achieve similar results?” she asked.
A smile tried to appear, but Eric forbade it. “The talent must come from growing up on a ranch.”
A delighted smile replaced her pique. “A real ranch?”
This time he couldn’t stop the laughter. “As real as horse manure, chicken feed, and cattle.”
Letty reached for the bird Eric still held in his hand. Bringing the small, warm body to her cheek, she rubbed her skin against the ball of fluff. “Mmmm,” she murmured. “How lovely. A ranch, that is. Not manure. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand. Any time you wish, you’re welcome to visit and get your fill.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”
She cocked her head in that birdlike way of hers. “I wonder . . .”
“No.”
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And why not?”
“Because I want nothing to do with mothering five orphan chickens. Do I look like a hen?”
As Eric stared at her, waiting for an answer, Letty turned her gaze from the peeping bird in her hands to the man before her. It flitted from the fringe of his mustache, to the breadth of his wide shoulders, to the narrow waist and long legs. It was his strength that most impressed her, strength he couldn’t have developed behind a typewriter.
On her way back to Eric’s face, Letty noticed his bemusement. Heat filled her face and she looked at the chick.
Cheek against the living scrap in her hands, her thoughts registered nothing but the memory of Eric caressing that cheek. A hint of wonder, a touch of admiration, a bit of longing had filled his gaze when he’d told her he liked her.
He was no hen.
Hoping to disguise her discomfiture, Letty said, “Did you . . .”
When her voice faltered, she shook her head, and a hairpin flew across the room to land at his feet. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Do you need medical attention?”
Eric’s gaze followed the path of the hairpin back to her. Letty felt warm all the way to her toes. “No,” he said, bending. “I feel so well I’ve decided to enjoy the sunny afternoon. I came to invite you to test our Western Rapid typewriter at the office.” He returned her errant pin.
“Why . . . certainly.” Excitement shimmied up Letty’s spine. First his glowing gaze had warmed her, and now his offer to spend an afternoon of leisure together flattered her. Especially since he’d seen her at her most unladylike worst. “I would love to come. How do those machines work?”
Eric laughed. “That’s what I’m about to show you.”
“Indeed. Now, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Letty nestled the chick in her hands amid the others in the box, then spun and, with gray skirt swirling at her ankles, flew up the stairs.
The interior of Eric’s buggy bore the fragrance of luxury. The tang of leather upholstery blended with the odor of the lemon oil that gave a shine to the wood trim. As Eric maneuvered the team, Letty sank deeper into her seat and gazed out the round window.
In the late winter sunlight, Main Street teemed with activity. Hartville’s residents bustled down the wooden sidewalks, and friends greeted each other. Letty relished the sight, glad to have relegated Philadelphia to the past.
“I’ve seen you at church the last few Sundays,” Eric commented after a bit.
“Why, yes. Pastor Stone’s messages are a blessing. Very uplifting.”
Eric looked at Letty in surprise. He couldn’t even call up the Scripture texts upon which those sermons had been based. The curve of a slender white neck and the coffee-colored curls that escaped the bounds of the coronet she’d fashioned from her braided hair had unduly distracted him.
“Pastor Stone always offers . . . inspiration and . . . uh . . . comfort to the
“And why couldn’t I achieve similar results?” she asked.
A smile tried to appear, but Eric forbade it. “The talent must come from growing up on a ranch.”
A delighted smile replaced her pique. “A real ranch?”
This time he couldn’t stop the laughter. “As real as horse manure, chicken feed, and cattle.”
Letty reached for the bird Eric still held in his hand. Bringing the small, warm body to her cheek, she rubbed her skin against the ball of fluff. “Mmmm,” she murmured. “How lovely. A ranch, that is. Not manure. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand. Any time you wish, you’re welcome to visit and get your fill.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”
She cocked her head in that birdlike way of hers. “I wonder . . .”
“No.”
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And why not?”
“Because I want nothing to do with mothering five orphan chickens. Do I look like a hen?”
As Eric stared at her, waiting for an answer, Letty turned her gaze from the peeping bird in her hands to the man before her. It flitted from the fringe of his mustache, to the breadth of his wide shoulders, to the narrow waist and long legs. It was his strength that most impressed her, strength he couldn’t have developed behind a typewriter.
On her way back to Eric’s face, Letty noticed his bemusement. Heat filled her face and she looked at the chick.
Cheek against the living scrap in her hands, her thoughts registered nothing but the memory of Eric caressing that cheek. A hint of wonder, a touch of admiration, a bit of longing had filled his gaze when he’d told her he liked her.
He was no hen.
Hoping to disguise her discomfiture, Letty said, “Did you . . .”
When her voice faltered, she shook her head, and a hairpin flew across the room to land at his feet. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Do you need medical attention?”
Eric’s gaze followed the path of the hairpin back to her. Letty felt warm all the way to her toes. “No,” he said, bending. “I feel so well I’ve decided to enjoy the sunny afternoon. I came to invite you to test our Western Rapid typewriter at the office.” He returned her errant pin.
“Why . . . certainly.” Excitement shimmied up Letty’s spine. First his glowing gaze had warmed her, and now his offer to spend an afternoon of leisure together flattered her. Especially since he’d seen her at her most unladylike worst. “I would love to come. How do those machines work?”
Eric laughed. “That’s what I’m about to show you.”
“Indeed. Now, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Letty nestled the chick in her hands amid the others in the box, then spun and, with gray skirt swirling at her ankles, flew up the stairs.
The interior of Eric’s buggy bore the fragrance of luxury. The tang of leather upholstery blended with the odor of the lemon oil that gave a shine to the wood trim. As Eric maneuvered the team, Letty sank deeper into her seat and gazed out the round window.
In the late winter sunlight, Main Street teemed with activity. Hartville’s residents bustled down the wooden sidewalks, and friends greeted each other. Letty relished the sight, glad to have relegated Philadelphia to the past.
“I’ve seen you at church the last few Sundays,” Eric commented after a bit.
“Why, yes. Pastor Stone’s messages are a blessing. Very uplifting.”
Eric looked at Letty in surprise. He couldn’t even call up the Scripture texts upon which those sermons had been based. The curve of a slender white neck and the coffee-colored curls that escaped the bounds of the coronet she’d fashioned from her braided hair had unduly distracted him.
“Pastor Stone always offers . . . inspiration and . . . uh . . . comfort to the
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