Her Passionate Plan B by Dixie Browning Page B

hanging on the outside wall—at least it was before the storm. It might be over in the next county by now.”
    â€œNo problem. I passed a hardware store on my way here.”
    â€œYou’re not buying any ladders,” she said, as if she suspected him of trying to ingratiate himself. Sharp lady. “There it is,” she said. “You take one end and I’ll carry the other.”
    â€œBe easier if I just balance it on my shoulders.” He could tell she wanted to argue, but instead, she marched off toward the house, giving him a perfect view of her shapely, well-toned backside. In a starched uniform she might be able to pass herself off as a dragon, but in rumpled shorts, a T-shirt and grimy athletic shoes, with her hair tumbling from the shaggy wad on top of her head, she was—
    Suffice it to say that dragon was hardly the word that came to mind.
    They worked surprisingly well as a team. Having been treated for various sports-related injuries, Kell had seen the way nurses slapped tools into the palm of an attending physician. He wasn’t particularly eager to have her slap anything in his hands, especially not a hammer, nails or a screwdriver, so he selected a few basic tools and tucked them under his belt, took a deep breath and started climbing.
    Three rungs from the top he braced himself, held on and shifted his weight experimentally, waiting to see ifthe ladder was going to settle any deeper into the damp earth. Eyeing the nearby stained-glass window, he called down, “She’s one fancy house, all right. Tall, too.”
    Daisy was watching him, shading her eyes with a slate shingle she’d picked up from the debris on the ground. “Be careful up there,” she warned.
    â€œI’m always careful. What’d you say it was called, Victorian?”
    â€œI didn’t say.” Then, as if relenting, she said, “Gothic. I think.”
    â€œRi-ight, that’s what I thought it was.” When it came to architecture, he didn’t know Gothic from gator eggs.
    Kell knew better than to look down. Truth was, he wasn’t that great on heights. A pitcher’s mound was about as high as he felt comfortable unless he was flying, preferably first class, preferably in an aisle seat and preferably with a shot of single-malt whisky in hand to settle his nerves.
    Daisy steadied the ladder with both hands while he reached out to unscrew the single screw holding the gutter to the eaves. He called down to warn her to stand back just as the screw came loose and the section of copper gutter fell to the ground.
    â€œOuch!”
    Kell twisted around to see what had happened. When the ladder tilted under him he let out a yell and sailed off to one side. They both ended up on the damp ground, with Daisy frowning at a ten-inch scrape on the outside of her leg where the falling gutter had grazed her. Kell massaged his butt and pulled out the cluster of pecans he’d landed on. The yard was littered with the damned things.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked.
    â€œWhat were you doing, trying to amputate my leg?”
    â€œI warned you to stand back.”
    â€œYou warned me after the thing was already falling.”
    He stood up, flexed his limbs to be sure they were still working, then held out a hand. “Sorry, I guess my timing was off. Gutter work’s a little out of my line.”
    Ignoring his hand, she stood and then leaned over to examine her injury. “I’d better go put something on this. Did you break any bones when you fell?”
    â€œI didn’t fall, I jumped.” He followed her into the house. “That thing’s probably going to stiffen up on you once it starts healing.”
    â€œJumped, ha! Nice six-point landing, though.”
    â€œTwo feet plus two hands equals four, not six. Do the math.”
    â€œYou left out the two cheeks,” she quipped, slipping through the back door he held open. Glancing over her shoulder,