the barn to reach the open doorway. His tall bulk loomed in front of her, blocking out the sunlight and momentarily startling her.
“Nothing. I—” Layne still wasn’t sure how it happened. “I went to throw some manure into the wagon but I threw it on myself instead.”
“That’s why you screamed?” he asked with an accusing rasp in his low voice.
“You’d scream, too, if you had a forkful of manure land on your head,” she retorted and brushed at her sleeves.
“Next time try to save the yelling for emergencies.” He shifted to one side, allowing the outside light to fall on her. “Hold still. You have some in your hair.”
Obediently she stood motionless while his gloved fingers brushed at her head. She was eye-level with the front of his thickly padded jacket with its fleece lining and row of leather-covered buttons. There was a vague surprise at how light and gentle his touch was.
Almost absently she lifted her gaze to his face. It was such a highly unusual face, browned by the sun and the wind and creased with strong male lines. There was something oddly compelling about features that were so unattractive. The blunt ridges of his cheekbones were tooprominent and his cheeks were too lean; his nose was crooked and his brows were too thick. About the only thing she found to like was his mouth.
Layne idly wondered at his age. Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? It was difficult to tell with a face like his. She couldn’t imagine a younger version of it. It would still be all hard, uncompromising lines, only now carved with experience.
A distant part of her was aware of him carefully picking out small pieces of manure that had become lodged between her scarf and the sides of her neck. A hooked finger was very deftly scooping them out.
Her attention shifted to the impenetrable dusty brown color of his eyes. They always seemed shuttered, closing in his thoughts. When their focus shifted to her eyes, Layne barely noticed. She wasn’t even conscious of how rudely she was staring at him, fascinated by his irregular looks. There was a sudden smoldering of anger in his eyes, dark and thundering. Layne glimpsed it for a moment, then he was looking elsewhere and it was gone.
“I think you’ll survive,” he announced gruffly and reached down to pick up her pitchfork. “Here. You’d better get back to work.”
“Thanks. …” Her voice trailed off onto a flat note as he abruptly turned away without waiting for any expression of gratitude, polite or otherwise. Layne sighed, wondering what she had done to offend him this time, then shook her head. She didn’t know what sort of hang-up he had, but she wasn’t going to waste precious time wondering about it.
After supper that evening Layne was quickly indoctrinated into the practice of calling the evening meal “supper.” In the city it might be dinner, but out here it was supper. After supper that evening she took a long, hot bath to soak some of the soreness out of her muscles.
With the sash to her long terrycloth robe securely belted, she started downstairs. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head in a loose knot. The bath had left her feeling almost human again. She was halfway down the steps when Mattie opened the stairwell door at the bottom.
“Feel better?” Mattie’s smiling glance seemed to indicate that Layne looked it.
“A thousand percent,” Layne said.
“I think I’ll take a turn in there and see if a bath can’t rejuvenate some life in this body,” Mattie declared wryly.
As they passed on the stairs, Layne paused to ask, “Is it all right if I use your phone to make a collect call? I want to let my parents know where I am.” She had planned to write them a letter but it seemed wiser to call and allay any fears they might have about the situation.
“Go ahead. There’s a phone in the office.”
When Layne opened the door to the parlor-study and switched on the light, the orange cat marched into the room after her, in a bit of a
“Nothing. I—” Layne still wasn’t sure how it happened. “I went to throw some manure into the wagon but I threw it on myself instead.”
“That’s why you screamed?” he asked with an accusing rasp in his low voice.
“You’d scream, too, if you had a forkful of manure land on your head,” she retorted and brushed at her sleeves.
“Next time try to save the yelling for emergencies.” He shifted to one side, allowing the outside light to fall on her. “Hold still. You have some in your hair.”
Obediently she stood motionless while his gloved fingers brushed at her head. She was eye-level with the front of his thickly padded jacket with its fleece lining and row of leather-covered buttons. There was a vague surprise at how light and gentle his touch was.
Almost absently she lifted her gaze to his face. It was such a highly unusual face, browned by the sun and the wind and creased with strong male lines. There was something oddly compelling about features that were so unattractive. The blunt ridges of his cheekbones were tooprominent and his cheeks were too lean; his nose was crooked and his brows were too thick. About the only thing she found to like was his mouth.
Layne idly wondered at his age. Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? It was difficult to tell with a face like his. She couldn’t imagine a younger version of it. It would still be all hard, uncompromising lines, only now carved with experience.
A distant part of her was aware of him carefully picking out small pieces of manure that had become lodged between her scarf and the sides of her neck. A hooked finger was very deftly scooping them out.
Her attention shifted to the impenetrable dusty brown color of his eyes. They always seemed shuttered, closing in his thoughts. When their focus shifted to her eyes, Layne barely noticed. She wasn’t even conscious of how rudely she was staring at him, fascinated by his irregular looks. There was a sudden smoldering of anger in his eyes, dark and thundering. Layne glimpsed it for a moment, then he was looking elsewhere and it was gone.
“I think you’ll survive,” he announced gruffly and reached down to pick up her pitchfork. “Here. You’d better get back to work.”
“Thanks. …” Her voice trailed off onto a flat note as he abruptly turned away without waiting for any expression of gratitude, polite or otherwise. Layne sighed, wondering what she had done to offend him this time, then shook her head. She didn’t know what sort of hang-up he had, but she wasn’t going to waste precious time wondering about it.
After supper that evening Layne was quickly indoctrinated into the practice of calling the evening meal “supper.” In the city it might be dinner, but out here it was supper. After supper that evening she took a long, hot bath to soak some of the soreness out of her muscles.
With the sash to her long terrycloth robe securely belted, she started downstairs. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head in a loose knot. The bath had left her feeling almost human again. She was halfway down the steps when Mattie opened the stairwell door at the bottom.
“Feel better?” Mattie’s smiling glance seemed to indicate that Layne looked it.
“A thousand percent,” Layne said.
“I think I’ll take a turn in there and see if a bath can’t rejuvenate some life in this body,” Mattie declared wryly.
As they passed on the stairs, Layne paused to ask, “Is it all right if I use your phone to make a collect call? I want to let my parents know where I am.” She had planned to write them a letter but it seemed wiser to call and allay any fears they might have about the situation.
“Go ahead. There’s a phone in the office.”
When Layne opened the door to the parlor-study and switched on the light, the orange cat marched into the room after her, in a bit of a
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