enough of the look of the first snow on the craggy summit of Pikes Peak, but by January, she ceased to notice it at all.
Chapter 4
J oel knelt at the foot of the lilac bushes Sunday morning, enjoying the early sunshine on his head and arms. The sweet smell of pungent earth rose to his nostrils as he dug a trench around the roots. But the mixture he poured into the prepared dugout smelled worse than a rotten egg.
“What
is
that?” asked a voice behind him. He turned to see Maggie, dressed in a simple green sundress and sandals, her hair caught back in a ponytail. The color set her golden eyes glimmering, as if small bits of light were trapped there.
He smiled. “Fish emulsion, powdered eggshells and water. Aromatic, isn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is it fertilizer or something?”
“Exactly.” He lifted the bucket and moved to the next bush, cultivating the dirt around the roots with a forked hand tool. “It’ll make these bushes bloom like you won’t believe.”
“You’re a gardener, too?” Maggie folded her arms to calm the jitters she felt in his presence. She had seen him through the kitchen windows and had been unable to resist chatting with him for a few minutes.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes a brilliant, jeweled blue. “Man of many talents.” He wet the earth with the last of the mixture and stood up. “I hope you don’t mind, but it didn’t look like anyone around here was serious about gardening.”
She laughed. “Not hardly. I barely have time for myself, much less a hobby.”
Wiping his hands on a clean cloth at his belt, he said, “Do you have a few minutes for a cup of coffee?” He grinned, showing off that single, searing dimple. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
“The old tom?” Maggie asked, delighted.
“Good guess.”
“I had faith you could do it.”
“Come on, then. I’ll give you a proper introduction.”
She followed him across the grass, trying not to notice how the worn white jeans hugged his broad thighs. Then, remembering the path of least resistance that would—hopefully—help her overcome this ridiculous infatuation, she allowed herself an appreciative appraisal of his back beneath a cotton tank.
At his door, he stepped aside to let her go ahead. “Watch out in there. I ordinarily don’t have people in through the back door.”
As her eyes adjusted, Maggie saw fifty-five gallon drums neatly arranged around the small, enclosed back porch. “Is this the recycling center?” she asked with a smile.
He inclined his head a little ruefully. “You’re lucky you’re seeing it when I’ve just started over in a new house. It’s not usually a very neat area.”
Maggie looked at him. “Neatness isn’t really the point, though, is it?”
He smiled. “No, it isn’t.” For a brief second, his eyes caught hers in a gentle appraisal. He gestured toward the kitchen. “In here.”
The earthy scent of freshly brewed coffee welcomed her, and she breathed the aroma thankfully, glancing around curiously. He had either accumulated very little in the way of decorations, or he had not yet had time to put them up in the kitchen, for the walls were bare and only a single plant grew in the curtainless window. The floor, however, gleamed with a recent mopping, and his dishes had been put away.
“So, would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked, washing his hands.
“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll arm wrestle you for the pot.”
“It does, but I’ll share.” He filled two heavy ceramic mugs with the dark brew. “Cream or sugar?”
“All of the above. Please.”
He smiled, taking down containers of each. “Me, too. My mom raised us on a mixture of half coffee, half milk—I still drink it in almost the same combination.”
His hands dwarfed the mug, the spoon looking like a miniature between long, graceful fingers. They were hands accustomed to work by the look of the nicks and
Chapter 4
J oel knelt at the foot of the lilac bushes Sunday morning, enjoying the early sunshine on his head and arms. The sweet smell of pungent earth rose to his nostrils as he dug a trench around the roots. But the mixture he poured into the prepared dugout smelled worse than a rotten egg.
“What
is
that?” asked a voice behind him. He turned to see Maggie, dressed in a simple green sundress and sandals, her hair caught back in a ponytail. The color set her golden eyes glimmering, as if small bits of light were trapped there.
He smiled. “Fish emulsion, powdered eggshells and water. Aromatic, isn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is it fertilizer or something?”
“Exactly.” He lifted the bucket and moved to the next bush, cultivating the dirt around the roots with a forked hand tool. “It’ll make these bushes bloom like you won’t believe.”
“You’re a gardener, too?” Maggie folded her arms to calm the jitters she felt in his presence. She had seen him through the kitchen windows and had been unable to resist chatting with him for a few minutes.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes a brilliant, jeweled blue. “Man of many talents.” He wet the earth with the last of the mixture and stood up. “I hope you don’t mind, but it didn’t look like anyone around here was serious about gardening.”
She laughed. “Not hardly. I barely have time for myself, much less a hobby.”
Wiping his hands on a clean cloth at his belt, he said, “Do you have a few minutes for a cup of coffee?” He grinned, showing off that single, searing dimple. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
“The old tom?” Maggie asked, delighted.
“Good guess.”
“I had faith you could do it.”
“Come on, then. I’ll give you a proper introduction.”
She followed him across the grass, trying not to notice how the worn white jeans hugged his broad thighs. Then, remembering the path of least resistance that would—hopefully—help her overcome this ridiculous infatuation, she allowed herself an appreciative appraisal of his back beneath a cotton tank.
At his door, he stepped aside to let her go ahead. “Watch out in there. I ordinarily don’t have people in through the back door.”
As her eyes adjusted, Maggie saw fifty-five gallon drums neatly arranged around the small, enclosed back porch. “Is this the recycling center?” she asked with a smile.
He inclined his head a little ruefully. “You’re lucky you’re seeing it when I’ve just started over in a new house. It’s not usually a very neat area.”
Maggie looked at him. “Neatness isn’t really the point, though, is it?”
He smiled. “No, it isn’t.” For a brief second, his eyes caught hers in a gentle appraisal. He gestured toward the kitchen. “In here.”
The earthy scent of freshly brewed coffee welcomed her, and she breathed the aroma thankfully, glancing around curiously. He had either accumulated very little in the way of decorations, or he had not yet had time to put them up in the kitchen, for the walls were bare and only a single plant grew in the curtainless window. The floor, however, gleamed with a recent mopping, and his dishes had been put away.
“So, would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked, washing his hands.
“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll arm wrestle you for the pot.”
“It does, but I’ll share.” He filled two heavy ceramic mugs with the dark brew. “Cream or sugar?”
“All of the above. Please.”
He smiled, taking down containers of each. “Me, too. My mom raised us on a mixture of half coffee, half milk—I still drink it in almost the same combination.”
His hands dwarfed the mug, the spoon looking like a miniature between long, graceful fingers. They were hands accustomed to work by the look of the nicks and
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