peeped from underneath.
He took an involuntary step forward. 'You've been sick? Are you all
right?' His voice sounded sharp from anxiety.
Sara took a hasty step backwards, shaking her head until her hair
tumbled about. 'No, I'm fine,' she murmured uneasily. 'Really I am.'
Her eyes watched him with that same puzzlement, as if she expected
him to sprout four legs and a tail right there on the spot. He looked
very good to her. His faded and tight jeans were streaked here and
there, and his plaid flannel shirt strained across broad shoulders and
was rolled up at the sleeves to past his elbows. She could just
imagine him wielding a heavy axe with ease. He would be good at it,
she thought. His hard face held a strange expression, almost
forbidding, with that dark searching gaze, the hard mouth held firm,
the jaw strong.
'Don't look at me like that!' he said abruptly, taking another
experimental step forward. She didn't back away this time.
'Like what?' Why was she acting so stupidly this afternoon? She
couldn't tear her eyes away from his face; it seemed too important.
'Like you expect me to hit you in the face!' he uttered forcefully. 'I
was worried when you didn't answer the door.'
'Why?' she asked him baldly. She wanted to take his words at face
value so badly, and she didn't know if she dared.
'Because you're so isolated here and so vulnerable, I -' He took a deep
breath. 'You'd been ill, and I was worried that you'd had a relapse.'
'I didn't want to see you!' she burst out, and suddenly felt as if she
had gone mute. She couldn't for the life of her think of something
else to say.
'I know.' His own reply was low. He had winced when she had
blurted out her confession, and she felt absolutely terrible. The day
was grey and dreary and a nippy wind blew about her feet, making
her shiver. Greg took a quick comprehensive glance at her bare feet,
her damp hair and her shivers, and told her quickly, 'Go on inside and
I'll finish stacking the wood against the house. I'll knock and let you
know when I'm done, and bring in some wood to stack by the
fireplace, if you like.'
'Why,' she asked impulsively, shaking as a wind hit her exposed
head, 'are you being so nice to me? Why are you doing this?'
He merely shook his head with a faint smile, and told her, 'Shut that
door before you catch your death. Hurry now, we'll talk later.'
Feeling more and more chilled by the second, Sara hastened to do as
he said. Funny, she thought, shutting the door behind her and rushing
through the kitchen with the sudden desire to get dressed and dry her
hair, how the day had suddenly turned into a nice one after all. She
pulled on a black pair of jeans and drew on a pretty blouse with a
high collar and an edge of lace around the neck and wrists, and pulled
on a pale peach sweater over it. Brushing her hair briskly, she held a
hand dryer to her head for a few minutes, then threw it down in
disgust. She didn't have the patience for that. She picked up her
blusher and stroked a little colour over her cheekbones, then touched
her eyelids with a dark blue shadow that made her eyes appear as a
vivid blue. After looking at herself closely in the mirror, she rubbed
off a little of the eye-shadow. She wanted to look good, but she didn't
want him to think that she had put on make-up for his sake, even
though she had. She touched her lashes with a brown mascara so that
they looked longer but still natural, then hurried outside.
Greg was nearing the end of the huge stack of wood in the back of
the truck, and he turned when he heard the back door open to smile
down at her. He was standing in the bed of the truck, and his feet
were spread wide apart for balance. His brown hair fell across his
forehead and his big hands were dusty. Sara blinked up at him; when
he smiled it changed his entire aspect and made that stern, almost
menacing image fade completely away. It eased the hardness from an
already harsh
He took an involuntary step forward. 'You've been sick? Are you all
right?' His voice sounded sharp from anxiety.
Sara took a hasty step backwards, shaking her head until her hair
tumbled about. 'No, I'm fine,' she murmured uneasily. 'Really I am.'
Her eyes watched him with that same puzzlement, as if she expected
him to sprout four legs and a tail right there on the spot. He looked
very good to her. His faded and tight jeans were streaked here and
there, and his plaid flannel shirt strained across broad shoulders and
was rolled up at the sleeves to past his elbows. She could just
imagine him wielding a heavy axe with ease. He would be good at it,
she thought. His hard face held a strange expression, almost
forbidding, with that dark searching gaze, the hard mouth held firm,
the jaw strong.
'Don't look at me like that!' he said abruptly, taking another
experimental step forward. She didn't back away this time.
'Like what?' Why was she acting so stupidly this afternoon? She
couldn't tear her eyes away from his face; it seemed too important.
'Like you expect me to hit you in the face!' he uttered forcefully. 'I
was worried when you didn't answer the door.'
'Why?' she asked him baldly. She wanted to take his words at face
value so badly, and she didn't know if she dared.
'Because you're so isolated here and so vulnerable, I -' He took a deep
breath. 'You'd been ill, and I was worried that you'd had a relapse.'
'I didn't want to see you!' she burst out, and suddenly felt as if she
had gone mute. She couldn't for the life of her think of something
else to say.
'I know.' His own reply was low. He had winced when she had
blurted out her confession, and she felt absolutely terrible. The day
was grey and dreary and a nippy wind blew about her feet, making
her shiver. Greg took a quick comprehensive glance at her bare feet,
her damp hair and her shivers, and told her quickly, 'Go on inside and
I'll finish stacking the wood against the house. I'll knock and let you
know when I'm done, and bring in some wood to stack by the
fireplace, if you like.'
'Why,' she asked impulsively, shaking as a wind hit her exposed
head, 'are you being so nice to me? Why are you doing this?'
He merely shook his head with a faint smile, and told her, 'Shut that
door before you catch your death. Hurry now, we'll talk later.'
Feeling more and more chilled by the second, Sara hastened to do as
he said. Funny, she thought, shutting the door behind her and rushing
through the kitchen with the sudden desire to get dressed and dry her
hair, how the day had suddenly turned into a nice one after all. She
pulled on a black pair of jeans and drew on a pretty blouse with a
high collar and an edge of lace around the neck and wrists, and pulled
on a pale peach sweater over it. Brushing her hair briskly, she held a
hand dryer to her head for a few minutes, then threw it down in
disgust. She didn't have the patience for that. She picked up her
blusher and stroked a little colour over her cheekbones, then touched
her eyelids with a dark blue shadow that made her eyes appear as a
vivid blue. After looking at herself closely in the mirror, she rubbed
off a little of the eye-shadow. She wanted to look good, but she didn't
want him to think that she had put on make-up for his sake, even
though she had. She touched her lashes with a brown mascara so that
they looked longer but still natural, then hurried outside.
Greg was nearing the end of the huge stack of wood in the back of
the truck, and he turned when he heard the back door open to smile
down at her. He was standing in the bed of the truck, and his feet
were spread wide apart for balance. His brown hair fell across his
forehead and his big hands were dusty. Sara blinked up at him; when
he smiled it changed his entire aspect and made that stern, almost
menacing image fade completely away. It eased the hardness from an
already harsh
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