Over the next week, Eugenia fell into a routine with her homestead responsibilities.
Under Granny’s tutelage, she mastered the intricacies of the stove and the fine art of pie making. Not just humble pie, either, as Eugenia’s self-respect grew. She discovered there was a choreography to ensuring the food came off the stove at the same time.
Cort had taken to arriving for lunch with a handful of meadow daisies. The first time he produced the bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back she stared at him.
“For me?”
His gaze dropped to his boots. “I know they’re not the lavish orchids you’re used to, but—”
She grabbed for them as he started to backpedal. “They’re beautiful.”
Eugenia clasped the flowers to her pinafore, half afraid he’d take them back. “Thank you, Cort. I love them.”
Something stirred between them.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s a hectic time of year on the farm. And most of all, thank you for your devotion to Granny.”
She willed her heartbeat to settle. This was about showing his appreciation for her care of Granny. Nothing more.
But the next day, he brought Eugenia a handful of forget-me-nots from the woods. “Like your eyes. Except the flowers aren’t as pretty.”
And later that week, a cluster of wild, dark pink roses. She lifted the bouquet to her nose to inhale their fragrant, spicy scent.
His only explanation before taking his seat at the table? “I like the look of pink against your face.”
It was a supremely proud day when she set a platter of fried chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a loaf of brown bread in front of Cort. Declaring herself not hungry, Granny excused herself to catch up on her reading.
His eyes crinkled, the lines fanning out from the corners as he smiled at her. “The chicken smells great, Genie.”
Eugenia had never known this kind of satisfaction before. Too excited to eat, she watched while Cort tucked into the simple fare she’d cooked with her own two hands.
She’d pleased him. Her heart beat faster. And pleasing him, somewhere along the way, had become her highest goal.
After he ate his fill, he leaned back in his chair. “There’s a dance coming in a few weeks.”
Plate in hand, she paused in clearing the table.
“In the meadow beside the church on a Saturday evening to inaugurate the upcoming harvest.”
Eugenia held her breath. Waiting. Hoping. Would Cort ask her to go to the dance? Sometime over the last few weeks their relationship had moved from outright hostility to friendship. As for something more?
When she didn’t say anything, his forehead creased. He pushed away from the table. The chair scraped across the hardwood floor. He reached for the plate in her hands. His dark eyes searched hers.
Her heart stutter-stepped. He leaned closer, only the plate between them.
“Would you like to go to the dance, Genie?”
Her mouth went dry. What was he really asking?
“You like to dance, don’t you?”
She nodded, her head bobbing like a fish caught on a hook.
“Good.” He tugged at the plate in her hand. She wasn’t ready to let go. Or allow him to move away.
She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Why do you want to go?”
He shuffled his feet. But he didn’t let go of the plate they held between them. “I thought the dance might be fun.”
“Fun?” Her breath came in short spurts.
His chest rose and fell. “Everybody deserves a little fun. Especially before the hard work of harvest begins.”
Everybody. Not a personal invitation, then. She let go of the plate.
Her hand dropped to the folds of her gingham work dress. “I guess everyone in Silver Strike will be there.”
Cort gripped the plate. “I—I meant …” Spots of color peppered his cheeks.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him flustered. He always seemed so in control of not only himself but his world.
Eugenia started to turn away, but he seized hold of her hand. Electricity sparked as his skin touched hers. Her lips parted in an involuntary O.
His eyebrows drew together. “I meant to ask if you’d allow me to escort you to the dance.” His mouth twisted. “I realize it’s not the kind of grand society function you’re used to.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m sure the dance will be lovely. Thank you for inviting me. For thinking of me.”
“I’m always thinking of you,” he growled. “I also realize I’m not your usual, well-heeled escort.”
Taking the plate, she set it on the table with a dull thud. “Because you’re a homesteader?”
A vein throbbed in his cheek. “Yes.”
Silence stretched between them for a long moment. A throat-catching moment.
“I’m beginning to think Sacramento parties are vastly overrated.” She tilted her head. “As are silver barons and copper kingdoms.”
He took her hands in his. “So you’ll go with me?”
She smiled. “I’d love to go. And I’ll be proud to be on the arm of one of the hardest working, best men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
He gave her a winsome, boyish smile that set her heart soaring.
She realized he’d yet to let go of her hands, or she his. Instead, he raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her fingers. She gave a delicious shiver all the way down to her work boots.
“Thank you, Genie. I’m looking forward to it.”
His hand over hers, he pressed her palm against the rock-hard muscle of his chest. Through the fabric, she felt the warmth of his skin. And the wild drumming of his heart in a beat to match her own.
There was a look in his eyes—she felt it, too. As if they both understood they were on the brink of a precipice. One dizzy step further toward either disaster or the cusp of something altogether wonderful.
Finally, he let go of her hands. With a promise—to be continued—in his eyes?
He forcibly swallowed. “Let me help you with the dishes. Together we’ll get it done.”
And she let him help this time. Because he was right. They did make a good team.