Chapter Eleven

 

Noah leaned back against a boulder. He didn’t know beans about geology, but this particular rock was striped with layers and layers of different colored strata, and he expected a geologist would have a field day out here. Maybe even find some fossils.

Grace had been right about the beauty of these lakes. There were several of them, and they all sat in hollows that looked as if water had carved them out of the surrounding cliffs thousands of years ago. The cliff sides were so sheer in some places, he was pretty sure they couldn’t be scaled without real mountain-climbing equipment, even though they weren’t very high.

A buzzard floated over the top of one of them, lazily riding the breeze and making Noah envious. He’d like to be able to do that; float away on the wind. He was surprised to see the bird because he’d assumed the buzzards must all have flown south long since. It was pretty, though, soaring way up there like that. Really pretty. Strange that a carrion-eater should add such a fine, peaceful touch to a beautiful day.

This was the oddest country he’d ever seen. Near as Noah could tell, there wasn’t a tree within a hundred miles or more that hadn’t been planted by settlers. He didn’t count the scraggly mesquite bushes; they didn’t properly look like trees, although their red wood added a bright note to the relentlessly beige landscape.

He wondered how this place would look in the springtime. Would it still be tan and brown, or would greenery liven it up? Mac claimed that flowers bloomed after the rains came, but Noah somehow doubted that the land would ever, even in the rainiest of springs, resemble his native Virginia. He was glad of it.

“Wonder how long it’ll take folks to plant trees around here and for the trees to grow big enough to shade their picnics.”

Grace looked up from the pan in which she was frying the perch Noah’d just caught. Actual 176176 ªly, he and Maddie had caught them together. He’d had to help her, of course, but it hadn’t been the burden he’d anticipated. She’d been eager as anything, and happy as a clam. Her cry of joy when she pulled out the first one, a whopper that wiggled and fought for its freedom, had lit him up inside. He’d had to help her land it. Grace had been right about the fishing; those were some of the biggest fish he’d ever caught, and they smelled like heaven as she tended them over the fire he’d built from a bunch of dried mesquite branches they’d gathered.

His stomach growled, and his even his hunger suited him. Made him feel human, connected somehow with the rest of his fellow creatures on this earth. The feeling was a pleasant novelty.

“I don’t know. Frank and I planted some willows and cottonwoods on our land, but they’re still very small.” She shot him an apprehensive look, as if she wished she hadn’t mentioned her land.

Noah sighed and wished she hadn’t mentioned it too. But he wouldn’t spoil this picnic by bringing up his lust for her land. He’d lull her into forgetting about it, is what he’d do. Immediately his cynical side reared its ugly head and he thought what a damned imbecile he was. As if he still had the wherewithal to lull a lady into any kind of compliance about anything at all. Cripes, who did he think he was? He was a lunatic, for God’s sake. Well, he’d not talk about Grace Richardson’s land today in any case.

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw them.”

“Mac’s planted trees too. Some oaks and willows, and even some cottonwoods by the swamp. Did you know there’s a swamp close by his property, Mr. Partridge?”

“A swamp?” In spite of himself, Noah chuckled. A swamp! In this desert?

Grace nodded. “Indeed, there is. You’d never believe it, would you? But it’s no more than half a mile north of his wagon yard, where the Spring River flows through Rio Hondo. It’s quite green up there in the springtime and summer, and the fishing’s good there too.”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Maddie likes to hunt for tadpoles there during the summer.”

“I bet she does. I remember doing that when I was a kid.” He looked at her from under his hat brim. When she wasn’t messing with the fish, she sat with her back against another boulder, her knees drawn up and her arms around them. She looked relaxed. Approachable. As if she might not slap him silly if he were to go over there, put his arms around her, and—

Lord above, where had that thought sprung from? He jerked his head in the other direction and looked at Maddie.

Grace and he were both keeping an eagle eye on the little girl, who had shucked her shoes and stockings, hiked up her skirt around her waist, and now waded in the clear water of the lake. Noah could hear her singing “There is a Balm in Gilead” at the top of her lungs from where he sat. She was a tuneful little kid, Maddie Richardson, although he did wonder, when she sang “to heal the sin-sick soul,” what possible sins could lie within her blameless breast. She was only a kid, for the love of God. She couldn’t have racked up enough sins to fill a thimble.

“Bet that water’s freezing,” he said, thinking of Maddie’s toes and trying to forget his recent, indiscreet thoughts concerning Maddie’s mother.

“I imagine it is, but the weather is so fine, I’m sure she won’t take cold.”

“No, I’m sure she won’t. It must be seventy-five degrees today.”

Grace looked up, as if gauging the temperature from the looks of the sky. “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Partridge. Isn’t that something? Why, only week or so ago, it was snowing.”

“Reckon the weather’s unpredictable out here, ma’am.”

She chuckled. “It certainly is. It might snow again tomorrow. We can get some tremendous thunderstorms too.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“We generally only get the thunderstorms during the summertime.”

He nodded.

“The winters aren’t as hard here as the winters in Chicago, though, even if the landscape isn’t as friendly.”

“They call Chicago the windy city for a reason, I expect.”

“They certainly do.” She laughed again.

Grace lifted the fish pan from the fire and conversation lagged. Noah twirled a grass stalk in his fingers and watched Maddie. She was having the time of her life out there in the shallows of the lake. It must be nice to be a kid and to be able to entertain yourself by doing nothing more than collecting shiny rocks and sing hymns at fish.

“Ever eat frog legs, Mrs. Richardson?”

“Sometimes. They’re quite tasty, but I don’t like to cook them. They jump out of the pan if you’re not careful, and I always feel sorry for the frogs.” She gave him a sheepish grin, as if she expected him to consider her a fool. He didn’t. He’d always felt sorry for the frogs too.

“My mama used to cook up a mess of frog legs every now and then. I liked them a lot.”

“I prefer fish. They don’t jump so.”

“I reckon not.” He gave her a smile, to let her know he understood. “What about the jackrabbits I see around here? They any good to eat?”

She sighed. “Not very. They’re tough as old boots, actually. There are cottontails out here, though, and they’re pretty tasty. Mac made Maddie a blanket out of cottontail hides sewn together. She loves it because it’s as soft as feathers. It’s her favorite blanket. Won’t go to sleep without it at night.”

“I can imagine.” Noah shut his eyes for a moment and tried to envision sleeping with something as soft as rabbit fur. He’d rather sleep with Grace Richardson. His eyes popped open, and he blinked, annoyed by his sudden fantasy. Criminy, he hadn’t thought anything like that in years until he met Grace. Now he could hardly think of anything else. He was damned near a virgin reborn, if men could be virgins.

Grace transferred the cooked fish to a dish and put another cleaned fillet on to cook. As the fish sizzled, they watched Maddie for a while. She seemed to be collecting a fine pile of shiny, water-polished stones. The occasional lurid daydream aside, Noah couldn’t offhand recall the last time he’d felt so completely at peace with himself and the world. This picnic had been a good idea on somebody’s part.

“And then there are the antelopes. There are lots of herds out here.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen several. Deer too.”

“I understand some folks eat mountain lions, although I don’t think I’d like to try them.”

Noah shrugged. “Reckon a body does what he has to do when it comes to food. If all you had was a cougar, I expect you’d eat it.” A few years ago, Noah himself would have killed for a piece of meat. He wouldn’t have cared what animal it came from.

“I suppose.”

He saw a soft smile play at Grace’s lips and felt an unexpected compulsion to kiss her. Damn, he’d gone loony as a March hare. He looked away quickly and his gaze fastened on Maddie once more.

They didn’t talk again until Grace said, “I think this is the last of the fish. If you’ll get Maddie, I’ll serve up our lunch.”

“Sounds like a fair swap to me.” Noah sighed, heaved himself to his feet, and walked the twenty or so yards to the lake.

# # #

Lunch was delicious. Grace had noticed before that fish tasted better when freshly caught. And there was something about eating them in the open air on a beautiful, clear fall day that perked up one’s appetite too.

Company counted a lot toward the enjoyment of meals as well. She glanced at Noah Partridge from time to time and marveled that she should be taking pleasure in his company. He was such a hard, aloof man, yet from time to time his humanity showed, and he seemed almost friendly. Grace found herself wanting to tempt his sociable qualities out into the open, to pamper them so that they would surface more often and stick around longer.

Don’t be foolish, Grace Richardson. She knew good and well that people never changed in essentials. If Noah Partridge was an unfriendly, reserved individual, there was nothing she could do to draw him out.

Of course, if he had merely been damaged by circumstances, like Uncle Henry, and her friendship could help him, she’d be glad to oblige. He had given Maddie that locket, after all. He must have some finer qualities, besides being quite the handsomest man Grace had ever seen—in a hard, chiseled sort of way.

Bother. There she went again. She shook her head and wished she could get her mind to dwell on things other than Noah Partridge. Her thoughts seemed to linger over him entirely too much.

“Delicious fish, Mrs. Richardson.”

As if answering her mind’s probing, Noah’s voice penetrated her thoughts. She glanced up from her plate. “Yes, you two caught some good ones.”

He grinned. “I think it’s the cooking makes them taste so good, ma’am.”

There was no reason for her to be blushing. Grace was annoyed with herself. “Fish always tastes better fresh,” she said, snapping the words out curtly. She felt even more embarrassed when Noah’s eyebrow lifted. To cover her fuddled state, she fussed with her daughter. “Do you want another fish, Maddie?”

“No, thank you.”

It was a point of pride with Grace that Maddie was such a polite little girl. There weren’t many folks to practice on in Rio Hondo. It would have been easy for Grace to let her daughter’s manners slide, but she didn’t do it.

“If there’s enough, I’ll take another one, ma’am.”

Grace glanced up to find Noah holding out his plate as if in offering. She scooped up another fish and plopped it down. “There’s plenty. You two caught enough for an army.”

Maddie giggled. “The Union Army.”

Grace shot an uneasy look Noah’s way, and was relieved when he smiled. Good. She didn’t want Maddie’s innocent comment to stir up old memories. She could tell he hadn’t enjoyed their chat about the war earlier in the day.

“Can I have another pickle, Mommy?”

“May you have another pickle? I should say you may.” Grace speared a stalk of dilled okra out of the jar and put it on Maddie’s tin plate. Mac and Maddie both enjoyed her pickled okra. Grace preferred cucumber pickles herself. “There are dried-apple tarts for dessert.”

“Yummy!”

Noah’s deep chuckle was music to her ears. Almost as soon as they’d finished the last fish, Maddie began to rub her eyes.

“Let’s find you a shady spot, Maddie, and I’ll lay out a blanket so you can take a nap.”

The little girl didn’t object. She yawned hugely. Grace walked her behind a big boulder, helped her with her underdrawers, and let her relieve herself before she led her back to the blanket. She was intensely aware of Noah’s gaze on them both when Maddie settled down on the blanket. His dark, brooding scrutiny made her nervous, so she sat on Maddie’s blanket too, leaned back against a rock, and let Maddie rest her head on her lap.

“Sing me a song, please, Mommy.”

“All right, sweetie.”

“You can sing, too, Mr. Noah.”

Grace felt Maddie’s head turn in her lap and realized her daughter was smiling at Noah. She gave her shoulders a little shrug, trying to let him know that he didn’t have to sing if it embarrassed him to do so.

She nearly dropped her teeth when he said, “Well, I reckon I could do that, Miss Maddie.” Then he launched into a rendition of “Barbara Allen,” that took her breath away.

Merciful heavens, he had a beautiful voice. A rich, clear baritone, it would have done any choir in the world proud. He was musical through and through, Noah Partridge. It seemed a shame to Grace that he had to live in these terrible modern days, when civil war could shatter a musician’s life and soul to pieces. He should have been some aristocrat’s son during the Renaissance, when his talents could have been nurtured and allowed to bloom unhampered.

The lovely old song had always stirred tender sentiments in her breast. Today, when Noah’s deep voice caressed the words and tune, she wanted to cry. Because she didn’t fancy him knowing how moved she was, she bowed her head, stroked her daughter’s silky hair, and hoped her sunbonnet hid the tears in her eyes. His voice seemed to echo over the lake when he finished. Maddie heaved a big sigh.

“That was real pretty, Mr. Noah.”

“Thank you, Miss Maddie.”

Maddie yawned again. “You sing one now, Mommy.”

“I’m afraid my voice is nowhere near as good as Mr. Partridge’s, Maddie, but I’ll try.”

Because she didn’t want to spoil the mood Noah’s sad love song had created, Grace chose to sing “Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair,” only she changed Jeanie to Maddie. By the time she’d sung the second verse, Maddie was sound asleep. She finished all the verses she could remember anyway, because she was uneasy about what to say to Noah without the safety net of Maddie’s scrutiny to fall back on.

There were only so many verses to the song, though, and they didn’t last forever. When she’d sung the last note, she looked up to find Noah watching her. His eyes were half-closed, and he had a crooked smile on his face. He looked handsome and awfully appealing, in his lean, hard-edged way. She wished she hadn’t noticed.

After several moments of quiet, he said softly, “You have a very pretty voice, Mrs. Richardson.”

“Thank you.” She laughed nervously. “I used to sing in the church choir back in Chicago. I’ve, ah, seldom heard a man sing so beautifully, Mr. Partridge. Did your father teach you to sing too?”

She and Frank had met at church when they were children; Grace had considered it an auspicious beginning. Frank’s reedy tenor voice had been nowhere near as beautiful as Noah Partridge’s baritone, but Frank had been a fine man. A wonderful man.

Noah’s smile broadened fractionally. “No, ma’am. My father was the church’s choir director, but my mother was really the singer in the family. She sang to us kids all the time when we were little.”

A topic! Grace grabbed it with both hands. “You have siblings?”

“Had. Yeah. A sister and a brother. She died of typhoid when she was seventeen. My brother died in the war.”

“How tragic for you and your family.”

“It was, yes.”

He glanced away, and Grace saw his lips tighten. Drat it, wasn’t there anything on the face of the earth she could talk about that wouldn’t remind him of some awful incident in his past? Church sounded neutral. She’d try church. She hoped to heaven he wasn’t a Catholic or she’d be at sea.

“Did, er, you sing in church with your father’s choir?” Why did she feel so nervous all of a sudden? They’d been chatting together all day long. There was no reason for her to have developed a case of the jitters now.

“Yes, ma’am. Before I became the organist, I sang in the choir. Shoot, I must’ve started when I still sang soprano.” He laughed softly.

She decided she might as well ask. “What church did your family attend, Mr. Partridge? We were Presbyterians. My family, that is.” Good grief, what was the matter with her?

He nodded. “We went to the Presbyterian Church too.”

Common ground! Grace could hardly believe it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of how to expand on Presbyterianism without sounding like a priggish proselytizer. Music. She’d go back to music; music was good. “I think it’s wonderful that your family gave you such a fine legacy of music, Mr. Partridge.” Considering what had happened to that legacy, Grace wondered if her comment had been less than tactful. Drat! “I mean, if the war hadn’t ruined everything.” Oh, dear. There she went again. Conversing with Noah Partridge was certainly a ticklish business.

He looked away and his smile faded. “Yeah.”

She licked her lips, jumpy as one of the frog’s legs she hated to cook. “It’s a shame there aren’t more families out here yet. You might be able to set up a music business again if there were.”

“I don’t expect I’ll do that again, ma’am.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

“That’s too bad.”

“You think so?” He smiled again, only this time his smile seemed hard, ironic, and it made Grace’s heart hurt.

“Yes, I do think so. I think it was awful of your fellow citizens to burn your family’s business, Mr. Partridge. After enduring the horrors of battle, at least you should have been able to expect peace when the war was over.”

He didn’t speak for a minute. “Actually, I didn’t see too many battle horrors, ma’am.”

Her hand stilled on Maddie’s head, and she stared at him, surprised. “You didn’t?” Why was he in such terrible shape, then? She’d assumed he’d been in the thick of the fighting; had been wounded, perhaps. “Oh.”

“No. I was shot and captured during my second fight, in ‘61, and sent off to prison camp.”

Shot and captured? Prison camp? Good heavens, from what Grace had read, some of the prison camps were even worse than the battlefields. No wonder he looked as if he’d been half-starved and hadn’t recovered yet. “My goodness. I’m sorry, Mr. Partridge. Which prison camp were you held in?” Should she have asked that? Well, it was too late now.

Again, he was silent for several seconds. Grace wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

Then he turned again, looked her in the eye, and said distinctly, “I spent the first two years in Virginia. The last year was at Andersonville.”

Andersonville? Grace’s mouth dropped open. She whispered, “Andersonville!” endowing the word with every ounce of the revulsion it deserved. “My God.”

She’d read an account of what they’d found at Andersonville after the war ended. Horrors heaped on horrors. Acres of graves. Pits, really, into which bodies had been dumped, unnamed. No one knew who’d died there, whose bodies remained there, whose families would never know where their loved ones lay buried. They only knew there had been hundreds of men who hadn’t made it out alive. Starvation, illness, cold, heat. Perhaps her sister Eleanor’s husband’s bones were there. They’d never know, unless Miss Clara Barton’s humanitarian organization had better luck in the future than they’d had so far.

She’d cried through the entire article about the vile place, but she’d made herself finish it, sensing that it was somehow her duty. This was what her fellow countrymen had done to each other, and she needed to know, to understand, how they could have done it.

It hadn’t helped. She didn’t understand to this day. In fact, she suspected that if she’d read that account a thousand times and a dozen more like it, she still wouldn’t understand. Perhaps she was a better person because her mind couldn’t comprehend how people could perpetrate such grotesque, regrettable things upon one another; she didn’t know, although she doubted it.

All she knew for sure is that she no longer wondered that Noah Partridge was such a strange, unhappy man.

She had to swallow before she could get her voice to work. “And you say you were wounded when they took you there?”

He nodded.

“How—how awful.”

“It was pretty bad.”

“Did, um, they tend to your wound?”

There went that caustic smile again. “Sort of.”

Sort of. What did that mean? She couldn’t make herself ask.

He chuffed out a short breath and gave her a half-answer to her unasked question. “It healed eventually.”

Well, she was glad of that. She swallowed. He absently rubbed his thigh as though he were remembering. A leg wound. It must have been a leg wound. “How, um, how long were you in prison?”

“A little over three years The last year was the worst.”

A little over three years? Good grief! Small wonder he looked like an ambulatory skeleton. “I’m, ah, surprised you survived for so long.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I was kind of surprised myself.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I had to bury a lot of men who didn’t, and I wasn’t in very good shape when they took me out.”

“I can imagine.”

He was leaning back on an elbow, his posture relaxed, casual. His eyes belied his pose. They were as bleak as winter, and they frightened Grace. He might have realized it, because he shifted his gaze to the lake as if seeking answers there. Grace suspected there were no answers, anywhere.

“I was in the hospital for eight months afterwards, in Washington. I couldn’t walk—too weak from starvation and malaria. There was no food at all towards the end. We ate acorns, peanuts, slop, anything we could find. There weren’t even any rats left alive there by that time. We were better than cats at getting rid of vermin.”

She shuddered and didn’t trust herself to speak.

“It was—pretty bad.”

She had to wipe tears from her cheeks and cursed herself for her wretched emotions. What a weakling she was. This poor man had lived it, and she couldn’t even bear to hear about it. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Partridge.”

“Thanks.”

She sensed he meant it, although she knew her being sorry was pitifully inadequate compensation for what he’d endured.

Maddie made a little mew in her sleep and turned over, rolling from Grace’s lap. She was sorry to lose the security of her daughter’s weight, but decided her time could better be used in cleaning up the dishes and repacking their picnic trappings. With a sigh, she rose to her feet.

“Let me help you, Mrs. Richardson.”

Noah got up too. It was the first time Grace noticed he favored his left leg the slightest bit. All at once the idiocy of men infuriated her. She turned on him abruptly and could tell she’d startled him.

“You know, Mr. Partridge, if Frank and I had ever had a son, I think I’d leave the country before I’d let him fight in a war. Wars are stupid. They’re uncivilized. They’re horrid! They don’t solve anything, and only make people hate each other.”

Tears had built in her eyes again, and she dashed them away, embarrassed. But what she’d said was the truth, and she wouldn’t retract it. His grin caught her off guard.

“Don’t reckon I’d try to stop you, ma’am. Not today, I wouldn’t. When I was a young buck and my mama told me pretty much the same thing, I had arguments enough.”

She blinked at him, trying to hold back her tears. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. Grace read bitter irony in his expression. She got the feeling he was mocking the boy he’d once been. All at once she thought she understood what his motivation might have been. “You were idealistic, weren’t you, Mr. Partridge? You really believed that fighting for the Union’s cause would bring about changes for the better in the world, didn’t you?”

He picked up and stacked the three tin dishes they’d used for their lunch. “Yeah, reckon I had my head stuffed all full of chivalrous nonsense back then. I was a damned fool.” Glancing up, he murmured, “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to swear.”

Grace tossed off his apology. She didn’t blame him for swearing. Feeling indignant and furious on behalf of all the young men—she didn’t consider them young fools—who’d fought and died—and worse—in the conflict that had torn the country apart, she stooped and gathered the fish pan and spatula. She wished she could conk the leaders of this country over their heads with the cast-iron skillet. Maybe it would knock some sense into them.

“It’s not your fault you believed what people told you, Mr. Partridge. If I were a man, I’d probably have done the same thing. They make you believe you’re fighting for a good cause, don’t they? They pretend your life matters to them.” She wanted to shriek her rage to the skies, for whatever good that would do.

“I expect so, ma’am.”

“But they don’t really care about anything but their own pocketbooks, do they?”

He shrugged. “I’m not qualified to answer that one, I’m afraid.”

She sniffed angrily. “If women had the running of things, you wouldn’t see any more wars, I’ll warrant. Women aren’t so eager to send their men off to die.” Her mood was black. She wanted to punish someone for Noah Partridge’s sake, and for the sake of all the women who’d lost fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers in the wars of men.

He chuckled, and she didn’t appreciate it. “Maybe you’re right, ma’am.”

“Yet men won’t give women the vote. I wonder if it’s because the old fogies who run the country are afraid that if they did, the young men might live long enough to take their places. I guess war eliminates a lot of the competition.”

Grace couldn’t recall ever before saying anything so clearly hateful, and the words embarrassed her once they were out in the open. She glanced at Noah, wondering if she’d shocked him. He merely smiled, his face looking much softer than it usually did. She got the feeling he might actually agree with her.

Frank and she had never talked about serious issues. They hadn’t needed to, really, because they were so attuned to each other. In a way, she appreciated this opportunity to stretch her reasoning; to flex her mental muscles.

At least Mr. Partridge didn’t laugh at her. Every time she’d mentioned anything the least outré to Frank, he’d chuckled and told her ladies didn’t need to worry their heads about those things. She’d never resented his saying so, and she’d never have dreamed of arguing with him. Right now, though, she wondered if Frank might have been wrong. Women had every bit as much business thinking as men did. More, if men’s thoughts led them to war, she decided defiantly.

She didn’t like to think of Frank as being anything but the most perfect man in the world, so she didn’t linger over her doubts. Rather, she got her scrub brush and a bar of lye soap out of her pack and walked to the edge of the lake. Noah walked with her. There she knelt and began scrubbing the utensils, using the heavy-bristled brush on them then way she’d like to use it on a couple of politicians. She’d like to scrape their precious skin raw for a while and see how they liked it!

Noah rinsed and wiped, as quietly as he did everything. Today, now, his silence didn’t seem sullen to her, but merely natural. After enduring what he’d endured, what was there to say? Grace expected she’d be silent too. Idle chatter must seem ridiculous after Andersonville.

When she was through, she stood, stretched out her back, and smiled at him. “Thank you. That didn’t take long at all with both of us doing it.”

“Yes’m. My mama used to make my brother and me wash dishes at home. Said there was no such things as men’s work and women’s work, but only work that needed doing.”

She laughed. “Your mother sounds like a woman after my own heart, Mr. Partridge.”

“Yes’m. I think the two of you would have liked each other.”

Grace looked up into his eyes, and seemed to get caught there for a moment. He was such an intense man. Frank hadn’t been nearly as intense as Noah Partridge. Frank had been rather happy-go-lucky, actually. He hadn’t been hard and lean and ragged like this. On edge, as if he might break apart any second.

Noah Partridge frightened her. He made her nervous. She felt funny inside, as if she’d stood up too fast and her head was swimming. His powerful gaze made her remember how it had felt to have Frank’s arms around her. She’d felt treasured, protected, loved. Mr. Partridge’s gaze made her long to feel those things again.

Good heavens, what was the matter with her? With an effort, Grace broke eye contact and turned away. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms where gooseflesh had sprung up. She felt foolish.

“I won’t hurt you, ma’am.”

Noah’s soft assurance startled her. She whirled around. A response danced on her tongue. She wanted to tell him that she hadn’t thought he’d hurt her, but the declaration died before she could speak it because she got trapped by his eyes again. His intense, brooding, beautiful green eyes.

As if of its own accord, her hand reached out to him. He caught it in his and drew her to him.

When he kissed her, Grace felt as if a firecracker had been shot off in her veins.