The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley

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      “I’ll wear what I like,” he assured her.

      His tone, deep and sure, somehow signified that something greater than mere wardrobe was at stake. Alerted by that tone, Molly felt her usual backbone return.

      Time to be brave. Businesslike. Unimpeachably proper.

      “Perhaps a hat, then?” she ventured.

      He laughed out loud, stepping back a pace. Something akin to respect glimmered in his eyes. “You don’t give in, I’ll credit you that.”

      “I do not,” Molly agreed. “Is that a yes?”

      “To the question of a hat? No.”

      Disappointed, Molly frowned. But she had made progress, she was sure. It was almost as though by standing up to Marcus, she’d passed a test of some sort. Things between them had shifted subtly.

      They shifted again when Marcus next looked at her. Speculation enlivened his expression. “All this talk of suits has me thinking of work. But I’m not expected at the mill until noon, and until then the place is in capable hands with my foreman Smith. Why don’t we use this time to take a walk together instead? These things can wait.”

      The sweep of his hand indicated the baking supplies Molly had prepared. Dumbly she stared at them, then at Marcus’s broad palm. His hands looked capable, she thought inanely. Masculine. Unreasonably enthralling. She wondered how one of them would feel clasping one of hers.

      “You don’t really want to think about a boring business venture like ours, do you?” he went on, his tone persuasive. “Not when the sun is shining and there is leisure to be had.”

      His smile coaxed her to agree. Lulled by it, Molly almost nodded. It would be nice to take a stroll, to enjoy the changing colors of the oak leaves outside. Especially with someone whose company she enjoyed by her side.

      At times, she did grow lonely in Morrow Creek, where the townsfolk only thought of her as flighty Molly Crabtree, liable to embark on a silly quest at any moment. They didn’t understand that she’d only been searching for something all this time…something that would make her feel whole.

      “Your expression says you agree,” Marcus said, breaking into her thoughts. “Excellent.”

      He grasped her hand. His fingers, strong and slightly callused, entwined with hers as he tugged her away from the kitchen. The sensation was every bit as enthralling as she’d imagined. Surprised, Molly let herself be led for a moment, her only protest a backward glance at the flour, sugar and milk assembled in a tidy row.

      The supplies seemed to offer a silent rebuke. Are you here for a pleasurable stroll? they asked. Or a businesslike arrangement?

      She couldn’t very well expect Marcus to help with her dreaded bookkeeping, she realized abruptly, if she didn’t hold up her end of their bargain.

      “Wait! You haven’t eaten yet,” Molly said. “I’d planned biscuits with honey for breakfast. The fire is stoked and the oven should be ready soon. Aren’t you hungry?”

      “Hungry?” Marcus repeated. As though taken aback by the question, he examined her.

      In the process, his regard changed. At first rather hurried, it mellowed into a leisurely perusal that caught Molly by surprise. He did look hungry, she thought—and with a multitude of appetites. Not all of them, Molly expected, could be satisfied with her baked goods. Again she remembered her sisters’ cautioning words.

      She may have been a bit…reckless in thinking she could deal successfully with a man like Marcus. Particularly given her unexpected, untoward interest in him.

      “Let me worry about that,” he finally said, freeing her from his heated gaze. “Get your hat.”

      “No.”

      He looked perplexed. On him, the expression seemed a poor fit. Perhaps it didn’t get used often.

      “What?” he asked.

      “No,” she repeated, pulling her hand from his. She straightened her spine. “I’ll not get my hat.”

      He frowned, obviously displeased at her refusal. But why? Surely a walk wasn’t so urgent as all that. Yet Marcus seemed quite put out that she…no. There was something else afoot here. Suddenly Molly was sure of it.

      “But the outdoors awaits,” Marcus urged again.

      Beyond the glass-paned window he gestured toward, ponderosa pines crowded the small house’s yard. Mixed between them, the slender-trunked oak trees common to the northern parts of the territory brandished multiple-colored leaves. Molly could almost smell the fresh scents she knew the trees carried.

      Marcus didn’t glance longingly at the landscape at all, she noticed. It was then that she realized the truth.

      “You’re afraid!” She turned in wonderment to face him. She crossed her arms with the conviction of her revelation. “You’re trying to divert me from our tasks because you’re afraid. I can’t believe it!”

      “I’m not afraid of anything.”

      “You’re afraid of baking.”

      “Ha! Ridiculous.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You women and your outlandish ideas.”

      “Identify the flour,” Molly challenged, sweeping her arm toward the supplies at the other end of the room. “I dare you.”

      “Don’t be childish.”

      “He said, glowering,” she teased.

      “This is a very unbecoming side of you. Do you think I’m so helpless I can’t pinpoint something so basic as flour?”

      Silently she waited. The flour, salt and baking powder were in identical canvas sacks, perhaps eleven inches high and eight inches wide. Molly had sewn them herself, specifically for transporting baking provisions today.

      “I think you’re afraid to try,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everyone is uncertain at the beginning.”

      “I am never uncertain.”

      “That’s something we have in common, then.”

      Her pronouncement seemed to goad him into action. With one final, exasperated look, Marcus went to the worktable. He jabbed his finger toward one of the sacks. “This is the flour.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Of course.”

      “Then we’ll begin the biscuits with two cups of that.” Molly joined him at the opposite side of the worktable and pointed to the teacup she’d found for measuring. “Go ahead and measure some out, then pour it into that bowl I prepared.”

      Marcus blanched.

      “Afraid you’ve guessed wrong?”

      He scoffed and grasped the teacup. It looked ridiculously fragile СКАЧАТЬ