The Other Side Of Paradise. Laurie Paige

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      “Hello,” she said, giving out the word cautiously, as if she didn’t trust him with more from her.

      “These muffins are great,” he said. “You must have been up at first light.”

      She shrugged, checked that her boots were clean and came up the steps to the porch. “I was awake.”

      He wondered if she’d slept. Not that it was any of his business. “By the way, the mules like to bunk together, so you can put your stallion in the stable.”

      Pausing on the top step, she considered the words as if for a hidden mine, then nodded. “Thanks.” She went inside.

      In the kitchen, he finished off the second muffin, then observed while she poured milk and a mug of coffee before turning to him. “Okay if I have eggs for breakfast?”

      “Help yourself.”

      She removed two eggs, then glanced his way. “You want half an omelet?”

      “Sounds good.”

      Looking as serious as a surgeon, she retrieved two more eggs along with butter and cheese. Spotting the leftover ham he’d been using for sandwiches, she cut some of that and soon had the omelet in the skillet.

      “You’re efficient in the kitchen,” he commented, refilling his coffee mug.

      Her hesitation was long enough to be noticed. “I went through a work-study program my last year of school and was trained as a short-order cook.”

      “The orphanage made sure you had a skill before you were sent out on your own, huh?”

      She visibly started. “How did you—” She stopped abruptly.

      “I recognized the name of the town on the form,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “The church sent me a couple of brochures about the work at the children’s ranch. I have no idea how they got my name.”

      “They buy lists,” she said curtly. “Names and addresses. The students type them into a computer file for mailings.”

      She frowned as if chagrined that she’d disclosed this much, then cut the omelet into two parts and gave him the largest piece along with two slices of buttered toast. When she set her plate at the end of the counter, it was clear she intended to eat standing up.

      “Let’s go into the dining room while we have it to ourselves,” he suggested. “Our guests won’t get up for a couple of hours.”

      He led the way across the hall and took a seat by the window. She put her plate down and returned to the kitchen for her milk and coffee. Jonah removed a fork from a container such as those used for straws at soda fountains.

      “That’s a good idea,” she said, coming back to the table. She selected a fork for herself.

      “I thought it was more convenient to have the utensils, on the tables along with salt and pepper shakers, napkins and sugar bowls. People can serve themselves.” He took a bite of the omelet. “Mmm, this is good.”

      “Thanks.”

      They ate in silence. The former housekeeper and cook, a middle-aged widow, had talked way too much. This woman spoke very little. That fact intrigued him.

      “You don’t talk much,” he said.

      “I don’t have much to say.”

      Her smile held the right amount of casual humor to appear friendly, but it was deceiving, he decided. Nothing about her invited a deeper relationship to develop.

      The sun came up over the ridge that shaded the lodge long after the sky had brightened to blue. It fell across the table with sudden warmth and illuminated her face.

      Before the glasses could darken completely, he stared into her startled gaze. His breath caught in his throat. She had the bluest eyes with the longest, blackest eyelashes he’d ever seen.

      The blue irises turned the grayish hue of wood smoke as the light-sensitive lens darkened. She pushed the frame firmly against her nose as if to make sure her eyes were hidden.

      “You have lovely eyes,” he said. He couldn’t look away.

      Her mouth tightened, but she merely shrugged as if she couldn’t care less.

      He hesitated, knowing she didn’t like questions, but his curiosity was piqued. “Why the shades? They don’t appear to be prescription. Why do you wear them?”

      “They keep the glare out of my eyes.”

      The answer was too quick, too practiced not to have been used before. “Uh-huh,” he said. “And hide your thoughts?”

      A true smile played around her mouth, fascinating him with the delicate line of her lips. He couldn’t decide if their color was natural or not.

      “I have no thoughts,” she declared.

      Not any that she cared to share, he deduced. He returned the slight smile and polished off the last bites of his breakfast.

      She said nothing more as she finished her own meal. After taking her dishes to the kitchen and putting them in the dishwasher, she filled her mug with coffee and, to his surprise, returned to the table.

      At least she didn’t make a show of waiting on him and trying to please him as the boy-crazy college student employed earlier in the summer had done. She’d brought him no end of annoyance as he employed one evasive tactic after another until her finally let her go.

      He didn’t think he would have that problem with Mary. She bristled with invisible No Trespassing signs. A hum in his veins indicated he was maybe a tad disappointed at this assessment of the newly hired help, but he knew where the boundaries between boss and wrangler were drawn.

      Rising, he bussed his place and refreshed his coffee, then resumed his seat. “There’s a family near here,” he said thoughtfully. “The next ranch over, in fact. Blue eyes and black hair run in their clan.”

      Through the dark lenses, he could see her gaze fasten on his face, but not a whit of emotion came through.

      She blew across the hot coffee, then took a sip. Setting the mug on the table, she gave him a wary glance, then looked past him to the outside. “It’s a combination common to northern Italy. Also to some Irish, I think.”

      “Are you Irish?”

      Her mouth tightened slightly, then relaxed. “I don’t know anything about my ancestry.”

      “Your name sounds Irish.”

      “It was given to me.” She shrugged. “They were at the M’s in the alphabet.”

      “The orphanage,” he murmured in understanding. “How old were you when you went there?”

      “Around five, they decided.”

      He noted her choice of words. “Were your parents killed in an auto wreck or something?”

      She СКАЧАТЬ