Courtship of the Recluse

"I'm not from around here. I grew up thirty miles to the north." She paused and her voice took on a sardonic tone. "Where Cade wasn't a household word," she concluded.

He glanced up sharply, his gaze searching her face.

She stood, picking up a plate. "I apologize for badgering you about your mother. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about it."

"I'm not sensitive." The words were curt.

In spite of her irritation, she couldn't help smiling. Actually there was nothing sensitive about Russell Cade. He was merely a private person - private and unsociable. She knew that when she accepted the job so any complaint at this point would be out of line.

She shrugged. "No, I suppose not."

He watched her intently for a few moments longer and then turned his attention to his food. How he did it, she couldn't say, but when he finished his meal, not even a crumb was left on the plate.

He strode to the door, clamped on his hat, shrugged into his coat and left the house without so much as a good-bye. She watched him head for the barn and wondered how he could stand being out in the cold all day. He was probably used to it. The snow was coming down in big heavy flakes now. She rubbed her arms again. Why didn't he do something about this cold house? But he had warned her about the cold - warned her about the snow. Would they be snowed in for a week now? No point mulling over a decision she had already made. The best way to beat the cold was to work up some heat. The first thing she needed to do was the dishes. Then make that list.

An hour later she found herself staring vacantly into the fire again. She shook her head free of pointless thoughts and began dusting. There was enough to do around here and she intended to earn her pay - without supervision. First she dusted the dining room and polished the silverware. Then she began cleaning the family room. Carrying a chair from the kitchen, she stretched to dust the top shelf of one of the bookcases beside the fireplace. A large green book caught her attention. The Lonely Hills, by Elizabeth Cade. She removed the book from the shelf and opened it to the dedication page. "To my only friend, Russell Cade." His mother or his wife? She leafed through the book, looking for a clue.

The screen door squeaked and the kitchen floor complained as someone crossed it. Cade? She stared at the kitchen doorway, waiting breathlessly for the person to appear. When Cade finally stepped through the doorway holding a cup of coffee, her breath escaped in a long sigh.