him, and he swore he could see her spine stiffening. There went his advantage. He stifled a sigh and leaned on the handle of his pitchfork.
“I came to return your tools.” She raised her arm, lifting a basket that he supposed contained the level and screwdriver he’d dropped off at her shop yesterday afternoon.
He nodded toward the small door off to his right. “Just put them on the desk in my office.”
J.T. tried to dismiss her by turning his back and shoving the fork into the hay, but she didn’t take the hint.
“I have something else for you, too, Mr. Tucker. A peace offering.”
Of all the harebrained female ideas. The last thing he needed was peace between them. If she started being nice to him . . . well, it would be that much harder to fight his growing attraction.
“I owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you yesterday.” Her soft voice sounded much closer. He speared the pitchfork into the dwindling pile of hay and spun around to find her less than a foot away from the wagon.
Her brows arched at his abrupt movement, and he scowled. Why did her eyes have to shine up at him like deep reflections of the mill pond on a spring evening?
“You don’t owe me anything, Miss Richards. We both spoke out of turn. Now move along and let me get back to work.”
She stiffened and set her jaw. He couldn’t help but wonder how hard she was biting her tongue to keep from lambasting him.
“By all means, continue your work, Mr. Tucker. Don’t let my olive branch stop you.”
J.T. took her advice and grabbed his pitchfork again, half expecting her to find a real branch and start thrashing him with it.
“I came here to apologize, and I aim to do just that. Whether or not you listen is up to you.”
Her apology sounded more like a scolding, but he had to respect her for not letting him deter her.
“I had no right to lecture you on being neighborly. You have shown me much kindness since I arrived. Except, of course, for the arrogant, ill-tempered manner with which you seem determined to goad me, for reasons only the Lord above could possibly comprehend.” She mumbled that last part, but not so quietly that he couldn’t make out the words. “At any rate, I should not have imposed on that kindness, and I am sorry.”
He grunted as he pitched a load, cuing her to leave. She took the hint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her moving toward his office.
“I brought you some biscuits and jam,” she called out to him. “Feel free to give them to Tom or feed them to your horses if you don’t want to sully your hands with something I’ve touched. With as much as you dislike me, they’d probably give you indigestion anyhow.”
Were those tears he heard beneath her anger? His conscience roared at him. Keeping distance between them was one thing, but actually hurting her was inexcusable.
He peered through the office window. She emptied her basket, leaving not only his tools, but a generous-sized mound of biscuits wrapped in a bread cloth. Then she swiped a finger under her eye. Twice.
Blast. I did hurt her.
A verse ran through his head, unsummoned: “. . . neither cast ye your pearls before swine.” Miss Richards had the pearls, and he was definitely the swine. Not a flattering comparison. He stretched his neck, cracking the first few vertebrae.
All right, Lord. I get the message. I crossed the line and need to put things right.
J.T. dropped the pitchfork. He braced his hand against the side of the wagon and leapt over it to the ground. Miss Richards hadn’t emerged from his office yet. She was probably trying to compose herself. A woman as strong-spirited as she wouldn’t want to show weakness in front of the enemy. J.T. pounded his leg with his fist as he covered the distance to the open door. He might not want to strike up an intimate friendship with the seamstress, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to consider him an enemy.
He burst into the office just as she tried to exit. A tiny gasp
“I came to return your tools.” She raised her arm, lifting a basket that he supposed contained the level and screwdriver he’d dropped off at her shop yesterday afternoon.
He nodded toward the small door off to his right. “Just put them on the desk in my office.”
J.T. tried to dismiss her by turning his back and shoving the fork into the hay, but she didn’t take the hint.
“I have something else for you, too, Mr. Tucker. A peace offering.”
Of all the harebrained female ideas. The last thing he needed was peace between them. If she started being nice to him . . . well, it would be that much harder to fight his growing attraction.
“I owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you yesterday.” Her soft voice sounded much closer. He speared the pitchfork into the dwindling pile of hay and spun around to find her less than a foot away from the wagon.
Her brows arched at his abrupt movement, and he scowled. Why did her eyes have to shine up at him like deep reflections of the mill pond on a spring evening?
“You don’t owe me anything, Miss Richards. We both spoke out of turn. Now move along and let me get back to work.”
She stiffened and set her jaw. He couldn’t help but wonder how hard she was biting her tongue to keep from lambasting him.
“By all means, continue your work, Mr. Tucker. Don’t let my olive branch stop you.”
J.T. took her advice and grabbed his pitchfork again, half expecting her to find a real branch and start thrashing him with it.
“I came here to apologize, and I aim to do just that. Whether or not you listen is up to you.”
Her apology sounded more like a scolding, but he had to respect her for not letting him deter her.
“I had no right to lecture you on being neighborly. You have shown me much kindness since I arrived. Except, of course, for the arrogant, ill-tempered manner with which you seem determined to goad me, for reasons only the Lord above could possibly comprehend.” She mumbled that last part, but not so quietly that he couldn’t make out the words. “At any rate, I should not have imposed on that kindness, and I am sorry.”
He grunted as he pitched a load, cuing her to leave. She took the hint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her moving toward his office.
“I brought you some biscuits and jam,” she called out to him. “Feel free to give them to Tom or feed them to your horses if you don’t want to sully your hands with something I’ve touched. With as much as you dislike me, they’d probably give you indigestion anyhow.”
Were those tears he heard beneath her anger? His conscience roared at him. Keeping distance between them was one thing, but actually hurting her was inexcusable.
He peered through the office window. She emptied her basket, leaving not only his tools, but a generous-sized mound of biscuits wrapped in a bread cloth. Then she swiped a finger under her eye. Twice.
Blast. I did hurt her.
A verse ran through his head, unsummoned: “. . . neither cast ye your pearls before swine.” Miss Richards had the pearls, and he was definitely the swine. Not a flattering comparison. He stretched his neck, cracking the first few vertebrae.
All right, Lord. I get the message. I crossed the line and need to put things right.
J.T. dropped the pitchfork. He braced his hand against the side of the wagon and leapt over it to the ground. Miss Richards hadn’t emerged from his office yet. She was probably trying to compose herself. A woman as strong-spirited as she wouldn’t want to show weakness in front of the enemy. J.T. pounded his leg with his fist as he covered the distance to the open door. He might not want to strike up an intimate friendship with the seamstress, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to consider him an enemy.
He burst into the office just as she tried to exit. A tiny gasp
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