Her Montana Man by Cheryl St.john

head.
    The red-haired housekeeper was welcome to walk into his bedroom while he was buck naked?
    “Not like that!” he added. “I mean I thought you’d stop out there!”
    “You said come in!” she repeated.
    They’d been shouting at each other since she’d spotted him and he’d recognized her.
    “She’s bringing coffee,” he explained.
    Eliza turned on her heel and shot into the sitting room, the image of his sleekly muscled body foremost in
    her mind. The picture would be lodged there for the rest of her life.
    “Eliza Jane?” he called.
    “I’m going down to the office.”
    “I’ll be there shortly.”
    “Take your time.” She fled into the hall and leaned against the wall, her hand pressed to her breast, her
    face hot.
    Francine approached carrying a tray holding a cup of coffee and a covered plate. They looked at each
    other. Did Jonas have something going on with this young woman?
    “Did you just walk in there?” Francine asked with wide-eyed concern.
    Eliza’s head felt light. She nodded.
    “Was Mr. Black out of bed?”
    Mr. Black?
    “He certainly was.”
    “Is he mad?”
    “I think so.”
    Francine nodded. “Want to take this tray in?”
    Eliza shook her head.
    “Will you stand right there while I do?”
    “Okay.”
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    Francine balanced the tray and knocked. She opened the door and called in, “I’ve got your tray, Mr.
    Black! I’m bringing it in now.”
    The wariness in her voice amused Eliza, and the humor in the situation struck her. “Did you walk in there
    earlier?”
    Francine looked back. “I thought he was gone and I went to make his bed. He was still lyin’in it.” She
    called into the room, “I’m setting your tray on the table out here. Your coffee’s nice and hot.”
    “Thanks,” he returned. “Let’s forget this mornin’, can we?”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Black. Done forgot it already.”
    She hurried back to the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. She looked at Eliza, and Eliza saw the
    worry drain from her face. Francine pursed her lips as though holding back a smile.
    Laughter welled up in Eliza at the same time. They both turned and ran for the stairway before humor got
    the best of them. They held it in all the way down the stairs, round the bend in the landing, but their
    laughter burst out by the time they reached the kitchen.
    Eliza laughed until tears ran down her cheeks, and she held her aching side. The release felt wonderful.
    She hadn’t laughed so hard in a good many years, and felt a trifle guilty that it was at Jonas’s expense
    that she did so now.
    “What’s so all-fired hilarious?” Lilibelle asked from where she stood, stirring something in a kettle on the
    stove. “I could use a little humor.”
    Francine straightened, wiped her eyes on her apron and composed herself, but a grin remained on her
    face as she cleaned up the table where she’d apparently made Jonas’s breakfast.
    Eliza didn’t answer Lilibelle, either, instead taking a deep breath. With a new spring in her step, she
    headed for the foyer and the clean office where her paperwork waited.

Chapter Eight
J
    onas showed up half an hour later, freshly shaven, red nicks dotting his jaw. She’d been waiting for him
    with her stomach aquiver. How could she look him in the eye and not die of mortification? How would
    she ever look at him and not imagine him just the way she’d seen him? How would she ever stop thinking
    about Jonas wearing nothing but shaving lather?
    “You cut yourself,” were the first words out of her mouth.
    “I shaved left-handed.”
    “I could have…” She started to say helped you, but then realized the folly of that thought on top of the
    embarrassing incident.
    “What do you say we discuss the mornin’ and then put it behind us, so that every time we look at each
    other, you don’t blush and look away?”
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