The Bridal Swap by Karen Kirst Page B

dreams. Not Francesca’s. And that bothered him. Was he really that shallow? Or worse, had he mistaken admiration and affection for love? The romance with Francesca had happened so fast—that initial meeting at the Meades’ and then picnics beside the river, strolls through the park, shopping excursions. Three whirlwind weeks of shucking his work in order to spend time with her.
    He’d been in awe of her classic beauty, her coy playfulness and breezy confidence. Francesca was fun. That last night before she left for New York, he’d blurted out a proposal. She’d laughed outright. Then, realizing he was serious, she’d smiled in that carefree way of hers and said sure, she’d be happy to.
    His heart ached from the loss of her. Or was it the loss of his dream?
    Unsettled, he concentrated on measuring out the chair legs for the walnut dining set he was making for Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun. After that he had a pie safe to build for their daughter, who was getting married next month and setting up her own house. He had six more pieces on order. It was enough work to keep him busy from dawn until dusk. And he had furniture yet to build to showcase in his shop once he bought it.
    Bent over his worktable, he’d barely acknowledged the quiet knock before the door scraped open and in stepped the object of his turmoil. Kate. The smell of fried chicken reached him before she did.
    Laying aside the cloth tape measure, Josh grabbed a towel and wiped the sawdust from his hands.
    As she approached, her wide-eyed gaze surveyed the workshop with interest. She stopped a footstep away, the plate of food held out as an offering. Her eyes brimming with questions connected with his. Her finely etched brows arched up.
    “I take it you’re the local craftsman?”
    Feeling exposed, he jerked his head. “Did Ma send you out here?” Careful to avoid touching her, he accepted the plate and utensils. “She knows I’ll eat when I have time.”
    He ground his teeth in irritation. This wasn’t the first time he’d skipped supper. His family understood his heavy workload and knew he’d be in to eat as soon as he could. So he was suspicious now. Was his ma trying to push them together?
    He hoped not. He was still wrestling with Francesca’s decision. And he was smart enough to know not to fall for her little sister.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” She folded her hands at her waist and waited for his explanation.
    Focusing on the meal, he tried not to notice how beautiful she looked in the yellow light of the oil lamps. She was dressed casually in a filmy green blouse that matched her eyes and a simple, unembellished black skirt. Her brown hair, caught up in a French twist, gleamed like the rich walnut wood he often worked with.
    Swallowing, he said offhandedly, “I didn’t see the need. You’re a visitor here, Kate. You’ll take your photographs and go back to New York. What does it matter what I do?”
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stiffen. “You’re right, of course. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
    Josh winced at the hurt in her voice.
    “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she exhaled. “Good night.”
    Her whole body rigid, she swept toward the door. He willed himself to be silent. Only when it closed behind her did he let out a ragged breath.
    His appetite gone, he pushed the plate aside and went back to measuring. Only, he couldn’t concentrate. He kept picturing the wounded look about her eyes. He’d hurt her feelings, and that made him feel like an insensitive boor.
    Kate didn’t deserve his harsh attitude. She couldn’t know that whenever she was near, a warning hammered in his skull. If he wasn’t careful, she would be his undoing.
    One agonizing hour later, he gave up. It was no use. No matter what the reasons, he couldn’t excuse his churlish behavior.
    Tossing aside the tape, he untied his apron and hung it on the nail. He washed his hands in the basin and extinguished all the lamps but one, which he