letter tomorrow announcing she planned to stay in Colorado permanently.
Suddenly Georgiana was shocked at her own admission. She cared for Dawson more than that . . . didn’t she? Of course she did. He was everything she could want in a man and in a husband. She would be foolish not to recognize her good fortune. Yet . . . she was painfully too conscious of the knowledge that when he’d held her hand, she didn’t feel any special impulse or awareness other than complacency. Additionally, when he had put his arms around her and pulled her close at their parting . . . her heart had not sped up with frenzied and delightful titillations. Finally, when she had allowed him to kiss her, an allowance she did not consider trivial, his lips had not awakened any fervent or burning desires.
Still, the kiss had been nice, hadn’t it? Even though she had not returned it? True, there had been no fireworks, no heated passion—but so what? What was wrong with being comfortable and content with a man? Not all lovers shared rapturous kisses and spellbound moments of euphoria. It would be a good life with Dawson. Didn’t he adore and love her enough for the both of them?
Georgiana turned back to the window where she could still see Ridge working. Her heart warmed at the sight of him, but it also caused a sense of guilt to overcome her. She had not come back for Ridge. She had returned to help her grandfather in his time of need, hoping to free her heart for Dawson. She must stop thinking about Ridge or at least pondering anything other than friendship.
Georgiana quickly slipped the letters into her apron pocket and continued setting the table. The men would be in shortly, and they were sure to be hungry.
She had been right. In less than thirty minutes, the men were all seated around the table, cleaned up and as hungry as a pack of wolves in the winter. All her dawdling at the window earlier had made it necessary for her to scramble a bit in order to have dinner ready on time.
She had cooked roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, along with sweet fresh corn and biscuits. Again, she was awed at how much food a few men could consume in such a short period of time. When she placed the two pies and a bowl of fresh whipped cream in the center of the table, the men began to whoop and holler like a bunch of schoolboys who discovered their lunch pails contained nothing but fresh baked cookies and cinnamon rolls. The evening had been perfect—that is, until she stood up to clear the table.
Noticing she had neglected to hang up her apron, Georgiana picked it up from the sideboard, proceeding to vigorously shake off the crumbs before hanging it on the wall peg. The forgotten letters she had placed in the pocket started flying about the room in every direction.
All conversation at the table ceased as the men caught the letters in mid air or retrieved them from off the ground. Georgiana froze.
“Who’s all this mail for?” Jonas remarked, looking at one of the letters. Suddenly, everyone was holding a letter in front of him, looking at the inscription—everyone except Ridge, that is. He just laid the one he had caught on the table before him. Try as she might, Georgiana still could not will herself to speak.
“This one’s for you, Miss Georgiana. It’s from your mother,” Jimmy remarked with a smile and handed her the letter. She numbly took it from him, mumbling a polite thanks.
“This one’s fer ye too, Miss,” Roddy spoke up. “It be from yar brother William.” He handed her the letter he held.
“Well, this one . . . ,” Georgiana instinctively cringed as Jonas began his remark, “ain’t from someone related at all, but rather, I would bet, someone who wants ta be.” He snickered softly, and she could tell he was trying hard not to laugh heartily at his own cleverness.
“And what would be the name on that letter ya have there, Brother Jonas?” Jeremiah asked, his voice laced with the same poorly
Suddenly Georgiana was shocked at her own admission. She cared for Dawson more than that . . . didn’t she? Of course she did. He was everything she could want in a man and in a husband. She would be foolish not to recognize her good fortune. Yet . . . she was painfully too conscious of the knowledge that when he’d held her hand, she didn’t feel any special impulse or awareness other than complacency. Additionally, when he had put his arms around her and pulled her close at their parting . . . her heart had not sped up with frenzied and delightful titillations. Finally, when she had allowed him to kiss her, an allowance she did not consider trivial, his lips had not awakened any fervent or burning desires.
Still, the kiss had been nice, hadn’t it? Even though she had not returned it? True, there had been no fireworks, no heated passion—but so what? What was wrong with being comfortable and content with a man? Not all lovers shared rapturous kisses and spellbound moments of euphoria. It would be a good life with Dawson. Didn’t he adore and love her enough for the both of them?
Georgiana turned back to the window where she could still see Ridge working. Her heart warmed at the sight of him, but it also caused a sense of guilt to overcome her. She had not come back for Ridge. She had returned to help her grandfather in his time of need, hoping to free her heart for Dawson. She must stop thinking about Ridge or at least pondering anything other than friendship.
Georgiana quickly slipped the letters into her apron pocket and continued setting the table. The men would be in shortly, and they were sure to be hungry.
She had been right. In less than thirty minutes, the men were all seated around the table, cleaned up and as hungry as a pack of wolves in the winter. All her dawdling at the window earlier had made it necessary for her to scramble a bit in order to have dinner ready on time.
She had cooked roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, along with sweet fresh corn and biscuits. Again, she was awed at how much food a few men could consume in such a short period of time. When she placed the two pies and a bowl of fresh whipped cream in the center of the table, the men began to whoop and holler like a bunch of schoolboys who discovered their lunch pails contained nothing but fresh baked cookies and cinnamon rolls. The evening had been perfect—that is, until she stood up to clear the table.
Noticing she had neglected to hang up her apron, Georgiana picked it up from the sideboard, proceeding to vigorously shake off the crumbs before hanging it on the wall peg. The forgotten letters she had placed in the pocket started flying about the room in every direction.
All conversation at the table ceased as the men caught the letters in mid air or retrieved them from off the ground. Georgiana froze.
“Who’s all this mail for?” Jonas remarked, looking at one of the letters. Suddenly, everyone was holding a letter in front of him, looking at the inscription—everyone except Ridge, that is. He just laid the one he had caught on the table before him. Try as she might, Georgiana still could not will herself to speak.
“This one’s for you, Miss Georgiana. It’s from your mother,” Jimmy remarked with a smile and handed her the letter. She numbly took it from him, mumbling a polite thanks.
“This one’s fer ye too, Miss,” Roddy spoke up. “It be from yar brother William.” He handed her the letter he held.
“Well, this one . . . ,” Georgiana instinctively cringed as Jonas began his remark, “ain’t from someone related at all, but rather, I would bet, someone who wants ta be.” He snickered softly, and she could tell he was trying hard not to laugh heartily at his own cleverness.
“And what would be the name on that letter ya have there, Brother Jonas?” Jeremiah asked, his voice laced with the same poorly
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