ornamentation over the mantel. Genevieve put a finger on the scale and laughed.
"I'll have to find some other use for this," she joked, moving the brass scale aside. She set her bundle on the puncheon floor and slowly unwrapped it, extracting the clock. "This will do better over my hearth than the money scale," she commented, setting the clock in place. She wound the timepiece and smiled at the sound it made.
The ticking accentuated a sudden, heavy silence. Thinking Roarke had gone, Genevieve turned.
He hadn't gone. He was regarding the clock with an expression she was hard put to read. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in outrage, while the corners of his mouth pulled down with a sadness she didn't understand.
"Where did you get that?" he asked quietly, his eyes locked on the clock.
Genevieve tipped her chin up. "It was to be delivered to Angela Brimsby, but I claimed it from the pawnshop instead." She grinned sheepishly. "A bit of pettiness, I admit, but at the time I wasn't feeling too kindly toward Mrs. Brimsby."
A sigh slipped from Roarke. "I see."
"Why do you ask?"
"That clock is—was—"
She squinted at him. "No doubt you think it too grand for the likes of me."
He shook his head. "No, Gennie, 'tis not that at all."
He seemed about to say more, then hesitated. "You'll give the clock a finer home than Angela Brimsby ever would have." Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes from the mantel and turned away.
Genevieve watched him, bemused. Then she went and lifted a corner of the blanket on the bed, coughing as a little storm of dust met her face.
"You can't live here," Roarke said from the doorway.
She shot him a determined look. "Can't I, Roarke Adair?"
" 'Tis little more than a hovel, girl."
"The roof seems sound enough." She stamped her foot. "And look, a good wooden floor."
He shook his head, motioning for Luther to join them. "Come with us, Genevieve. Luther says we're only three miles upriver from here. You can live with us until you get this place in better shape."
"No."
His jaw tightened in impatience. "Damn it, Gennie, why not?"
She turned about, filling the room with her presence. "Because this house is mine, Roarke. It's where I belong now."
Roarke visited almost every day, always in late afternoon, soaked with sweat from his work. He was never empty-handed. Ignoring her protests, he brought her honey and vegetables from his farm; brown eggs or a bit of butter or cheese.
"You're kind to do this," Genevieve told him sincerely, "but I don't need your generosity; I have to learn to do for myself."
"I expect you will one day, Gennie," he said assuredly.
"I can't keep waiting for one day, Roarke."
He gave her a long, measuring look. "I don't guess you can, Gennie. Very well, let's go fishing."
"Fishing!"
He grinned. " 'Tis well to grow crops, but that takes time. If you really want to be able to fill your belly, you'd best learn to fish."
It wasn't quite what Genevieve had meant, but she followed him down to the river bank for her first lesson.
"Damn, but you're an impatient woman," Roarke muttered. He frowned at the empty hook Genevieve had just hauled from the river, sure she'd caught a fish.
"You can't simply jump at the first sign of a bite," Roarke continued. "Give the devil a chance to snare himself."
Genevieve pursed her lips and baited the hook again. She didn't like appearing incompetent before Roarke. It had been three weeks since her arrival at the farm, and she wished she had something to show for it.
She cast her line into the river and gave Roarke a smug look. It was a perfect cast. The current pulled the line until it was taut, and Genevieve stood staring at it, willing a fish to take her bait.
The river was bountiful. In moments, Genevieve felt a distinct tug on her line. Immediately, she started to haul it backward.
Her motion was stopped by Roarke. Stepping directly behind her, he brought his arms around her and grasped the rod, closing his hands firmly over her
"I'll have to find some other use for this," she joked, moving the brass scale aside. She set her bundle on the puncheon floor and slowly unwrapped it, extracting the clock. "This will do better over my hearth than the money scale," she commented, setting the clock in place. She wound the timepiece and smiled at the sound it made.
The ticking accentuated a sudden, heavy silence. Thinking Roarke had gone, Genevieve turned.
He hadn't gone. He was regarding the clock with an expression she was hard put to read. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in outrage, while the corners of his mouth pulled down with a sadness she didn't understand.
"Where did you get that?" he asked quietly, his eyes locked on the clock.
Genevieve tipped her chin up. "It was to be delivered to Angela Brimsby, but I claimed it from the pawnshop instead." She grinned sheepishly. "A bit of pettiness, I admit, but at the time I wasn't feeling too kindly toward Mrs. Brimsby."
A sigh slipped from Roarke. "I see."
"Why do you ask?"
"That clock is—was—"
She squinted at him. "No doubt you think it too grand for the likes of me."
He shook his head. "No, Gennie, 'tis not that at all."
He seemed about to say more, then hesitated. "You'll give the clock a finer home than Angela Brimsby ever would have." Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes from the mantel and turned away.
Genevieve watched him, bemused. Then she went and lifted a corner of the blanket on the bed, coughing as a little storm of dust met her face.
"You can't live here," Roarke said from the doorway.
She shot him a determined look. "Can't I, Roarke Adair?"
" 'Tis little more than a hovel, girl."
"The roof seems sound enough." She stamped her foot. "And look, a good wooden floor."
He shook his head, motioning for Luther to join them. "Come with us, Genevieve. Luther says we're only three miles upriver from here. You can live with us until you get this place in better shape."
"No."
His jaw tightened in impatience. "Damn it, Gennie, why not?"
She turned about, filling the room with her presence. "Because this house is mine, Roarke. It's where I belong now."
Roarke visited almost every day, always in late afternoon, soaked with sweat from his work. He was never empty-handed. Ignoring her protests, he brought her honey and vegetables from his farm; brown eggs or a bit of butter or cheese.
"You're kind to do this," Genevieve told him sincerely, "but I don't need your generosity; I have to learn to do for myself."
"I expect you will one day, Gennie," he said assuredly.
"I can't keep waiting for one day, Roarke."
He gave her a long, measuring look. "I don't guess you can, Gennie. Very well, let's go fishing."
"Fishing!"
He grinned. " 'Tis well to grow crops, but that takes time. If you really want to be able to fill your belly, you'd best learn to fish."
It wasn't quite what Genevieve had meant, but she followed him down to the river bank for her first lesson.
"Damn, but you're an impatient woman," Roarke muttered. He frowned at the empty hook Genevieve had just hauled from the river, sure she'd caught a fish.
"You can't simply jump at the first sign of a bite," Roarke continued. "Give the devil a chance to snare himself."
Genevieve pursed her lips and baited the hook again. She didn't like appearing incompetent before Roarke. It had been three weeks since her arrival at the farm, and she wished she had something to show for it.
She cast her line into the river and gave Roarke a smug look. It was a perfect cast. The current pulled the line until it was taut, and Genevieve stood staring at it, willing a fish to take her bait.
The river was bountiful. In moments, Genevieve felt a distinct tug on her line. Immediately, she started to haul it backward.
Her motion was stopped by Roarke. Stepping directly behind her, he brought his arms around her and grasped the rod, closing his hands firmly over her
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