Read Online Morning Glory by Lavyrle Spencer - Free Book Online Page A

and crossed the kitchen to clatter the wood into the woodbox. Brushing off his arms, Will turned. “That oughta keep you for—” His words fell away.
    Eleanor Dinsmore stood behind him, dressed in a clean yellow smock and matching skirt, brushing her hair into a tail. Her chin rested on her chest, and a checkered ribbon was clamped in her teeth. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman putting up her hair in the morning? Her elbows—pointed toward the ceiling—appeared graceful. They lifted the hem of her smock, revealing a crescent of white within the cutout of her skirt. She snatched the ribbon from her teeth and bound the hair high and tight. Lifting her head, she caught him gawking.
    “What’re you staring at?”
    “Nothing.” Guiltily, he lurched for the door, feeling his face heat.
    “Mr. Parker?”
    “Ma’am?” He stopped, refusing to turn and let her see him blushing.
    “I’ll need a little kindling. Would you mind breaking off a few smaller pieces?”
    He nodded and left.
    Will had been unprepared for his reaction to Mrs. Dinsmore. It wasn’t her —hell, it could have been any woman and his reaction would probably have been the same. Women were soft, curvy things, and he’d been without them for along, long time. What man wouldn’t want to watch? As he knelt to tap kindling off a chunk of oak, he recalled the checkered ribbon trailing from her teeth, the white flash of underwear beneath her smock, and his own quick blush.
    What the hell’s the matter with you, Parker? The woman’s five months pregnant, and plain as a round rock. Get that kindling back in there, and find somethin’ else to think about.
    She’d scolded him once for knocking, but returning with the kindling, he paused again. Even before prison, there had been few doors open to Will Parker, and—fresh out—he was too accustomed to locks and bars to open a woman’s screen and walk right in.
    Instead of knocking, he announced, “Got your kindling.”
    She glanced up from the bacon she was slicing and called, “Put it right in the stove.”
    He not only put it in the stove, he built the fire. Such a simple job, but a pleasure. In all his life, he’d never owned a stove. It had been years since he’d had the right to one, even one owned by somebody else. He took care laying the kindling, striking the match, watching the sticks flare. Savoring. Taking as much time as he pleased, realizing time was no longer controlled by someone else. When the kindling had a hearty start, he added a thick log, and though it was a warm morning, extended his palms toward the heat.
    Building a fire in a stove was just another morning chore to Eleanor. Watching him enjoy the job made her wonder about the life he’d lived, the comforts he hadn’t had. She wondered what was going through his mind as he stared at the flames. Whatever it was, she’d probably never know.
    He turned from the stove reluctantly, dusting his hands on his thighs. “Anything else?”
    “You could fill that water pail for me.”
    From behind he scanned her yellow outfit—yellow as a buttercup—and the tail of hair bound by the checkered ribbon. She had donned an apron styled like a pinafore, tied loosely at the back. Studying the bow in the shallows of her spine, he experienced again the wrenching sense of home that had been denied him all his life, and along with it a queer reluctance to approach her. But the water pail was at her elbow,and deliberately stepping close to a woman—any woman—since doing time for killing one made him constantly expect her to leap aside in fright. He made a wide berth around her and, reaching, muttered, “Scuse me, ma’am.”
    She glanced up and smiled. “’Predate your buildin’ the fire, Mr. Parker,” she offered, then returned to her slicing.
    Crossing the room with the water pail, he felt better than he had in years. At the door, he stopped. “I was wonderin’, ma’am...”
    With the knife in the bacon she looked back