family.
“Name’s Boney Hughes.” He pulled a canteen from Sal’s side and removed the cork. Then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “You can rinse your face, if you like.”
Ida poured water onto the handkerchief and blotted her face. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”
The man winced. “Mr. Hughes would be my daddy, if he were alive. Folks ’round here call me Boney.”
His stare made her even more uncomfortable than she already was in her wet clothes. She needed to stop shaking.
“You look a lot like two sisters I know,” he said.
“You know my sisters?” Ida regretted the condescension she heard in her voice, but Boney didn’t seem the least bit offended by it.
“That’s it—you’re a Sinclair. You’ve got Kat’s darker hair. Nell’s blue eyes. And the same high cheekbones.”
“Yes, Miss Ida Sinclair.”
They moved to the side of the road to let a wagon by. When Ida looked up, she felt a sudden additional humiliation, as if this all hadn’t been enough. The wagon was emblazoned with Raines Ice Company and was being driven by Tucker Raines.
Could this day get any worse?
“Miss Sinclair, is that you?” Tucker leapt off the seat of the wagon, approaching them with a bluster she’d only seen before a fistfight. “What is going on here? What is this man—”
Ida raised her hand, waving the soiled kerchief. “Mr. Boney Hughes, I’d like you to meet Mr. Tucker Raines.”
Tucker stopped short, but maintained his fighting posture, his jaw tight. He regarded her muddy appearance.
“I did this on my own coming up from the creek,” Ida said, waving a hand over her dress. “Mr. Boney here assisted me.”
Relaxing his clenched fists, Tucker looked at her with skepticism etched in the creases in his forehead. “You went down to the camp?”
“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted some peace and quiet, and I like water.”
Tucker looked at Boney, the intensity gone from his brown eyes. “No personal offense intended, Mr. Hughes.”
“Call me Boney.” He shook Tucker’s hand. “None taken.”
Ida shivered, and Tucker glanced back at his wagon. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“Pardon me?”
Mr. Boney chuckled while Tucker shook his head. “I meant we need to see you home so you can change into dry clothing.”
For a woman who intended to avoid entanglements with men, she was doing a poor job of it.
“My wagon would make short work of getting you to the boardinghouse.” Tucker regarded her muddied hat brim, then her mud-soaked boots before continuing. “Besides, it’d be much more pleasant than walking up the hill looking and feeling like … that.”
Good point . Ida pushed a wavy strand of hair back from her face. “I accept your offer for a ride. Thank you.” She turned back to Boney. “And thank you for your help.” He’d been right—men weren’t all the same.
“My pleasure, little lady.” Boney removed his short-billed canvas hat and slapped it against his leg, creating a cloud of dust around him.
Tucker cupped her elbow and helped her up onto the wagon seat.
She hated being dirty … and indebted to a lawyer, a crusty miner, and now an ice man. But showing up at Hattie’s with a man at her side would be the worst. Her landlady’s reputation as a matchmaker worried her.
So much for her determination to not give the woman any bait for fishing.
Tucker swung up to his perch on the ice wagon. Ida Sinclair sat on the far edge of the seat, straight-backed and proper, staring straight ahead. She obviously wasn’t going to allow the indignities of lecherous miners, a mud bath, and climbing onto an ice wagon in such shape to soil her spirit. While Miss Sinclair closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, his respect for hergrew roots and so did his desire to protect her. Sensing that would be impossible, he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, signaling the horses forward.
As the wagon lurched up Bennett Avenue, he wanted to
“Name’s Boney Hughes.” He pulled a canteen from Sal’s side and removed the cork. Then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “You can rinse your face, if you like.”
Ida poured water onto the handkerchief and blotted her face. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”
The man winced. “Mr. Hughes would be my daddy, if he were alive. Folks ’round here call me Boney.”
His stare made her even more uncomfortable than she already was in her wet clothes. She needed to stop shaking.
“You look a lot like two sisters I know,” he said.
“You know my sisters?” Ida regretted the condescension she heard in her voice, but Boney didn’t seem the least bit offended by it.
“That’s it—you’re a Sinclair. You’ve got Kat’s darker hair. Nell’s blue eyes. And the same high cheekbones.”
“Yes, Miss Ida Sinclair.”
They moved to the side of the road to let a wagon by. When Ida looked up, she felt a sudden additional humiliation, as if this all hadn’t been enough. The wagon was emblazoned with Raines Ice Company and was being driven by Tucker Raines.
Could this day get any worse?
“Miss Sinclair, is that you?” Tucker leapt off the seat of the wagon, approaching them with a bluster she’d only seen before a fistfight. “What is going on here? What is this man—”
Ida raised her hand, waving the soiled kerchief. “Mr. Boney Hughes, I’d like you to meet Mr. Tucker Raines.”
Tucker stopped short, but maintained his fighting posture, his jaw tight. He regarded her muddy appearance.
“I did this on my own coming up from the creek,” Ida said, waving a hand over her dress. “Mr. Boney here assisted me.”
Relaxing his clenched fists, Tucker looked at her with skepticism etched in the creases in his forehead. “You went down to the camp?”
“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted some peace and quiet, and I like water.”
Tucker looked at Boney, the intensity gone from his brown eyes. “No personal offense intended, Mr. Hughes.”
“Call me Boney.” He shook Tucker’s hand. “None taken.”
Ida shivered, and Tucker glanced back at his wagon. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“Pardon me?”
Mr. Boney chuckled while Tucker shook his head. “I meant we need to see you home so you can change into dry clothing.”
For a woman who intended to avoid entanglements with men, she was doing a poor job of it.
“My wagon would make short work of getting you to the boardinghouse.” Tucker regarded her muddied hat brim, then her mud-soaked boots before continuing. “Besides, it’d be much more pleasant than walking up the hill looking and feeling like … that.”
Good point . Ida pushed a wavy strand of hair back from her face. “I accept your offer for a ride. Thank you.” She turned back to Boney. “And thank you for your help.” He’d been right—men weren’t all the same.
“My pleasure, little lady.” Boney removed his short-billed canvas hat and slapped it against his leg, creating a cloud of dust around him.
Tucker cupped her elbow and helped her up onto the wagon seat.
She hated being dirty … and indebted to a lawyer, a crusty miner, and now an ice man. But showing up at Hattie’s with a man at her side would be the worst. Her landlady’s reputation as a matchmaker worried her.
So much for her determination to not give the woman any bait for fishing.
Tucker swung up to his perch on the ice wagon. Ida Sinclair sat on the far edge of the seat, straight-backed and proper, staring straight ahead. She obviously wasn’t going to allow the indignities of lecherous miners, a mud bath, and climbing onto an ice wagon in such shape to soil her spirit. While Miss Sinclair closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, his respect for hergrew roots and so did his desire to protect her. Sensing that would be impossible, he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, signaling the horses forward.
As the wagon lurched up Bennett Avenue, he wanted to
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