Jill Limber - Daddy, He Wrote

His kindness nearly undid her. She shook her head. “No. It’s all over.”

She hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. There really hadn’t been anyone to attend, anyway. She’d asked Billy’s best friend to get his ashes from the funeral home because she didn’t have a car to go and pick them up.

A few days later he’d called to tell her Billy’s drinking buddies had had a memorial service for him down at the Stumble Inn, their favorite establishment. Apparently, it didn’t occur to them to ask her to come. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the ashes.

“When did he die?”

She would have to tell him, then he’d know she’d been lying to him all along. “Two and a half months ago.” She looked up into his startled face.

“I see.” He picked up his bag and, without another word, turned and left the room.

She watched him go, then choked back tears as she looked down at her sleeping daughter and whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She could actually feel her security slip away.

She had been foolish to think she’d be able to deceive everyone and keep both their jobs so she’d have the old stone house. Swallowing a sob, she stared miserably into the fire. What was she going to do?

Trish hated feeling sorry for herself. She’d learned a long time ago it was a waste of time and got you nothing.

Knock it off, she told herself fiercely. He hadn’t actually said he was going to fire her, and she had been taking care of things since Billy died.

Heck, she’d taken care of things since she’d discovered she was pregnant and moved in with Billy.

He’d usually been hung over in the mornings and stayed in bed, then he would take off in the afternoon to drink beer with his buddies or fish or go hunting.

Trish decided to go and talk to Mr. Miller and present her case before he had too much time to think about what he had just learned. She had to convince him to keep her on. She’d proven she could do the job, hadn’t she?

She tucked the blanket around Emma and then raced into the utility room behind the kitchen. She couldn’t go talk to him in pajamas with ducks all over them. She pulled her laundry out of the dryer, yanked off her pajamas and scrambled into a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.

She checked on Emma again, banked the fire and then headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. She paused at the first door with the light on. There was a black case on the big worktable under the window, and his wet overcoat was draped over the chair, dripping water all over the floor, but no Mr. Miller.

She continued on down the hall to the next room and stopped dead in the doorway. He was standing at the closet with his back to her.

His bare back.

Her eyes lingered on the smooth expanse of skin covering his broad shoulders and tapering down to a trim waist.

Trish felt her mouth go dry. The man was built like a Greek god. Who knew that much male perfection lay under his beautiful clothes?

She must have made a noise because he glanced over his shoulder at her before she could back away.

“Do you need something, Ms. Ryan?” he asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed, his words muffled as he pulled a sweater over his head.

She could feel the color burn in her cheeks. He turned and watched her as she tried to remember why she had charged up the stairs.

She’d been too impulsive and hadn’t given herself time to think about what she was going to say. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up her future employment. She needed to be really sure he was in a good mood before she broached the subject.

Desperately she searched for a reason to be standing in the door to his bedroom. “I was, ah, wondering if you needed, that is, if you wanted anything to eat?”

Absently he rubbed his hand over his flat stomach, now covered by a soft sweater that brought out the incredible blue of his eyes. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

Trish brightened. She knew her way around the kitchen. A full stomach would put him in a good mood. “Of course. Ham? Turkey?”

She had shopped yesterday when a neighbor had offered her a ride to the market. Gratefully she had accepted. It was so much easier than dragging Emma and the groceries on the bus, so she had stocked up.

He seemed to carefully consider his choice. “Ham. With everything on it. And coffee if you have it.”

She nodded and turned to leave. “Ms. Ryan?”

“Yes?” She had to brace herself not to flinch as he studied her. She couldn’t read his face. Was he going to give her notice before she could even make him supper?

“I’ll eat up here. I’m going to use that first room as an office after I move some of the stuff out of it. Would you bring the sandwich up here?”

“Sure.” Trish exhaled a long breath as she turned to leave his bedroom.

“And, Ms. Ryan?”

She swung back to face him. “Yes?”

“When I’m working, do not disturb me, for any reason. Understood?”

She nodded. How could anyone not understand that tone of voice? “I understand.”

She left quickly and stopped by the first bedroom and grabbed his coat to take it downstairs so she could hang it to dry, and reminded herself to bring a rag up to mop the water on the floor when she brought up his sandwich.

When she returned with his sandwich and an insulated pot of coffee, he was already at work on a laptop computer, his long, strong-looking fingers flying over the keys. She set the tray down at his elbow, and he mumbled something without looking up.

She mopped up the floor and left the room quickly, not wanting to disturb his work. If anything would get her fired, she guessed it was that.

She decided not to change into her pajamas in case he needed anything else. She lay down on the couch and tried to doze, but found herself wide awake, trying to come up with what she was going to say to Ian Miller to convince him to keep her on as the caretaker for Blacksmith Farm.

Emma began to stir and Trish scooped her up before she could cry.

She nuzzled the sleepy baby’s sweet-smelling neck and cooed, “Hungry, pretty girl?” Emma gurgled a reply and, one-handed, Trish deftly undid the buttons on her flannel shirt, then settled into the corner of the couch and nursed her baby.

Trish whispered down at her daughter, “Don’t worry. We’ll convince him we can do this job.” She picked up the mystery she’d been reading and read aloud to Emma as she nursed.

Trish hoped she was right about being able to win over her new boss, because she had no idea what she would do if Mr. Miller decided to get a new caretaker.

Trish finished feeding Emma, changed her diaper and settled her back in the basket. She lay down on the couch, physically exhausted, but with her mind churning, unable to sleep.

Finally she got up and prowled through the downstairs looking for something to do. She’d already cleaned the house from top to bottom. She plumped the cushions on the couch in the front room and straightened the rag rugs, then headed back to the kitchen.

She could get a head start on dinner for tomorrow night. Cooking always gave her time to think. Maybe she could come up with a plan while she put together the ingredients for a stew.

She gathered up what she needed from the refrigerator and began peeling and chopping and browning. The rhythm of the work made her relax.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her.

He was standing there with the coffeepot in his hand, a thunderous expression on his face.

She just couldn’t seem to do anything right tonight. “I’m making dinner.”

He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “It’s 2:00 a.m.”

“For tomorrow night.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, I guess since it’s after midnight it would be for tonight.” Great, now she was babbling.