“Then why?”
He almost answered.
Did not.
That silence followed them all day.
The next afternoon produced the moment neither could avoid.
Eleanor stood beside a heavy pine beam using a wooden mallet to seat a peg.
Thomas was supposed to be measuring the west brace.
He had not measured anything for almost a minute.
He was watching her.
Eleanor knew.
At first she ignored him.
Then she drove the mallet down again.
Hard.
Thomas still watched.
Eleanor turned.
“You planning to help or stare until winter?”
Thomas leaned against a post.
“Was helping.”
“No.”
“You were staring.”
“Maybe.”
The honesty surprised her.
Eleanor put the mallet down.
“At what?”
Thomas’s eyes moved across her face.
“Do you want me to answer?”
“Yes.”
“You.”
She stared.
Thomas stepped closer.
Not touching.
Close enough.
“That supposed to flatter me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Men have spent years making jokes about women built like me.”
Thomas’s expression changed.
“I know.”
“Roy tell you some?”
“Other men.”
Eleanor looked away.
Thomas continued.
“I don’t think they’re funny.”
“That make you noble?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He reached carefully for the mallet.
Took it from her hand.
Set it on the timber.
“I’m tired of pretending the barn is the only reason I’m still here.”
Eleanor’s breath changed.
Thomas looked directly at her.
“I could’ve left two weeks ago.”
“The roof’s not finished.”
“I’ve worked unfinished roofs before.”
“Money?”
“You’re paying less than Helena mills.”
“That’s charming.”
“Food?”
“Your beans are terrible.”
Eleanor almost smiled.
“Then why?”
Thomas stepped closer.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
“Because every night I go to bed in that room beside yours and spend half an hour thinking about the wall between us.”
Eleanor’s eyes lifted.
Thomas’s gaze dropped for one deliberate second.
Then returned.
She felt heat move up her throat.
“You shouldn’t say things you aren’t prepared to explain.”
“I can explain.”
“Do it.”
“I want you.”
Silence.
Thomas continued.
“Not because you’re lonely.”
“Not because I’m lonely.”
“Not because you need help.”
“And not because I do.”
Eleanor’s hand closed around one of his suspenders.
Thomas stopped breathing.
She pulled him half a step closer.
“You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to start believing you want more than a job.”
His good hand settled lightly at her waist.
Not gripping.
Asking.
“I’ve wanted more since the third morning on that roof.”
“I’ve just been trying to behave like a gentleman.”
Eleanor’s eyes dropped to his mouth.
“Maybe I’m getting tired of gentlemen.”
Thomas leaned closer.
Stopped.
Inches.
“Say yes once, Eleanor.”
“And I won’t make you wonder again.”
Eleanor looked at him for a long moment.
Then kissed him.
The kiss was not gentle at first.
Five weeks of restraint rarely produced gentleness.
Eleanor pulled him closer by both suspenders.
Thomas caught himself against the timber with his damaged hand, winced, and Eleanor immediately stopped.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Hand.”
“Thomas.”
He laughed softly.
“Woman, I’ve survived logging camps.”
“I can survive being kissed.”
Eleanor looked at him.
Then at his hand.
She lifted it carefully.
Three curled fingers.
Scar tissue across the knuckles.
Thomas tried to pull away.
She did not let him.
“Does it hurt now?”
“Sometimes.”
She ran her thumb lightly across the scars.
Thomas’s face changed.
No woman had touched that hand like that since Anna.
Not without pity.
Not without flinching.
Eleanor lifted it.
Pressed his palm against her waist.
“There.”
Thomas swallowed.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her close.
The second kiss was slower.
Their foreheads touched afterward.
Eleanor breathed against him.
“This is stupid.”
“Probably.”
“You work for me.”
“I can quit.”
“I need the barn finished.”
“Then I can finish unemployed.”
She laughed.
Thomas kissed her again.
The unfinished rafters stood above them.
Cattle moved beyond the fence.
Nothing about the world changed.
Everything between them did.
That night Thomas stayed in Eleanor’s room.
Nothing about it felt like the romantic novels church ladies hid beneath sewing baskets.
There was no perfection.
Thomas’s injured hand cramped while removing one suspender and Eleanor laughed until he threatened to leave.
She told him if he left after she finally let him into her bed, she would shoot his boots before he reached the door.
He told her that sounded affectionate.
She said it was Montana.
Close enough.
They moved carefully with each other.
Not because desire was weak.
Because both carried bodies history had already taught them to distrust.
Thomas had scars.
Eleanor had years of being made to feel too large, too heavy, too strong, too much.
When she started pulling the blanket instinctively toward herself, Thomas stopped her.
“No.”
Eleanor froze.
“What?”
“Don’t hide.”
Something in his voice made her eyes burn.
She hated that.
Thomas touched her cheek.
“Eleanor.”
“I spent years learning what men think when they look at me.”
“I’m not them.”
“You’re still a man.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m looking.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“Very carefully.”
She laughed despite herself.
That broke the fear.
The rest belonged only to them.
Morning found Thomas asleep beside her with his damaged hand resting against her hip.
Eleanor stared at it.
For the first time in years, she did not wake feeling alone.
That frightened her more than debt.
Intimacy did not solve anything.
The bank still wanted $1,840.
The barn still needed roofing.
Winter still moved closer.
Thomas still possessed no land, little money, and one horse apparently enjoying independence somewhere west of Helena.
Eleanor still had Roy Mercer waiting for desperation to improve his proposal.
Love, or whatever was growing between them, did not replace arithmetic.
That became their first serious argument.
Thomas suggested taking winter work in Butte after the barn was finished.
Eleanor misunderstood.
“You’re leaving.”
“To earn money.”
“You said you stayed because of me.”
“I am.”
“In Butte?”
Thomas rubbed his face.
“I can make sixty dollars a month underground.”
“And maybe die underground.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“That isn’t persuasive.”
Thomas looked toward the ledger.
“How else do we pay the bank?”
“We?”
He stopped.
Eleanor immediately regretted it.
But the word stayed.
Thomas’s face became guarded.
“Yes.”
“We.”
“This isn’t your debt.”
“I know.”
“Not your ranch.”
“I know.”
“You’re not responsible.”
Thomas stood.
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like—”
“Like what?”
“Like you can arrive out of nowhere and carry half of this because we shared a bed.”
Thomas stared.
Eleanor continued because fear made her cruel.
“You’re good with broken things.”
“Barns.”
“Tools.”
“Maybe women.”
“That doesn’t mean you own what you repair.”
Thomas went still.
Eleanor knew immediately she had gone too far.
He walked toward the door.
“Thomas.”
“Need air.”
“Thomas.”
He left.
The door closed quietly.
That hurt worse than a slam.
He slept in his old room that night.
Eleanor did not.
At dawn, she found him on the roof.
Of course.
Men could apparently endure emotional devastation as long as there was lumber nearby.
She climbed the ladder.
Thomas did not look at her.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“I was cruel.”
“Yes.”