River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) (7 page)

“If we’re going to be neighborly, I need to build a bridge for you to get back and forth.” He wheeled her bicycle to where she stood and then whistled, summoning his horse. Glad to see that the beast at least heeded his master, she nevertheless, cringed as it trotted across the water to his side. “Sandy, meet River. Miss Prescott, meet my conveyance and friend.”

“Mr. Grayson,” she sputtered, shrinking back from the animal. It seemed as if Edge took her aversion to his horse personally. Nevertheless, she had no plans to get better acquainted. She pointedly gazed away from Sandy and toward the river. “You can barely manage the construction of a straight board fence. I have little confidence in your ability to engineer a bridge.” Before she’d gathered her wits enough to deliver more scalding words, he mounted his horse and had the last say.

“You design it. I’ll build it. We’ll split the cost of materials.” Not waiting for her response, he tipped his hat. “See you tomorrow.”

River pushed the heavy Rover up the hill, continuing to feel the two spots on either side of her waist where his big hands had gripped her as he lifted her to sit across his thighs. He’d radiated heat she continued to feel even after he set her on the ground.

Proximity to his horse had left her quivering with fear, but the way Edge had held her close, tucked against his chest as he carried her across the water, made her shudder from an entirely different emotion; she was filled with desire to have his arms around her again.

She could barely contain her nervous anticipation. Thoughts of Edge Grayson disrupted her ability to concentrate. She spent the rest of the day wondering if he’d show up at the willow tomorrow.

River left her bed early the next morning, made coffee, and as soon as the sun lighted her way, she mounted the Rover, heading for the river. On the climb to the top of the bluff, her stomach churned. She both dreaded and anticipated what might lie on the other side. Either he’d come or he wouldn’t. She wasn’t sure which notion had her most afraid.

She planned to set up her easel on the crest of the hill and paint while she waited. But, when she reached the top and looked below, Edge stood unloading wooden rails from a sled he’d hitched to his horse.

As she began the slow walk down the rough slope, holding tight to her bicycle lest it get loose and careen into the river, Edge left his task and strode up the hill to meet her.

“Let me,” he said, taking the Rover from her grasp and rolling it along even as she protested that she could handle it.

But as soon as they were on level ground, he surrendered his claim and returned to the sled holding the fencing material.

River felt it to be an auspicious beginning. She quickly unfolded her easel, setting it up on a level patch of ground in the sunlight. Edge resumed work on the fence and she began work on her canvas. Nothing but the sound of his hammering interrupted the morning.

She became so engrossed in her painting that when her subject began gathering his tools in preparation for leaving, it startled her. The sun was overhead, the morning over.

“Tomorrow?” she called to him.

He nodded, mounted, and rode across the river to her side.

“I’ll wheel the monster up the hill for you,” he said gruffly.

She could have argued, but the Rover was heavy. Besides, following behind him as he wheeled the bicycle up the path gave her an opportunity to admire his denim dressed backside. Even in clothes, she found it pleasing.

When they reached the top, he once again relinquished his hold on the handles and stepped away, preparing to leave.

“I’d be pleased if you could join my foreman and me for supper tonight.” When he pushed his brim higher, a surprised smile showing, she added, hastily, “We need to discuss plans for the bridge you said you’d build. Besides, I owe you for today’s work.”

He lost his smile, nodded and retreated down the hill. She didn’t quit watching him until he’d mounted his horse and ridden for home.

Then she sped down the hill, pedaling as fast as her legs would allow, racing to get home to help Sarah fix the evening meal.

Blueberry cobbler, chicken, potatoes, hot bread, no, sweet rolls. Maybe some greens from the garden…

“We’ll fix extra chicken tonight, Sarah,” she told her housekeeper as soon as she’d gone over the menu with her.

“You and your company gonna eat up two hens?” Sarah’s eyebrows climbed high in surprise.

“I’m sure Mr. Grayson’s appetite exceeds either Amos’s or mine. Leftovers won’t hurt, anyway.”

She left Sarah frying chicken and retreated to her bedroom to choose what she would wear. The sea green suit with the narrow skirt and double breasted jacket seemed much too formal; the gray cotton too plain. One by one, she pulled clothes out for inspection. Too many of them wore daubs of foreign color from her palette. She looked ruefully at her short nails and paint-stained hands. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

After Sarah had gone for the day, leaving a giant platter of chicken in her wake, River returned to the kitchen. The aroma of baking rolls and cobbler entwined, perfuming the air better than any flowers ever could.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I would have guessed you older…

Edge didn’t know what time exactly to show up. He didn’t want to appear too eager or be rude by being late. He should have waited, but he settled on early for fear of missing another decent meal.

When he arrived, nobody came to the front door, so he snooped a little and found the back porch. He could see her moving around through the window and tapped on it.

“You’re early.” She seemed astonished when she opened the back entrance. “Amos works a full day. He won’t be in to eat until regular time.”

“You didn’t say what time,” he growled, feeling reduced to a lay-about. Smelling the food she was fixing kept him from turning on his heels and leaving. There was proud, and then there was dumb. Before he could be either, she motioned him into the kitchen and handed him a knife.

“You can peel the potatoes.” She set a cup of coffee next to him, and a bowl for the skinned spuds. He sipped coffee, filled the waiting bowl, and watched her cook. Heat from the oven turned her hair into ringlets at the nape of her neck and around her face.

After he finished the chore she’d set him, he waited expectantly, hoping she’d give him another. He enjoyed just sitting and looking at her. Sweat dotted her lip. The apron she wore wrapped around her twice.

“You look like a little girl,” he grinned, sharing the thought before he could parse his words better. Under the too big apron, she had on a light gray dress and the color made her eyes seem green as the willow tree.

“I am small,” she said dryly.

“I mean young,” he corrected himself, then realized that wasn’t right either. Him telling her it made her look young meant she usually looked old—er.

“Younger, I mean,” he stumbled around trying to say what he meant.

“How old are you?”

“Let me think.” He scratched his jaw, calculating in his head. It wasn’t as if he’d been celebrating the event each year. “I guess I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?” She’d asked him, so he figured it was okay to ask her back.

“I would have guessed you older,” she murmured, ignoring his question.

The foreman, Amos, came into the kitchen then, and she waved them into the big dining hall. Edge would have preferred lingering in the coziness of the kitchen. He liked it. It felt good, as if he had temporarily shared a home. The dining room was all dull colors and dark wood. He didn’t much care for her choice of decorations, but the house was definitely built sturdy. He wondered what she thought of his shack and falling down barn.

Then, he stopped wondering when she came through from the kitchen carrying a platter of chicken, and he took the opportunity to hold the door for her, figuring the sooner she got the meal on, the quicker he could eat and take his leave. It had been a mistake coming, but he’d go home with a full belly to make the night worthwhile.

She made more than one trip, and so he waited by the connecting door, holding it open for her, and when she finally got ready to sit, he pulled her chair out for her. She seemed surprised, and Amos looked suspicious.

Edge grinned inside. He’d not spent much time around ladies, but he’d been raised in a brothel and learned firsthand how women liked being catered-to. When they were all seated, the foreman divided his time between filling his plate and watching the new neighbor to keep him from stealing the silver or worse.

After Edge sampled the first forkful of food, he dispensed with niceties, digging in as fast as he could. Cleaning his plate a second time, he blotted the gravy with a final roll, ate it, sighed, and sat back in his chair, replete.

“Do you have room for a slice of blueberry cobbler?” Miss Prescott stood next to him, holding a spatula in one hand and dessert in the other. He looked at his plate, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. If he reassembled the pile of bones he’d discarded after sucking the marrow from them, he was pretty sure he’d have a whole chicken carcass.

“Son, if you think the chicken was tasty you’d better try some of the cobbler.” Amos already had his fork in hand with a bite ready to disappear in his mouth.

“I’m pretty full,” he lied. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed some and Edge had a sinking feeling Miss Prescott had made the dessert especially for him. Not wanting to hurt the cook’s feelings, especially since she hovered over him waiting for him to accept the slice she’d already cut, glumly, Edge nodded his head. “Well, maybe I’ll try just a little piece.”

She cut the slice in two parts and put half on his plate. The other she slid onto her own. He sat staring at the pretty pastry on his plate as if it were a snake. Both Amos and River waited for him to take a taste.

“The truth is, I got sick eating blueberries once, and I don’t favor ‘em anymore.” Got sick was an understatement. He’d blown up like a damn blueberry, himself, his lips had swollen and his eyes itched, while for three days he’d wheezed like an old man.

“Can’t have that. I need you able to work, tomorrow.” Miss Prescott reached across the table and removed his indecision with his plate.

“Work where?” Amos asked belligerently.

“I’m using Mr. Grayson as a model in my preliminary sketches for my current picture. Since he’s already building fence, he’s going to fashion a bridge from his side of the river to ours.”

Amos shook his head, opened and closed his mouth, and then cut himself another piece of cobbler. “I’ll eat his since he’s finicky.”

“You have it designed?” Edge asked her.

“Amos will be better than I am at that. After I clear the dishes, you two can sit here and decide how it should be built.”

Somehow Edge spent so much time at the Prescott Ranch that early evening had turned into late night by the time he left. Amos walked him to the barn where Sandy dozed in a stall.

“Do you need a lantern?”

“Naw, moon’s fine.
Before I forget, I didn’t want to worry Miss Prescott, but I didn’t know she spent so much time out on her own. When Emmett and his crew came onto my spread, it was by way of Prescott land.”

Amos grunted an expletive. “I’ll have the hands ride guard on the fence-line. Watch your back.
Emmett’s not
one to give up.
”

“I can take care of myself. But you need to make sure he doesn’t bother Miss Prescott again. While she’s drawing, I’ll be close by. But on her way to the river, she’ll need an escort. I can ride with her back when she’s done.”

Edge wasn’t getting drawn into any local feuds. He had his own problems. But it wasn’t going to cost him anything but time to make sure River made it home safely every day.

Amos shifted from foot to foot, giving Edge the eye. But he didn’t appear to have anything else to say. Finally after Edge mounted Sandy and readied to leave, Amos let loose with what was on his mind.

“River’s a single woman you know. She owns this place. A man could do a lot worse than have her cooking meals for him every day.”

It was a stunning departure from the foreman’s original suspicious manner. A man
could
do a lot worse than have River cooking meals for him every day. Edge could testify to that.
Miss Prescott was still standing on the porch, so he rode to the house before he left. “Thanks for the meal and the company,” he told her.

“First light at the willow tree, Mr. Grayson. Don’t be late.” Miss Prescott’s last moment flare-up of bossy didn’t dim the fine meal and the night’s entertainment he’d enjoyed. Picturing the indomitable artist wearing an apron and cooking meals for him made him laugh out loud more than once on the way home.

Edge had plenty to ponder as he rode toward his barn. Every time he visited the Prescott ranch it made it harder to call his own four hole-filled walls and patched roof, home.

*

River ended the evening disappointed. She admitted to herself that knowing Edge Grayson’s age had put a damper on her thoughts.
I’m old enough…
She frowned, finishing her thought in a rush.
Old enough to be his not very much older sister.

Nevertheless, it didn’t diminish her enthusiasm for sketching him at work. She arrived at the top of the hill on the following morning to find Edge waiting.

Amos had accompanied her, claiming he needed to instruct and advise the greenhorn next door. She was glad for his company after he made her aware that Emmett Price had visited Edge by way of Prescott land. Knowing what the miscreant had done made her even more furious, and she felt that he’d fouled her willow retreat. Unpleasant thoughts of Emmett were dispelled quickly, though.

“Your bicycle’s heavy. I’ll just wheel it down the incline for you.” He took charge as soon as she dismounted.

“She’s been backwards since birth,” Amos advised. “Most folks want something to carry ‘em. She gets a contraption she has to carry. It’s on you now, son.” He wagged his head in disgust, tied his horse to a tree, and walked down the slope to the river.

Edge went next, and River followed behind, admiring the length and breadth of him as he steadied the Rover and rolled it to the willow tree where he leaned it.

Amos poked around and offered advice on bridge building; then he left her alone with her work—and Edge.

“Guess I’d better get started. Sandy probably wonders what I’m up to.” Edge nodded toward his horse, grazing across the river behind his section of fence.

“First,” she stopped him. “We didn’t agree upon a sum to compensate you for your time.”

He looked at her quizzically. “I’m already building a fence on my time, so I can’t sell you what I’m already using.”

“I mean, for allowing me to use you as my subject.”

He shrugged. “Food was good. Feed me again, and we’ll call it even.”

Before she could agree or not, he left her standing by the willow, watching him cross the fallen tree to get to the other side of the river. He had already laid out his tools, and by the time she set up her easel and began her own work the sound of hammering filled the air.

She laid her sketches out on a blanket, mixed her paints, prepared her palette, and stood before her canvas. Hours later, she looked up from her work to discover her subject standing next to her, staring down at the painting.

“Are we finished?” Dazed, she blinked, looking up at him. Her arm felt as if someone had tied a lead weight to it. She gazed around. The sun had shifted to overhead. “Oh.”

“You’ve got a dab of sky on your face.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it over the end of her nose.

She vaguely remembered brushing away a strand of hair earlier.

“The sun is perfect today. Thank you so much. You’ve been a wonderful subject.” She heard herself gushing and tried to take control. But, he was so tall, so handsome and so near… “I have leftover chicken in my lunch basket if you’d care to join me.”

“Well now, I’m not saying no to that offer.” He looked so pleased she wished the chicken had been of her making.

“I have bread too.”

He nodded, evidently eager for a repeat of the meal he’d had the night before.

She left the painting on the easel and carried the food to a blanket he’d spread.

“How long does it have to set before you can carry it home without messing up the paint?”

“My portable easel has a compartment inside, Mr. Grayson. It will be fine in transport by the time we finish here.”

“Edge,” he answered.

“Did your mother have a special reason for naming you that?”

He grimaced, an expression of disgust appearing on his face and then quickly disappearing. “Being able to draw a weapon and shoot straight and fast with either hand, gave me an edge in a gunfight. The name stuck.”

“You don’t like your name?”

He shrugged. “I guess it beats nothing.”

“Well, I for one, think it fits. Your body is honed to perfection—as sharp and flawless as the edge of a steel blade.” She stopped her enthusiastic description, realizing she’d perhaps said too much.

Edge held the last roll before his open mouth, the motion of his hand suspended, his head tipped sideways as he stared at her.

“I am an artist, Mr. Grayson.” She hid her smile, feeling terribly sophisticated as she demonstrated to him her freedom from mundane concerns such as nudity. Another day perhaps she’d ask him how he obtained the ragged scar on his rump.

But she’d shocked him enough for one day. With her morning’s work completed and the meal at end, she had no reason to linger. She repacked the cloth and blanket in the basket and prepared to leave. After she’d strapped the easel onto the bicycle and turned toward the path leading to the crest of the hill Edge took charge.

“I’ll just roll your ride to the top for you, Miss Prescott,” he said, taking hold of the handle bars and setting off at a fast pace before she could object.

“You may call me, River,” she answered, hurrying behind him.

When they reached the top of the hill, he handed her bicycle over and she leaned toward him, her head tipping back as she peered up at his tallness. He smiled. The expression made his eyes crinkle at the corners and she wished she could capture the exact shade of his eyes.