again at the columns of numbers in front of him. It was after nine and he'd grunted and groaned as if every muscle in his body were trying to tell him it was time to pack it in and go to bed. All evening she'd bustled around him trying to make his work lighter, throwing a shoulder shawl around him, bringing the lantern closer to his book. She even made him some cocoa with a touch of vanilla in it, just the way he liked.
And she'd gotten a smile out of him, once or maybe twice, a genuine smile that went straight to her heart and made her so warm she had to loosen her dressing gown belt a little. "Really," she said, flipping out of her way the braid that had fallen over her shoulder. "Won't you let me help?"
"Seems to me one of the people in this room was always flunking arithmetic and having her little bottom tanned by her papa for not studying hard enough.'' There was just the bud of a smile around his lips. Could she coax it into blooming? "And that person's offering to help me with my numbers?"
"Well, I remember one time my big brother's friend tried to help me with my homework and I wound up with two whoppings—one for cheating and one for still getting all the answers wrong!"
"I don't remember it happening quite like that," he said, but the smile was blossoming, all the same.
"Don't you remember telling me it was a good thing I had so much padding?'' She touched a hand to her bottom and watched the color come into his face.
"I shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, his mood shifting so quickly Olivia wasn't sure whether it was a genuine change or if he was going to tease her some more, tell her that the padding she had then was nothing compared to what she carried behind her now. But he said nothing. He just sat, pencil dangling, from his fingers, and stared at her, his gaze roaming from her messy hair to the toes of her slippers.
"I really did learn my numbers, finally," she said when the silence became unbearable.
"Oh, did you? When was that?"
When I figured out how many days until I would lose you forever to Kirsten. And every month when I add by sevens until I count four weeks . . . "When you and Remy grew up and there wasn't anything for me to do but my lessons."
Spencer studied her with a faraway look on his face. Finally he put the pencil into his account book to hold his place and then closed the ledger. "You turned out real nice, Livvy. I ever tell you that?'' he asked as he rose to his feet and stretched.
She swallowed hard. Those were some of the nicest words he had ever said to her. "No, Spence. You never did."
He picked up his empty cocoa mug and was headed for the stove when he stopped just inches from her. With just the pads of his callused fingers he gently stroked her cheek and shook his head sadly. "So damn soft," he muttered.
She reached up, hoping to capture his hand and stay it, but she wasn't fast enough. "I'll get you some more," she offered, following him to the stove and hovering as he helped himself. "There's still some pie left from the other day. Want some?''
"Pie?" he asked, as if he were trying to remember what that was. "I thought it was a cake of some sort."
"You mean my birthday genoise? With the coconut frosting? I couldn't even feed it to the chickens by the end of last week. So I made . . . well, it really doesn't matter. There's plum pie, from the fruit I canned from the new trees at the back of Bess's yard. You know, the ones that I planted when we got married." At least they were bearing fruit, she thought bitterly before wiping the thought away and continuing. "Just another few weeks and we should be having rhubarb. I checked the plants today and they're looking good for so early in the season. Of course, I'll have to be careful about the weeding. Last year . . . "
"There's no call to be nervous," he said in response to her babbling. "I've got no intention of making your life miserable over those children, Olivia."
"Oh, Spencer! I just know we're doing the
And she'd gotten a smile out of him, once or maybe twice, a genuine smile that went straight to her heart and made her so warm she had to loosen her dressing gown belt a little. "Really," she said, flipping out of her way the braid that had fallen over her shoulder. "Won't you let me help?"
"Seems to me one of the people in this room was always flunking arithmetic and having her little bottom tanned by her papa for not studying hard enough.'' There was just the bud of a smile around his lips. Could she coax it into blooming? "And that person's offering to help me with my numbers?"
"Well, I remember one time my big brother's friend tried to help me with my homework and I wound up with two whoppings—one for cheating and one for still getting all the answers wrong!"
"I don't remember it happening quite like that," he said, but the smile was blossoming, all the same.
"Don't you remember telling me it was a good thing I had so much padding?'' She touched a hand to her bottom and watched the color come into his face.
"I shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, his mood shifting so quickly Olivia wasn't sure whether it was a genuine change or if he was going to tease her some more, tell her that the padding she had then was nothing compared to what she carried behind her now. But he said nothing. He just sat, pencil dangling, from his fingers, and stared at her, his gaze roaming from her messy hair to the toes of her slippers.
"I really did learn my numbers, finally," she said when the silence became unbearable.
"Oh, did you? When was that?"
When I figured out how many days until I would lose you forever to Kirsten. And every month when I add by sevens until I count four weeks . . . "When you and Remy grew up and there wasn't anything for me to do but my lessons."
Spencer studied her with a faraway look on his face. Finally he put the pencil into his account book to hold his place and then closed the ledger. "You turned out real nice, Livvy. I ever tell you that?'' he asked as he rose to his feet and stretched.
She swallowed hard. Those were some of the nicest words he had ever said to her. "No, Spence. You never did."
He picked up his empty cocoa mug and was headed for the stove when he stopped just inches from her. With just the pads of his callused fingers he gently stroked her cheek and shook his head sadly. "So damn soft," he muttered.
She reached up, hoping to capture his hand and stay it, but she wasn't fast enough. "I'll get you some more," she offered, following him to the stove and hovering as he helped himself. "There's still some pie left from the other day. Want some?''
"Pie?" he asked, as if he were trying to remember what that was. "I thought it was a cake of some sort."
"You mean my birthday genoise? With the coconut frosting? I couldn't even feed it to the chickens by the end of last week. So I made . . . well, it really doesn't matter. There's plum pie, from the fruit I canned from the new trees at the back of Bess's yard. You know, the ones that I planted when we got married." At least they were bearing fruit, she thought bitterly before wiping the thought away and continuing. "Just another few weeks and we should be having rhubarb. I checked the plants today and they're looking good for so early in the season. Of course, I'll have to be careful about the weeding. Last year . . . "
"There's no call to be nervous," he said in response to her babbling. "I've got no intention of making your life miserable over those children, Olivia."
"Oh, Spencer! I just know we're doing the
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