“Do you dance?”
“No.”
Jane waited for him to offer more, but he remained silent. She said, “It occurred to me that you might be a better than tolerable partner.”
“You’re still talking about dancing, aren’t you?”
Jane’s lips twitched. “Yes, Mr. Longstreet. I’m still talking about dancing.”
“What put that notion in your head?”
“That you’d be better than tolerable? The way you walk, I suppose.”
“The way I walk.”
She opened her eyes a fraction and regarded him behind the shading of her lashes. “I thought I noticed a rhythm in your stride.”
“More likely the pounding in your head.”
“That might well be true.” She laid the back of one hand across her forehead. “I apologize that I am unwell. I had hoped to sleep it away and join you at dinner. Instead I just slept. Did you think I was avoiding you?”
“It crossed my mind.” He rose from the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go for Dr. Wanamaker? The town has a doctor also. Kent. I could ask him to come.”
“No. I will be fine. Really.” The light from the lamp was endurable now. She opened her eyes the rest of the way. “Are you leaving?”
“Just moving to the chair,” he said. “Unless you want me to go?” This last was said with enough inflection to make it a question.
Jane said, “No. Stay. By my reckoning, we have less than twenty hours remaining on your twenty-four-hour clock. Unless you have changed your mind about that, we should take advantage of the time we have.”
Morgan sat. He did not tip the chair on its hindquarters but leaned forward instead and rested his forearms on his knees. He folded his hands and made a steeple with his thumbs. “Are you unwell often?” he asked.
The question was startling for its blunt delivery, but Jane understood the necessity of it. “Not often.”
“You carry powders. I counted a dozen packets. To my way of thinking, that’s about nine more than ‘some’.”
“I did not know if I would be able to purchase them along the way or find them after I arrived. In my experience, it is better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them. The last time I used one of the packets was three months ago. To my way of thinking, Mr. Longstreet, that is the very definition of ‘not often.’” She observed the narrow twisting of Morgan’s mouth. He had a wry grin, accented by a faint, crescent-shaped scar at the right corner of his lips. The scar made a fleeting impression as a dimple but an enduring one as a wound. She wondered at it but did not ask.
“Your sass is back, Miss Middlebourne. I didn’t imagine the powder could work so fast.”
It was not working. Not yet. “You riled me,” she said, and did not know what to make of it when he nodded as though her answer satisfied him.
Morgan tapped his thumbs together. “You wrote that you knew how to cook. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“I saw the cookbook.”
“It’s for reference. And for trying new things. There is a section of helpful hints for the young housekeeper. I thought I should learn as much as I could.”
“You grew up in a home with servants.”
“They preferred to be called the help. Cousin Franny called them servants.”
“There is no house help at Morning Star.”
“Your letters made that clear.”
“I want to make it clearer. I have four men who work the ranch with me. The three Davis brothers and Max Salter. You’ll be cooking for them sometimes.”
