The greeting was perfectly cordial. The same three words he'd said every morning for the past few days. And yet, Ivy sensed something—a slight stiffening of his shoulders—an almost imperceptible retreat in his tone.
Of course, he’s retreating.Disappointed, she dried her hands on the cloth that hung from a peg beside the sink.
He half-turned and handed her the mug.
Ivy wrapped her fingers around the warm enamel.What did you expect? That one evening under the stars would change everything?
She took a sip and willed the small sting of hurt to dissolve. As she watched him ladle oatmeal into three bowls without meeting her eyes, the feeling lingered. “Did you sleep well?” she ventured, moving to sit at the table.
“Well enough.” He set a bowl and spoon in front of her, followed by a napkin, the honey pot, and a small pitcher of milk. “Jewel's still asleep. I’ll bet Hank kept her up late.”
“Or maybe she kept him up,” Ivy said lightly. “After all, she had six letters and twenty numbers and three songs to show off.”
“True,” he said, with just a shadow of a smile.
It’s like we’re back to day one.
Fine,she told herself, drizzling a spoonful of honey into her oatmeal.He's entitled to his distance. And you have a letter to write, lessons to plan, and a child to teach. That is enough.
But the words—that is enough—had begun to feel like a prayer she was losing faith in.
The distancefrom Ivy that Torin imposed in the morning stayed with him through the day—present, persistent, and impossible to ignore, no matter how many tasks he threw himself into.
He knew he was being unfair. Ivy hadn't done anything wrong.
Torin finally resorted to chopping firewood, even though he already had plenty, just to tire himself out. But his thoughts refused to be distracted.
When the aurora had blazed overhead and Ivy had tilted her face to the sky, her eyes reflecting green fire, her lipsparted in wordless awe, something had cracked open inside him. Not desire, exactly—though that, too, simmered inside him, a constant low hum he'd grown accustomed to ignoring.
But something deeper. Something that felt dangerously likebelonging. As if this particular woman with her patient hands and quick mind and generous laugh had been fashioned to fit the empty spaces in his life.
He'd wanted to take her hand. The urge had been so strong, so visceral, that he'd had to press his palms flat against the cold rock to keep them still.
The memory made him attack the firewood with more force than necessary, sending the axe biting deep into the round of pine, making chips fly.You felt the same way about Mary Beth, and look how that ended.
But the comparison rang hollow, and he knew it. What he'd felt for Mary Beth had been the infatuation of a young man dazzled by ethereal beauty and social standing—a surface attraction that crumbled at the first life test.
The attraction he felt for Ivy was built on something altogether more substantial— on watching her teach his daughter with tireless creativity, on seeing her crouch to help Jewel gather snowdrops without a thought for her dress, on hearing the music she coaxed from her harp in the quiet evenings that had become the best part of his day. On the way she'd looked at his imperfect, wonderful daughter and seen not a deficiency but a child worth fighting for.
That's what makes her so dangerous. Not her pretty face, but her good heart.
He brought the axe down hard. The wood split cleanly, the two halves falling away from each other. He picked them up and added them to the growing pile.
She's Jewel's governess. She depends on you for her livelihood. Any feelings you harbor are irrelevant,inappropriate, and unwelcome. You are not the kind of man who takes advantage of a woman's dependence.
He stacked the split wood methodically—small pieces on the left for the stoves, larger ones on the right for the fireplaces—and carried an armload inside, passing through the kitchen where Ivy sat with Jewel at the table. His daughter was tracing the shape of the blue felt letterHwith her finger, her tongue protruding in concentration. “Bue. Aych. Huh,” she murmured.
A piece of chalk in her hand, Ivy bent over the table to straighten a remnant of flowered fabric. Chuckling, she looked up at him.
He couldn’t help exchanging a shared smile at his daughter’s mastery of H, before bending to fill the woodbox. When he straightened, he could see an I, judging by the straight lines she was marking with chalk.I for Ivy.
He pulled off his leather gloves and tossed them on the counter. Taking longer than necessary to wash and dry his hands, Torin stole glances at the two of them bent over their work.
On the table beside Ivy's sewing things lay a sheet of writing paper, half covered with her neat copperplate.The letter to her sister.
Jewel looked up. "Pa-pa, watch." She held up the felt letter and traced the sides with her finger. “Aych.” Then, with evident pride, she said, “Aych for Han.”
“H for Hank," Torin agreed, managing a smile that he hoped looked more natural than it felt. "Very good, Sweetheart. Hank is going to be so proud when you show him.”
