McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [36]
Lorelei’s face burned. “Don’t be silly,” she said and, picking up her skirts, hurried over to supervise the chimney project. All she needed was for Mr. McKettrick to fall through her roof and do further damage.
“I don’t suppose you have a ladder,” Holt mused, standing at the western corner of the house, where the log beams met and crossed each other.
Lorelei hated admitting the oversight. For all her list-making and practical purchases at the mercantile, she hadn’t thought of a ladder, nor had Mr. Wilkins suggested one.
“No,” she said, pushing a lock of hair back from her face.
Holt headed for the front door, which stood open, and stepped inside without hesitation.
Lorelei hated for him to see the pallets on the floor, the stacked crates and boxes, the dust and cobwebs, but there was no stopping him.
He stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, and made his way past a variety of obstacles to take hold of the rusted chimney. Before Lorelei could say a word, he’d pulled out the section between the stovetop and the ceiling. A shower of cold ash, dust and soot rained down on both of them.
Lorelei was about to protest when he grinned at her, fair taking her breath away, and carried the stove pipe outside. She followed, dusting off debris from her slept-in dress as she went.
Raul had a fire going on the creek bank, and Angelina went inside, smirking a little as she swept past Lorelei. When she came out, she was carrying the coffeepot and a canister.
Holt raised the stove pipe on end and gave it a couple of good thumps on the ground. Dust, twigs, broken egg shells and a couple of dead mice landed in a heap at his feet. Covered in soot and ash, he looked damnably pleased with himself.
Lorelei felt her heart soften and firmed it right up by an act of will.
Whistling, Holt went back into the house, the dog on his heels.
Fickle creature, Lorelei thought. She’d fed that hound every night for two years, and here he was following a stranger around.
Holt came out again, carrying the broom. Without so much as a glance in Lorelei’s direction, he climbed to the roof, using the ends of the logs for footholds, tested the shingles with one foot and then proceeded to stand upright and pull the chimney free.
Lorelei realized she was holding her breath and drew in some air.
Taking up the broom again, Holt turned the bristle side up and jammed the handle into the hole.
Dust billowed out the front door.
Sorrowful barked joyously.
Holt replaced the chimney, tossed the broom to the ground, and started down. Sorrowful thought it was a game, took the broom handle in his teeth and ran madly around in a circle with it.
“Fool dog,” Holt said affectionately, tousling the animal’s misshapen ears as he passed.
Lorelei had to smile, but she told herself it was the dog’s antics that made her feel suddenly and inexplicably happy. Nothing whatsoever to do with Holt McKettrick.
She followed him into the cabin, watched as he put the stovepipe back in place.
“That ought to do it, he said, dusting his hands together. He was filthy, covered in grime, and there were little twigs in his hair.
“Look at this mess,” Lorelei fretted.
“You’re welcome,” Holt said.
Sorrowful tried to come inside, but he was still holding the broom handle in his teeth, and it thumped against the door frame, stopping him at the threshold. He looked abashed when several subsequent attempts failed.
Lorelei laughed, and so did Holt.
She went to the door and relieved Sorrowful of the broom. Feeling suddenly shy, she did the obvious thing and began to sweep.
To her surprise, Holt stopped her, gripping the handle.
“Lorelei,” he said quietly. “Go home. There’s trouble coming at you from two directions.”
She looked up into his handsome, earnest face and remembered their conversation at the cemetery behind St. Ambrose’s. He’d been putting yellow roses on a grave when she caught sight of him, his head