“I shouldn’t have washed your underwear,” she whispered. Handling a man’s underwear did strange things to a woman’s mind. But how could she have known?
“What?”
“I washed your clothes,” she said, pulling away from his hand. Her chin came up and her eyes turned defiant, daring him to comment.
For a long moment, he didn’t. He stood in front of her, tall, handsome, the muscles flexing along his forearms. The intensity in his gaze shot another bolt of lightning along Angie’s spine and she wondered frantically if she were coming down with an early summer ague. Standing this close to him made her feel feverish one minute and shivery the next.
She gave her head a shake, scattering images that made her feel as if she’d eaten something about to go bad.
“I came to ask about your jacket.” A quick glance didn’t reveal any burns on his arms or along the arrow of tanned skin at his throat. “I was going to wash it, but the jacket is ruined beyond mending.” Turning away from her, he gazed across the street at the reverend’s house. “Sam? It appears to be fire damage. Were you in some kind of danger?”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. Would you like to see the house?”
Frustration tugged her lips. She wanted to talk about the fire now. But the stubborn way he spread his legs and folded his arms over his chest told her the mystery would remain unsolved until he was good and ready to answer questions.
“I’d like that,” she said, letting him take her packages.
The painters on the ladders tipped their caps to her and smiled. One of them grinned and gave Sam a thumbs-up sign, which made Angie blush.
The house was wonderful, a house Angie could have happily lived in herself. Silently, she considered wallpaper patterns for the parlor, dining room, and bedrooms, and furnished the windows and floors with draperies and carpets. A large, leafy fern would have finished the bay window to perfection.
The large, airy kitchen had room for a worktable and a separate laundry area. “It’s a marvelous house, Sam,” she said with genuine admiration. She knew just enough about construction to know the structure was well built with a keen eye for detail.
Sam leaned against the doorjamb, watching her inspect the kitchen cabinets and shelves. “Maybe you heard about the new hotel down by the depot. There’s a grand opening Wednesday night.”
He seldom said what she expected him to, but she followed his lead. “One of the ladies mentioned the grand opening last week when we got together to do our mending. The event is by invitation only.”
“I’ve been invited. Would you like to go?” He cleared his throat and scuffed his boot tip at a paint speckle on the floor. “There’s a dance and a late supper.”
Her mouth dropped and she stared. “Tilly Morgan said people were coming up from Denver and Colorado Springs. She said the only locals invited were town dignitaries.”
“Turns out I’ve served on enough town committees that someone or other thinks I’m a dignitary.” A grin curved his lips. “Maybe you don’t know, but you have me and one of my committees to thank for the public toilet beside the bathhouse. Do you want to go to the grand opening?”
Already her mind raced through the trunk she hadn’t unpacked, discarding one gown, considering another. Then her eyes sharpened on Sam. “Do you have proper attire for a dance?”
He looked pained. “I can pull myself together when I have to.”
Her hand fluttered in an embarrassed little wave. “Of course you can. I just . . . I have to leave. The girls will be home by now, and I should be there.” A dance.
She had never attended a dance with a male escort or without her parents as chaperons. She had never danced with the same man twice, except her father. Or flirted during a waltz. Her frozen state as a married woman without a husband had made her a wallflower. During those rare times when the husband or brother of a friend had requested a duty dance, Angie’s behavior had been tediously circumspect.
He laughed at the excitement growing in her eyes. “I take it that you want to go?”
“Oh yes,” she said softly. “But wait. The girls.” For a moment she’d forgotten them. They were too young to leave alone. “Maybe Molly . . . I don’t think she and Mr. Johnson were invited.”
Sam walked her through the house and back to the street where they turned to face each other.
“I’m glad you came by.”
For some reason she had a tendency to forget how tall he was until she stood next to him. He was taller than Peter De Groot. And better looking, too, a traitorous little voice whispered in her mind. And he built wonderful houses that would be standing long after they were both gone. There was something remarkable about men who created enduring legacies.