The girls clattered in with buckets full of snow, their coats unbuttoned and their hats hanging down their back. Seemed the sun had grown warm as they worked.
“We filled them to the top, Mr. Blue,” Eleanor said. “Aren’t you glad we’re here to help?”
“You are indeed a great help.” Hopefully she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t truly answered her question. Because he couldn’t bring himself to say he wasn’t glad of their presence, nor could he allow himself to confess he was. Not even to himself. The boundaries of his life were threatened by a stampede of smiles and hugs and admiring glances from two little girls. Even as the barriers of his heart were threatened by their stubborn mother.
Oh, for the peace of a mountain cabin and the company of nothing but cows and horses and the occasional crow.
Libby stood before him, her head tipped up as she regarded him curiously. “Mr. Blue, is Blue really your name?”
He nodded. He’d surely heard that question before.
“Why did your mama and papa call you that?”
“Libby!” Clara sounded shocked at her little daughter. “You know better than to ask personal questions.”
“No, I don’t.”
Blue laughed despite himself. “It’s okay. She’s not the first to wonder.” He dipped his head toward Libby. “See my hair? What color is it?”
Libby trailed her fingers through his hair, sending waves of crashing memories through him. Nancy had done the same as she’d said, “Papa, you and I are just the same.” She’d meant their hair, but her comment had always made him laugh.
“Maybe not exactly.” He and Alice had shared a look and a smile at Nancy’s innocence.
Libby pondered a moment before she answered. “It’s kind of reddish. Sort of sandy red. Right, El’nor?”
Eleanor nodded, her expression eager.
Blue straightened. “It’s red, and I don’t mind if you say so. Well, when I was born, my papa saw my red hair and said he didn’t want a son called Red, so he would name me Blue.”
Libby tipped her head. “Why didn’t he call you Yellow? I like yellow. It’s my favorite color.”
“You never call a man yellow.” He pretended to be shocked. Some men would take objection to even an innocent child using that term to describe them. Best she know that.
“Why not?”
“Because it means he’s afraid.”
“Scared?” she asked.
He nodded, and both girls giggled as they hurried away to the corner where they had bits of wood and shavings arranged in another play stage.
He shook his head. He remembered how little girls could get giggles over the silliest things.
Clara regarded him with eyes far too wide. “Blue, huh? And I thought it was a nickname.” She ducked her head, but if he wasn’t mistaken, her shoulders shook.
“Are you laughing at me?”
She shook her head and stifled her amusement. “Just at your poor father worrying about you being called Red.”
He grinned. “Actually, he was more concerned I’d be called Pinkie.”
She burst out in laughter. It echoed inside his heart, touching chords long silent, thrumming them to life.
He leaned back and let chuckles roll from his chest.
Their gazes caught and held. Slowly, their laughter ended, yet they continued to stare at each other. Her eyes darkened to dusky blue. Her look went beyond the surface and probed at his deepest thoughts and feelings, resurrecting yearnings he had buried when Alice and the children had died.
He reminded himself of that day. Of how he had vowed he would never again care that deeply for anyone.
Yet the reminder did not give him the strength to pull from her look.
It was Clara who broke away first. She stared at the planer in her hands, but she did not move it. Perhaps she was as stunned by the intense moment as he was.
* * *
Clara stared at her idle hands. For the life of her, she couldn’t think what to do with them. Why had she let herself be pulled into his gaze? Why had she allowed it to go on and on as if she’d wanted to learn his deepest thoughts and feelings? Had she forgotten her goal—to be free of a man’s control? She could trust no man.
Not that he was offering her anything but a temporary job.