At Wild Rose Cottage

“We’ll take care of this,” he said, his tone bordering on curt.

She stepped past him. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

“It’s best if our rhythm isn’t disrupted.”

Why was the guy so grim? For Pete’s sake, he could give the Three Bears lessons in grumpiness. Perhaps he realized how he’d sounded, because he gave her one of his smiles that wasn’t really a smile.

“We’re prepared for this kind of work,” he told her in a milder tone, “with boots and clothes that won’t catch on anything, and even if it does, the damage won’t matter. By the way, until we’re done, you’ll probably want to wear shoes in the renovation areas.”

Yikes. Emily had forgotten her bare feet. It just felt so nice not to worry about dressing like the owner of a fashionable clothing boutique. At this moment her suits, hosiery and high heels were languishing in storage. Life in Schuyler was so much more casual and comfortable.

“Whatever you say,” she said with false sweetness, not appreciating the way he dismissed her. She dropped the cabinet doors she’d been carrying.

Swiveling, she marched back into the house, but made sure to nod cheerfully at Vince since there was no point in taking her ire out on anyone else. He was examining the fireplace.

“Can any of it be salvaged?” she asked.

The carved mantelpiece was beautiful, but parts were crumbling.

“I’m not sure,” Vince told her. “There’s significant dry rot, probably from a leak at some point.”

Emily laughed. “That always seems like a contradiction in terms, water causing dry rot. But I sure hope something can be done. I’ve had visions of lining the mantel with pine boughs at Christmas, stockings hanging down. A fireplace is the heart of a room.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed.

She went to her bedroom to find her sandals. Much as she hated admitting that Trent was right, shoes were a good idea.

And maybe she should wear pants or something more practical than a flowing skirt, which she found more comfortable than most clothes. For a while she needed to keep in mind she was living in a construction zone.

* * *

TRYING TO GET into a better position for leverage, Mike positioned his strong leg and yanked at a stubborn section of the kitchen shelving. Pain shot through his left knee, a reminder of everything he’d lost at what turned out to be his final game.

Though he’d told reporters he didn’t recall much of the accident, it wasn’t true. He remembered every excruciating minute. Most of all, he remembered that there hadn’t been any need to make a sensational leap into the stands to catch a foul ball. It was late in the game and they’d been winning by a wide margin, but he’d done it to impress the redhead sitting three rows back.

When had looking good become more important than playing the game the way it should be played?

“I’ll get the other side,” Trent said, inserting his crowbar at the opposite end of the shelf. With a shriek of nails twisting out of the wall, the unit came toppling down.

Mike ground his teeth. When he’d started to work for Big Sky the previous summer, he had mouthed off whenever someone offered a hand. He didn’t need anyone’s help or pity. Then Trent had overheard and gotten pissed, saying he expected his employees to back each other up and Mike had better just deal with it.

He’d nearly yelled back and quit. After all, he didn’t need to work. He had his teacher’s salary and a large chunk of the money from his pro-ball days was still in the bank, but he’d go bonkers without having something hard and physical to do over the summer months...something real that wasn’t just make-work. Teaching summer school was out; it was tough enough being around hopeful youngsters nine months of the year.

So he hadn’t quit Big Sky or gotten into a shouting match. Anyway, it wasn’t that easy talking back to Trent when he was wearing his customary steely expression; he’d not only perfected a persona that would unnerve an old-time umpire, they’d also been friends since they were kids. Well...at least as much as Trent Hawkins could be friends.

He’d never been the kind of buddy you’d catch a movie with, or hang out with at the Roundup Café, admiring girls. Mostly they’d gone riding on the McGregor ranch, though Trent had spent hours pitching baseballs so Mike could get more batting practice. That was when Alaina had hung around the most, dutifully chasing after the balls for Trent to throw again.

A noise caught Mike’s attention and he saw their client picking up more debris from the floor.

Trent’s mouth tightened. “As I’ve explained, Emily, it’s best to leave that to us.”

“And I’ve decided that since it’s my house, I can haul trash out of it if I want to,” she informed him.

Mike’s lips twitched. Emily George had done what few of Trent’s employees had ever dared to do—contradict him. Seizing a chunk of cabinetry, she headed toward the swinging door. Mike glanced at Trent.

“Don’t say it,” Trent warned.

“Okay. By the way, I thought you preferred staying away from jobs for women...something about your personality being too abrasive?”

Trent’s eyes were impassive. “We’re really busy now and have crews out everywhere.”

“Whatever.” Mike quickly focused on his crowbar. It was obvious that Trent wasn’t working the job because he liked Emily. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She seemed nice and pretty in a low-key way, nothing like the sexy redhead he’d been showboating for that day. Actually, Emily was the sort of woman a teacher should think about dating.

Maybe he’d ask her out to dinner when he got a chance. He particularly liked that she was a newcomer. This way she couldn’t remember him as the local hero who’d come back a beat-up nobody.

* * *

TRENT BARELY CONTAINED his frustration as he watched Emily return and grab another load to take out to the Dumpster. At least she’d changed into roomy Levi’s and was wearing sandals, though hard shoes covering her toes would be better.

Some customers planned ahead and it was included in the contract that they would do certain aspects of the work. But it made him suspicious when they tried to “pitch in” after the fact. It often led to protests that the bill should be cut because they’d done part of the labor, which was usually about fifteen dollars’ worth of effort.

But his real concern had nothing to do with possible disputes over the final invoice; he just wanted Emily to leave everything alone.

He forced himself to relax. It was also common for clients to be so anxious to see progress that they tried to help, with no ulterior motives when it came to the final bill. Usually it didn’t take long before they unwound and left things in more expert hands. Besides, he’d much rather have Emily puttering around in the kitchen than doing it somewhere else in the house.

He hadn’t enjoyed hearing the enthusiasm in her voice when she’d talked about going through the junk in the attic. Would she be that curious about everything?

In the meantime he marched out to his truck and hunted for the smallest pair of leather gloves he could find. “Here,” he said roughly, thrusting them at Emily after she’d dropped another load in the Dumpster.

“No, thanks, I’m okay.”

“Wear them,” he snapped and returned to work, assuring himself that he wasn’t trying to rescue her, he was just preventing a delay in case of injury. He stuck a crowbar in the side of another stubborn cabinet and together with Mike, they yanked it off the wall.

Even if he couldn’t bulldoze the house into the dirt, it felt good to rip some of it apart.

“Hey, you can leave part of the work for me,” Mike chided.

“Huh?”

Emily had stepped back into the kitchen and was curiously looking their way.

“You’re going after those things as if the devil was chasing you,” he said.

“It just feels good to get back into the physical part of the business. I’ve been pushing too many papers lately,” Trent told him, picking his words carefully.

“If you say so.” Mike sounded doubtful and Trent wondered how much his face had revealed earlier. He didn’t like anyone to know what he was thinking.

Eduardo came through the door. “I’ve checked the plumbing, boss. It’s pretty bad—mostly corroded zinc pipes. There’ve been a few repairs with PVC, but poorly done.” He looked at Emily. “I see you want copper piping. It’s a good choice, though more expensive.”