But his steps veered toward the front door.
Her spoon grew idle in the thickening sauce. She could hear him pause, likely picking up his bags, then he opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind him, quietly, with only a click.
She leaned the spoon against the rim of the pot, pivoted, and started toward the doorway. She wanted to chase after him and say a real goodbye, maybe give him a hug, maybe thank him again for his help the previous night. But she grabbed onto the worktable to halt herself.
A moment later, as the wagon creaked and rumbled on its way past the house, she refused to look out the window at Philip passing by. Finally, when the sound of the wagon faded into the distance, she walked into the front room and plopped down onto the sofa with a huff of frustration.
Good riddance. She was glad Philip Berg was finally out of her life. He’d put her on edge since the very first moment she’d seen him at their first dinner together at Mrs. Bancroft’s, although she could admit his witty remarks and banter had been a welcome relief from the usual boring conversations.
As she stared out the window—certainly not with the hope that she’d see him returning—her attention snagged upon a square item sitting beside the door.
It couldn’t be.
She stood and crossed to it.
Oh, but it was.
She knelt beside the box, slipped the metal clip loose, then carefully opened the lid. There, inside a case of black velvet, sat his camera.
She fingered the wooden top, the folded leather bellows, and then the lens.
Her gaze swept over the area by the door. It was empty. He’d taken everything else, including the tripod.
So how had he forgotten this?
Her heart pattered with a sudden thrill. Did that mean he’d have to come back for it? And if he did, what would she say or do differently?
“No.” She whispered the word harshly.
She flipped the camera case lid closed, secured the hook in place, and then stood.
She didn’t want a man in her life right now. And if she did, she wouldn’t want one who came back for a camera. She’d want a man who came back for her.
7
Philip rolled the wagon to a stop in front of the sawmill. The gray clouds overhead had begun to spit rain, and the temperature was quickly dropping.
He’d spent the better part of the afternoon searching for a hired hand for Felicity, but he hadn’t liked any of the men he’d interviewed. Not a single one.
As a result, he’d been left with no other choice but to ride out to Weston Oakley’s spread and ask him to go over each day and help Felicity. Even if Philip didn’t think the fellow was right for a woman like Felicity, he was the best option. He was kind and considerate and cared enough about her that he wouldn’t take advantage of her.
Even so, as Philip studied first the sawmill and then the grain mill farther upriver, he couldn’t stop jealousy from slicing through him. The mills were neat and organized, both tall wooden buildings in good repair, the waiting wagons lined up in an orderly fashion, mill hands working diligently, hefting heavy loads of cut timber or bags of milled grain into the waiting wagons.
Had he hoped for worse? That Weston’s businesses would be ramshackle and rundown? That he’d have an excuse not to involve Weston in Felicity’s life after all?
The tall, dark-haired man wasn’t in sight—not around the mills and not down the tree-lined lane that led to what appeared to be a fairly new home that had to be Weston’s. Of course, it was nothing like the palatial residences his family lived in, but it was a fine home for the high country—two stories with a wrap-around porch, painted a light yellow, with plenty of big windows. Behind it sat a decent-sized barn and large paddock with a number of horses and steers.
A dog lying on the porch lifted its head at the sight of Philip, but then must have decided he wasn’t a threat and rested his head back on outstretched front legs.
If Weston wasn’t available, Philip would have no choice but to ride away, his mission to hire help for Felicity unfulfilled. And then he’d be obliged to return to her boardinghouse for another night. He couldn’t in good conscience leave her to fend for herself a moment longer than she already had.
The problem was, Felicity was right about his leaving. If he went back and kept dragging his feet, he was only postponing the unavoidable departure—if not for Denver, then for someplace else after that.
To make matters worse, the longer he stayed, the more he risked putting her into danger. Any association with him had to remain short and shallow and superficial. That was what he’d been trying for all along. But somehow with her, it hadn’t been enough.
With a sigh, he hopped down from the wagon, the ground beginning to grow slushy with the rain that was now falling harder and contained the sting of ice. He approached an older fellow who had the look of someone in charge. After inquiring about Weston, he learned the boss had ridden up to a new mill he’d recently purchased in a nearby mining town and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.
Philip instructed the mill worker to pass along a message—that upon returning, Weston needed to start helping at Felicity’s boardinghouse. Then Philip hopped back up onto his wagon, his mind made up. He had no choice but to stay one more night with Felicity.
He veered the wagon south, his heart suddenly lighter. Another night wouldn’t cause any trouble in the scope of things. Declan would be fine without him.
After riding only a short distance away from the mills, the rain began falling with increased intensity . . . and it started to freeze over everything, covering the trees, brush, and wagon road.
His garments, already damp, quickly became saturated, chilling him to his bones. A sheen of ice soon slicked over his hat and coat and his gloves so that he could hardly bend his fingers to hold on to the reins. The old gelding slipped and slid, and the wagon twisted back and forth.
Finally, after nearly falling, the horse stopped and refused to budge. The clouds hung low in the sky and continued to pour out a mixture of rain and ice with no sign of stopping. As Philip descended from the wagon and his feet touched the ground, he slipped and almost landed on his backside. Only his quick reflexes and grabbing on to the wagon kept him from going down.
The barren wilderness spread all around—the foothills covered in tufts of dried grass, brown shrubs, and a few trees that had lost their leaves. The clouds obscured the mountain peaks and seemed to be rolling in even faster, stormy and dark and loaded with more precipitation.
He’d be better off heading directly for Felicity’s boardinghouse rather than going into town first. He didn’t know the distance that remained, but he needed to push forward.
He inched his way toward the front of the gelding. He had no choice but to lead the creature on foot. As he grabbed onto the horse’s bit and gathered the lead line, he used both to stabilize himself even as more ice pelted him.
After long moments of coaxing, he managed to get the horse moving again, but the pace was slow and unsteady.
An uneasiness nagged at him. If he weren’t careful, he might not make it to the boardinghouse, might even end up stranded in the foothills until the storm passed through. Then again, with the cold air blowing against him and as wet as he was, he could easily freeze if he didn’t find shelter.
At some point, the wind picked up, making his trek even more treacherous and miserable. He tried to use the gelding to block the pelting ice, tried to draw warmth from the creature. But nothing could protect him from the storm’s growing intensity.