Ruth smiled despite herself.
“What?”
“You are terrible at crime.”
Jonah looked at her.
“You find that amusing?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“I hired you to cook.”
“Remember?”
Ruth laughed.
That laughter had become common now.
The house changed faster as autumn deepened.
Nell began keeping a reading notebook.
Tom followed Jonah everywhere he was allowed.
The boy learned to oil hinges.
Then saddles.
Then, with supervision, how to hammer nails without striking his thumb every third attempt.
Jonah built him a small workbench.
Ruth discovered it in the barn.
“You made that?”
Jonah shrugged.
“Needed one.”
“For what?”
“Six-year-old ranch business.”
Ruth looked at him.
He looked away.
She smiled.
Later that evening, she found a shelf installed beside Nell’s bed.
For books.
Jonah had done that too.
The children were entering his life in ways neither adult could pretend were temporary.
Ruth began noticing other things.
How Jonah always waited until everyone else had food before filling his own plate.
How he checked every horse personally after a hard day.
How he never raised his voice unless danger required it.
How tired he looked after midnight.
How broad his back was beneath a work shirt.
She noticed that last detail more often than she liked.
Jonah noticed her too.
At first, he tried not to.
That failed.
Ruth was not delicate.
She did not move like the women in fashion plates.
She moved with purpose.
Strong hands.
Full body.
Broad hips beneath practical skirts.
When she leaned over the kitchen table rolling dough, Jonah sometimes forgot what he had come into the room to ask.
One afternoon, she caught him.
“Mr. Rourke.”
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“You have been standing there for a full minute.”
“I know.”
“Did you need something?”
He looked at the skillet.
“No.”
Ruth flushed.
“Then stop staring.”
Jonah took one step closer.
“I’m trying.”
The room became very quiet.
Ruth gripped the wooden spoon.
“That does not sound convincing.”
“It isn't.”
Her heart beat faster.
He remained several feet away.
No touching.
No assumption.
That mattered.
Ruth turned back to the stove.
“Your supper will burn.”
Jonah’s voice dropped.
“I’m not looking at the supper.”
She looked over her shoulder.
The expression in his eyes was unmistakable.
Ruth had not been looked at like that in years.
Maybe ever.
Samuel had loved her.
She believed that.
But Samuel’s attraction had faded into habit long before he died.
Jonah looked at her as though every inch of her existence had become difficult to ignore.