Page 6 of Calling on the Matchmaker
He really should. “I won’t.”
The rustling resumed.
Finola had the prettiest pale skin he’d ever seen. And her freckles only added to its appeal, as if they were meant to be kissed one by one. What would it be like to lie next to her in bed and spend the day kissing each and every freckle?
Heat shot through him like liquid metal.
He straightened and rubbed at his eyes again. What in the blazes was wrong with him? He had to get himself under control. “Maybe it would be best if I left.” His voice caught, and he had to clear his throat.
“Wait a wee minute.” She had the lilting hint of Irish brogue that some of the natural-born children of immigrants had even though they’d never lived in Ireland.
His muscles tightened with the need to flee. But another part of him wanted to linger.
Before he could make up his mind on whether to go or stay, the stall door opened. “I’m nearly done.”
He stared ahead at light coming through the back of the livery. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she was dressed and stuffing the nun’s robe into her sack.
The tension in his body eased, and he slowly pivoted to face her.
She released the bag, the robe only halfway tucked away, and straightened.
He gave her a once-over only to realize that half the buttons on her bodice weren’t latched and her feet were still bare. Even her feet were pale and dotted with freckles. No doubt he’d find a trail among the freckles and trace it, starting at her toes and working his way up her leg.
Blast him again. He had to get out of the livery and away from this woman before he said—or did—something really stupid.
“Since it looks like you’re okay, I’ll be on my way.” He spun and began stalking toward the front of the livery, betting that she wouldn’t follow him.
“Don’t go.” Her footsteps padded behind him only a few paces, then halted. “I want to doctor your wound.”
“It’s a small cut.” At least he hoped it was. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I have some medicinal supplies given to me by the Sisters of Charity—”
“I’m fine.” Without slowing his stride, he pushed past the stalls and entered into the haymow. Tom Dooley, who managed the livery with his dad, paused midsentence in histransaction with a fellow standing just outside the wide double doorway with a pair of bay Morgans. Gangly with his tattered clothing hanging on his sticklike frame, Tom had yet to regain all the weight he’d lost during his final year living in Ireland.
When Tom and his dad had shown up at the wagon shop last summer begging to work with the horses, Riley hired them even though he hadn’t needed more help at the time. He figured it was the least he could do to ease the suffering of those who were escaping the terrible starvation in Ireland after recent years of failed potato crops.
“Don’t mind me, Tom.” Riley didn’t dare look over his shoulder at Finola. He didn’t want to draw attention her way, not when she was yet in a state of undress. Although Tom was a good man, one look at Finola and he’d be following her around like a pup wanting his chin scratched.
“Didn’t rightly expect to see you.” Tom tipped up the brim of his flat cloth cap. Something in the young man’s eyes slowed Riley’s steps.
“I’m just passing through.”
“Oh, aye. Big Jim’s looking for you, so he is.”
Riley halted, a sudden hitch in his chest. “Big Jim?”
“Aye.”
The fellow never left the wagons. He had every right to do so, was a free man and a master craftsman. But he preferred a quiet, simple life and kept to himself.
“Spit it out, Tom.” Whatever had happened must have been serious if Big Jim needed him.
Tom hesitated. “’Tis your old man. He’s in a bit of a bother.”
Riley’s body tensed. “What kind of bother?”
“He’s had a heart attack.”
