Lone Star Heiress

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“No need,” she said, mimicking him, “I’ve got that job well in hand.”

That nudged his brow up a notch. “You plan to collect your own worms?”

“Of course.” It wasn’t as if she’d had anyone around to do it for her back home.

“And bait your own hooks?”

He seemed even more surprised at that. She supposed it wasn’t the most ladylike of tasks. But she refused to apologize for it. “It’s like threading a needle.”

That teased a grin from him. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

She watched surreptitiously as he scooped water with the pail and dumped it into the barrel. His very broad, solid back was to her. She didn’t figure there was much as could stand against a man with a back like that. Especially one with as good a heart as Mitch seemed to have.

That combination of strength and heart was mighty attractive in a man. A woman would be lucky to have a man like Mitch looking out for her.

For a heartbeat she recalled that moment on the trail, how the light in his eyes had deepened as he’d stared at her and everything else had seemed to fall away. Then she gave her head a shake and quickly turned to bait her hook.

As she dropped her line in the water, she noticed a slight tremble in her hands.

* * *

As they cleaned their catch at the water’s edge, Ivy argued that her five fish to his three clearly indicated she was the better fisherman. He insisted it was more about the quality of the catch and his three easily outweighed her five.

Ivy enjoyed their spirited discussion—it was the kind comfortable friends would have. And she hadn’t had a friend like that in a long time, thanks to the outcast status Lester Stokes had foisted on her.

When they arrived back at the cabin, Ivy left Mitch to tend to Seeley while she went inside with the fish. Poking around in the kitchen, she found cornmeal, salt and a small crock with bacon grease. She also found a jar of pickled tomatoes—just the thing to go with pan-fried fish.

By the time she had all the fixings for their meal gathered up, Mitch had returned. “Thanks again for taking care of the animals,” she said.

He merely nodded. For a schoolteacher he certainly wasn’t talkative. Was he this way in his classroom, too?

Then he waved toward the stove. “I can do the cooking,” he said. “You’ve had an active morning for someone still recuperating.” His serious expression lightened as he gave a lopsided smile. “I’m not much of a cook, but I do know how to fry fish.”

She shook her head. “It’s your turn to sample my cooking.”