Page 4 of Whispers of Helena
“This is the kitchen,” he says, his voice filling the space. “You’ll probably spend a fair amount of time here.”
“It’s…big,” I murmur, eyeing the table and thinking about the number of plates that pass through here every day.
Eli smiles, following my gaze. “Big place, big appetites. You’ll find there’s usually around eight of us on the property. Then there’s Silas and Kiran.” I watch as his eyes move to my suitcase. “Let me show you to your room so you can set your things down.”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
The stairs creak as we make our way to the second level. Near the end of the hall, Eli gestures toward a door. “This will be your room. It’s the only one besides Silas’s that has its own bathroom.” He fiddles with the keyring, removing one of the keys and hands it to me. “This is the key to the lock. You’ll be the only woman on the property, so we want you to have your privacy.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll let you get settled, and I’ll tell Silas you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to meet you and go over everything you’ll need to know while you’re staying with us.”
“Sounds good.” I tuck the key in my pocket. “Um, Eli?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
I grin. “Please, call me Helena.”
“Okay, Ms. Helena.”
“What can you tell me about Silas?”
He glances down the hallway. “He’s just a lonely man. He does what he thinks is right, loves his son, and misses his wife.”
“He doesn’t sound so bad.”
Eli chuckles. “You might change your mind once you spend some time with him.” He points to the door next to mine. “That’s his room there and the boy, Kiran, his room is across the hall here.”
I nod. “Well, I’m going to get settled. Thank you, Eli.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Helena. If you need anything, let me know. Most of the men here won’t pay you any mind, but I’m always happy to help with anything.”
“That’s nice of you. Thank you. I’ll see you later.”
He smiles and walks down the stairs. I enter my room. It’s simple, but filled with light. Most of the space is filled with a large wooden bed, covered by a beautiful red patchwork quilt. A nightstand and a dresser with a mirror are waiting to store my belongings. There’s no closet, just a door to a small bathroom with a shower and enough room to turn around.
I set my suitcase and bag on the bed and begin unpacking, laying my clothes in the dresser and lining up my shoes and boots under the window. My items from my tote bag fill the nightstand, but I leave my Bible on the surface. Placing my tote inside my suitcase, I tuck it away under the bed.
Happy with my progress, I look at my watch. It’s 10am, which means the men will want lunch soon if I had to guess. Locking my door, I slip the key into the pocket of my jeans and walk down the hallway.
Amber
Silas
Years of bootstreading the same path have worn the old wood of the back steps. As I stare at the weathered back door, resistance knots in my stomach, knowing I’ll have to deal with the woman on the other side.
Eli suggested hiring someone to handle Kiran and prepare proper meals. He hounded me continuously for a week, swearing he’d quit if he had to make pot roast again for the third time in five days. Knowing the land as well—or better than—I do, and having been here since my inheritance, I couldn’t afford to test his bluff.
Not a single woman has lived inside these walls since my Caroline passed away, and I curse the God that took her from me, from Kiran, from this earth. My hands clench as I try to summon some resolve, blowing out a ragged breath before I finally haul myself up the steps.
I push through the door, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. A faint aroma of something roasting in the oven hangs in the air. Removing my hat, I hang it on the peg by the door, my gaze already fixed on her at the sink. The water runs in a steady stream as she works, but her back straightens at the sound of my footsteps. I watch her head tip up, staring out the window for abreath before she shuts the water off. When she turns, her eyes immediately find mine.
“Mr. Hayes?” Her voice is soft.
“Ms. Toth.” My reply comes low, but I don’t correct it.
Slowly, she wipes her hands on her apron, her eyes fixed on mine. Her steps are light, careful as she walks across the room. She stops just short of me, offering a hand—fingers steady but delicate—the gesture hovering between us.
