Page 99 of Snowbound Surrender
His eyes danced with mirth. “I noticed.”
She swallowed. Who knew what kind of scandalous items were tucked away up there? Heaven knew she’d found enough things in the rooms downstairs to provide an education for even the most stalwart soul.
“Did you find blankets?” she asked in a sheepish voice.
“I did.” Randall peeked at her as he struck a match and managed to get the kindling to light. “I even found a few that I could use.”
Miranda was mortified down to her toes. She couldn’t imagine what kind of filth those other blankets contained. Not for the first time, she cursed her Uncle Buford for not running a tighter ship, for getting so deeply involved in vice in the first place, and for saddling her with the whole mess.
The fire Randall had built finally took, and as the flames licked higher, melting the snow and starting to take the chill out of the bricks of the fireplace, Miranda tugged her hands out of the blanket around her shoulders and held them out to warm them.
“The stove comes next.” Randall got up and moved to her kitchen stove, opening the belly to shovel a bit more coal inside.
Miranda stayed where she was for the time being. She should really get moving and start breakfast for him. She was the hostess, after all, and if there was one thing her mother had always drilled into her, it was the importance of being a good one. The newly-crackling fire was such a delicious balm to her frozen limbs, though, that she stayed crouched in front of it until Randall had the stove lit.
It took even longer for the room to heat up and the stove to be hot enough to boil water for tea. Randall insisted on going to the main room of the saloon to light that fire and to check for any sort of storm damage, but Miranda was more than content to stay in the tiny cocoon of warmth that the fireplace and the stove in her apartment created. She fetched the leftover biscuits from last night’s dinner as well as eggs and a rasher of bacon from her cupboard and did her best to make a morning feast.
An hour later, she and Randall sat across her small table, eating dry biscuits, rubbery eggs, and undercooked bacon.
“I truly wouldn’t mind cooking for you one of these meals,” Randall said. He wore a smile, but Miranda suspected he didn’t actually like her cooking. “I have some experience in the kitchen.”
“From your time as a cabin boy?” she teased him, trying not to feel guilty about her own, pitiful skills.
Fortunately, Randall laughed at her joke. “From before that. As a boy, I had a glorious crush on our cook, Mrs. Foster.”
“Did you?” Her eyebrows flew up.
Randall chuckled sheepishly and nodded. “I was eight, she was forty-eight, but I knew it was meant to be. She taught me everything I know about cooking, baking, all of it. Those skills have come in mighty handy as I’ve traveled about. I even worked in a restaurant for a month when I was stranded at the end of the train line during my days as a railroad porter.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
A sudden, far-away look came to Randall’s eyes and he sighed, leaning his elbow on the table, chin in his palm. “I loved it.”
That was when Miranda noticed that he’d shaved. He must have done so before coming in to light the fires. She’d found him handsome with a bit of end-of-the-day scruff, but now his appearance was even more charming and manly. His curly hairfascinated her. And she was ready to admit fully that it was a comfort and a blessing to have him there in the midst of the storm.
“Maybe I will let you cook something,” she said, swirling her fork through her eggs and lowering her eyes flirtatiously. Her, Miranda Clarke, flirting. Would wonders never cease?
“I tell you what I do want to do, though,” he went on, finishing up the last of his breakfast. “I want to see if there’s a way to go outside and assess the amount of snowfall. Especially snow that might have fallen on the roof.”
“The roof?” Miranda stood and took his plate and hers, just as she’d done the night before.
And just as the night before, Randall stood with her and took their tin tea mugs and the teapot, following her to the counter. A homey thrill swirled through Miranda’s gut. It was almost like a routine, something people who had been together for a long while would do.
“The roof,” Randall repeated. “You always want to check the amount of snow that falls on your roof. Too much of it or too heavy a consistency and it could collapse the whole thing.”
Miranda gasped, her anxiety returning. “The roof could collapse?”
Randall shrugged, reaching for the pump to help her wash the dishes. “If whoever built this place was smart, they knew snow could be a problem and designed the roof accordingly.”
It took far more time and effort to get the pump to work, and when water did begin to flow, it was frigid and loaded with ice particles. Miranda tried not to think about what that could mean. Underground water usually stayed above a certain temperature. It had to be merely the water already in the pipe that was frozen. Either way, she and Randall washed the dishes quickly.
As soon as they were done, Randall set aside the cloth he’d used to dry them with a long, “Brrr!” and took her hands in his to warm them.
The simple contact of her icy hands with his, the way his long-fingered hands enveloped hers, sent spirals of a dangerous kind of heat all through her. She’d felt something like this all those times she’d been close to Micah, but not nearly this potent. Before she could stop herself, she was standing scandalously close to Randall. She could smell the salt of his skin along with a spicy cologne of some sort. It may have just been his shaving soap, but whatever it was sent sparks along her skin.
“We should go ahead and check the roof,” he said after a silence that went on too, too, deliciously long. His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat before stepping back. “I’d hate to see any damage to your saloon.”
Miranda studied his face for a moment, drank in the kindness in his eyes and the familiarity of his smile. Surely they must have known each other for more than just one day. There were people she’d spent every day of her life with that she didn’t feel a kinship to like this. Vicky, for one.
