Can't Say No Read Online Free PDF Page B

lean-to in back. A trapper had built it some 150 years before, and without sophisticated tools had hand-chinked and notched the logs to make a snug fit. Gram had lathered whitewash on the inside walls—Bree had helped make that whitewash, stirring the hot lye mixture in a kettle outside for two days in a row.
    In one corner stood a functional spinning wheel and carder; beyond it was an old oak chest with white porcelain pitcher and water basin. Behind Bree was the cooking corner—the scarred converted dry sink, the ancient wood stove that still cooked the most delicious stew this side of the Appalachians, the butter churn and vinegar barrel used to preserve eggs in the winter. A fat iron kettle still rested on the brick hearth, so heavy a woman could barely lift it, and Bree could well remember the hours when wax had melted in that kettle to make candles, even though the place was wired for electricity.
    Gram used to say that people had lost the essence of life. That living wasn’t weekends, or punching in and out at nine and five and playing the politics of promotion. That people had forgotten about the natural order of things, the laughter that no one had to pay for, the peace that you couldn’t buy.
    Certain things in the cabin were purely decorative; others were—or had once been—functional: the cradle that hung from the whitewashed rafters; butter molds shaped like pineapples; the hooked rug in blue and red and cream. Dried baby’s breath and thyme still swayed from the ceiling…
    Covered in cobwebs. The whole place was wreathed in a half-inch layer of them. The early afternoon sunlight filtered through thick dust motes, nestled in spider webs, and sent mottled streams of yellow everywhere. Bree suddenly closed her eyes, aware of just how much work it was going to take to make the place livable again.
    She was so weary she could barely move; for two cents she’d have walked out and flown back home…but then she thought of Gram. A shaft of guilt pierced Bree, familiar and painful, for failing Gram when she’d needed her. And because of all those memories of laughter and purpose and joy, Bree was going to find the energy to fix the place again. And to put her life back together, and to make herself talk…
    “You don’t mind if I take a look upstairs, do you, honey?”
    “Wait!” Bree’s lips soundlessly formed the words, but it was too late. Busybody was already ascending the narrow stairs to the loft.
    Darn it, that was a private place. Some very foolish young-girl dreams were locked up there; Hart just plain didn’t belong, though it would probably sound silly to vocalize her objections, even if she could. It was just…the rope bed was in the loft, covered with a feather mattress so thick you sank into a cocoon when you lay down. Moonlight had a way of trickling over that bed when you first went to sleep, so bright you couldn’t sleep but only dream—and they were always good dreams. The softness and the silver promise of night were plain old-fashioned erotic. The aphrodisiac of dew-scented flowers always wafted in through the window; the linen always smelled as if it had been softened and dried in the sun—because it had been.
    A few moments later, Hart paused halfway down the stairs to close the loft’s trapdoor again, then took three more steps down and perched on a step, studying her. Bree felt warmth rise in her cheeks for no reason at all…or maybe because she was thinking about feather beds. Hart’s lips curled in a perfectly wicked smile. “The place is yours?”
    The lump in her throat felt thick and heavy. Yes, it was hers. Gram had left it to Bree in her will. Bree crumbled up the nasty note she had started to write, and simply penned out a plaintive, Please. Won’t you leave me alone?
    In four swift strides. Hart was down the steps and standing in front of her. He chucked her chin with two curled fingers, and his eyes searched hers fiercely. “Whatever it is, Bree, it’s not that