“You hungry?” he asked. She didn’t look all that proper with her hair wild. It was long, and he’d bet she usually wore it in a knot on the back of her neck. That was how all librarians wore their hair, right? He had to fight not to kid her about letting her hair down.

She shook her head no, then saw the plate with the sandwich beside her bed. “I could eat a little.”

He awkwardly lifted her to a seated position and put every unused pillow he could find behind her. When he stood back, tears filled her eyes but she didn’t complain. He brought her a cup of soup he’d been rewarming while she slept, and she asked if he’d eat with her.

He set a tray beside the bed so he could face her as they ate. She handled the soup fine, but he ended up helping her with the sandwich.

“What do I call you?” he asked. “Miss Remington?”

“Call me Amelia and I’ll call you Harrison.”

“I think I’ll call you Millie, pretty lady. I’ve always liked that name, and it fits you.”

She looked up at him. “I guess Millie is fine since you seem stuck on it, but why do you call me pretty lady? Unless you are blind, you must see that doesn’t fit me.”

He studied her for a minute. “You’re wrong, Millie. You are pretty. Don’t tell me no one has ever told you how beautiful you are. There’s a grace about you.”

“You’re not going to compare me to a horse again?”

“No, but I do love that chestnut-colored hair of yours.”

He could see it in her eyes. No man had ever noticed her. He’d seen a hundred women who thought they were beautiful and were not, but he’d never seen one who was lovely and fragile but didn’t know her worth.

Finally, she spoke. “I’m smart. That’s enough for this lifetime. I’ve never been pretty.”

Hank knew if he said anything more, he’d be arguing with her. He couldn’t change her mind now, maybe ever. So he switched the conversation to how he fixed his father’s car.

She leaned back and closed her eyes as he watched her. Once more, the line of her neck, the classic strength of her face reminded him of a painting. He couldn’t resist brushing his fingers lightly over her hair to push it away from the porcelain perfection of her.

“Pretty” wasn’t the right word for her. “Graceful” was.