Ten minutes later, she walked back down, perfectly composed. Her hair was swept back at the side with mother-of-pearl combs; her face was lightly touched with makeup. She’d pulled on the first thing she’d come to in her still-unpacked trunk. The tight black jeans proved an interesting contrast to the bulky white sweatshirt. Cliff sat on the bottom landing, sending the cowardly puppy into ecstasy by rubbing his belly. Maggie frowned down at the crown of Cliff’s head.

“You weren’t going to say a word, were you?”

He continued to rub the puppy, not bothering to look up. “About what?”

Maggie narrowed her eyes and folded her arms under her breasts. “Nothing. Was there something you wanted to discuss this morning?”

He wasn’t precisely sure why that frosty, regal tone appealed to him. Perhaps he just liked knowing he had the ability to make her use it. “Still want that pond?”

“Yes, I still want the pond,” she snapped, then gritted her teeth to prevent herself from doing so again. “I don’t make a habit of changing my mind.”

“Fine. We’ll be clearing out the gully this afternoon.” Rising, he faced her while the puppy sat expectantly at his feet. “You didn’t call Bog about the kitchen floor.”

Confusion came and went in her eyes. “How do you—”

“It’s easy to find things out in Morganville.”

“Well, it’s none of your—”

“Hard to keep your business to yourself in small towns,” Cliff interrupted again. It amused him to hear her breath huff out in frustration. “Fact is, you’re about the top news item in town these days. Everybody wonders what the lady from California’s doing up on this mountain. The more you keep to yourself,” he added, “the more they wonder.”

“Is that so?” Maggie tilted her head and stepped closer. “And you?” she countered. “Do you wonder?”

Cliff knew a challenge when he heard one, and knew he’d answer it in his own time. Impulsively, he cupped her chin in his hand and ran his thumb over her jawline. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but became very still. “Nice skin,” he murmured, sweeping his gaze along the path his thumb took. “Very nice. You take good care of it, Maggie. I’ll take care of your land.”

With this, he left her precisely as she was—arms folded, head tilted back, eyes astonished.

By ten, Maggie decided it wasn’t going to be the quiet, solitary sort of day she’d moved to the country for. The men outside shouted above the machinery to make themselves heard. Trucks came and went down her newly graveled lane. She could comfort herself that in a few weeks that part of the disruption would be over.

She took three calls from the Coast from friends who wondered how and what she was doing. By the third call, she was a bit testy from explaining she was scraping linoleum, papering walls, painting woodwork and enjoying it. She left the phone off the hook and went back to her putty knife and kitchen floor.