Free Weathered Too Young by Marcia Lynn McClure Page B

feelings , for she was nothing if not guarded in her thoughts.
    “We oughta be back by midnight,” he said.
    She nodded. “Enjoy yourselves. You are very deserving of reprieve.”
    “So are you,” he said. He smiled at her , and Lark fought to keep her sudden breathlessness hidden.
    “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll just be about my own business ,” Lark said. “Good night.”
     
    Slater couldn’t help but smile as Lark began to struggle with the knot in her apron at her back. He’d not missed the fact that their little housekeeper had a tendency to grow frustrated with apron strings, tie them into a knot , and forget she had done so until the end of the day. More often than not, Lark found herself frustrated with the task of trying to remove her apron when the knot had grown so tight at her back.
    She grumbled under her breath , already frustrated as her small fingers struggled with the ties.
    “Here,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her away from him. “You best let me get you out of this apron…or else we’re bound to come home in the dead of night to find you still tied up in it.”
     
    Lark couldn’t move! She felt his hands at the small of her back—heard a mild, mumbled cuss escape him as he struggled with the knot in her apron strings. She had a sudden and nearly overwhelming desire to lean back—to rest her body against the strength of his and beg him to enfold her in his strong arms. But these were schoolgirl fancies , and she inwardly scolded herself—and harshly.
    “There ya go,” he said at last.
    Lark exhaled the breath she’d been holding as she felt her apron go slack at her waist. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the white ruffled bib apron up over her head. She’d braided her hair that morning instead of pulling it up into a more practical bun , and somehow her braid caught in the apron.
    “Ow!” she exclaimed, pausing in removing the apron—for the motion had pulled her hair as it entangled it with the apron.
    “Here,” Slater said. “Hold on . Y ou’re all snarled up here…”
    Lark felt his hand at the back of her neck—felt the rough calluses of his palm against her flesh—and she could not will away the goose bumps erupting over her arms. She could feel his hands working to separate her hair from the apron , and simply the knowledge he was touching her caused her to slightly tremble.
    “There ya go,” he said, pulling the apron off over her head and handing it to her.
    “Thank you,” s he said, draping the apron over her arm and pulling her long braid to lie over one shoulder. “Enjoy your evening, Slater.”
    “I will,” he said.
    She watched him take the stairs two at a time—heard him begin to whistle. She couldn’t help but smile , for it was a rare thing to see Slater Evans experiencing a moment of lightheartedness.
    Lark sighed. There was no reason to cook supper now. She’d satisfy her hunger with some bread and butter , perhaps a strip of Slater’s special peppered jerky. Then she’d choose a book from the s h elves in the parlor and do nothing—nothing at all.
    Suddenly, an evening alone began to appeal to her, and Lark smiled and began to hum as she rather strolled into the kitchen to tuck her apron away in the pantry. She giggled a moment later when she realized she’d been humming the same tune Slater had been whistling— “ Little Lucy Sparrow. ” A vision of her mother sitting next to her bed, darning stockings , and singing “ Little Lucy Sparrow ” wafted through her mind , causing her heart to ache a moment. She wondered if Slater’s mother had once sung the song to him.
    “ Little Lucy Sparrow, perching on a limb so narrow…oh, won’t you trill a love song for me? ” Lark began to sing. She smiled, remembering how dear the song was to her—how dear were the memories of her sweet mother. “ A handsome caballero that wears a wide sombrero…is only what I wish for, you see. ” Lark giggled, suddenly