Free Dawn of the Golden Promise by BJ Hoff

not totally check an answering smile.
    â€œWell, now, and wasn’t I thinking that it’s a splendid night for a stroll?” he said cheerfully. “Perhaps you’d join me?”
    Although she would rather have remained in the quiet kitchen with her book, Quinn gave in. He was The Law, after all, and in especially good standing with her employers; they did seem to dote on the man. It might not do to slight him too frequently.
    Besides, when he wasn’t baiting her or flaunting his Irishness, the sergeant made surprisingly good company. He might be a bit rough, and he seemed altogether uninterested in bettering himself, but something about the thickset policeman made it difficult to actively dislike him.
    For one thing, despite his being The Law and bold as a tinker, Quinn felt uncommonly at ease in his presence. He was almost always good-humored and seldom failed to make her laugh—a habit to which she wasn’t ordinarily given. Quinn had not found very much in life all that amusing.
    She hoped the man had no thought of anything more than a casual acquaintanceship. He had helped her out of a tight place on two occasions now, and for that, Quinn felt a certain amount of gratitude toward him. But that was all. Nothing more.
    The last thing she wanted was a man’s attention—especially a policeman’s attention, and especially a policeman like Sergeant Price.
    He was everything she did not admire in a man. He was gruff, uneducated, probably penniless—just another thick-necked, hardheaded Irishman. If the time ever came—and she couldn’t conceive that it ever would—when she found herself able to tolerate a touch from a man, it most assuredly would not come from a rough Irish policeman. Instead, he would be sensitive, well-educated, ambitious, and considerate. A gentleman. In other words, a man who was everything Sergeant Price was not.

    By the time they started back to the house, it was dark, and few people were about. Those who remained outside either sat talking on the front stoops of their houses or went about the evening business of pulling down blinds and locking up their stores.
    Denny realized with some frustration that, as always, he and Quinn had exchanged no conversation of any real depth—only the usual superficial blather about the weather and the newest activities taking place at Whittaker House.
    He had never had much trouble with the lasses—until this one. He had always had a pretty girl to take on a ferryboat ride or a picnic in the park, always a willing partner for the Saturday night socials at the hall.
    Although Denny didn’t exactly fancy himself a ladies’ man, neither was he entirely unaware that he held a certain appeal for women—both young ones and not-so-young ones.
    He had never thought much about this appeal one way or the other. He knew only that he enjoyed the company of women, and most seemed not to mind his. A lass did not have to be especially fair to attract Denny’s interest, but he did like a girl with some spirit to her.
    This Quinn O’Shea, now, she had more than her share of spirit. So far as her looks went, she was attractive enough, but not a beauty who would turn heads in a crowd—a bit too thin, a mere whippet of a lass, in truth. And those odd catlike eyes of hers could make a man downright uncomfortable. She had a way of peering at him as if he were a gulpin and nothing better.
    But on those rare occasions when he managed to coax a genuine smile from her, Denny found himself delighted, and every time she laughed aloud, he felt an unaccountable rush of warmth rise up in his heart. He had sensed right from the beginning that Quinn O’Shea was not the sort who laughed easily or foolishly.
    Sometimes he chastised himself for trailing after her so. She had a way of making him feel dull-witted and even clumsier than he actually was. No doubt she thought him a blockhead who could neither read nor