Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller

struck Lydia then, and she closed her eyes against the onslaught, feeling color pound in her cheeks. When she looked again, she found Brigham watching her, his mouth solemn, his eyes full of humor.
    It was almost as though he knew what she'd been thinking, Lydia reflected harriedly, but that was impossible, of course. No one could truly know the mind of another.
    She reached for a bowl of sliced beets and took a second helping. The serving spoon clattered against the dish as she replaced it, and Brigham's gaze lingered, seemingly on the hollow at the base of her throat. Which, of course, was hidden by the fabric of her dress.
    Because it was Lydia's habit to charge when retreat seemed to be the only safe course, she spoke up in a clear voice. “I would like to speak with you privately after dinner, Mr. Quade,” she said to Brigham.
    He smiled, still amused, and Lydia wondered what it was about her that aroused such merriment. “As you wish, Miss McQuire,” he answered.
    Lydia quite literally felt Polly's gaze careen across the table to catch hers. Polly's lovely face was white with fear; she obviously thought Lydia was about to betray her confidence. An almost imperceptible shake of Lydia's head had to serve as reassurance.
    When the meal was over, Lydia rose and cleared her place at the table. The doors of the study stood open to the rest of the house when she reached them, and Brigham was at the hearth, one booted foot braced against the brass fireguard. He watched the flames solemnly, as though they were telling some fascinating story.
    Lydia folded her arms and set her feet a little apart, for there was something about this man that made her flood with weakness just when she most needed her strength.
    â€œI will require six dollars salary per month, instead of the four you offered me through Mr. Harrington,” she announced, “and you must build a schoolhouse. There is no reason, of course, why the structure couldn't serve as a church and a community meeting hall as well.”
    Brigham slowly turned his head to look at her, and she was at a disadvantage because of the way the shadows played over his face, cloaking his expression. “You want a whole building for two children?”
    Lydia tried to stand a little taller. “Yes, Mr. Quade,” she said with patience, only too aware that her voice was shaking slightly. “It's rather the same principle as hanging a birdhouse in one's garden. At first the entire enterprise might seem futile, but in time one bird appears, and then another. Soon, there are swallows or finches or robins everywhere.” She paused, spread her hands as she summed up her point. “If you make a place for children, Mr. Quade, you will make a place for families .”
    He folded his arms and turned toward her, one thick shoulder resting against the mantelpiece. “I built six fine houses, facing the harbor,” he pointed out, arching one eyebrow, “and they stand empty. Do you have another theory to explain that?”
    Lydia sighed. “You'll need those and more as soon as there's a heart to the town. A meetinghouse would provide that.”
    Brigham was silent for a long time, thoughtful. Once or twice he rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. “Six dollars a month is too much,” he said after a long while. “How do I know you're worthy of such a salary?”
    She stood her ground. “You probably pay that much, or more, to the men who tend oxen and mules in your lumber camps. Is the care of your daughters less important?”
    He stared at her for a long moment, as if amazed at her audacity, then gave a low burst of laughter. “Five dollars and fifty cents,” he countered. “My daughters are certainly more important than the livestock, but they're also easier to handle. Most of the time.”
    The bargain sounded good to Lydia. After all, she'd been offered four dollars salary in the first place, and