To Win Her Heart Read Free Page B

direction. She forced her eyes away from the blacksmith, glancing behind him to where Mr. Draper stood hunched over the desk, penning an addendum into the lease contract. Unfortunately, Mr. Grant chose that moment to straighten his own posture, the top of his head moving to block a good portion of the banker’s back and half of the preacher’s arm from her view. Eden bit the inside of her lip.
    For heaven’s sake. She was tempted to think he had somehow discerned her intention to ignore him and taken action to prevent it. But, no. The man was just restless. He lifted a hand and scratched a spot behind his ear as he turned toward the window. When he finished, a small tuft of hair stuck out, somehow making the gargantuan man seem almost boyish. Eden’s lips curved slightly before she pressed them back down into an indifferent line. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped into short waves. She wouldn’t call them curls; that descriptor sounded much too feminine for a man as rugged as Mr. Grant. However, the strands looked as though they would easily wind around a person’s finger . . . should a . . . uh . . . person’s finger have cause to be in his hair.
    The smith glanced back at that moment, and Eden dropped her gaze to her lap—where her right index finger had apparently wound itself up in her bonnet ribbon while she’d been contemplating the man’s hair. She immediately extricated the iniquitous digit and gave it a firm glare.
    She wasn’t in the market for a man, and even if she were, she’d never be attracted to one who lacked wit and intelligence. It was not that she didn’t respect a man who worked with his hands. Skilled tradesmen were crucial to a town’s economy. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine spending her life with someone who was unable to converse with her about Dickens or argue the merits of Twain. Love of literature encapsulated too large a part of her not to share.
    “It’s ready, Mr. Grant.” The banker cleared his throat, effectively cutting off Eden’s wayward thoughts. “Come, read over the lease agreement. Mr. Cranford can serve as witness.”
    The smith rose and strode across the rug toward the desk. Eden jumped up and followed, an insistent inner voice demanding that she be allowed to read the addendum before the men signed it. She clamped her teeth closed against it, though. Mr. Draper already thought her enough of a harpy without her questioning his honor. Besides, David Cranford had observed the banker’s edits, and she trusted the minister’s integrity.
    Mr. Grant nodded to the men as he accepted the contract. He swiftly reviewed the page, as if the legal jargon presented no difficulty for him, which caused Eden to raise a brow. That didn’t fit her image of him. Then again, the man was eager to obtain employment. He was probably just putting on a show—pretending to read in order to make a good impression before signing the papers.
    Once Mr. Grant and the minister signed their names, Norman Draper stuffed the lease into his portfolio and held out his hand to the blacksmith. “Welcome to Spencer.”
    Mr. Grant smiled and gripped the man’s hand. “Thank you. . . .”
    There he went again. He opened his mouth to say more, then didn’t.
    “One of our council members, Luther Colby, owns the local hotel and has offered to put you up tonight free of charge.” Mr. Draper collected his hat and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Should you require additional time to search for more permanent accommodations, all subsequent charges will be your responsibility.”
    The blacksmith nodded.
    “Claude Barnes down at the livery has been filling in as temporary farrier, so he can show you around the shop.”
    “I’ll . . . come by tomorrow morning.”
    As the men shook hands and thumped each other on the back, Eden retreated and fetched her shawl and bonnet. She needed to be going, too. Verna would have a conniption if she showed up late for dinner—what with