Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller

over one ear, and he clutched a pad of paper to his bosom as though it were the Holy Writ.
    â€œGod's balls, Harrington, don't sneak up on me like that! If I'd had an ax in my hand, I might have cut you down like a blue spruce!”
    Harrington trembled inside his cheap mail-order suit, and Brig wondered why the little squirrel couldn't wear oiled canvas pants, work boots, suspenders and cotton shirts, like everybody else. “It's about Miss Lydia McQuire,” he said. “Mrs. Chilcote tells me the woman has been engaged as a governess, but I can find no written record of your authorization.”
    An oversight like that could keep Harrington awake nights, Brig supposed, feeling a sort of wry sympathy. “That's because I haven't decided whether to put Miss McQuire on the payroll or buy her passage back to San Francisco. I'll let you know when I make up my mind.”
    Brigham looked back toward the tree he and Zeb had just felled. Already, men were all over it like two-legged bugs, sawing away the branches, shouting to each other, some of them singing a bawdy song in rough chorus. Then he turned to stride back down the mountain to his office, and Harrington scrambled along beside him.
    â€œI don't know, sir,” he blithered. “I don't much hold with such loose ends. It seems to me that a decision should be made and acted upon.”
    Brigham sighed. “I'll have to speak with the lady before I give you an answer,” he said reasonably.
    â€œDoes she want to stay?”
    Brig's heart swelled slightly. “I don't know,” he answered, always pragmatic. “For all I can say, she might be swimming out to meet the next boat even as we speak.”
    Harrington blinked three times rapidly, smoothed his slicked-down hair with one palm, and said, “Oh. You were joking , sir. That was very humorous. Very humorous indeed.”
    Brigham rolled his eyes. “Haven't you got anything better to do than devil me?” he asked. “Go find the McQuire woman yourself, and ask her if she wants to stay on as a companion to my daughters. Tell her I'll pay her a dollar a week and provide her with board and room.”
    The clerk nodded again, and scurried off. Harrington was never happy unless he had some crisis to fuss about, be it manufactured or otherwise, but he did his job well enough, and that was all Brigham cared about.
    Reaching the bench where the water buckets sat, lined up and kept brimming by a full-grown Chinaman no bigger than Millie, Brig dipped out a ladleful, lowered his head, and poured the icy liquid over the back of his neck. He spat out a swear word at the chill and then shook his head, sending droplets flying in every direction, like a dog that's just been sprung from a washtub.
    He was hot and bone-tired and, for the first time since the start of Isabel's decline, he was actually looking forward to going back to that grand house he'd built with such confidence. He went into the office, gathered up a stack of ledger books, and started for home.
    Millie was swinging on the gate at the base of the walk when he reached the fence, and the delighted surprise in her small face shamed him. So did the worried expression that quickly chased the joy from her eyes.
    â€œAre you sick, Papa? Did somebody get hurt up on the mountain?”
    The questions stung, and he would have hoisted the little girl up into his arms if he hadn't been covered in fir sap and drenched with sweat. “No, child,” he said, ruffling her hair as the gate creaked backward, carrying her with it, so that he could pass.
    Millie hurried after him, and he slowed his pace so she could keep up. “We could go fishing,” she said, with such breathless daring that Brigham stopped in midstep and crouched to face her. “The sun will be up for a long time yet, and I'll bet the trout are biting real good.”
    Brigham smiled. He wanted a bath, a drink, and some time to assemble his thoughts, but he