Falling for Grace by Yvonne Jocks

Author:Yvonne Jocks
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781941528143
Publisher: Parker Hayden Media

CHAPTER 9

For the first time since he’d met her, Grace Sullivan showed signs of a temper—and it was aimed at him?

“I’ll have you know that my mother is a fine woman!” she announced, firmly dishing out more spoonsful of batter: one, two, three. “She’s been trying very hard, harder than you can imagine, to make ladies out of all of us—herself included—and it’s not easy for her. She used to work as a domestic herself, when she was younger than me. Once she married Da, she baked for the miners to get us through the winters. She doesn’t want us to have to do the same, that’s all. Is that so bad?”

Jon said, “That depends on who she hurts in the name of refinement.”

“She did not actually accuse you of anything,” Grace pointed out, though at least she had the decency to look less sure on that point. “She looked at you when she learned of the silver, which was silly since of course you didn’t steal it, but that’s not the same as accusing you.”

She flipped the pancakes then, in angry, easy turns. One, two, three.

Something about that niggled at Jon’s attention, but he was too busy admiring what Grace Sullivan became when she got her Irish up. Surely that flush in her cheeks, that sparkle in her eyes, was from more than the stove!

“I wasn’t,” said Jon, “talking about me.”

“Well, who else is she possibly hurting?”

“You!”

Grace’s mouth fell open in pure shock. Then she shut it, shook her head, and scooped the done pancakes off the griddle onto the plate by the stove. “My mother wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Not on purpose.” Jon felt rather bad for mentioning it, now. It being the truth eased some of his worst guilt, though.

“Not at all! Why, Jon . . . I mean, Mr. Erikson . . .”

Jon folded his arms. “I think Phronsy’s figured out that you call me Jon.”

Phronsy, busying herself across the kitchen, winked agreement in his direction. He could only hope that she wasn’t a gossip, or his hours in this house were likely numbered. But she seemed quite understanding. He was probably still stuck here.

Grace ladled more batter onto the griddle, her movements smooth and natural—and Jon realized what it was that had caught his attention. Interesting.

She said, “How can you say my mother’s hurting me in the name of refinement? The refinement is for me.”

“That’s what she’s telling you, but it’s a pile of manure,” Jon insisted. “You don’t need refinement.”

“Of course I do!”

How could she be so blind? “Well, I think you’re wonderful just the way you are!”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and just hung there in the warm kitchen air between them.

Grace blinked at him . . . and belatedly put down her bowl of batter. “You do?”

Jon had the strongest urge to run. To run far and fast. But when he pushed back his chair, a twinge in his hurt leg reminded him of the problems there. So instead, he just boosted himself onto his good foot and collected his crutches from the wall.

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