“Mr. Bedford.” She looked around. “W-what are you doing here?”

He laughed, finding her question a bit odd, considering the place was his. And by the blush that crept into her cheeks, he could tell she swiftly came to a similar conclusion.

“I come here quite often, Miss Anderson.” His gaze traveled to the meadow, then the stream, then wove a path through the pines back to her. “It’s a sort of . . . haven, I guess you could say.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. “A haven. From what?”

The thinnest sliver of incredulity slipped past her polite tone, and from her perspective he couldn’t say he blamed her. He didn’t know her personal circumstances, but what he did know was that, compared to the majority of people in this city who were still putting their lives back together even five years after the war had ended, he had so much more than most. So through this woman’s eyes, what did he have to complain about? Much less seek a haven from?

Yet he’d learned long ago that a man could have everything he needed to be considered successful while still feeling as though he lacked what was most important and precious.

Because . . . that described him.

How much he’d like to honestly answer her question, to talk to someone about all that was on his mind, including the frustrations roiling inside him. But he took present company into account and knew that was impossible. Not only did he not know this woman, but she was, in effect, working for him. At least temporarily. In addition, he was betrothed.

He should be sharing all these things with Priscilla. Only, hard as it was to admit, she was perhaps his greatest frustration. And even with all the other concerns he could discuss with Priscilla, he didn’t completely trust her to understand them, much less be interested enough to listen.

Which was a rather disturbing realization, considering he’d be spending the rest of his life with her.

Aware of Miss Anderson awaiting his response, he took in the beauty and peacefulness of their surroundings and settled upon one he could safely give her. “A haven from everything in the world that is not this.”

She held his gaze, and he could see her mind working, weighing, trying to decide whether he be friend or foe. Then the tiniest smile tipped one side of her mouth, shy, though not coy in the least. Nothing about this woman seemed false.

On the contrary, even on first impression, she seemed authentic and kindhearted—and so much like a young woman Nashville had described as his sweetheart.

“But if everything in the world were such as this,” she said softly, “where would the longing for heaven be?”

The words left her lips like a feather on the breeze, and Aidan found it impossible not to stare at her. The woman was a mystery. Master seamstress, fluent in French, patient beyond what any creature without wings should be, and now this. Wisdom and humility wrapped up in all that beauty.

The moment he’d opened the door and seen her standing there that first day, he’d thought her lovely. It hadn’t been a consciously formed opinion, rather something he’d simply known upon looking at her. Which he was doing now, likely in a manner he oughtn’t.

For though he’d thought her attractive before, he’d not seen her lips as so kissable. Or the slender column of her throat so inviting. She had a quiet strength about her, a strength wrapped in softness, that—

She blinked and looked away, and the moment shuddered and skipped like a pendulum jarred mid-swing.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to be—”

“Miss Anderson,” Aidan said quickly, not wanting her to go, yet knowing it was best if she did. He also knew he was responsible for this, even as he told himself this had been nothing. He’d only been appreciating her beauty. But seeing how she was looking at him now—gaze wide, watchful—and feeling the pounding of his pulse, even he couldn’t believe his own lie. “Thank you . . . for sharing what you did.”

He grappled with what to say next that might somehow make the moment less awkward, or—

“Thank you, Mr. Bedford.” Uncertainty faded from her gaze and warmth took its place. “For reminding me of why, at least in part, this world is the way it is.”

Aidan watched her go, the gentle sway of her hips drawing his eye. Finally, with a sigh—both regretting and enjoying her retreat—he purposefully dragged his gaze back to the meadow.

He’d been so certain, when first seeing this place, that he’d found Nashville’s farm, that he’d bought it. But since moving to this city he’d seen at least a dozen other arthritic, old cabins situated just beyond the setting of a farmhouse similar to this one, each staring back at him as though mocking his unaccustomed sentimentality. Though none of the settings was quite so beautiful as this one.

He ran a hand over a hewn log of the cabin and felt the roughness of time beneath his palm, almost as if the passage of lives lived out day by day within these walls had left a physical mark on the place. One he could feel both with his hand and his heart.

He’d likely never be certain where Nashville had lived, but he was determined to live with more of the gratitude and zest for life that Nashville had shown him. Even in so brief a time.

NOTHING HAD HAPPENED. NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

The phrase echoing in her head, Savannah gathered the swatches along with her notebook and hurried from the central parlor to the sitting room where Miss Sinclair waited. But no matter how many times she tried to convince herself, it didn’t change the intimate turn her thoughts had taken yesterday as she’d stood there staring at Aidan Bedford.

This woman’s future husband.

She didn’t know what had come over her. Embarrassing didn’t begin to describe it. Yes, the man was attractive, but she’d seen attractive men before. No, there was something else about him. Something unexpected, deeper than she’d first thought was there. And kinder. And it had drawn her in.

The way he’d gazed upon the land reflected her own love for its beauty and—

“Miss Anderson.”

Savannah’s head came up. “Yes, ma’am?”

Miss Sinclair frowned. “Are you well? You seem . . . preoccupied today.”

“No, Miss Sinclair. I mean, yes. I’m feeling quite well.” Or had been until she remembered how Mr. Bedford had done his best to try to set her at ease after she’d stood there practically ogling the man. Reliving the moment sent heat coursing through her. Though not warmth of a pleasurable nature—like yesterday.

Thankfully, she hadn’t seen him since.

Now if she could only manage to sew every new set of draperies in the house and install them before he got home today, she could leave here, never come back, and everything would be fine.

But everything wouldn’t be fine. Because she was no closer to fulfilling her main reason for being here: finding the box her father had hidden. So she’d simply make it a point to see him as little as possible, which could prove to be a challenge since this was his—

“Miss Anderson.”

Savannah refocused and swiftly gathered from Miss Sinclair’s irritated expression that the woman had asked her a question. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you mind saying that again, please?”

Miss Sinclair sighed, then repeated the question slowly, as though addressing a halfwit. “What do you think about my newest purchase?”

Only then did Savannah see the very interesting portrait by which the woman stood. The hopeful anticipation in Miss Sinclair’s features clearly conveyed what she wanted Savannah to say. Although Savannah was at a loss as to how to exile thoughts of kissing the woman’s fiancée, she did know how to handle this particular question. And with complete honesty. Years of experience decorating for eccentric personalities had prepared her well.

She tilted her head to one side. “That is one of the most thought-provoking portraits I’ve ever seen.” She only hoped Miss Sinclair didn’t ask her what she thought it was. If she did, Savannah’s nearest guess would have to be . . .

No, she couldn’t even hazard a guess. She wondered if Mr. Bedford had seen it yet, doubting it would be to the man’s taste. Which, thinking of him again, only resurrected her former mantra.

“Can you hang the portrait for me, Miss Anderson?”

Hang a portrait? Was the woman serious? But Savannah swiftly realized she was. And since keeping this job was paramount . . . “Yes, ma’am, of course. I’ll get the tools.” Savannah turned to leave the sitting room.

“Miss Anderson.”

Hearing a trace of condescension in the woman’s tone, Savannah paused in the doorway.

Miss Sinclair shook her head and gave an airy laugh. “Do you even have the slightest idea of where the tools are kept?”

Realizing what a mistake she’d been about to make, Savannah let out a breath. Of course she knew where they were. She’d left the remainder of her father’s hand tools on the lower shelf of the cupboard off the kitchen. But from this woman’s perspective . . .

Savannah covered the near mistake with a smile. “I thought surely Mrs. Pruitt would know.”

Miss Sinclair stared, her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “Very well. See to it, then.”

Savannah skirted down the hall, wondering if the woman suspected anything and vowing to be more careful. Enlisting the housekeeper’s assistance, she found the needed tools and supplies and set to work. After measuring twice, she gripped the hammer and nail and struck her mark true and firm, just as Papa had taught her.