However long it took, she’d not let this task best her.
Darius flipped a page and inhaled a harsh breath. He’d avoided reading this particular article earlier, but putting it off any longer would only prove him a coward. So, steeling his spine, he forced his eyes to scan the words detailing the report of another New Orleans steamboat explosion.
Unlike the Louisiana, the Anglo-Norman’s boiler hadn’t burst as the boat pulled away from the landing, making this case somewhat unusual. In his study of boiler explosions, Darius had learned that around sixty percent occurred either as a vessel pulled away from a landing or while docked. However, according to the journal’s accounting, the Anglo-Norman had successfully traveled upriver a good distance, had navigated a turn, and was on her way back to the Port of New Orleans when her boiler exploded eight miles from the city. The differences made the report a little easier to stomach, and it wasn’t long before his intellect suppressed his emotional response. Images of dead and dying passengers faded beneath the factual description of the type of boiler the boat had carried.
The author of the article supplied wonderful details about the size and layout of the wagon-form design, the diameter of the eight cylindrical flues, the exposure of the water legs, etc. Darius reached for the pencil he always kept on the library table beside his chair and began sketching the steam engine in dark strokes on top of the text of a neighboring article contrasting vertical and radial paddle wheels.
So intent was he on his diagram, he failed to notice the woman standing before him until she delicately cleared her throat. He jerked up from his drawing to see a plethora of red brocade skirts draped just beyond his knees. Drat. He’d completely forgotten she was there. Dread sunk deeper into his gut as his gaze lifted to meet her slightly amused eyes.
Drat. Drat. Drat. He’d also completely forgotten her name.
“I’m finished, Mr. Thornton,” she said, holding a thin stack of papers out to him. “The pages are ready for your inspection.”
It was Miss Something-or-Other. He remembered that much. She wasn’t married. Though why that fact should register in his brain when her name failed to stick was beyond his understanding.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” she was saying, “but I discovered an error in your computations on page three and had to recopy that entire page after calculating the correct figures.”
“What?” No longer caring about her name, Darius snatched the papers from her hand and immediately turned to page three. How dare she presume to correct his calculations?
He held out an empty palm to her, demanding his original logbook as his eyes scanned the page. She must have understood the silent demand, for his notebook slapped against his palm without delay. He took it from her, opened to the page in question, and set about comparing the two equations, eager to point out her mistake.
The little upstart. Just because she fancied herself something of a mathematician did not give her the right to tamper with . . .
His eyes narrowed as he took in her calculations. She’d adjusted the cargo weight. He’d only factored in the difference of engine weight between the double-tier flue boiler and the newer tubular boiler. The amount of cargo would naturally be different on the two types of vessels since the tubular boiler not only weighed less but took up less space, leaving room for more cargo. Therefore, her numbers actually were more accurate when it came to predicting water displacement or draft on a seagoing vessel.
Although, she had been kind enough to include his original calculations under a separate heading denoting the even greater difference in draft if the cargo remained unchanged. Of course, no sea captain worth his salt would load less cargo than his ship could carry if it were available. Why would he, when more cargo meant more profit? And she’d known this.
Hadn’t she said something about reading manifests instead of novels as a girl? Her father must be involved somehow in the shipping industry. Maybe a female secretary wasn’t such a bad prospect after all. If it was this female.
Darius glanced up from the papers, peered at her thoughtfully, then frowned. She was still far too pretty.
“You must not distract me from my work.” He growled the command at her, but all she did was smile.
She smiled with such untarnished joy that he felt like a man stepping out of a dungeon to behold the vision of a sunrise cresting the horizon. Glorious. Yet so bright, he wanted to scuttle back into the hole from whence he’d come.
“Thank you, Mr. Thornton.” She nearly clapped her hands together in her excitement. Hands without gloves, he noted. Hands that consisted of dainty fingers stained with ink at the tips. Capable hands. Delicate hands. The fact that they were both intrigued him, even as she stole them from his view by pulling them behind her back as she made an effort to compose herself.
“The advertisement mentioned accommodations.”
She was dictating to him again. Odd that he didn’t seem to mind. But then, he’d always appreciated people who spoke their minds instead of dallying with polite niceties. He just wasn’t accustomed to finding that trait in a woman. Especially one who looked like she belonged on a shopping excursion with his mother and sister, or sipping tea with them in the parlor.
Darius rose from his seat. Time to do some dictating of his own. “There is a small chamber near the kitchen that should suffice. My butler and his wife, my housekeeper, room down that hall, as well, so you’ll not be alone. You will work in here”—he gestured around him at the controlled chaos that was his study—“and occasionally with me at the workshop, if I need your assistance. However . . . ” He paused to glare down his nose at her, emphasizing the importance of his next point. “You are never to interrupt me when I am in the midst of an experiment. Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded, though the stubborn tilt of her chin did nothing to reassure him that she comprehended the absolute necessity of obedience.
“I will leave strict instructions regarding where you may and may not venture on this property, and I expect those instructions to be followed to the letter. Should you fail to comply, you will forfeit your position.”
The young lady schooled her features into a properly sober demeanor. “I understand, sir, and will, of course, abide by your wishes.”
He swore he could hear the qualifier—As long as I deem it appropriate—wafting in the air about her. This was not a woman one contained with threats. No, she’d follow his commands only as long as it suited her purposes. Not that he sensed anything nefarious about her. On the contrary, she was quite the most genuine person he’d met in years. Yet there was something untamed about her. Something below the surface. Like a wild mare that had been broken to saddle even while her spirit stood ready to race the wind the moment the reins were loosened.
Darius turned his face away from her, pretending to peer at something outside his window. The woman was interfering with his focus, drawing him into her puzzle with her bright smile and hidden depths. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from his work, from his purpose. Yet neither could he afford to continue on without a secretary, and she was his only applicant. A far more qualified one than he had hoped to find, even amongst the local male population. That outweighed his personal . . . discomfort.
He was master of his own mind, after all. He’d simply refuse to give her the power to distract him. She’d work in the study, and he in the workshop. They would rarely need to cross each other’s path. Besides, once she’d been around a few days, he’d grow accustomed to her, much like one grew accustomed to a new piece of furniture in a room. She’d eventually stop standing out and would be absorbed into the surroundings, like everything else about the place.
Yes, he could handle her.
He spun around again to face her, though he focused slightly to the side to avoid full contact with her eyes. “Meals will be included, and a stipend will be delivered at the end of each month.”
“Week.”
His gaze arrowed back to hers. “Pardon?”
&nbs
p; This time she was the first to look away. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d prefer to be paid at the end of each week. My father is ill, and I’m trying to do all I can to help him.” She looked directly at him again, and while he didn’t detect any untruth in her, he did sense there was more to her story than she was letting on.
Curious.
“A compromise, then.” He watched her closely. “Payment twice a month. Would that be agreeable?”
A slight tightening about her lips was the only hint of her disappointment. She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll have Wellborn assist you in collecting your things from town.” Right after he had his man remind him of his new secretary’s name.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this special sample of Full Steam Ahead by Karen Witemeyer.
For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.
Two-time RITA Award finalist and winner of the coveted HOLT Medallion and the ACFW Carol Award, bestselling author Karen Witemeyer writes historical romance because she believes the world needs more happily-ever-afters. She is an avid cross-stitcher and shower singer, and she bakes a mean apple cobbler. Karen makes her home in Abilene, Texas, with her husband and three children. Learn more about Karen and her books at www.karenwitemeyer.com.
Books by Karen Witemeyer
* * *
A Tailor-Made Bride
Head in the Clouds
To Win Her Heart
Short-Straw Bride
Stealing the Preacher
Full Steam Ahead
A Match Made in Texas: A Novella Collection
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
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Karen Witemeyer, A Cowboy Unmatched
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