Fletcher wanted to drown himself in Sophie’s eyes, but he couldn’t. Once he dove in, he’d never want to come out, and he couldn’t afford the distraction. It might put her in danger. He had to keep his wits about him at all costs. It took every ounce of strength he had to tear his gaze away, but he managed to turn toward the women working on his campaign signs. Not that he’d really need them. His grandfather was already spouting his victory all over town, and they hadn’t even filed the papers yet!

He shook his head at the thought. Of course, no one seemed to mind so far, but Grandpa had been the mayor for so long, the townsfolk often humored him. Did they think he wasn’t serious? Hmmm, now there was a concern …

“… Yes, isn’t it exciting? I start work tomorrow.”

Fletcher spun at the sound of Sophie’s voice. “You … you what?”

She smirked at him. “I was telling your grandmother that I start work tomorrow.”

His mouth flopped open. “What? Where?”

“Gruber’s Café,” his grandmother replied. “Isn’t that nice, dear? She’s going to be staying here in town.”

“Well, yes, of course she is,” he said, still confused. Had his grandfather arranged this? He didn’t mention it. But she was the main reason he’d considered becoming … er, running for mayor. He’d need a steady job if he wanted to court her. He just hoped his behavior earlier at his grandparents’ house hadn’t squashed any sort of chance with her. He couldn’t apologize enough for it in his mind.

But what a kiss …

“I’m sure I’ll be quite happy here,” Sophie said. “Isn’t it nice to know one doesn’t need a man to get by?”

Fletcher blanched. “What?”

His grandfather did the same, only louder. “What?!”

“Well, of course not, dear,” Gran Mercy agreed.

“Now see here, young lady,” Grandpa Vander barked, “what’s this sort of talk? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

Bernice, sensing a storm brewing, tried to calm the waters. “Surely you’ve heard of the suffrage movement, Mayor Vander.” She turned to Sophie. “Is that what you were referring to?”

Sophie’s eyes were locked with Fletcher’s. “I’m just saying that a woman needn’t rely on a man to take care of her. A good thing too, being as how there are less and less men out there of good character.”

Fletcher’s eye twitched. He hated that – it usually happened when he was getting flustered. Just what was she saying? Did she know he wanted to court her? Was she trying to let him know in her own subtle way that she wanted nothing more to do with him, that she’d moved on, determined to make a life for herself with or without a man? Or something more, something worse?

Blast! He knew that kiss would cost him. But he wanted to make things right, to court her properly, get to know her. Heck, for all he knew, he might want to marry her! It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it. Otherwise, why worry about running for mayor?

“What’s the matter, Mr. Vander?” she asked tauntingly. “Nothing to say?”

Fletcher sighed. “No, not really.” What could he say? He didn’t dare bring up the kiss, not here. But that’s what this was about, he was sure. He’d have to find a way to speak to her alone – he couldn’t leave this hanging between them. He had to assure her that her reputation was safe, that he’d kept their kiss to himself. As had his grandfather. Grandpa had promised not to breathe a word of what he’d seen, not even to Gran. Fletcher knew he’d keep to that promise.

He glanced at Sophie, but she quickly looked away. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “How are you with a paintbrush, Miss Baxter?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, then froze, as if catching herself. “I mean …”

“No time like the present to find out, then.” He spotted a small container of red paint near Mahulda Brock. “Excuse me, Mrs. Brock – are you using this?”

The elderly woman glanced at the small can of paint. “No, Fletcher, go right ahead.”

“Thank you.” He reached for the can and turned to Sophie. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you started.”

“Why, thank you dear,” his grandmother said with a smile. “Saves me the trouble.”

“I’d like to help,” Bernice said.

“Then let me show you what else is needed,” said Gran Mercy, taking Bernice by the hand and leading her away. That left Sophie little choice but to follow Fletcher, so she did.

Fletcher went to the other end of the sanctuary and found a blank poster board. “Ah, just what we need.” He spied another one and brought it to where she stood. “I’ll go find us more paint.”

“Us?”

He made a show of glancing around. “I don’t see anyone else standing here. So yes, us.”

Panic took over her face. What was that about? “I’m sure I can manage on my own. You don’t need to help me.”

He smiled warmly. “Sophie, what’s the matter? Are you worried about your painting skills?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Just … just …”

Great Scott, but she was adorable when she was at a loss for words. Or any other time, really. But what was he going to do about it? For now, he placed the poster boards side by side, fetched a couple more cans of paint and rejoined her. “All the drop cloths are in use. Why don’t we take our materials outside?”

She stared at him a moment in silence before finally saying, “If you insist.”

He smiled, handed her two of the paint cans, tucked a board under each arm and picked up the remaining can. He’d managed to procure a couple of brushes earlier and stuck one in each pocket. As soon as they were outside he found a shady spot and leaned the poster boards against a tree, then opened the paint containers and gave each a stir. “There’s not a lot of blue left in this one.” He handed her a small can. “But it’s enough to get started.” He knelt on the grass and indicated she do the same.

Sophie gathered her skirts around her as best she could and knelt in the grass next to him. “Now what?”

“We paint, of course,” he said with a bemused smile.

“I know that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But what do you want the poster to say?”

“Oh yes – let me think a moment.” He looked up at the blue sky as he thought. “I suppose, ‘vote for Fletcher Vander’ has already been done. Maybe we should make these different.”

He watched as her jaw tightened. “Yes, let’s.”

He smiled tentatively, dipped his brush in the paint and painted two simple words. “There. All done.”

She’d busied herself stirring what paint was left in her can. She looked at the board and gasped. It read I’m sorry. “Fletcher …”

“I am, you know. Truly. There’s no excuse for my behavior earlier. I want to make it up to you, Sophie.”

She gaped at him for a moment. “Don’t you mean ‘Miss Baxter’?”

He removed his spectacles and blinked a few times. “If you prefer, yes, I’ll call you Miss Baxter.” He looked into her eyes and saw her fear – but of what? “Though given the option, I’d much rather call you Sophie, if you wouldn’t find that improper.”

“Why so contrite now?” she asked, her eyes never leaving his. Her gaze, he noted, was as intense as his. She was searching for something in his eyes, he could tell, but what, he had no idea. Reassurance, perhaps?

“I apologized to you before in my grandparents’ house, true, but I don’t think you took me seriously then. In fact, I’m curious as to why you didn’t.”

She dabbed her brush into the container. “You shocked me. What was I supposed to think after … well, after a kiss like that?”

He had to concede that point. “True. And I thank you for not slapping my face.”

She blushed crimson. During their kiss it had been quite obvious that slapping him was the last thing on her mind. She’d kissed him back with equal intensity, which had shocked him! But he knew better than to bring that up, lest she become even more agitated.

“I apologize, Sophie, from the bottom of my heart. And I would like to make it up to you by taking you to dinner.”

“Dinner? Where, at the café?” She vigorously shook of her head. “No, I start work there tomorrow. That would be too awkward.”

“Then a private dinner at my grandparents’ house. I’ll have Betsy make something special for us.”

Her fear seemed to double. “No, I couldn’t.”

“We wouldn’t be alone, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he assured her. “Betsy and Cecil would be there, and probably my grandparents. We’d be well chaperoned.”

“Then how private a dinner would it be?”

He smiled. “Admittedly, not very. We could always eat in the kitchen.”

She returned his smile, lifted the brush from the container and started to paint something on the board. He watched the graceful movement of her hand, mesmerized as she delicately applied the paint. It took him a few moments to realize what she was painting: I forgive you. “Do you really?”

She pulled her gaze away, with obvious effort. “Yes,” she said softly.

Fletcher tucked a finger under her chin. “I’m so glad you’re staying in Independence. I don’t want you to leave.”

She looked shocked again. “You don’t?”

He swallowed hard and fought the urge to kiss her. “Of course not. Especially not now.” He swallowed again and licked his lips.

“Yes,” she mumbled. “You and Sheriff Diamond are still searching for clues to Jasper’s case.”

“Well … yes, that too.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, and he willed himself not to kiss her, even as his eyes darted to her lips. Red crept into her cheeks again, and he instinctively knew that she wanted to kiss him too. But he couldn’t, not after he’d apologized again and said he wanted to make it up to her. What kind of a gentleman would he be?

He forced himself to focus on the board in front of him, flipping it over and staring at the blank white space. “I feel rather funny painting ‘vote for me’ on this.”

She smiled. “Then allow me.” She flipped over her own board, dipped her brush into the paint and proceeded to write “FLETCHER VANDER FOR MAYOR” in huge block letters, taking up the entire space. “How’s that?”

“Lovely.” He said it without thinking, unsure of whether he was referring to the sign or to her. Every fiber of his being longed to take her in his arms and hold her, run his fingers through her hair, promise her everything would be all right. More – he wanted to pull her onto his lap, bend her back and kiss her, march her right down to the church … well, they were already at the church … fine, march her right up to Pastor Adams and insist he marry them –

Egads, stop! What am I thinking?

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Fletcher shook himself, wishing he could go splash some cold water on his face. And a few other places, too. He’d never felt this way about a woman before. Sure, he’d been attracted to some, but his heart wasn’t involved. He was having feelings for Sophie – strong, unfamiliar feelings – and he didn’t know how to control them. They scared him.

“Fletcher?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m … not myself today.” He looked at her poster. “Yours is better than mine.”

She laughed. “You haven’t painted anything on yours yet.”

He smiled, took the board and turned it around again. The words I’m sorry were a glaring red.

She looked at them, at him, then flipped her board around too.

Fletcher took her hand. “Have dinner with me?”

She stared at him for several seconds, then smiled. “I will.”

* * *

Sophie, what are you doing? she thought. You can’t seriously be thinking of having dinner with this man! But she was and she would. How could she not? His apology was sincere. If he was really the man Priscilla made him out to be, he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to gain her forgiveness. Even if he was a blackguard, his true colors were sure to show, and then she could walk away with surety. It seemed worth the risk.

And again, they would be well chaperoned.

“What are you thinking about?”

His voice was soft, gentle and so, so warm. Sophie’s jaw quivered. Merciful heavens, how could he affect her so? “About our dinner,” she blurted.

“What about it?”

“You don’t think Betsy will mind, do you? I mean, won’t she have to make two different meals?”

“No, it just means we won’t be eating with my grandparents. I’ll have her set something up for us in the kitchen.”

“But why?”

He licked his lips before he smiled, put his spectacles back on and began painting. “Because I want to get to know you.”

Her hand flew to her chest. She caught herself and quickly removed it.

“Is that truly so shocking?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes bounced everywhere, landing on anything but him. “No, of course not.”

“But …?”

“But I’m just surprised … that’s all.”

He dipped his brush into the red paint again. “Has a man never offered to take you to dinner before?”

Her brow knit. “Well, yes … but I never got to go.”

He studied her a moment. “Because you were taking care of sick relatives.”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“What you did for your family was admirable, Sophie. You were obviously of age and could’ve begun your own life anytime you wished, isn’t that true?”

Her head came up and she looked at him. He was right, she could’ve. It had simply never occurred to her to do other than what she had.

“I’m looking at a woman who gave of herself and gave of herself, then gave some more. You took care of your family, even when there was no way they could return the favor. That says a lot about you.”

“I only did what anyone would do.”

He sighed and tilted his head toward the sky. “I can think of many who wouldn’t.” He turned back to her. “When I was in Portland, there was a woman who abandoned her children after her husband died. She tried to become a mail-order bride.”

Sophie looked at him in horror. “What? Didn’t she plan to send for her children?”

“No, she did not. We learned from the oldest, a child of five, that she’d been writing to a man in Seattle. We found one of his letters in the apartment she was renting, pieced things together and sent a Pinkerton to find her.”

“And?” she prompted, leaning toward him.

He sighed, reached over and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “He never found her. The children went into orphanages.”

Her eyes locked with his. “That’s terrible,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is,” he said, his voice just as soft. “Actions speak louder than words. And your actions tell me a lot about you, Sophie Baxter.”

Sophie stared at him, her mind clouding, and could only nod. Her heart was beating so fast she could scarcely breathe.

“And I would hope that my actions haven’t led you to believe less of me. We shared something I’ve never shared with anyone before, ever. It’s my sincere desire that in time, once we get to know each other better, we’ll share other moments just like it.”

That got her attention. She blinked several times and gawked at him. “What?”

His eyes roamed her face, settling on her lips. “I’d very much like to kiss you again, Sophie. But – only when it’s proper.”

Now she was just plain confused. “I’m … not sure I understand.”

Fletcher sighed. “What I’m really trying to say is, I want to court you. If you’ll have me.”