“And, Coalie…”
“Yes, sir?” Coalie halted to listen.
David walked to the stove and removed the kettle. “Use plenty of soap and warm water.” David closed the distance between them in three steps and handed Coalie the kettle.
Nodding an affirmative, Coalie grabbed the kettle and hurried to do David’s bidding.
Returning to his desk, David picked up his mug and crossed back to the stove to pour himself another cup of coffee. “What’s the matter, Miss Roarke? Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“What’s that?” She stared up at him, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly.
David ignored her question, intent on asking more of his own. “Or just unaccustomed to waking up alone? Is that what has you spoiling for a fight this morning?”
“I didn’t sleep alone. Your mangy cat slept with me.” She smiled sweetly. “Probably sick of your company.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. And I don’t blame him. It’s just that…”
“What?” David asked.
“In general, I don’t care for cats,” Tessa replied. “And in particular, I don’t care for this one’s owner.” She dared him to contradict her.
“That’s too bad. Because for the moment you’re stuck with both of us. If you don’t like Horace, keep him out of your room, but don’t vent your spleen on the boy.”
“I never—” Tessa began.
“It upsets him. He cares a great deal about you.” The tone of David’s voice implied that he found that difficult to understand. “If you want to discuss something with me, do it when Coalie isn’t around. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” she said. “As long as you do the same.”
“Fine.” Satisfied with the results of his little lecture, David dismissed the topic. “Now take this.” He handed her a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.
Tessa took the pencil and paper.
“And make out a list of things you want from the store. Coalie and I will pick them up when I finish my business at the jail.”
“You’re going to the jail?”
“I need to talk to the sheriff.” David took a sip of his coffee. “Sit down.” He waved her toward his desk. “And make out your list. Coalie’ll be finished any minute.”
Tessa sank down in the chair. She carefully placed the paper in the center of the blotter and awkwardly took the pencil in her left hand. She wrote out her list and handed it to David.
David glanced at the scribbles on the piece of paper. “What the devil is this?”
“My list.”
“In what language?”
“The Irish,” Tessa told him, bluffing.
“I don’t think there’s anyone at the mercantile who can read this.” David smiled, a dimple showing in one cheek, as he saw through her bluff. “You’ll have to do it again.” He handed her a clean sheet of paper.
Tessa hesitated.
“Go on,” David urged, when she continued to stare at him. “Put down everything you want—clothes, soap, tea, whatever.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, and a dimple at the corner of his mouth transformed his serious expression into a roguish smile. “I have an account at the mercantile. I can afford it.”
“I don’t know how to spell English!” The words seemed to burst from her lips. She stared down at the white paper, the pencil clasped awkwardly in her hand, her forehead wrinkled in a frown. A red flush crept up her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with tears of frustration. “I don’t know how to spell anything.”