“I’m Clayton Hartwell. My family owns the Circle H Ranch. About ten miles north.”
Eleanor nodded once. “Eleanor Sullivan.”
His gaze flicked again to her belly, quick but unmistakable. He looked away fast, like a man who had been raised to pretend he didn’t see things that made him uncomfortable.
“Quite an undertaking,” he said finally, scanning the cabin. “Building a place like this is hard work even for a man with a crew.”
There it was.
The invisible sentence he hadn’t spoken:
…and for a woman like you, it’s foolish.
Eleanor’s mouth curved into the kind of polite smile Boston had trained into her muscles like a habit.
“I find most things worth having require hard work, Mr. Hartwell. I don’t mind the effort.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Not annoyance. Not mockery.
