Blessings of the Heart (8 page)

“I wasn't worried. Little boys eat anything—except maybe fried liver or Brussels sprouts.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Bree teased, watching his face so she could enjoy the result. “That's exactly what I was planning to fix for supper tonight.”

B
rianne found a package of chicken strips in the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave. She was fairly well acquainted with the way Emma had arranged the kitchen cupboards and drawers, which helped her function considerably better than Mitch did.

He was so intent on helping her prepare the evening meal he drove her crazy. Finally, after turning around to fetch something and almost crashing into him for the umpteenth time, she decided to banish him.

“Look, I appreciate your efforts. I really do. I'd just rather do this by myself. Okay?”

“Okay. If you insist. Let me get one more thing
and…” Moving while he spoke, Mitch wound up trying to enter the pantry at the same time Bree was on her way out. They met in the narrow doorway, jostling for room.

Suddenly breathless, she managed to speak, “Excuse me.”

He chuckled but failed to give ground. “What's the matter with you? I'd think you'd have figured out by now that I'm not going to hurt you.”

“I know that!”

“Then why do you keep acting scared whenever I get anywhere near you?”

“I'm not scared. You're just in my way, that's all.”

“There must be more to it than that,” he drawled. “I think we should stand here like this until you decide to tell me what's really bothering you.”

“Don't be silly. There's nothing to tell.”

Mitch's grin spread, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You might as well give in and tell me what's wrong. I've got all day—maybe several. Come to think of it, so do you.”

“Unfortunately.”

He'd placed one hand on the doorjamb on either side of her head. Hoping to escape, she tried to duck under his raised arm.

Mitch was quicker. He caught her neatly and
spun her to face him, holding tight in spite of her halfhearted struggles. “Oh, no, you don't.”

“Let go of me. I don't want to play games.”

“I'm beginning to think you do,” he said.

“Well, you're wrong.”

“Am I?” He bent to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, then grasped her shoulders and held her away so he could better study her expression.

“Yes,” she insisted.

“Liar.”

That accusation took her aback. Was it possible he could be right? Truth to tell, it was getting harder and harder to convince herself she should continue to try to evade him. Worse, he seemed to be reading that fact in her upturned gaze.

Mitch's hold on her shoulders softened. “I'm not a bad guy once you get to know me. I'll admit that having the boys underfoot right now is a drawback, but I can't do anything about that until we're rescued. Then, after things settle down, I'd like to start seeing you.”

“Dating me?”

“Yes, dating you. Is that so strange?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Why? You don't look like a hermit.” He was leaning slightly as if inspecting her. “No long gray beard or anything.”

She pulled a face. “I don't get out much, that's
all. I've isolated myself up here because I have to have peace and quiet in order to concentrate on my writing. I'm not much for the social scene. Never have been.”

“Well, you have to get away from your computer sometime. Besides, I haven't dated in years. The idea of starting again feels pretty awkward to me, too.”

“Really?”

“Really. After Liz left me I considered myself still married so I didn't look for anyone else. Then, when I found out I was getting my boys back, there was so much to do I didn't have time to think about women.” The color of his cheeks deepened. “Not much, anyway.”

“Why start now?”

Mitch laughed. “I don't know. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea to me. Matter of fact, I'm beginning to like the thought of having someone besides the boys in my life. Maybe you and I were meant to meet like this.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Why? Don't you believe in divine intervention?”

“Truthfully? I can't say I believe in divine anything. Not anymore.”

Softly, he said, “That's a shame. You miss a lot of blessings that way.”

“I doubt it.”

Certain he was going to back off and let her walk away, Brianne stopped staring into his eyes. That's why she didn't realize he was going to cup her face in his hands until he was cradling her cheeks in his warm, callused palms. At that point, she wouldn't have been able to make herself pull away if someone had yelled that the house was on fire.

Slowly, gently, Mitch tilted her face up as he leaned closer.

Brianne held her breath and waited for his kiss. In her heart she knew it would be wonderful.

She was right. Instead of grabbing her and pressing his mouth hard against hers the way other men had, he kept himself in check, barely brushing her lips with his before easing away.

Was he trembling? Yes! Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly as she studied Mitch's face, searching for answers to questions she was afraid to ask. When he looked at her there was a unique intensity to his gaze that left her weak-kneed and reeling.

With her emotions fluctuating wildly and every cell of her body attuned to the man who was still gently caressing her face, all Bree could do was stand there and absorb the precious moments. She pictured herself as a desert wanderer, dying of thirst, who had accidentally stumbled upon an oasis
that held the sweetest, most refreshing water imaginable. And she wasn't ready to force herself to stop drinking in that sweetness and turn to face the wasteland. Not yet.

Without conscious thought, Bree raised her hand and mirrored Mitch's actions, drawing her fingers over his jaw and feeling the beginnings of the beard that gave the lower portion of his face a shadowy roughness. To her surprise, he clasped her wrist and stopped her.

“Don't,” he warned with unusual hoarseness.

Part of Brianne wanted to remind him that their present encounter was his doing, that she was merely the blameless victim of his silly game.

Another part of her, however, was taking the whole incident far more seriously. Judging by the intensity of Mitch's gaze and the way he was holding her wrist so tightly, she wasn't the only one who had sensed that something important was happening between them.

They stared into each other's eyes for long moments until Bree's brain finally provided an observation that was lucid enough—and innocent enough—to give voice to.

“You need a shave,” she said simply.

Mitch released her wrist and stepped back, rubbing his cheeks with his palms and appearing re
lieved. “Apparently so. I've had other things on my mind lately. Know where I can find a sharp razor?”

Her nervousness remained so heightened it was all she could do to stifle the giggles welling up in her throat. “A sharp one? Picky, aren't you?”

“Well, if I'm going to court you, the least you can do is help me make myself presentable.”

“What's your hurry? I thought you said you were going to wait until everything was back to normal.”

“I don't want to grow a beard in the meantime,” Mitch said with his characteristic lopsided smile. “Not that I expect us to be stuck up here long enough for that.”

“Heaven forbid!”

He laughed. “I thought you didn't believe that the Lord might have thrown us together.”

“It was a figure of speech,” she countered, making a grumpy face to add emphasis. “You'll find disposable razors in the cabinet in the guest bathroom. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He glanced to where the elements of their evening meal waited. “Sure you can handle this okay without me? I'll be glad to stay and help you get organized.”

“Being unorganized is one problem I've never had,” Bree said proudly. “Why don't you go
shave? And while you're at it, see if the boys are okay, too. I'd hate to ignore them and then hear another crash.”

“You and me both.” Mitch pointed to the counter. “I left the spices lined up over there on that end. The marinade for the chicken is in the blue bowl by the recipe card. It smells great.”

“Good. Thanks. Bye.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” he said, finally making his exit.

Bree sighed. She didn't want to hurt his feelings when all he was trying to do was be helpful, but she knew if he'd continued to hover over her, watching her every move and getting in the way, she'd have had a terrible time concentrating on anything, especially since their surprising kiss.

No kidding! For some reason, being near Mitch Fowler was making Bree feel more and more like a radio that was only partially tuned in. The signal was there, it just wasn't clear.

Which reminded her. Serenity had its own radio station. She could probably get some idea of what was going on in the immediate area by listening to it.

Encouraged, Bree flicked on the portable radio. A newscaster was speaking. “Flooding is widespread, especially in Fulton, Izard and Sharp counties. Disaster teams are being pushed to the
limit. According to state records, the Strawberry River is at its highest level in forty years. Scattered showers are expected to continue through tomorrow. And in the daily farm report, corn futures for October are up a tenth, soybeans are…”

Brianne let her mind drift. Considering all the terrible things that had been happening in the lowlands, she felt ashamed that she'd been so hard on her houseguests. After all, Mitch couldn't help being stranded any more than she could. And his kids probably weren't acting any differently than most children would if they were cooped up in a strange house.

Bree continued to measure spices and stir them into the marinade for the chicken strips. Her thoughts centered on Mitch. She could still see him supporting the weight of her china cabinet, his arm muscles bulging with superhuman effort.

Though she hadn't been conscious of it at the time, she was able to relive the awesome feeling of warmth and power that had radiated from him as she'd helped him right the cabinet. And she remembered with chagrin how she'd berated him afterward. She wished she hadn't been quite so cranky.

Staring at the measuring spoon in her hand, she had to laugh at herself. She could apparently remember minute details of every moment spent with Mitch Fowler, yet she wasn't sure whether she'd
added the two teaspoons of red pepper flakes the recipe called for.

The bowl of dark, thick marinade didn't seem to have any flakes in it. Besides, now that she thought about it, it would probably be best to limit the hot spices for the sake of the children.

Brianne measured half the recommended amount of pepper, stirred it into the liquid, then submerged the chicken breasts and put them in the refrigerator. There. That wasn't so hard. As her mother had always said, anyone who could read well could cook well.

Bree studied the rest of the recipe card. Interpretation of Emma's handwritten directions seemed to be the hardest part of the process. Nowhere did the instructions say what to do with the meat after it had been soaked in the spices. If Bree hadn't remembered that her housekeeper had recently prepared the dish, she wouldn't have had a clue that the chicken was supposed to be baked.

Pleased with her progress so far and feeling quite confident, Brianne paused for a relaxing cup of herb tea and straightened up the mess she'd made in the kitchen while the meat marinated.

Then she took out a Pyrex baking dish and carefully arranged the chicken pieces in the bottom. They looked drier than she remembered, so she poured the extra marinade over them before cov
ering the dish with aluminum foil and slipping it into the double oven. Later, she'd bake some potatoes in the second oven.

Smiling, she took off the makeshift apron she'd donned at the outset of her foray into cooking. If this was all there was to feeding a big family, she certainly didn't know what all the fuss was about.

B
y dinnertime, the aroma permeating the house was so wonderful she didn't even have to call her guests to the table. One by one they gravitated toward the kitchen, drawn there by hunger.

Bree tucked a tea towel into her belt to serve as an apron, the way she had before, and greeted them graciously. “The table's all set. Just take your usual places. I'll have everything ready in a jiffy.”

“Need any help now?” Mitch asked.

“If you'd get everyone a drink it would be nice,” she told him. “Ice water for me, please.”

“Coming up.”

“I want soda!” Ryan whined. “I always have soda.”

Mitch ignored him and set about pouring two
small glasses of milk. Bud was silent. He looked as if he was going to burst into tears when his father put a glass of milk by his plate.

Busy peeling the foil off the top of the casserole dish, Bree asked, “When you finish there, will you get the baked potatoes, please? They're in the top oven.”

“Okay. That sure smells great.”

“Thanks. Actually, I changed the recipe a little. I was afraid there'd be too much red pepper in it for the kids so I cut the amount in half.”

Holding an empty dish to put the baked potatoes on, Mitch cleared his throat. “Uh, excuse me? Did you say you added more red pepper?”

“No, I added less. Why?”

“Because I told you the marinade was ready when I left the kitchen. You didn't need to add a thing to it.”

“What? You did not tell me that!”

“Yes, I did. I distinctly recall pointing out that it was already in the blue bowl.”

“Well, sure, but you also said you'd laid out all the spices. What was I supposed to think?”

“I don't know. If you hadn't thrown me out of the kitchen you could have asked me.”

“If I hadn't let you into the kitchen in the first place we wouldn't have a problem to ask about. I told you I could make dinner by myself.”

“Fine.” Disgruntled, Mitch turned toward the oven to retrieve the potatoes. When he opened the door, a cloud of steam and smoke billowed out. “What the…”

“What did you do?” Bree demanded.

“Me? Nothing.” He waved the fumes away with his hand and began lifting the remains of the potatoes with an oven mitt. “I'll bet you didn't prick the skins before you baked these.”

“How was I supposed to know to do that? There's nothing in Emma's files about baking potatoes.”

“That's probably because it's so elementary.” Mitch stared at her. “Haven't you ever cooked anything before?”

“Not like this. And not lately, except for tonight.”

“I wanna send out for pizza,” Ryan hollered.

His father was not in the mood to fight with him, too. “That's enough. We can't send out for pizza because we don't have a phone that works—thanks to you and your dog. And the road is washed away so the delivery guy couldn't get it here, anyway.”

“I'm not gonna eat that,” the boy insisted, pointing at the remains of the potatoes. “It looks gross!”

“Oh, I don't know,” Mitch said. “I kind of like exploding food, as long as it's done blowing up before I try to eat it.”

Bree was not amused. “You don't have to rub it in.” She studied the oddly shaped remnants of skin and fluffy white potato. “They look kind of like they're double baked, only a lot rougher around the edges.”

“They do, don't they? Wonder if they'd be good with cheese melted on top?” Mitch put the dish aside and went to the refrigerator to look for a wedge of Cheddar.

Brianne stood back, watching. At the mere mention of melted cheese the younger boy had brightened up. She could tell that Ryan, too, was happy about the cheese idea, though he tried not to show approval. Well, fine. She wasn't trying to starve the poor kids. If they didn't want to eat her potatoes without doctoring them, that was okay with her.

While the cheese and milk were heating in the microwave to make a quick sauce, Mitch got busy scraping the marinade off portions of chicken and cutting them into bite-size pieces for the boys. He cautioned them to wait politely until everyone had been seated before beginning to eat.

Brianne brought a hot dish of canned corn to the table and took her place. Having all of them together at the small kitchen table made things crowded but doable. After what had happened at breakfast she certainly didn't intend to serve the children in the formal dining room and spend all
her time worrying about drips on the rug. And she could hardly throw them outside again, since the rain had resumed.

As soon as Mitch returned with the cheese sauce and sat down, Bree took the first bite of her chicken. The initial taste was delicious. By the time several seconds had passed, however, her tongue started to prickle.

That was just the beginning. In less than ten heartbeats the roof of her mouth was on fire. When she breathed, her sinuses felt like she was inhaling pure flame and being seared from the inside out.

Eyes tearing, she grabbed her glass of water and gulped it dry, looking at Mitch just in time to see him sample his entrée. He raised one eyebrow and saluted her with his fork, evidently surprised that it tasted so good.

By the time Bree said, “Don't!” it was too late. His face reddened, his dark eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

Bree couldn't tell if his expression was one of shock, aggravation, panic—or none of the above, since he'd covered his mouth with his napkin and was snorting like a walrus with a bad cold.

One thing was certain. Even though Mitch had scraped the extra marinade off the chicken he'd cut up for the children, they mustn't be permitted to taste it.

Brianne moved to snatch their plates an instant before Mitch did. That set up a clamor from the hungry boys reminiscent of a henhouse being raided by a ravenous fox.

Ignoring the ruckus, Bree and Mitch made a mad dash for the sink and began gulping down cold water. She glanced at him, expecting a tirade. To her surprise, he looked amused.

“I—I'm sorry,” she blurted, chancing a smile.

Mitch drew another glassful of water. “No problem.”

There was something about the mischievous twinkle in his watering eyes and the twitch at the corners of his mouth that made her giggle. That was all it took to set him off.

He began to roar. Brianne joined him. They chuckled and snickered and laughed and hooted until both were gasping for air.

Tears rolled down Bree's cheeks. She drew a shuddering breath and said, “Oops,” which started Mitch off again, nearly doubling him up.

Finally, he managed to regain his self-control. Laying a hand on Brianne's shoulder, he said, “Maybe you'd better retire from cooking while we're still on our feet.”

“The exploding potatoes were a nice touch,” she countered, bringing more chuckles.

Together, they looked at the table. Both boys
were sitting there, unmoving, holding their empty forks in their small fists and staring at the adults with bewildered expressions.

“Maybe we'd better get clean plates for their potatoes,” Bree said, reaching into the cupboard. “Will that be enough supper? All they had for lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“It'll be fine. Put gobs of cheese on his food and any kid will be satisfied,” he said. “They could live on the stuff. That, and peanut butter.”

Bree winked at Mitch. “Peanut butter on baked potatoes? Yuck.”

“Hey,” he said, “if I had the choice of another helping of your special chicken or a peanut butter flavored spud, I wouldn't have any trouble choosing.”

“You'd pick the potato?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded solemnly. “No contest.”

 

Mitch had his children bathed and in bed by nine. Ryan was the only one who had argued, and even he had started to doze off almost immediately.

As soon as Mitch was sure they were both sleeping soundly he went downstairs. He'd convinced himself that he was merely looking for something with which to make a list of the items he'd need to replace or repair.

Pen and paper he found easily. When he continued to wander through the downstairs rooms, he was forced to admit he also wanted to see Brianne.

Noticing a light in the library, he headed in that direction. Bookshelves blanketed three walls. On the fourth, French doors opened onto the covered terrace where Bree had taken the children when they'd been caught in the rain while playing outside.

Could that really have been less than twenty-four hours ago? Mitch marveled. How time flew when you were having fun!

The heavy library door was ajar. He cautiously gave it a push, and it glided open effortlessly, quietly. Mitch smiled as Brianne looked up. “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

“No. Not at all.”

She was seated on one end of a leather sofa, her feet bare, one leg tucked partially beneath her. She closed the book she'd been reading and laid it aside, then leaned out to peer past him. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Even Barney's sleeping, thank goodness.”

As Bree watched the tall man saunter across the room, she got goose bumps wondering if he was going to join her on the couch. When he chose to sit in a chair, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Given the choice, she opted for disappointed.

Mitch leaned back, stretched his legs out in front of him with his ankles crossed and sighed. “Boy, what a day this has been. I'm beat.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So, what were you reading? A cookbook?”

“Very funny. Actually, I don't own a cookbook—which was part of my problem tonight. This book is a mystery.” Come to think of it, so is cooking, she thought.

“Ah. Is that the kind of book you write?” he asked.

“Not exactly. My stories are mostly romantic, although I do occasionally work in an element of suspense.”

“Love stories? You write love stories?”

“You don't have to sound so shocked.”

“I didn't mean anything by it,” Mitch assured her. “I'm sure the folks who write science fiction haven't been to outer space, either.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. “I mean… I didn't mean…” He began to mutter to himself and shake his head.

“I'm not that naive, Mr. Fowler.”

“I'm sure you're not.” Flustered, he realized he'd insulted her again.

The absurd look on his face made Bree laugh. “I think you're bumfuzzled.”

“I'm what?”

“It's one of Emma's favorite expressions. Near as I can tell, it means something between frazzled and confused.”

“Sounds about right. Think I should go out and come in again so we can start this conversation over?”

“That won't be necessary.” She eyed the paper in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Making a list. I want you to tell me exactly what was broken.”

“Why?”

“Because I intend to replace the busted pieces.” His face reddened slightly. “And I'll probably have to buy you a new bathroom door, too, thanks to Barney. He's scratched the inside pretty badly.”

“I've been afraid to look.”

“Don't. It's not a pretty sight. You'll be glad to hear that the rest of the room is okay, though. Apparently, the only thing he likes to chew is telephones.”

“I suppose I should be thankful.”

“I sure am.” Mitch paused, pen poised, waiting for her to answer his original question. “Well? Which dishes were broken?”

Hearing the fine French china referred to as
dishes
amused Bree. “You don't want to know.”

“Yes, I do. I'm serious about this.”

“Okay. Let me put it this way. A few years ago,
hand-painted Limoges plates were selling for well over five hundred dollars.”

“Each?”

“Each. And that's if you can find any for sale that match the original set. Of course, the ones signed by the artist can go for double that amount.”

“Oh, boy.”

“I told you, you didn't want to know.”

“You're right,” Mitch said, shaking his head. “No wonder you were so concerned. Looks like my son's going to be working off that bill until he's fifty or sixty years old.”

“I don't think that's really fair.”

“I have to teach him responsibility.”

“Within reason,” she countered.

Mitch smiled. “Why are you defending him? I thought you didn't like kids.”

“I don't.”

“You may think you don't. But I've seen you dealing with my boys, and you certainly don't hate them. The dog, maybe, but not the kids.”

“Even the stupid dog was starting to grow on me—until he ate the cell phone antenna,” she admitted with a wry smile.

“Then liking the children can't be far behind.”

“Why? Because they're little animals, too?”

That brought his full-bodied laugh. “You do have an odd way of looking at things, lady.”

“I've been told that before.”

“I imagine you have.” Staring at her, he sobered. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“No.” It was barely a whisper.

“Then I'm a fool. And to prove it for sure, I'm going to come over there and kiss you again.”

Brianne knew she should tell him not to. She also knew that if she put off doing anything for a few seconds there would be no need. It would be too late. What was the matter with her? Where was her common sense? She was beginning to think and act just like one of the lovesick heroines in her novels.

She closed her eyes. What would she do if she were writing this scene instead of living it? That was the easiest question she'd asked herself in a long time. The first thing she'd do was go back to the beginning of the story and make sure there were no children in the picture. Marriage was hard enough without adding the complications of offspring. She ought to know. She'd overheard her father and mother scream at each other often enough about having a daughter they didn't want. The memory made her suddenly feel queasy.