A Bride in the Bargain (13 page)

“The milk room’s through there,” he explained, setting the pot on the stove and opening the fire chamber. He threw in some pine for a quick hot fire, then began to light it. “I have an artesian spring that runs right by the house and have piped some in to cool the room.”

Her gaze returned to the door he referred to. A milk room? And a natural spring?

Turning again to face her, he rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I’m going to see to Shakespeare and the milk cows. By the time I’m done the water should be hot. So, sit tight and I’ll be as fast as I can.”

He stepped to the back door, then without turning around said, “The necessary house is just out this door and around the corner.”

And then he was gone.

Even though he wanted to rush, he took his time with Shakespeare, rubbing him, brushing him, and giving him an extra scoop of feed. All the while his mind was on the woman in his house.

She’d not been happy to find herself in his lap. But she’d kept sliding off his shoulder and it had been easier to keep her still in his lap. Was also easier to keep her dry. The fact that he liked having her there was beside the point.

Shakespeare paused in his eating to cast an eye back at Joe. He realized he’d stopped his brushing and immediately resumed his task.

He shouldn’t have pushed his horse so hard. He was sorry he’d done it. It was one thing for him to skip his meals. Quite another to expect Shakespeare to.

Squatting down, he began to massage the horse’s back leg. What was his guest doing now, he wondered. Was she wandering through the house, soothing her curiosity? What would she think of it?

He paused. What if she went into his bedroom? Would she dare? He hoped not, because if she did she’d see the twinflowers.

Shakespeare flicked his tail. Joe resumed the massage. He’d completely forgotten about the blasted flowers until he walked through the door and their smell hit him square between the eyes.

But he’d been expecting to bring home a bride. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d gathered them and set them in every available container he had throughout the house. That was before he learned he’d be bringing home a cook instead.

He shook his head. He should never have done it to begin with.

He moved to Shakespeare’s front legs.
Please, God, don’t let her say anything to the boys
.

Red must have seen to the animals because the cows had been milked, the oxen, pigs, and goats fed, and the stalls cleaned. More likely he’d been curious about Joe’s bride and had come to have a look-see for himself, then kept busy in the barn hoping to be here when the couple arrived.

He wondered if the crew would show up expecting breakfast in the morning. He sure hoped not.

Lifting the lantern off a nail, he gave Shakespeare a pat, then let himself out of the stall. Tucking his horse in for the night was one thing. But what exactly were his responsibilities to the woman?

She wasn’t his guest. She was his cook. His employee. So that should change everything.

But it didn’t. Because she was a woman. A young woman. He swallowed. A pretty woman. And one that Mercer had picked out specifically for him.

He released the top button of his shirt and cast a longing gaze at one of the empty stalls. What he wouldn’t give to be able to bed out here with the animals.

He didn’t dare, though. It was going to be bad enough when the boys found out Anna had refused him and the only other alternative was to pledge himself to a woman in her sixties. The last thing he wanted was to add more fuel to the fire by hiding out in his own barn.

Anna’s bag caught his attention. He’d dropped it by the barn door when he’d put the wagon away. Something inside had rattled. It didn’t sound like coins and, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be. The tapestry-covered bag was faded, worn, and light as a feather.

He wanted to look inside. The woman was a stranger, after all. He knew nothing about her and the contents of the bag would tell him a lot.

Lifting it again, he tested its weight, listened to the clinking, and ran his hand over the wide buckle. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That would be like her going into his bedroom and looking through his chest of drawers.

He glanced up. If she did, she’d find half of them had been emptied for her—or his bride, that is. He quickly raised the latch on the barn door, slipped out, and jogged to the house.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Several things struck Joe at once. The kitchen abounded with light and warmth. Something smelled really, really good. And Anna was wearing one of his flannel shirts with his table linen wrapped around her body in an Indianlike fashion.

She stood facing him, her back to the fire, her hands clasped in front of her. The dress she’d worn earlier along with her boots lay on the hearth drying.

He glanced at the hem of her makeshift garment. Was she barefoot?

“Where’d you get that shirt?” he asked.

She fingered the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. “I . . . it . . .”

His jaw slackened. “Did you go through my things?”

Glancing in the direction of his room, she moistened her lips. “I was soaked to the skin and needed to rinse out my gown and my bag was still in the wagon and you were gone such a long time and I’d be of no use to you sick, so I . . .” She gave a little shrug.

“And so you went through my drawers?”

“Only two of them.”

He felt his face begin to heat. There were only four drawers in all. Two were empty and two held all his belongings—including his personals.

Avoiding his gaze, she scurried to the stove, her sarong thing restricting her stride. “I found some boiled beef in the milk room and made you some bubble and squeak, without the cabbage, of course.”

Bubble and squeak?

“Go ahead and wash up.” Grasping the towel he’d dried her face with earlier, she lifted a frying pan off the warming plate and brought it over to the table. The flowers had been moved aside and a place set for one. One. Not two.

She shuffled around in her linen cloth, sliding some fat potato-cake sort of things onto his plate, then added fritters without sauce. She placed three pieces of toast she’d kept on the fender onto another plate, then disappeared into the milk room.

She hesitated upon her return, a glass of milk in one hand and a bowl of some concoction in the other. “Go ahead.” She pointed toward the basin stand with her head. “Wash up. I’ve already poured the water for you.”

“Lumberjacks do not eat bubble and squawk, whatever that is.”

She frowned. “Squeak. And don’t be ridiculous. It’s all I could manage in such a short amount of time.” Lifting a brow, she injected a hint of challenge into her voice. “And if you’re a good boy and clean your plate, I’ll make you some pancakes.”

He took a second look at the bowl in her hand. “You have pancake batter in there?”

“I do. But only those who finish their bubble and squeak get some.”

He tossed his hat onto a hook and strode to the basin. Reaching for his buttons, he froze. Normally he shucked his shirt and washed all over. But he couldn’t do that now. Not with her in the room. By the same token, he couldn’t go to the table in a sopping wet shirt that now smelled like the barnyard.

He glanced over his shoulder. She faced the stove, her back to him, her entire body swaying as she whipped up the batter.

If she was making pancakes, there’d be no reason for her to turn around. Besides, they were going to be sharing the same kitchen for several months. He wasn’t about to haul water to his room every time they had a meal.

Taking one last look to ensure she was occupied, he made quick work of his buttons, peeled off his suspenders, yanked off his shirt, and tossed it by the stairs.

With a block of soap, he swished his hands in the water, then rubbed them on his arms, his chest, his armpits, and his neck. He lathered up again and scrubbed his face. Eyes closed, he splashed water everywhere he’d soaped, then reached blindly for the towel he knew was hanging on the rail of the stand.

Burying his face in the cloth, he hesitated a moment, enjoying its soft texture and the pure pleasure of being clean after the long journey home.

He sighed, finished drying, slung the towel over the rim of the bowl, and turned around.

Anna stood with mouth agape, a wooden spoon suspended in her hand. A fat drop of batter slid from the spoon onto the floor and landed with a soft
plop
. Her gaze moved from his face to his neck, to his shoulders, to his chest.

“Oh my,” she whispered.

His lungs quit working, making it impossible to draw a breath.

“You’re so . . . I’ve never . . .” She looked at him, her expression completely befuddled.

He jumped, as if he’d just heard the roaring crackle of wood fiber and the faller call
“Timber-r-r-r!”

Crossing the room in several quick strides, he grabbed his shirt and a lantern, turned the corner, and jogged up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he propped his hands against the chest of drawers and hung his head, calling himself ten kinds of a fool.

I’ve never . . .

Never what? Seen a man wash up? Didn’t she say she had a brother? A brother old enough to fight in the war? He and his older brothers had washed up in front of their sisters all the time growing up. But Anna Ivey was not his sister.

He lifted his head and looked in the mirror attached to the dresser. Same thing he saw every day reflected back at him. Same thick neck. Same blond hair dotting his chest. Same flat stomach.

But when he tried to see himself through her eyes, he realized how huge he was compared to her. His arm alone was almost as big as her tiny little waist. What had he been thinking?

Shucking out of his wet trousers, he replaced them with another pair, then pulled on a fresh shirt. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t get the blasted buttons through the buttonholes.

He stopped and plopped down onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to live like a stranger in his own house. Hiding in his room when he wanted to wash up. Getting completely dressed just to visit the privy in the mornings. He’d probably even have to keep his sleeves rolled down while in her presence.

He took his time with his buttons, shoved the tail of his shirt into his trousers, then snapped his suspenders in place. All covered up again, every button buttoned. Civilized and proper—while she strolled around his kitchen wearing a tablecloth.

He took a deep breath. A whiff of pancakes reached his nose. At least he’d be eating good. But she’d best learn loggers wouldn’t—couldn’t—subsist on dishes called things like bubble and squeal.

He was huge.
Huge
. And he wore no undershirt. What kind of man went around without an undershirt?

Still, she could not dispel the image of him washing with such, such gusto. The byplay of muscles on his back as he scrubbed his arms was a work of art in motion. The way he chafed his chest as if it were a washboard so fascinated her, she could only stare. And the dark blond hair at the pits of his arms . . .

She bit her lip and slid a spatula under a pancake, flipping it over. She’d watched her father wash up a thousand times at least. But he was family, not an employer or a stranger. And never, ever had Papa done so without a washcloth and certainly not with such vigor.

When Denton had turned around, she could not believe the sheer breadth of him. She didn’t even know men had muscles in all those places. Why, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to span the width of his arm with both hands together.

And staring at him, even thinking about it, caused a weightless feeling in her stomach.

She heard his tread on the stairs and felt heat rush to her face. She’d obviously embarrassed him, but it had happened so fast. She’d been so unprepared. Should she apologize or pretend nothing had happened?

He hovered at the doorway. Even his breathing was different from Papa’s. Deeper somehow. Richer.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she said, careful to keep her back to him. “These are almost ready.”

A chair scraped the floor. She transferred the pancakes to a plate, took a deep breath, turned around, and froze yet again.

He sat with both arms resting on either side of his plate, his head down, his big shoulders hunched. She barely heard his “Amen” before he sat up, picked up his flatware, and began to eat with such tremendous speed, she could, once again, only stare.

He stacked the bubble and squeak, divided it in half, stuck it in his mouth, and swallowed. The fritters followed in hot pursuit. The toast in three bites or less.

She picked up his empty plate and set down the hot cakes. He spared no time for butter. Just quartered the disks and sent them on their way in a single gulp.

How in heaven’s name did he have a chance to even taste his food, much less appreciate it, when he introduced the next bite so quickly?