A Bride in the Bargain (15 page)

“I heard ya.”

“But I don’t want you doing it in view of the house. I’ll get you some soap; then I want you to head back up to the spring beyond the trees to do your washing.”

Nobody moved. Nobody said a thing.

The screen door connecting to the kitchen flew open and slammed shut behind Anna as she hurried down the steps, balancing six platters on her left arm and carrying a seventh in her right hand. The woman had obviously done some serving in that restaurant she’d cooked for.

She had on the same gown she’d worn for the past two days, but it was starched and carefully ironed. A white apron covered the front of her skirt and tied in the back with a perfectly formed bow, calling attention to her tiny, tiny waist.

Her hair was neatly combed and banded at the back with a ribbon. The breeze picked up the tail of her hair and tossed it over her shoulder. She flicked it back with a shrug and at that moment saw everybody standing there as if they’d spilled a load of logs.

She came to an abrupt halt, her lips parting.

“Get,” Joe said to the boys under his breath. “Red, go grab some soap.”

The men scattered and Red jumped to do his bidding, making an exaggerated circle around Anna before disappearing inside the kitchen.

It hadn’t rained since morning, but it had been cloudy all day. The sun hadn’t made an appearance until it started descending and dropped below the clouds. Now it bathed Anna in its rays, picking out the highlights in her hair.

Red slammed back out of the kitchen, leaping over the steps altogether, then made another loop around Anna as if she had some fatal disease. Joe tracked his progress toward the section of the spring that ran through the trees, watching until he disappeared from sight.

Only then did he turn back to Anna. “Everything all right?”

She jumped forward, much like the oxen did when they heard the sound of the bullwhip.

“Yes, yes. Everything’s ready.” Placing the platters on the table, she glanced toward the trees. “Are they coming?”

“They’re washing up.”

Her gaze collided with his, one platter suspended and her cheeks filling with pink. He knew what she was thinking and she knew he knew.

Sauntering forward, he glanced at the platters. Doughnuts. Every platter on the table was heaped with doughnuts. Sweet Mackinaw. She’d have fourteen proposals before the blessing was even finished.

Why he didn’t wash up at the spring with the boys, he didn’t know and didn’t question. He just moved past her, went directly to the stand in the corner of the kitchen, and poured water from the ewer into the basin.

He took his time, scrubbing, humming, lathering, and scrubbing some more. He knew she was looking. Could feel it. When he was all done, he toweled off, picked up his dirty shirt, and headed to his room for a fresh one, never once looking her way.

The minute he disappeared from sight, she released the gravy spoon and pressed a hand to her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to look at him. Hadn’t needed to, even. As soon as she’d heard the sounds, her mind filled in the rest.

Yet she’d looked anyway. Drawn to the sight as surely as Aphrodite was to Ares. And, heaven help her, she really took her time, checking to see if her memory had served her well.

It had. Still, she noticed things she’d missed the first go-round. The way his hair kinked up at the ends when it got wet. The way his arm muscles were so big they scraped his sides. The way his waist was extremely trim compared to his shoulders. The way his trousers caught on his hips, suspenders rocking in time to his scrubbing.

She heard him come out of his room and jerked herself into motion. Grabbing the potatoes and gravy, she raced out the door—determined to be outside before he made it around the corner—snagged her heel on the bottom step, and fell. In a reflexive effort to free her hands and break her fall, she launched both bowls across the lean-to.

Clumps of creamy potatoes flung themselves from the bowl. The gravy somersaulted twice, plopping to the ground directly in front her. Its contents splattered the ground, her dress, and her face, stinging her skin with its heat. Both bowls broke, the sound loud in the awful silence.

She lay still for a second, the wind completely knocked out of her, then lifted her gaze. The entire company of men stood suspended halfway out of their chairs, some with doughnuts in their hands, all with horrified expressions.

The screen squeaked open and Joe’s rapid footfalls descended. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a mite. “Ronny, take care of this mess for her, would you?”

Then he slipped his arm around her and assisted her back into the kitchen.

Joe lowered her into a chair by the fireplace and squatted down beside her. “Are you all right? Did anything burn you?”

“I ruined the potatoes and the gravy!” She looked at him, her eyes flooding.

Oh no. Oh no. Don’t cry. What am I going to do if she cries?

“Shhhh. It’s all right.” A blob of gravy slid down her cheek. Scooping it up with his finger, he transferred it to his mouth, then raised his brows. “Mmm. That’s good. Do you mind?” He pointed to her forehead.

Frowning, she swiped her forehead, then touched the gravy on her finger with her tongue.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“It
is
good.” A tiny bit of mischief sprung into her eyes. “Is there any more?”

He chuckled. “I seem to recall a whole potful on the landing out there.” He squeezed her hand. “Sit tight for a minute.”

Moving to the washbasin, he grabbed the towel, poured water onto one corner, then brought it to her.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said, cleaning her face and neck. “I know the men have put in a full day and are really hungry. I’ve served food for years, and never, ever have I dropped a platter or bowl before.”

She wiped off her gown, scrunching up her chin in order to see if she’d missed any spots. The watch on her breast wobbled. Was she even aware she’d used his Christian name?

He didn’t think so.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Everybody has a first time, I suppose.”

“You’re right, I’m sure.” She sighed. “I just wish mine hadn’t been before I’d had a chance to even meet your men.” Squaring her shoulders, she looked him right in the eye. “Did I get it all?”

He’d probably never be invited to look his fill again, so he decided not to rush through this time. He started with her honey-colored hair, then moved over creamy skin to brown eyebrows. Their natural arch framed eyes of a much deeper and richer shade of brown. They were lined with long black lashes and shaped like sideways teardrops.

Her nose was small and dainty. Her cheeks rosy. Her lips full.

He lowered his gaze. Her long, graceful neck led to delicate shoulders and . . .

“Perfect,” he whispered.

“Good.” Anna placed her hands on the arms of the chair, then winced.

“Your ankle?” He glanced at the frayed hem of her gown.

“No.” Flipping her hands over, she inspected scuffed-up palms.

“I’ll get some salve.”

“No, no.” She brushed off embedded bits of gravel, then wiped her hands on her apron. “They’re fine. I’m fine. You go out there now so I can finish serving supper. Otherwise your men might shrivel up and blow away.”

He helped her to her feet. “Lumberjacks do not shrivel up and blow away.”

“All the same, you’d best join them.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You need any help?”

“No. I’ll be careful. Now, shoo.”

A dot of potatoes just beneath her ear caught his attention. He bent forward, thinking only to cut out the middleman and taste directly with his lips, when her eyes widened.

Straightening, he took a quick step back. “You, um, you missed a spot right there below your left ear.”

She touched her neck, coming away with the dollop of potato. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He continued to back up, ran into the screen, then turned and joined his men.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Anna didn’t have time for any embarrassment. Within eight minutes the men devoured the food that had taken her all afternoon to prepare. She set out platters of cold cuts, beans, salad, and vegetables, then returned to fill their cups with coffee, only to find their plates empty and ready for more.

A few of the men were young and fresh faced, but most looked to be in their thirties with weather-beaten, wind-burned faces. All were loud and rambunctious, yet perfect gentlemen.

Reaching around a stocky man with hair so blond it was almost white, she set out the last pan of spicy cinnamon rolls. The tin barely touched the table before a dozen hands emptied it of its contents.

Shaking her head, she looked up and down the long row of men. “Who’s Ronny?”

A boy who’d kept his head tucked and close to his plate during the meal now lifted it. “I’m Ronny.”

Her heart stopped. He looked exactly the way she imagined Leon would have if his life hadn’t been cut short. Same brown eyes. Same smile. Same brown hair with a stubborn little lock that fell just above his right eyebrow.

“Th-thank you, Ronny, for cleaning up the potatoes and gravy.”

“It was no trouble, miss.” He pushed up the sleeves of a shirt two sizes too big for him.

Such a simple, unconscious action, yet it evoked powerful memories that she quickly suppressed. “Where are the bowls?”

“He ate ’em.”

The man who’d spoken had freckles all over, and his short, carrot-colored hair stuck out in tufts.

“The shards?” she asked. “Of the bowls?”

The men laughed.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” somebody answered. “Got a cast-iron stomach, that one does.”

Ronny ducked his head, turning several shades of red. “They’re right over there on the chopping block, miss.”

She walked to the block, expecting to find a mess of food and gravel coating the pieces of earthenware, yet other than a streak of gravy and a smidgen of potatoes, they were clean. “Where’s the potatoes and gravy?”

“I told you. He ate ’em.”

She turned to Ronny. “You ate them? The ones I flung all over the ground?”

Grinning sheepishly, he shrugged. “They were good. A little gritty, but good.”

She smiled, then searched out Joe to see his reaction.

He’d been watching her. For how long, she didn’t know. He tore a bite off his cinnamon roll, bits of sugar glaze sticking to his lips, then winked. Something deep inside her stomach tightened. Wrenching her gaze away, she returned to the kitchen for the last of the coffee.

As soon as the men left the table, they dispersed to take care of the chores. Several headed down to the barn to milk the cows, feed the pigs and chickens, muck out the stalls, and collect the eggs. All wore pants cut off at the calf.

The man with white-blond hair filled a huge caldron with water and set it to boil. Young Ronny sat on the porch churning butter. To his left a chestnut tree ripe with fruit leaned dangerously close to the house. She wondered why Joe hadn’t chopped it down.

Scanning the yard, she spotted him propping a log end-up on the block. He swung his ax in a generous arc that involved arms, shoulders, back, waist, and legs. Each time he struck, the log flew off the block in two neat pieces with a loud snap. Picking up one of the pieces, he repeated the motion, splitting it into quarters.

Balancing a tin tub on her hip, Anna collected the dirty cups, plates, and flatware. The logs could have been jackstraws for as little effort as it took him. She glanced his direction again just as his ax connected with the wood.

“Water’s hot,” said the man with white-blond hair as he made his way to the garden.

Flushing at being caught staring, she finished collecting the dishes and moved to the caldron, keeping her attention on what she was doing. Still, she found herself scrubbing in time to the sound of Joe’s chopping.

She’d just finished with the dishes when the men returned from the barn, each taking a load of the newly cut wood into the house. For the first time, she noted they all wore their shirts loose. She realized the oversized shirts gave them more freedom in their movements. But why the shortened pants?

One by one, they dropped their lunch buckets by the back door, then thanked her for their meal.

“Good night, miss. Those cinnamon rolls sure were good.”

“You rest up and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hope you don’t hold a grudge toward taters now. Ronny says they sure were creamy, other than the dirt, o’ course.”

With each parting comment, her throat filled a little more so that by the time they’d all said their good-byes, she could hardly even speak.

She’d been cooking her whole life, it seemed, but never for a more appreciative and thoughtful bunch as these overgrown lumberjacks of the Pacific Northwest.

Bit by bit the thick forest swallowed them as they walked away, a wake of laughter and easy conversation rippling behind them until only the sounds of crickets and frogs were left.