A Bride in the Bargain (21 page)

The boys dug into their meat pies, rain beating the top of the lean-to and sliding off its edges. The water formed a curtain of sorts, splattering mud just inside their haven. The chestnut tree beside the porch swayed, but no one seemed concerned.

“What is this stuff, Miss Ivey?” The question came from a leathery-faced man the others called Fish. She assumed it was because of his big eyes, bald head, and sunken cheeks, but she had, of course, refrained from asking.

“Toad-in-the-hole,” she replied.

Fish paused, then poked his pie with his spoon. “Toad-in-the-hole? There’s toads in this?”

She smiled. “No. I don’t know why it’s called that. It’s just rump, kidney, and onion.”

Fish continued with his meal, as did the others, emptying the platters of food more quickly than usual. The steady rain not only dampened the yard, it dampened the men’s spirits, keeping their customary enthusiasm and teasing at bay.

After-dinner chores were executed with quick efficiency, bringing an early conclusion to Anna’s evening. The men dropped their lunch buckets by the door, said their good-byes, and set out for the night. Anna bent to retrieve the buckets, then stopped in surprise. Every single one had been thoroughly washed and cleaned.

“Ronny’s extra portion of dessert didn’t go unnoticed,” Joe said, ascending the porch steps and dropping his clean bucket beside the rest.

“So I see.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Looks like I’ll be making an impromptu batch of fritters tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, it won’t take but a minute.”

Returning to the kitchen, she threw another log in the oven and set some water to boil. While she gathered up flour, eggs, and lard, Joe sat by the fireplace sharpening his ax.

He wore a blue chambray shirt she’d laundered and ironed not two days before. His rolled-up sleeves revealed muscular arms sprinkled with sun-bleached hair. The brownish blond curls across his forehead swayed with his motions. She knew the ax was heavy, but he held it with ease as he scraped it along his grinding stone.

“Joe?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you mind chopping down that chestnut tree?”

“Yes.”

She blinked. “But it’s leaning right over my room. I’m afraid it’s going to crash down.”

“You can move rooms if you want.”

Frowning, she watched the careful, even strokes he took. “You aren’t going to chop it down?”

“No.”

“Simply because you like chestnuts?”

He continued to work, and just when she thought he wasn’t going to answer, he surprised her by saying, “It’s my wife’s.”

“What?”

“The tree. I planted it for her.”

Anna glanced out the window. “Your late wife? You planted a chestnut tree for her?”

“She had one in her yard back home that she loved. I was going to surprise her with this one.”

Yet Anna knew the late Mrs. Denton hadn’t lived to see it. She pictured the tree in her mind. So big. He must have lost his wife many years ago if it was a sapling when he’d planted it.

She moistened her lips. A chestnut tree. A beautiful home. Twinflower blooms. The man certainly cherished what was his.

The darkness outside and throughout the rest of the house always made the kitchen a cozy haven in the evenings, but with the addition of the rain beating against the windows, the atmosphere shifted from cozy to intimate.

She wanted to ask him more questions about his wife. She wanted to ask him if he’d like his hair trimmed so it wouldn’t get in his eyes. She wanted to thank him for the fabric.

But she turned her back instead and concentrated on the fritters.

Keep it impersonal,
she reminded herself. Pouring a portion of the boiling water into a bowl of flour, she began to beat it into a stiff paste. It wasn’t until she set it aside to cool that she realized the scraping of Joe’s ax had ceased.

She glanced over her shoulder. He stared at her hips, blade and stone forgotten. She quickly spun around to face him. He raised his eyes to hers. The intensity of his gaze triggered an immediate response deep within her.

Say something. Anything
.

“Why are the ax handles so long?”

Joe looked down as if just discovering what he held in his hands. “The handles? Well, I have to be able to reach the center of the redwoods from my springboard.”

She frowned. “That wouldn’t reach the center of a Douglas fir, much less a redwood.”

He touched the edge of his blade, a tiny drop of blood springing to the surface of his finger. “No. No, it wouldn’t. Not from the springboard, anyway. We actually have to stand inside the undercut to reach the heart of the trunk.”

She pictured the giant wedge they’d begun to cut into the redwood she’d seen yesterday. They stood inside that wedge? Wouldn’t the tree collapse and squash them?

But she didn’t ask. Instead, she retrieved a frying pan, scooped a goodly portion of lard into it, and set it on the stove.

“Would you like me to read to you while you finish those?” he asked.

Anna paused in reaching for the eggs. “Read to me?”

“Yes.
The Taming of the Shrew
. Would you like me to read it to you?”

She loved being read to. Her father used to read to the family all the time. And with the rain, it was the perfect night for it, but she was afraid it would create too intimate a mood. Still, if he were reading, he’d not be able to ogle her.

“Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

Placing the ax in the corner, he wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to retrieve the book.

She braced herself against the pastry table and took two deep breaths.
Impersonal, Anna. You must keep things impersonal
.

At the sound of his return, she grabbed an egg and began to separate out its yolk.

“Where did you leave off?” he asked, settling into his chair.

“The beginning of Act Two. The disguised schoolmasters had just left, and Petruchio was asking Signior Baptista what Katharina’s dowry was.”

He thumbed through the book, then flipped back and forth between a few pages. “Here we are. Petruchio is speaking.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, what dowry shall I have with her to wife?’ ”

Joe’s voice was so full of expression and life that Anna soon lost herself in the story. She beat the eggs into her mixture, then dropped it a spoonful at a time into the boiling lard.

“Everyone exits but Petruchio,” Joe said. “ ‘I will attend her here, and woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain she sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly wash’d with dew.’ ”

Anna chuckled, watching the fritters rise into balls, then flipped them when the first side turned a light brown. Katharina entered, and the sparring between her and Petruchio quickly escalated, each constructing new metaphors from the other’s comments until Katharina became so furious she hit him. Hard.

“ ‘I swear I’ll cuff you, if you strike again,’ ” Joe said, dropping the register of his voice.

Spooning all but two of the fritters onto a drying cloth to drain, Anna placed the ones she’d held back onto a plate, sprinkled them with sugar, and sat at Joe’s feet.

Watching him read was like watching the actual play. A myriad of expressions crossed his face. Coupled with the dialogue, it pulled her deeply into the story. When Petruchio told Katharina she was mild, gentle, and affable, Anna threw back her head and laughed. And on some finite level, she realized she hadn’t laughed, really laughed, in years. The realization sobered her.

As if sensing her mood, the character Petruchio also turned serious.

“ ‘Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine.’ ”

Anna took a bite of her fritter.

“ ‘Your father hath consented that you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on.’ ” Joe lifted his gaze and looked directly at her. “ ‘And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.’ ”

She couldn’t swallow, her bite of fritter sticking in her throat. The rain continued to tap against the windows. The sweet smell of fried pastries filled the room.

Lowering the book, Joe removed the other half of her fritter from her hand and placed it in his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he swallowed, stood, then slowly placed the book on the chair. “Good night, Anna. I’ll see you in the morning.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

The kitchen was empty. The fire cold. The oven untouched. Joe stood in the doorway. Usually when he first came from the barn in the morning, he’d find Anna bustling about.

He glanced at the staircase. Was she ill? Or had she merely overslept?

He crept up the steps and placed his ear to her door. Nothing. He tapped against it lightly. No response.

With great care to make no noise, he turned the knob and cracked the door open. The white-and-blue bed hangings had not been drawn but were still tied back at the posts with heavy tassels. Anna lay on her stomach in her nightdress, the cotton covers tangled in her legs, her thick honey-colored braid draped across her pillow.

He wanted to touch her to check for fever, but he didn’t quite have the nerve to enter her room without permission. Squinting, he was able to determine her cheeks were neither too flushed nor too pale. Perhaps she was simply worn out.

The smell of twinflower prickled his nose. He scanned the room, spotting several of the wild flower’s blooms tied to a string and hanging upside down from her mirror. She was drying them?

He looked at her again and hesitated, tempted once more to go closer while he had a chance. Was her nightdress as threadbare as the rest of her meager wardrobe? But his conscience kicked in, and he, instead, eased the door closed.

Crossing to his room, he opened a drawer and found his clothing laundered, ironed, and folded neatly inside. He’d only expected Anna to cook, but never had his home looked so fine or his clothes so fresh.

Pulling on his drawers, he smiled to himself. She couldn’t possibly handle such intimate apparel without thinking of what he might look like wearing them. Even coming into his room and opening his dressing chest was an extremely personal thing to do.

But she’d certainly been skittish since he’d read to her the other night. Perhaps he’d been too direct. Too obvious.

It had barely been a week, after all. He had time to slow things down some. Give her a false sense of security.

Picking up his razor, he scraped it against a strap. He’d offered to read to her again, but she’d politely declined.

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just listen to the rain.”

He’d bit back his smile and decided to let her have her way. Still, he wondered if she had proceeded with the book on her own.

He’d searched out
Shrew
and found the volume tucked safely back in his breakfront. Had she put it away because she didn’t wish to finish or because she’d been too busy with her stitching?

She hadn’t said anything about the fabric, but she worked with it every evening, sometimes quite late. Just last night he’d left her sewing while he retired. Perhaps she’d burned the midnight oil and that was why she was still abed.

Lathering his face, he considered his next strategy. Maybe he should shave in the kitchen. Anna had either become used to his washing up or by virtue of will kept her attention diverted. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to introduce something new into the mix.

But not yet. Perhaps on Sunday, when it would be just the two of them. Until then he’d mind his p’s and q’s. Let her think she could drop her guard.

He finished his toilet, pulled on the rest of his clothes, and hastened downstairs.

Safely back in the kitchen, he quickly grabbed some jerky and a few lunch buckets. He wanted to catch the men before they reached the house, because once they did, Anna would wake and he didn’t want her disturbed.

He set off toward the bunkhouse, remembering the profusion of raspberries close to their logging site. The boys could pick those as a supplement for their jerky. They’d be sorely disappointed about missing breakfast, but they’d manage.

Still, Joe would go back before noon and check on Anna. Once he established she was all right, he would tease her a bit, then help her put together a cold lunch and bring it to the men.

Yawning, Anna rolled onto her side, then sat up with a jolt. It was light outside! She flew from the bed, jerked back the curtains, and gasped. Not just light, but well past dawn. A robin with its jaunty
cheerily-cheery-up-cheery-o
swept from one tree to another.

How on earth had she slept through all that and why hadn’t Joe woken her? Flinging off her nightdress, she dropped it on the floor and scrambled into her clothes. She took no time to wash her face, comb her hair, or straighten her room.

The kitchen was just as she’d left it the night before. Her gaze darted to the clock. Eight-thirty! Those poor men. They must be starved.