A Groom for Celia

by Cat Cahill

  “Please don’t be sorry,” he said, regretting that he’d made her feel that way. “I should have figured it out.”

  She chewed on her lip again.

  “It’s all right,” he said with more courage than he actually had. “I’ll learn all there is to know about farming.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I feared that perhaps this was beyond your expectations.”

  It was, but Jack wasn’t about to say so and see those pretty lips tremble again. “It can’t be that difficult.” And with that, he led Mrs. Hewlett—a truly odd name for a cow—and her calf forward.

  Celia rode beside him on the horse as they entered the property. The place looked far older than he’d expected. The barn sat a moderate distance away from the house, which had a wide porch with two chairs perched at a conversational angle. A few outbuildings dotted the land around the house, none of which Jack could put a name to.

  “Did you grow up here?” he asked as they stopped beside the barn door.

  “Oh, no,” Celia said. “Faith and I came here from Mississippi. As did our husbands. We arrived here last year, and Ned purchased this property from a man who went back East.” She sat expectantly on the horse, as if she were waiting for something.

  Almost a beat too late, Jack realized he’d need to help her down. Fearing the cow and calf might scamper off if he dropped their ropes—he didn’t quite know what these animals were capable of—he held on to them as he reached up and placed a gloved hand on each side of Celia’s waist. Her small hands clasped his shoulders, and he held her tightly, feeling strangely protective of her.

  When her feet touched the ground, she withdrew her hands. “Thank you,” she said in that quiet voice. Her cheeks began to go pink again, and he yanked his hands away from her waist.

  And at that moment, he understood that he needed to tread lightly with her. She wasn’t one of his investors, used to dealing with a world that was only looking out for its own good. And she certainly wasn’t Miss Rogers, who’d had a string of beaux both before and after Jack had courted her. Celia had been married, but her demeanor indicated she was the sort of girl whose heart would break easily.

  “Would you like me to show you the barn?” she asked.

  Jack nodded mutely, his mind still spinning with the feel of his hands on her waist and the fear that the wrong words or actions could hurt her beyond mending.

  Celia led the animals inside and showed Jack their stalls and various tools and implements he couldn’t identify beyond a shovel and a rake. Beside the barn was a corral, where she explained the animals could graze, and beyond that, a larger pasture.

  “We used to have chickens. And another horse, as I mentioned. But the blizzard took them. Thankfully, Ned butchered the hog in August, or we might have been completely without meat for the winter. I’ll need to bring more to Faith the next time we go into town.” Celia stood beside the corral, hands clasped as she took in her property.

  Their property.

  He owned a farm. The thought made him want to laugh. Who would have ever thought that Jack Wendler, born and raised in New York City, would own a farm?

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Celia looked up at him now, those pale green eyes filled with hope. “I fear I couldn’t have kept this place up on my own. I would have had to sell, except there’s no one to sell to. And besides . . .” She trailed off as her gaze roved the flat brown land, the buildings, and the bluffs that rose to the south and southwest. “As much as I regretted the decisions I made in Mississippi, I’ve come to love this land. It’s truly beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Jack tried to see the place through her eyes. And truly, it was something to behold. He wasn’t sure that beautiful was the right word for it, but it was . . . imposing. Strong. Vast. And he greatly admired the bluffs. He was certain that if he returned to New York, he’d feel boxed in after existing in so much space and fresh air here. “I can see that,” he said.

  He wanted to ask her what she meant by regretting decisions made back home, but before he could, she looked back at him with a bright smile.

  “Would you like to eat? I can pull us something together for the noon meal.”

  His stomach rumbled in response, and she laughed. He gathered up their bags and followed her into the house. Celia hurried before him and set about pulling back curtains to allow the sunlight to illuminate a simple yet neat parlor.

  “I’ve been staying mostly with Faith since the blizzard,” she said as she swept away invisible dust from a little hand-carved table that sat next to a small, worn settee.

  “Where should I . . .?” Jack held up their bags.

  “Oh, well . . .” Her face went scarlet again, and he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I can sleep in a spare room,” he said. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her. She trusted him, for some reason, and he knew that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

  “There isn’t one,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  He glanced at the settee. It was far too short to be comfortable. He was about to suggest the barn, trying not to imagine how cold that would be come nightfall, when Celia spoke up.

  “I have a second set of bedding. I hate to offer you the floor, but—”

  “The floor will suffice just fine,” he said quickly, eager to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “I can set up in the parlor later tonight.”

  “I have some space in the wardrobe you’re welcome to use for your things.” She led him to the bedroom next to the parlor, and while he unpacked, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  When he emerged a few minutes later, it was to the scent of ham frying. Jack sat silently at the table, letting her work and enjoying the delicious scent.

  “I’ll bake some bread later,” she said as she slid slices of ham onto plates and poured cornmeal mush into bowls. “I apologize for the ham. I’d hoped to let it cure longer, but . . .”

  It didn’t matter. It was the simplest meal, and yet Jack had never tasted anything so good. Perhaps it was the long walk out here, or perhaps the Nebraska air was going to his head, but he’d never welcomed a meal so much as he welcomed this one.

  He scraped the last bits of mush from the bowl. “Thank you. That was quite good.”

  She beamed. “I’ll get to work in here. Would you like me to show you what might need doing outside?”

  Panic zipped through Jack. He wanted to say yes, and then promptly hire someone else to take care of it. But of course, there were no funds for such things, and if he was going to own a farm, he supposed he ought to get used to working it. Besides, a good dose of pride prevented him from simply saying yes. “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll get to work?”

  “Are you certain?” She looked skeptical as she stacked their plates and bowls.

  “I can figure it out.” Or so he hoped.

  “All right.” Celia held the plates against her stomach as she rattled off a list so long he’d forgotten half of what she said. “Do you know how to do that?” Her teeth went to her lip again.

  “Please don’t worry,” Jack said. He wanted to take her hand, reassure her that all would be well. But honestly, he didn’t know that it would. What if he proved to be inept at farming? Or, even if he took to it, what if it still wasn’t enough? “It can’t be too difficult to figure out. Surely, I can fix a fence and feed the animals.”

  Her lips curved into a small smile. “All right then. Let me know if you need me.”

  And with a deep breath, Jack set out to face the unknown.

  Chapter Eight

  It was still the dead of night when Celia’s eyes flew open. Her ears strained in the darkness to locate the source of what must have woken her, but when silence prevailed, she knew it hadn’t been any sound at all.

  It was fear.

  She sat up in bed, hugging the beautifully pieced and sewn quilt that Altar Pennington had given to her when Celia first arrived in town with her siste
r and the Thornton brothers last year. It was especially warm, perfect to ward away the chill that snuck in as the fire died during the night.

  Celia had stayed with Faith for so long, she’d forgotten the long, terrifying nights alone here after the first blizzard. Ned had gone hunting before, leaving her at the farm alone at night, but something about that blizzard had made it impossible for her to sleep through the night. Celia couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t as if Ned had ever been particularly affectionate, and as awful as it had made her feel, it wasn’t him she’d missed at all. Perhaps it was the safety of his presence, and once that was gone for good, her comfort in being out here, so far from town, had vanished with it. Whatever it was, it had driven her to do more than just visit Faith—it had prompted her to move in to her sister’s flooded home for weeks. And it had worked out, considering Faith needed Celia, perhaps even more than Celia had needed her. They’d worked together to clean up the mess from the flooding, and Celia had served as a shoulder for her sister’s tears.

  But her inability to sleep made no sense now—she wasn’t alone here.

  Celia huddled back against the wall, Altar’s quilt wrapped around her, and tried to imagine Jack sleeping on the floor in the parlor. He had to be freezing. Even the blankets she had given him likely couldn’t ward off the chill that crept under the front door. But still, he was out there, so why couldn’t she sleep?

  She’d lain awake for far too long when she’d first come to bed, wondering what in the world she’d just done. She hadn’t let herself dwell on the fears earlier—the ones she ought to have considered more thoroughly before agreeing to marry a stranger. What if his kind and sociable demeanor was a farce, something that belied his true nature? What if he stole the meager amount she had and vanished? What if he took advantage of her in the middle of the night? What if he was outrunning something terrible he’d done in New York? What if everything he’d told her was a lie?

  She hadn’t known how long it had taken her to fall asleep, but now here she was, awake again and far too early.

  After shivering under the quilt for several minutes, she finally crawled from bed and dressed with icy fingers. If she was awake, she might as well accomplish something, and that something was better done in the kitchen where she would need a fire started anyway.

  In less than twenty minutes, Celia sat before a small blaze in the woodstove. Warm mornings were certainly one thing she missed about Mississippi. Warm mornings, her father’s hugs, and her mother’s fluffy biscuits. Celia smiled at the flames, holding her hands out to warm them. Try as she might, she could never get her biscuits to be as light and flaky as Mama’s.

  She had a small amount of flour, purchased while she’d been in town. Perhaps she’d use some of it and make biscuits this morning. She stood, and after first peering through the door at Jack’s sleeping form on the floor, set about starting coffee and pulling together the ingredients for biscuits. She’d serve them with the butter Faith had sent her home with and ham. Only a little ham, she corrected herself. They’d somehow need to stretch what they had through winter. She supposed Jack might hunt to supplement what they had, but the very thought of it made her go cold again in the growing warmth of the kitchen.

  The minutes ticked by as Celia worked, and after setting the biscuits to bake, she sat at the table with a cup of coffee and pondered whether Jack would awaken in time to begin the day’s chores. If he didn’t, should she wake him? She ought to, but the thought of it made her nervous.

  If only everything didn’t make her so nervous.

  She’d prayed since childhood to be more like Faith—unafraid to speak up, to ask for what she needed, to make friends easily. But it had never come, and now here she was, too shy to even wake the man who was now her husband.

  “Celia?” A groggy voice said her name from somewhere near the kitchen door.

  She turned in her seat and rose when she saw Jack, his suspenders hanging at the sides of his trousers and a hand rubbing the sleep from his face. “Good morning!” she said, thrilled he’d awoken himself and taken that worry from her mind, at least.

  “Why are you up so early? I heard commotion back here and came to find out what it was. I thought an animal had gotten in.”

  “Oh, no,” she said sheepishly as she stood. “I’m used to waking early. There’s always so much to do.”

  “It’s just now going on five o’clock, and you already have a fire going and—are those biscuits?” His eyes seemed to brighten in the lamplight.

  Celia smiled to herself. “They are. I suppose I had too much on my mind to sleep any longer.”

  Jack’s gaze drifted back to her, the sleepiness gone. “I understand. Worries are always magnified at night. By day, they’re never as bad.”

  She said nothing as she pondered the truth of his words. “I’d never thought of it like that, but you’re right.”

  He took a step forward, resting a hand on the chair in which she’d been sitting. “May I ask what was weighing on your mind?”

  Celia caught her lip between her teeth. It wouldn’t do to tell him how occupied her mind had been with him. So she opted for another set of worries, one that hadn’t kept her up last night, but was certainly something to fret over. “We need more food put away for winter. I told you about the hog already, so we have some meat at least. But the harvest this summer was poor, and while we salvaged some corn and potatoes and a few carrots, it isn’t nearly enough. And there was no extra to sell in town. Ned harvested the hay before the blizzard, and so we sold some of that. But even that wasn’t very much, and there was nothing we could purchase with the money we made for it because no one else had meat or other food to spare either. That’s why the men went to hunt.” She paused. “The town smoked all the meat from the livestock that didn’t survive the storms, but that’s just about gone. I didn’t accept any, given that I already had something, and so many others had nothing at all. We need more if we’re going to survive to spring. And Faith too. I won’t see my sister starve.”

  Jack ran a hand over his jaw, as if he were trying to comprehend everything Celia had said. “I can see why that kept you up.”

  She turned and busied herself with the biscuits, turning the pan just so on the stove, if only for something to do. She didn’t know what she thought he’d say. She couldn’t expect him to have the answer to all her fears, right here and now, and particularly when he had no experience with a farm. “I suppose when you got hungry in New York, you simply bought food from a shop or a restaurant.”

  “I did my fair share of cooking,” he said.

  Celia glanced at him. He stood with his arms crossed, looking defensive, and she wanted to laugh. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have you know I can whip up some of the best eggs you’ll ever taste.”

  “Is that so? I’d put you to the test if we had any eggs.”

  “Surely someone has eggs in town. And then you’ll find out.” He grinned at her. “Now when do I get to taste one of those biscuits?”

  Celia glanced at them. They’d turned a lovely golden brown, and she scooped up a couple of the piping hot biscuits and set them on a plate. She found herself smiling as she retrieved Faith’s butter and the slices of ham she’d gotten from the cellar. She didn’t know where her confidence had come from in issuing that challenge to him, but she liked the way it made her feel.

  And, judging from the smile Jack gave her, he certainly didn’t mind either.

  Chapter Nine

  Jack leaned the axe against the stack of wood he’d managed to cut. It wasn’t much, especially considering how long he’d been out here. He eyed the stack, pride warring with weariness. Every log he cut would keep them warm a few minutes longer come winter. Their survival depended upon him.

  It was only a little terrifying.

  He pulled off his gloves and contemplated going inside to see if Celia had prepared lunch yet. He’d left his pocket watch inside, but the sun was directly overhead, warmi
ng the day to a somewhat tolerable level. Surely it had to be about noon. But just as he’d made up his mind to go in, the house’s back door opened, and Celia made her way toward him.

  Jack took a moment to admire her. She was awfully pretty. It was a good thing he’d gotten to town early. Another man might’ve snatched her up, letter or not. Her hair was pinned up, but the curls flew about her face in the light wind that blew up from the north. She wore a plain cotton dress, decorated in tiny flowers, with a long apron pinned to the front under her unbuttoned coat. And best of all, when she spotted him watching her, she smiled.

  Just for him.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts. This quiet, unassuming woman had him tied up in knots every time she so much as looked his way. He wondered if all men felt this way after marriage.

  “What have I done to deserve such a nice visit?” he asked as she stood silhouetted against the bluffs to the south.

  “I came to fetch you for lunch.” Her gaze flicked from him to the wood stacked nearby. “Is that firewood?”

  “It is.” He turned, pride pushing his shoulders back as he watched her take in all he’d cut so far. Celia pushed her lips together. Before she could start chewing on the lower one, he asked, “What is it?”

  “Well . . .” She ran a hand over the topmost piece, the last one he’d cut. “The cookstove is only so big. And the fireplaces not much larger. So . . . well . . .” She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

  “It’s too big.” A wave of frustration rolled through him. He’d spent the entire morning, plus a few hours yesterday, chopping and chopping and chopping the wood he’d found stacked behind the house. All to find out he’d done it incorrectly.