by Deeanne Gist
Looking down, she held out the skirt of her dress with two hands. “I made a few alterations.”
She slid the skirt back and forth, causing the fabric to brush from one side of her torso to the other. “I left a little room in it, though. I’m still not myself, after the voyage and all.”
His gaze remained on her face, trying to banish the image of even larger proportions filling out her dress. “You are exceptionally fast with a needle.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Mary and Sally have been delayed.”
She released her skirt. “Why?”
“Gerald sent word that Nellie’s time is upon her.”
“Gerald?”
“Nellie’s husband.”
She frowned. “Oh dear. Perhaps I should go and collect Sally?”
“No. You’d get lost. Why have you not weeded the garden?”
“I know not which are weeds and which are herbs.”
“You’ve never gardened?”
“Only flowers.”
He nodded. “And the eggs?”
Her features clouded. “Your rooster attacked me. Please wring his neck for me and we’ll eat him for supper.”
“What did you do to make him attack you?”
Her eyes grew wide. “What did I do? What did I do? That worthless cock attacked me and you want to know what I did? I’ll tell you what I did. I screamed so loud they could hear me all the way back home. Then I smashed him with my basket and told him he’d be dead before nightfall. That’s what I did. Now what are you going to do about it?”
He rubbed his forehead. No one could be that inept. Even Sally could collect eggs. “Well, I’m not going to wring his neck. That’s for certain.”
She gasped. “Why not? I could have been killed!”
“You provoked him.”
“Provoked him! I did not do one blessed thing to your precious rooster! I went into that coop, announcing my intentions to gather eggs, and he came at me full speed.”
“You announced your intentions? What do you mean, you announced your intentions?”
She paused. “I walked in and told the chickens I planned to gather the eggs.”
“What else did you say?”
She propped her hand on her waist. “Drew, you are testing me sorely.”
“What else did you say?”
“I don’t remember. I might have insulted it a time or two, but this is absurd. It didn’t understand me!”
“You were crowing in his yard.”
“Your pardon?”
“You were crowing in his yard. Roosters use their crow to establish territory and are quite sensitive about it. If you went into the coop and started blathering about this and that, then there’s no doubt he took it as a threat. You didn’t let him win, did you?”
Her face registered what could only be shock. “If you are suggesting that I was to stay inside that yard and fight it out with him, then yes. I let him win. But ultimately, when his neck is wrung, the win is mine.”
He lifted up his hat then resettled it on his head. “Come. I’ll show you how to win.”
“No. I’m not going back inside that pen with you or anyone else. Not until Mr. Meanie is on a spit.”
Mr. Meanie? Suppressing a smile, he veered toward the chicken coop. She stayed where she was.
“You don’t have to come in, Constance. You may watch me from the other side of the fence.”
Her basket lay on its side where she must have dropped it in her scramble to freedom. Drops of blood littered the clearing. Frowning, he turned back toward her. “You are all right?”
Her lips thinned.
Body O’Caesar, he thought, I should have asked that earlier. Sighing, he entered the coop. “Hello, children, Mr. Meanie. How do you fare this day?”
The chickens squawked. The rooster ruffled his feathers.
“See you how Mr. Meanie is already becoming provoked?”
She gave no response.
“So. You’ve taken to attacking defenseless women, have you? Well, I’ve not checked the damage yet, but you’d better hope it’s not too severe. It’s displeased I am that you attacked my wife. You’re to treat her with respect.”
The cock began to dance around him.
“What? Like you not my crowing in your yard? Then come and get me, you scurvy fellow. Do your worst.”
As if on cue, the rooster struck. Drew jumped to the side, making a swipe at its feet, but missed. They circled each other. Drew sang, adding a jump and a jig with each verse for good measure.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s as ripe as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the girl that is merry:
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
As he expected, the popular drinking ballad infuriated the rooster. Crowing with displeasure, he charged. Drew swiped again and, snagging the cock’s feet, lifted him into the air, upside down. “There you have it, Constance. How to establish territory. I will hold him like this while I crow in his yard for a while longer, and when all the blood has settled in his head for a moment or two, I will release him. I, also, will have won.”
“You’re not going to kill him.”
He paused. She had made her way to the edge to the fence and rested her arms atop it.
“No. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“We need the eggs.”
“There are two other roosters in the coop.”
He glanced at the other cocks, pecking at the ground in the yard. “If I kill Mr. Meanie, one of those would then establish itself as cock of the walk, and you’d have to deal with that rooster as well.”
“Don’t they fight amongst themselves?”
“These three roosters have grown up together, but if I introduced a new rooster into the yard, a fight would ensue.”
She nodded once and turned to leave. He hated it when she dismissed him like that. He’d told her once already never to walk away from him in the midst of a conversation, and he’d meant it. Now he’d have to deal with her again on the issue. Pig-headed woman.
He waited a few more minutes before releasing the bird, then watched as Constance’s Mr. Meanie wove around jiggling his head.
Letting himself out of the coop, Drew headed toward the cottage. He needed to have a look at her injury.
CHAPTER NINE
She should have known he wouldn’t kill the rooster. Food-producing animals were too valuable in this wilderness to be terminated for the mere offense of attacking one’s guests. It wasn’t as if he liked the rooster more than she did, it was simply a matter of practicality. So why was she harboring such hurt feelings?
Hearing Drew’s approach, she allowed the hem of her skirt to fall before continuing to rub her calf.
“Why are the turtles not cooking?”
From her perch on the edge of the bed, she tried to suppress her irritation. “How do you make a turtle come out of his shell and stay out long enough to behead him?”
He took off his hat and hung it on a peg. “You hold a stick in front of the turtle and coax him to bite down on it.”
She stopped her massage and looked up at him. “I’d never have thought. I did keep the embers-- Oh!“ Jumping from the bed, she began to work the fire. He, in turn, grabbed the pot of turtles and left.
When next she saw him, he had one pot of headless turtles and one bucket of fresh milk. She, thank goodness, had accomplished a thing or two herself--the fire was going and a pot of bubbling water hung above it, steam surging from its mouth.
“Drop the turtles into the water, and then I’ll show you how to pound Indian corn into samp for the midday meal.”
Had anyone asked her if she was squeamish, she’d have vehemently denied it. But always before, her meals had been set before her, cooked and seasoned to perfection. She knew, o
f course, she was eating animals, but she’d never given much thought to the specifics of their preparation. As she looked into the pot of bleeding headless turtles, she wondered if the pleasures of mealtime were forever lost to her.
Drew appeared to have assembled all that was necessary for the samp. She swallowed with effort, forcing her stomach back down where it belonged, then dispatched with the turtles. The glub, glub, glub of their descent nearly did her in. “What’s samp?” she gasped.
“The most expedient meal I could think of. You simply pound corn, then pour milk on top before serving.”
She tossed the last turtle in, then quickly turned to mortar and pestle, pounding corn with a vengeance.
“You’re making a mess, Constance. Slow down.”
She slowed. With the two of them working together, they had a goodly portion pounded in no time.
“Now, let us have a look at your injury.” Standing, he offered her a hand up.
The gash was in a most improper place. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“I’ll have a look anyway.”
She wanted to refuse, but if she did, he might very well remind her that as her “husband” he had a right to look at much more than just this injury. She walked to the bed and sat, skirt down, knees and ankles together, hands locked on her lap.
“Where did he catch you?”
“Above the ankle.”
A pause. “How far above the ankle?”
She willed the blush to go away. “A good two inches.”
“I have a need to see it.”
“I hardly even feel it anymore.”
He glanced at the hem of her skirt. “What did you treat it with?”
“I wrapped it.”
“No comfrey?”
“No.”
He left the cottage and she let out a sigh of relief. Thank you, Lord. At least she’d been spared that indignity. She started to rise, only to plop back down when he returned with a plant he’d obviously just pulled from the garden. She watched him rinse its roots, wrap them in a rag, and crush them with a rock.
“Show me.” He knelt before her, his gaze riveted to her skirt.
Her stomach churned again, and though this sensation was entirely different from the one she’d fought down before, it was no less disturbing. She extended her injured leg and gathered a bit of her skirt at the knee, inching the hemline upward. She felt him release the knot of her bandage and unwrap it, slowing only when he came to where the cloth stuck to her abrasion.
She sat still, watching his bent head covered with that magnificent black hair, now matted down from his hat. She curled her fingers.
He immediately paused and glanced up at her. “This pains you?”
Heavens, he was a handsome man. She searched desperately for some flaw and could find nothing. The darkness of his skin and the crinkles the sun had put there actually added to his appeal. The eyes searching hers seemed bluer every time she saw them. The last time she’d seen them so clearly from this range was on their wedding day, just before he’d kissed her. She had closed her eyes against them then. She couldn’t make herself do so now. “Your pardon?”
“Is the pain great, then?”
This had to stop. She could not sit here and ruminate over this temporary husband of hers. She was only here until Papa came for her, and she was less important than the rooster. “There is no pain at all.”
“Your hands are fisted.”
She immediately unfurled them as she felt the blood rush to her face. “I’m just a bit nervous.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
She swallowed and gave him a slight smile. “I know.”
“Then why are you nervous?”
She said nothing but knew the moment he realized the source of her unease, for his face too turned red and he quickly saw to his task. He finally managed to free the bandage. “It’s bleeding again. I’m sorry. It’s just that the claw mark is located such that I can’t easily reach it.”
“Oh, your pardon.” She twisted her leg, but she could tell he was still having difficulty. After a few moments, though, he had the bleeding stopped.
“I need to put some comfrey on it.”
She nodded.
He didn’t move.
“What is it?” she asked. “There is a sting to it?”
“No, no. It will provide relief almost immediately.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure how I can apply it to the back of your calf and then bandage it without loosing a great deal of the powder to the floor.”
“I can do it.”
He shook his head. “No, you’d have even more difficulty than I. No, what I need is for you to...to lie face down on the bed, please.”
Neither of them moved. She allowed her skirt to fall to the floor. It was one thing to sit on the edge of the bed and have him look after one limb. It was something else entirely to lie prone on the bed and have him lift her dress and attend to her.
“I’ll do without the roots,” she said.
“I’ve already picked and crushed them. Besides, it needs the healing powers of the comfrey. That blasted rooster cut into you rather deeply and being new to the colonies, you’re more susceptible than most.”
“Susceptible to what?”
“Death.”
Well. That was certainly blunt. And, thankfully, made modesty seem rather trivial. Best of all, he’d just insulted the rooster. She swung her legs up onto the bed and rolled over. Her skirts were hopelessly twisted, but before she could fix them, he’d loosened them and flicked them up to her knees. She buried her face in the bedding, ignoring the outdoorsy smell of him there beneath her nose.
The comfrey roots did indeed feel wonderful. He said not a word as he worked over her, placing the powder on her injury, covering it with something soft and fuzzy, then rewrapping it with the rag. He maneuvered her leg as if it was of no import, lifting it, bending it, placing it on the bed. When the rag was knotted, she felt him glide his fingers along the edge of the bandage, smoothing it. Her stomach clenched, her heart skipped a beat, she forgot to breathe.
Was it a caress or simply a doctor seeing to his patient? She dared not move, for if it had been an innocent gesture, she certainly didn’t want to overreact. And if it hadn’t been? It must have been.
The smoothing stopped, yet she still felt his weight on the bed. She jerked when he took hold of her skirt, then called herself ten kinds of a fool, for he’d paused then in the midst of lowering it. Before releasing the hem, his fingers slowly brushed against her ankle. She spun over, landing on her back, plucking her skirt from his fingertips.
A mistake. Now she lay stretched out on his bed, facing him while he sat beside her, his eyes three times darker than they’d been before. He leapt up, grabbed his hat from the peg, and strode from the cottage.
She draped her arm across her eyes and took in great gulps of air. He was attracted to her. There was no denying it now. She’d seen that look on the men who’d asked for her hand in marriage and some who had not. The difference was her reaction. Instead of boredom or aversion, she felt every nerve in her body standing at attention--some nerves more than others.
What if he changed his mind and decided to exercise his husbandly rights? She lowered her arm to her side. She’d not be granted an annulment, that’s for certain, and that would be the end of the Ladies’ Mathematical Diary. Heaving herself up out of bed, she put the samp in bowls, hearing for the first time the indentured men in the yard.
The men seemed to enjoy the simple midday meal. Drew allowed them a moment’s rest so he could give Constance a tour of the garden. He explained what each plant was and how it was used before rounding up his men and leaving.
The men were to view the land they could claim at the end of their service. It was located on the very edges of his property and would require some time to reach. Upon his return several hours later, he found the garden weeded, the yard swept, and the smell of turtle broth floating on
the air.
Removing his hat, he entered the open cottage door and came to a dead stop. A clump of lavender blossoms roosting in Mama’s old porcelain cup sat in the center of the board and the movables hanging from the various pegs had been organized. All the clothing hung on one wall, the utensils on another.
Constance sat by the hearth, scribbling in the soot with a stick. She obviously hadn’t heard him come in. Staying where he was, he allowed his gaze to roam over her person, his thoughts returning to when he’d dressed her leg. She had freckles there too, but they were lighter, smoother, and softer than he’d ever imagined. God help him, he’d tried to remain detached, had even pretended in his mind’s eye doing such a thing for one of the neighboring farmers. But all that had done was point out the lushness of Constance.
He’d spent much more time at the task than it required. It wasn’t until he’d lowered her skirt that he realized how tense she’d been. Even still, he’d wanted one last touch. She’d near flown off the bed when he’d lingered a bit long at her ankle. All set to apologize, the words had stuck in his throat when he looked into her eyes. It was not disgust he had seen there. Far from it.
He took a deep breath and pushed that image, along with the one of her dressing in the loft, to the far recesses of his mind.
Lord, I cannot open myself up to her. No matter the silky skin, no matter the apparent attraction she may or may not have for him, no matter that she was his wife. It was of no consequence.
He allowed himself to remember the grief, the pain, the numbness he’d experienced as this land stripped loved one after loved one from him. Then Leah. The land had taken Leah a mere a week before they were to wed. He’d vowed never again to become involved. He’d meant it then and he meant it now.
“More spiders and flies?” he asked, his voice lower than he’d intended.
She squealed, then laid a hand against her chest. “I didn’t hear you.” She glanced at the window. “Where are the men?”
“Setting traps. What are you working on? More spiders?”
Shrugging, she set her stick down. “How did it go with the men?”
It was a wifely question. One she’d asked before, as if she had a real vested interest.