She threw the visions of Nancy Jane’s warning looks aside and determined she would stop her absurd behavior at once. She would be nice to her guest from then on, maybe even talk to him. Thatcher didn’t have to like her, especially not after how rude she had been, but she was firm set on making sure that he knew she wasn’t as uncouth as Miss Nancy Jane.
***
Thatcher didn’t know what to think as Emma smiled at him from across the table. What was wrong with the woman? First, she was darting her eyes away from him and all over the room and now she was smiling at him? Either way, he didn’t care. Emma could grin all she wanted. It wouldn’t affect him at all. No sir. He had put forth his kindness, and she had thrown it back in his face. Yep. He had made up his mind the night she had walked out of the Reilly’s house that he wouldn’t spend another second of his time thinking about the pretty brunette.
And he had been doing just fine until he couldn’t stop staring at her, wondering what her hair would feel like between his fingers, what her smooth face would feel like between his hands, what her lips…
He was also curious about how she behaved around Nancy Jane. Naturally, he could see Emma was shy around him, but when Miss Tilman came around, she all but cowered in fear, her confidence entirely disappearing. Why would she not stick up for herself? Why would she not be her true self, the woman he’d flirted with in the livery, the woman who had held his arm as he escorted her home?
But, of course, his thoughts and questions were all ridiculous. Why should he care at all about her? The girl hadn’t shown a lick of kindness to him the second he’d arrived. Well, maybe a lick, but not much else.
Yet, when her blue eyes sparkled and her dimples reappeared, his heart melted. He gave her a smile in return, but immediately looked back down to his plate filled with her delicious creations. He wasn’t going to let this sweet smiler get a hold of his reins again, but she sure was a lot nicer to look at than the Marchant Inn’s supper wear.
***
A few days after, the supplies finally arrived for James’s house, and the men were almost ready to start building. They sat in the parlor one afternoon as James spoke of the things he needed to do beforehand.
“We should be out of your hair as soon as the house is built. It shouldn’t take too long,” he said to Seth. “We sure do appreciate you lettin’ us stay here for so long, though.”
Emma smelled the peach cobbler baking in the kitchen and made a mental note to remember to take it out. She couldn’t get too distracted by Thatch— by the conversation and forget it.
“It’s no problem, James,” Seth said, shaking his head. “It’s been a real pleasure havin’ more men ’round to talk with. I get too soft bein’ ’round these women all the time.”
“Oh, Seth,” Emma said, “you know you love us bein’ here. Besides, you’d better be gettin’ used to us women. I’m darn sure you’ll be havin’ yourself a baby girl.”
Her voice was confident, and she smiled. Ever since the Deakon brothers had arrived at the inn, Emma hadn’t been herself, being too nervous and uptight to join in on any conversation they had. However, as she spent more time around the brothers, she had learned to open up. Having seen the hurt in Thatcher’s eyes also shook her out of her fears, and she was determined to be friendlier, as well as to speak up more. Thatcher seemed to notice her opening up, too, for as she did, he started to speak more himself.
Seth shook his head. “Oh no, we ain’t. We’re havin’ us a boy.”
“How do you know it’ll be a boy, hon?” Eliza asked.
“I just know he will be,” Seth said.
“But what if it isn’t?” Emma prodded.
“Then I’ll raise her to be a fighter who can whoop all the boys at racin’ and choppin’ wood.”
They all chuckled together, and Eliza rolled her eyes.
“Well, Mrs. Marchant,” Thatcher said, “you best get prayin’ for a boy.”
Emma smiled at him as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. How she wished she could do the same and relish in the smooth, thick feel of it. She became so caught up in the thought that only Eliza’s question brought her back.
“Em, how’s that dessert comin’?”
“The cobbler!” Emma yelped as it was brought to her attention.
She ran out of the room and across the hall, praying it wouldn’t be burned as she heard laughter coming from the parlor. She didn’t mind. They wouldn’t be laughing if they had to eat charcoal cobbler for dessert.
She rushed to the oven and pulled the pan out. “Perfect,” she said to herself, relieved that she had got to it just in time.
Reaching in the cupboard above the oven, she pulled out a canister of powdered sugar. She had just enough to cover the top of the cobbler. “Thank heavens,” she muttered as she hit the sides of the can to knock the sugar out.
Some of the sugar was still stuck to the bottom, so Emma blew into the can in bursts, each time moving her head quickly out of the way as the white smoke plumed out.
She heard footsteps behind her and glanced back to see Thatcher standing in the doorway, feet crossed, arms folded, and shoulder against the doorframe. Her heart skipped, and she fought the urge to face her back towards him again. She was so nervous around the man! Say somethin’ to him, for cryin’ out loud! she thought.
“Hi,” she said, her voice almost squeaking as she forced the word out. That’s the best you can do?
She focused her attention back to the task at hand and tried to get her hands to stop shaking as she heard his spurs move closer. “Looks like you’re in need of some help there,” he said, and she looked around to see him smiling comically down at her.
“Um…I think I’m okay,” Emma hesitated, not wanting to refuse his offer of help anymore.
“Not with the cobbler,” he said, shaking his head. The half-grin on his face made Emma’s head spin with delight. “With that,” he pointed to her forehead and then her cheeks, “and that and that.”
She looked at him, her eyebrows pulling together. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Her breath caught in her throat as he reached out and took her shoulders in his strong hands, turning her body towards the window. The reflection of her face with white powder all over her cheeks, chin, and forehead was mortifying. She grabbed the cloth she had used to pull the cobbler out of the oven and wiped most of the white powder off, but before she could get to the rest, Thatcher turned her towards him, saying, “Here, you missed a spot.”
Her heart took a whole new rhythm of beating, and her breathing threatened to cease entirely as Thatcher took a step forward. He stuck his thumb in his mouth, moistening it, and then slowly ran it down the side of her left cheek twice in succession. His touch was so gentle, his thumb so callused, that she was sure she was going to die!
She watched as he stuck his thumb back into his mouth, licking the powdered sugar from it. Goosebumps travelled deliciously up and down her spine, and she smiled, even though she knew she shouldn’t encourage such behavior. But what could she do? After all, she had promised to be nicer to him. Telling him not to stroke her cheek with his wet thumb would be rude, she was sure of it.
He smiled back, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he took a step backwards and cleared his throat. “You’d best hurry and get that cobbler out there,” he said, rubbing his scruffy chin. “We’re all anxious to have some.”
“I hope it’ll live up to your expectations,” Emma said, looking away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. It was hard work looking into those alluring eyes. She put the empty can on the counter to remind her to buy more when she got the chance.
“Well, I’ll have to taste it first to find out,” Thatcher said softly. The tone of his voice made Emma look back to him. “And just to warn you, when I see somethin’ that looks so good, I can’t help but want a taste of it.”
Emma watched him lick his thumb once more and smile beguilingly. He walked backwards a few steps, staring at Emma until he turned around and
exited the room.
As soon as he was gone, she waved the cloth in front of her face to fan her hot skin, placing her other hand on her left cheek. It was still moist from his touch, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling out loud.
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. What was she going to do when this man moved out of the inn? However, that was the least of her worries at that moment, for how was she going to simply walk back into the room occupied by Thatcher Deakon?
***
Within a few days, Emma and Thatcher had grown closer than Emma had ever hoped possible. The friendship blossoming between them brought a new vitality to her life, one she hadn’t even known existed. Nancy Jane’s comments were soon forgotten as she realized that Thatcher didn’t seem to care about the girl or her rude behavior. If he didn’t care, why should she?
With her new attitude, each day became brighter. They spent the majority of the daytime apart, the men working on clearing the land for the house and barn, and the women staying behind and running the inn, but Emma looked forward to each evening when she saw the man who had captured her attention entirely. She was growing accustomed to seeing his crow-eyed, smiling face and hearing his spurs jingling against the floor. She also loved the increasingly good-humored times she shared with her family and the Deakon brothers, and the thought of not being able to do that for much longer made her stomach churn.
A few more people came and left the Marchant Inn, but never had she enjoyed guests more than the Deakons who had been staying there for a little over two weeks.
One afternoon, Emma smiled to herself as she picked the tomatoes off the vine in the garden behind the inn. Piling them high into the basket, she thought of the previous day and the conversation she’d had with a couple who were spending the night at the inn.
Mr. and Mrs. Barnet were travelling through town by way of stagecoach and, in need of some rest and a meal, decided to stay until the next morning when another coach would be passing through.
Emma had been at the front desk of the inn speaking with Thatcher. He was leaning over the desk as she attempted to focus on managing the finances of the inn when the elderly couple walked in, friendly smiles wrinkling their already wrinkled faces.
“Welcome to the Marchant Inn,” Emma said, giving them her welcoming grin.
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Barnet had said, introducing herself and her husband.
Thatcher moved to shake the older man’s hand. “It’s good to meet you both. I’m Thatcher Deakon,” he said.
Before he could introduce Emma, the elderly man said, “And you must be Mrs. Deakon,” he said, winking at Emma.
Emma blushed furiously, hoping Thatcher wouldn’t notice her humiliated state caused by the slight mistake. Luckily, he only chuckled. “Oh, no, this here’s Miss Emma Marchant. She helps run the inn, and I’m only just stayin’ here.”
“You’ll have to excuse an old man’s mistake. You two were just lookin’ at each other all love-like,” Mr. Barnet said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, Jim,” Mrs. Barnet said, slapping her husband on the arm, “you stop your harrassin’ the young folks now, you here?”
Mr. Barnet laughed gleefully, and Emma couldn’t help but return Thatcher’s smile as he looked to her.
“But if you two ain’t sweethearts, y’all should be!” the man continued. “You, boy, should just take her outside and get some sparkin’ in. That’ll settle things between you!”
Mrs. Barnet chided her husband again, but before Emma could be embarrassed further by the three of them laughing, she showed them to their room upstairs.
She had been pleasantly surprised to find Thatcher waiting for her as she’d returned to the front desk.
“Well, Mrs. Deakon,” Thatcher had said, a mischievous smile playing about his lips, “what say you and I go on a little walk and do what the man suggested?”
Emma smiled, twisting another tomato off the fuzzy, green vine. Her face had turned as red as the tomatoes at his suggestion. She had swatted his outstretched hand, but he only chuckled further. Though, with his impish behavior, Emma’s soul had grown warmer.
She felt that warmth still as she moved on to the beets, her basket near to overflowing as she whistled a happy tune. Her life had never been better, and although she was still unsure about Thatcher’s intentions, she wasn’t about to complain about the attention he had been giving her.
She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead before standing up with the heavy basket in her hands.
“My, my, Miss Marchant,” came a broken voice from behind her, causing her to jump. “Don’t you look perty today.”
She whirled around to see Silas Gyver chewing on a piece of jerky and fought the urge to grimace. “Mr. Gyver,” she said, ignoring his compliment, “how you doin’ today?”
“I’m doin’ just fine, thank you,” the man said, smiling as he looked at her from head to toe.
What is he doin’ back here? she thought, her arms crawling with unease. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. I’d best be off.”
She tried to step past him, but his arm reached out to stay her. She jumped back before he could touch her, causing a few tomatoes to bounce out of the basket and roll onto the dirt.
“Now, honey,” he said, shaking his head, causing a greasy strand of long red hair to fall over his eye, “don’t you be leavin’ just yet. I’ve got a question for you.”
Oh no, she thought, here it comes again. “I’d be happy to answer it for you, Mr. Gyver, but I really need to get goin’.”
“It’ll only take a second, darlin’,” he said, taking a step forward.
She was determined to maintain her footing but gave in with her words. “Alright. Go on.”
“Emma,” he said, and she ignored the disgust she felt at seeing the half-eaten meat rolling around on his tongue as he spoke. “As you know, we’ve known each other for quite a while now.”
She didn’t respond when he paused, so he continued. “And I think it’s ’bout time to just give in and tie the knot. What do you say?”
Emma couldn’t hide the disdain she felt. “I’m truly sorry, sir, but like I said before, I’m goin’ to have to say no.”
“But, Emma,” he said, the same look of shock written on his face as always, “I just don’t understand it! You ain’t never goin’ to have the chance now to get married, what with your age and all. I can provide you with a home, kids, and a lovin’ husband! Everythin’ a woman would want!”
Biting her tongue to keep her true feelings in, she apologized once more. “I am sorry, Mr. Gyver, but it’s just not goin’ to happen no matter how many times you ask.”
With that, she scooted her way around him and walked through the back door of the house, locking it firmly behind her. She leaned against the door and breathed heavily. That man, she thought. He was becoming out of control, saying she wouldn’t have the chance to get married. “The nerve,” she said, gritting her teeth together.
She pushed away thoughts of the possibility of him being right and focused instead on Thatcher, thinking about how she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Chapter Four
As Emma walked down the road to the general store, she reviewed all the things she needed to purchase before the evening came. James, Thatcher, and Seth would be at the inn again for supper after being absent working long and hard on the house. With progress coming along nicely, the men decided to take a night off and eat a meal cooked by a woman, rather than eating the same beans and cornbread they’d had since starting.
Emma was becoming more and more anxious by the second. She could hardly contain her excitement when she thought of being in the same room again as Thatcher, and as usual, her thoughts travelled to the feel of his thumb against her cheek. She longed for more of his touch, yearned for more attention, but she checked her feelings, reminding herself that they were only friends.
Smiling, she walked swiftly across the dirt road, nodding her head to the people in the wagons who passed
by. She walked into the small store and, so involved in her own thoughts and excitement, didn’t take notice of the women huddled in the far corner, one being Mrs. Tilman, Nancy Jane’s mother, and the other being Mrs. Gardner, a local farmer’s wife.
Soon, however, as Emma moved to the front desk, she could make out the women’s words clearly, and her joyful mood disappeared in an instant.
“Yes, well, my Nancy Jane told me that she sees Miss Marchant just fawnin’ over him all day long,” Mrs. Tilman said, her voice lowered to the gossiping tone everyone knew her by. “It’s most shameful behavior, if you ask me.”
“Truth be told,” Mrs. Gardner piped in, “I think the girl just ought to go for that Silas Gyver feller who’s been pinin’ after her for years now. Heaven knows she couldn’t catch a man as handsome as the likes of Thatcher Deakon.”
Emma felt her cheeks burn. Now she knew she wasn’t the only one thinking about how unworthy she was of Thatcher’s attentions.
“I believe that and no doubt about it,” Mrs. Tilman agreed, nodding her head fiercely. “But I don’t know if she could even get Mr. Gyver. I do declare that his plain looks and borin’ conversation match hers, but I’m sure even he could get a lady better than—”
Mrs. Tilman’s judgment was cut off abruptly by Mrs. Gardner as she gasped, finally seeing Emma and realizing that she had been hearing their gossip. Mrs. Tilman turned her head, plastering a fake smile on her face when she saw Emma. “Why, Miss Marchant,” her sugary sweet southern accent rang out. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Emma stood there, silent, not knowing what else to do. Their comments were hurtful, but she felt deep down that what they were saying was true. What had she been thinking? There was no way she could ever have had Thatcher Deakon.
A Secret Fire (Western Historical Romance) Page 6