by Cindy Nord
“Now wait just a minute, Robert,” the shrew squawked. “I agreed to vacate the position only if a proper nurse showed up.” She shook the form Annabelle had filled out upon her arrival, the harsh crackle of whipped paper like detonating fireworks. “This female in all her fancy Frenchiness offers little in the way of qualifications.” Mrs. Jordan’s glare narrowed along with her lips. “In fact, her application states her only skill centers around caretaking.”
Releasing a regretful sigh, the albino straightened. “Is this true, my dear?”
All hope inside Annabelle withered as their hands unclasped. Clearly, ‘twas the mother who dispensed the medicines in this medical practice.
She stepped back and swallowed, the lump in her throat the size of one of Brennen’s blasted bricks. “Qui, monsieur,” she said on a thin breath. “’Tis true. I’ve no experience in suturing, broken bones, or wound care like the nurses in the volunteer corps under Dorothea Dix during the war. My skills stem from caring for a bedridden sibling, and most-recently, nurturing a consumptive back to health.” Back stiffening, Annabelle added, “I am, however, a quick learner.”
Mrs. Jordan scoffed. “I ain’t got time to teach her, nor do we need to heap her inexperience on our already overburdened workload.” The ultimatum in her voice reverberated. “This is utter nonsense, Robert. Look at her, she’s got no business here.”
The man skimmed his hand over his jaw, contemplation creasing his forehead. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Swan, we need to hire someone with a bit more nursing know-how. At this point, I’d even welcome one of the battlefield angels, the religious sisters, who I worked with during the war.” A slow inhale followed. “My mother is…” he paused and leaned forward, whispering, “Well, she’s no longer able to handle the day-to-day stressors of nursing, and better suited to the front office.”
Better suited?
Annoyance seeped through Annabelle, and she shot a glance at the shrew. Mrs. Jordan looked quite capable of spearheading every aspect of this medical business, including an obvious control over her son.
She looked back in time to catch the regretful smile stacking near the corner of the doctor’s mouth. A pink-eyed reflection compelling her to understand, the man nodded to the desk where her paper lay beneath the carper’s hand. “Please know I shall keep your information on file should anything change.”
On file? Anabelle doubted she’d even clear the outskirts of town before Mrs. Jordan ripped her application into shreds.
The incessant tick of the hall clock accentuated the tightness in her chest. With little choice left, Annabelle stowed her disappointment. “Merci beaucoup, docteur.”
In a swish of turquoise silk, she headed for the exit, unsure if the dismissal was a curse...or a blessing.
Chapter Nineteen
Late-afternoon sun beat down upon Annabelle as she stood among the milling goats. Heads bent, muzzles pressed against the foliage, the creatures ate in wild abandon. She smiled, skimming her hand over the black and white hide of the closest kid.
With a soft bleat, the youngster turned and gnawed on her fingers, the lack of upper teeth proving more gumming than actual nips.
She stepped away and scanned the sea of brown and black and white grazing across the ground. A half-dozen goats had short stubby horns, and none possessed teeth, a fact that didn’t stop them from feasting.
“If’n you stand there too long, Miz Annabelle,” Jasper hollered from the other side of the herd, “dem things’ll start nibblin’ on yo skirt.”
“I’m not nearly as delicious as the overgrown shrubbery,” she answered on a laugh.
As if beckoned, a full-bellied goat bumped against her and snatched up a portion of her hem. “Oh dear.” Annabelle’s laughter filled the air. She scuttled back and her skirt fanned out in a wide arc of dark-brown cotton. She gave a gentle tug. “Let go of that, you silly creature.” A smile curving her mouth, she glanced at the groundskeeper. “Good heavens, Jasper come help me, he’s locked on good and tight.”
Mirth filled the man as he stepped between them. A quick tug removed the skirt from the goat’s mouth. “Dey’ll eat anythin’, ma’am, but dey prefer browse.” He pointed toward the unkempt bushes and weeds near the side yard. “An’ dis’n ‘specially got a voracious appetite. His belly’s plum swollen.” He pushed against the buck with his knee, shoving him backward. “Go on, you cretin, get a’movin’.” Eyes crinkled with laughter met hers. “Goats were da first critters tamed by people, ma’am, so dey think dere kings.”
“With such intelligence, it’s little wonder.” She slid her fingers over a long-haired buck, his coat purely silk beneath her touch. “Ruby’s thrilled to have access to such fine fleece. Says each animal should give her at least a pound of mohair per year.”
Nodding, Jasper smiled. “Dey’s soft, no doubt about it.” He resettled his scrappy straw hat. “Well, I’m gonna take ‘em on around to da other side o’ the big house now, ma’am. Dere’s lots o’ good eatin’ over dere, too.” He waved one lanky arm as he moved away, poking and prodding the hungry group toward fresh overgrowth.
Stacking her hands on her hips, Annabelle turned in a slow circle. Joy rolled through her at the beautiful sight. As far as she looked she couldn’t spot one weed in sight. Not a cluster of thistle. Not even a runaway clump of ivy.
She shaded her eyes and stared toward the gateposts at the far end of the lane.
The area off the main road and all the way up to the front steps of the manor house appeared manicured, as if she’d clipped each blade of grass herself with a pair of scissors. When all that had been required to achieve such splendor was a week of serving up this weedy mess for the goats.
Amazing.
Who knew these animals were such groomers?
Brennen. Yes…the rogue. She put another mark in the pro column for him.
Shaking her head, she slowly turned. To her far right, sheep roamed the meadow beyond a now-mended, white-painted fence line. Several little new-born lambs frolicked beside the ewes.
Soon Ruby will have wool to spin, too.
Yet, all Ellie cared about was the meat the animals provided at slaughtering time.
Slaughtering? She grimaced. I could never do such a thing. Again, Annabelle thanked Brennen for hiring the cook.
On a sigh, she ambled to the fence, then leaned against the weathered wood. The placid drove looked up, several munching away, the forage in their mouths twitching with a methodic sweep. The wooly beasts had acclimated to their surroundings, appearing as if they’d grazed in Brennen’s unwanted meadow for years, rather than a mere week.
Their contentment obvious…unlike their owner’s.
She snorted, then tugged on the wide brim of her straw hat to better shield her face from the sun.
The sound of mooing cows had her glancing to the refurbished barn, empty of everything save livestock, wagons, and a few farm supplies. And, of course, hay. The now well-tended farm ready for more. More animals. More family. More permanence. Sadness oozed through her at the foolishness of her thoughts.
Another sniff centered her thoughts.
Brennen and Jubal had spent the better part of the past four days transporting the already-made bricks to the Sisters of St. Joseph to begin the surfacing of their church. With the last load taken over after breakfast, she expected the men back at any moment.
Loud broken Irish curses had her swerving around. Obviously the goats had wandered too close to Ellie’s vegetable garden again. Or maybe ‘twas the rooting pigs, their newest additions that Jasper had herded in the other morning, stating, “Mista Brennen bought ‘n paid for the whole lot of ‘em ‘cause he’s developed a keen likin’ for ham.”
Annabelle laughed. My how things had changed here in the short time she’d been in residence.
Regardless, ‘twas time to ready her lesson for this evening. Punctuation. Another of her favorite topics. She crossed the beautiful lawn, also pleased the marauding goats had decimated the
chigger population that’d lurked in the tall grass.
The heat of the day had eased, bringing a respite from the sweltering humidity, and as Annabelle passed the water well, she admired the now-repaired brick wall. The addition of a small frame-work slanted roof would keep out most flying leaves and debris. She trailed her hand over the rounded bracket and the coiled rope with a brand new bucket suspended beneath. And now no more fear of falling inside while attempting to retrieve water.
The rumble of wagon wheels over brick had Annabelle turning. A jolt of heat banished all thoughts save one: Brennen’s home. Unable to stop the smile plastering her face, she waited as The Weber, King of Wagons jerked to a stop beside the barn. The aloof monarch atop his rolling throne, on the other hand, looked exhausted, the lines across his face more pronounced. Her heartstrings plonked in sympathy. The man had obviously worked harder in these past few months than any time since the war’s end. And his disgruntled disposition this past week only complicated things. Which escalated further when she’d asked him why he’d brought Jasper and all the animals.
His muffled because the only answer she’d received before he stormed off.
She narrowed her gaze as the men clambered from the seat, dust lifting as their boots hit the ground.
Brennen glanced her way and she waved.
No reason to be aloof because he chooses to be.
With a head-bob, he tugged off his gloves, which he promptly slapped against a well-muscled thigh. Turning, he exchanged a few words with Jubal, who nodded, shook hands with him, and then pulled the team and wagon into the barn.
Brennen thumbed up his hat and headed toward her. His dark hair, gleaming like polished wood in the slanted rays of the sun, lay plastered against his neck in wet lanks.
With his each long stride, her gaze roamed over him. She stifled a shudder at how his sweat-drenched shirt molded to his powerful chest, the corded muscles beneath blue cambric well defined. His dusty denims, too, cocooned his slender hips.
With her heart pulsing much too fast, Annabelle spun on a boot heel and refocused her gaze. The bucket. Yes. Holding the rope, she dropped the pail into the well. “I’m getting you a cool drink. Hold on,” she mumbled when he reached her side, the heat summoned by his oh-so-masculine appearance hidden behind her rush of words. On a sigh, she cranked up the pail, splashing generous amounts of water over the side.
Brennen leaned closer to help lift the bucket.
With a thud, he settled the wood on the bricked wall, a sweet burn where his fingers brushed hers. Despite the breeze, perspiration bloomed on her face.
He cupped his palm and scooped out the liquid, the excess water sluicing down to dampen his shirt cuff. Once his thirst had been quenched, he slicked a handful of water over his face and neck.
And with each swallow, with each flex of muscle, with the slide of skin while his throat worked, Annabelle stared at him, unable to move, to breathe, to think.
“Thanks,” he said, turning to look over the estate. Silence lengthened between them. By slow degrees, appreciation lightened his features. “Good God,” he murmured, “this place looks…”
Annabelle couldn’t keep her smile from breaking though. On a wobbly laugh she completed his sentence, “Yes…amazing. Didn’t take the goats long to wield their magic. Jasper’s moved them around to the back of the manor.” Her smile widened as she again scanned the well-manicured lawn. “Le Belle Maison,” she breathed out.
He faced her. Their gazes collided. “Le Belle Maison. Perfect.”
Her grip on the bucket tightened. “What?” she strangled out as the longest second in history passed, dredging up a spread of warmth that blazed her face.
“Yea. This place,” he breathed, a sweep of reverence and longing tangled within the words. His gaze sunk deeper inside hers. “The name. Fits…all Frenchy. And flawless, ma petite Annabelle.”
Her breath hitched, the heat burning her veins with the intensity of a thousand suns. She drank in his rugged appeal. Where his usual well-groomed looks would turn any woman’s head, this…this grimy, sweat-soaked side of him breathed over her raw and wicked.
Another jolt of desire raced through her, and Annabelle swallowed. “Qui,” she rasped, her control frazzling further away with every beat of her heart. “Le Belle Maison -- Beautiful Home. Yes, oh Brennen. That does work well… at least while we’re here.”
For a long moment he held her gaze, his eyes, lost within a web of wrinkles, revealed something more, something darker. Sadness? Pain? She blinked, her mind staggered between the past and the present. Emptiness loomed, followed by a bitter taste of regret -- at her foolish choice of words, at the abhorrent uncertainty of her life, at the truth that now twisted like a rusty blade inside her.
A rattling sound eked past her lips.
Then, as if the moment had never happened, his expression shuttered.
He shrugged, his mouth shifting into a pretentious smirk. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice low and flat. “While we’re still here.” He swabbed at his face with a shirt sleeve. “We got the last of the finished bricks unloaded. Now the Reverend Mother can begin her all-important, God-fearin’ project.”
Though issued on the backside of a snarl, Annabelle swore she heard a quiver of pride in his rumbling statement. He folded his arms over his chest, and she remembered them wrapped around her.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Her lungs could barely pull in air. “Good,” she said, dumping the remainder of the water into the well. She released the bucket, then stared as the wooden pail bobbled at the end of the rope…alone and hollow.
Like me.
Around them the fading sun folded like drapery across the lawn, shivers of gold caressing the pale green blades. Drawn by his body’s heat, his presence, Annabelle glanced back, her gaze locking with his. Dark eyes held hers, their midnight depths as if they’d swallowed the light.
“And from here on out,” he added, his brow narrowing, “we’re delivering the bricks daily.” He scraped a palm through his wet lanks, then resettled his hat. “Now that we’ve another helper on this end, things should move along faster. The abbess has hired a crew from town who’ll start building the sisters’ rector--”
The clop of horse hooves had him glancing down the lane. He frowned. “You expectin’ company?”
“No,” she said, leaning sideways to peer over his shoulder.
The rider cantered into view.
Brennen surged to his feet, arms unwrapping. “Who the hell’s this?”
A gasp lodged in Annabelle’s throat.
Doctor Jordan.
Her lips compressed into a thin line as a thread of unease wove past her strangled emotions. Why would he, of all people, come here?
Chapter Twenty
Brennen stared at the albino as he dismounted. He’d seen a few before with this affliction during the war, but they were always near the back of the lines where their stark features and white hair didn’t stand out.
“I was making my rounds and thought I’d stop in,” the visitor said, a smile curving his mouth as he glanced at Annabelle.
She knows him?
Something dangerously close to possessiveness reared an ugly head inside Brennen. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped closer. “And you are?”
The man’s gaze shifted to him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, a light chuckle following. He extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Doctor Jordan. Robert Jordan.”
Brennen shook, then released the man’s palm, stepping back. The polar opposite of a welcoming mood burned through him. As far as he was concerned, the pale aberration could turn around and haul his peculiar ass right off the estate.
“Came from my visit over at the Wright’s place near the Green River,” the man added, his gaze shifting back to Annabelle. “The widow’s nearing eighty so I like to keep a close eye on her.”
She laid her palm on the man’s upper arm. “”Of course, doctor. And how very nice to see you again.”
“Please,” he replied, his smile more tender. “Call me Robert.”
She nodded, a pink blush cresting her cheeks. “And this is Brennen Benedict. He owns the homeplace.” The man nodded, ignoring him. She hesitated. “I-I didn’t realize you had patients this far from Owensborough.”
Holy shit, things weren’t adding up. “How do you know the doctor?” he quipped redrawing her attention.
Annabelle’s gaze seemed vulnerable, almost apologetic. And his spread of a never-before-felt jealousy grew, the sensation prickly. Alarming. He tightened his jaw against the untamed swell.
“She inquired about a nursing position in my office a few days ago,” the doctor supplied. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit.”
Nursing position? In town? What the hell. A lump formed in Brennen’s throat, and he could scarcely draw his next breath.
Annabelle’s face paled. She turned away. “Did you find someone sufficiently skilled, monsieur?” she inquired, the clarity in her voice belying the panic that had crossed her face.
Good gawd. She’d never even mentioned this.
“As a matter of fact, no. We’re still looking, but I came to apologize for my mother’s rudeness. You certainly didn’t deserve such wrath. She’s had a hard time since my father’s death.”
Brennen muttered a soft curse. Annabelle blinked at him with those too-wide, bottle-green eyes that twisted his heart into a conflicting wad of rage. “Are you taking another job in town?” he growled, struggling to contain his…what? Anger? Yes. Damnit. Anger.
Waves of indignation spurted through him.
Her face fell.
Sonofabitch. What did he have to be angry with her about? It wasn’t like she belonged to him.
“Nice to meet you, doc,” he snapped, then turned on a boot heel and stomped toward the house. Annabelle’s soothing words behind him assuring the white-haired oddity that he’d done nothing wrong to drive Monsieur Benedict away only infuriated him more. The heartbreak returned, coiling through Brennen in a quagmire of shock, ache, and chaos. And what was Annabelle doing? Out la-de-dah-ing with some country doctor on the doorsteps of my own damned house.