A Land Called Deseret

by Janet Dailey

  "Do you want to leave that for a minute?" He nodded toward the second suitcase she had started to unpack. "I'll show you where everything is."

  "Okay," she agreed, and tossed the blouse she was holding back in the case.

  She trailed behind him into the kitchen. He walked to a cupboard and opened it. "In here is where I keep the canned goods. There's flour, sugar, and other staples in the cupboard by the stove," he explained. "The dishes are in the cupboards by the sink. The pots and pans are in the lower cupboards."

  Her mouth slowly opened in stunned protest as the reason for his explanation began to register. But her throat seemed incapable of making a sound. Travis started toward a fully enclosed side porch off the kitchen.

  "In addition to the refrigerator, there's a freezer on the porch where I keep meat," he said.

  "Are you expecting me to cook?" LaRaine choked out the question.

  Travis stopped and slowly turned to face her, a scowling smile on his tanned face. "You don't think I'm paying you fifty dollars a week to dust the furniture, sweep the floor, and wash a few clothes, do you? Of course I expect you to cook the meals."

  "I can't cook," she protested.

  "What do you mean, you can't cook?" His amusement was tinged with exasperation. "You're bound to have fixed yourself a meal sometime in your life."

  "If you classify putting cold meat between two slices of bread as fixing a meal, then I have. Other than that, I haven't even boiled water for tea!" Her voice rose on a shrill note of panic.

  "Then it's about time you learned to cook," Travis said, grim faced.

  The way he was looking at her made LaRaine feel stupid for never learning how to cook. She glanced away, reddening with embarrassment. Instinctively she tried to defend herself.

  "I'm going to marry a man who'll be wealthy enough to hire a chef, so it hasn't been necessary for me to know how, " she retorted.

  "In the meantime, if you want to eat, you have to cook," he stated.

  LaRaine was looking anywhere but at him. She saw the dirty dishes stacked on the counter beside the sink and knew she had just found another chore.

  "I suppose I have to do the dishes, too," she grumbled in resentment, and lifted her beautifully kept hands and manicured nails. "They'll be ruined!"

  "I'm sure they'll survive a few dunkings in dishwater," Travis said dryly.

  She remembered another thing he had said earlier. "And I have to wash clothes?"

  "The washing machine is on the side porch." He indicated the door behind him where he had said the freezer was.

  "And the clothes dryer?" LaRaine questioned.

  His mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile and didn't think he dared. "Behind the house there are poles with wires stretched between them. You hang the clothes on the wire and wait for nature to dry them."

  "A clothesline?" Her dark eyes rounded.

  "Then you do know what it's called." Mockery danced in his eyes.

  "Yes, I do know what it's called," she snapped. "Haven't you heard of modern conveniences, like dishwashers and clothes dryers?" She glanced around the kitchen in disgust. "I'm surprised you even have running water." Suddenly she became still, realizing that she hadn't seen the bathroom. She looked warily at Travis. "You do have a bathroom? An indoor facility, I mean, not an outhouse with a stupid little crescent moon on the door?"

  "Yes, there's a bathroom," Travis chuckled softly. "It's off the porch, complete with flush toilet."

  "Thank goodness," LaRaine muttered to herself.

  "You can explore around on your own after you're through unpacking. I have to get to work," he said. "Plan on having supper ready around sundown."

  "What am I supposed to fix? And how?" She made an open-handed gesture of angry bewilderment.

  Travis took a deep breath and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door and pointed inside. "Do you see that package of meat on the second shelf? It's a roast." Closing the door, he walked to a lower cupboard near the stove and opened the door, bending down to remove an oblong pan. "You put the roast in here and put the pan in the oven with the cover on at about three-thirty. About an hour later, peel some potatoes, carrots and onions and add them to the same pan with the roast. Do you understand that?"

  "I … think so," she nodded hesitantly.

  "I hope so." This time it was Travis who muttered to himself. To her, he said, "I'll see you later," and exited by the back door via the side porch.

  When he had gone, LaRaine looked around the kitchen and wondered what she had got herself into. But what other choice had she had? Oh, well, she shrugged her shoulders. She had warned Travis that she didn't know how to cook. If he was willing to suffer the consequences, she was willing to try. After a few catastrophes, he might be willing to give her the money to leave. There was always a bright spot in every dark day.

  Returning to the bedroom, she resumed her unpacking. It was after three o'clock before she remembered Travis's instructions about the roast. She hurried to the kitchen and took the package of meat from the refrigerator. Unwrapping it, she put it in the roasting pan, set the lid on it, and carried it to the stove.

  The gas stove looked like an antique. Opening the oven door, she slid the pan onto the baking shelf and closed the door. She realized that Travis had omitted to tell her how to operate it. She studied the dials. One had graduating temperatures listed on it. LaRaine turned it, and opened the oven door to see if anything happened. Nothing. She tried each of the dials in turn and nothing happened. Catching the distinct smell of gas, she turned all the dials off.

  "If he thinks I'm going to blow myself up playing around with this stove, he's crazy," she muttered, and walked away.

  Before she reached the bedroom, she heard a pickup drive into the yard. Remembering that Travis had left in it earlier, she walked to the front door. Through the wire mesh of the screen, she saw him step out of the cab and reach back inside. Two gift-wrapped packages were in his arms when he closed the door and walked toward the house. An overwhelming and eager curiosity made LaRaine push open the screen door for him.

  "I can't make the oven work," were the words she greeted him with, but she had difficulty tearing gaze from the packages he carried.

  "I suspected you'd get yourself in some kind of difficulty," he replied, and walked past her to the kitchen. "Show me what you did."

  LaRaine showed him. "I smelled gas, but I couldn't see any flame," she concluded.

  "That's because you have to light it. It doesn't have a pilot that automatically lights the burners or the oven." He set the packages on the counter and reached for the wooden matches in a container near the stove. "I'll show you." LaRaine watched. When he had it going, Travis turned it off and handed her a match. "Now you do it."

  It looked much easier when he had done it. Finally, after more error than trial, LaRaine succeeded in starting it. Travis checked the roasting pan and the roast inside.

  "Didn't you season it?" he asked.

  "No, was I supposed to?"

  Travis handed it to her. "Salt and pepper it," he ordered with exasperation. "And add some water, just enough to cover the bottom of the pan."

  "I didn't know," LaRaine defended herself, and did as she was told.

  When the roast was back in the heating oven, her gaze strayed to the packages on the counter. She couldn't help wondering who they were for.

  "They're for you," said Travis, as if reading her mind.

  Gasping in delight, LaRaine mentally took back some of the things she had thought about him when she discovered the cooking and dishwashing that the job for him entailed. She reached for the smallest package first, tearing off the bow and the paper. Opening the box, she stared at its contents, a beginner's book on how to cook. Her wide smile grew smaller.

  "I don't have time to give you cooking lessons. You'll have to teach yourself," Travis told her.

  Less than enthusiastically, she offered, "Thank you."

  The second and larger package contained something ca
lled a crockpot, obviously for cooking. Neither present was LaRaine's idea of a gift.

  "It's an electric slow cooker," Travis identified the utensil. "The saleswoman assured me it was impossible for anyone to ruin a meal cooked in that. There's a complete set of instructions with it and some recipes."

  "It was thoughtful of you," she murmured.

  "I'm just hoping for a decent meal and doing what I can to see that I get it," he stated, and walked to door. "Don't forget to put the potatoes and the rest of the stuff in with the roast," he reminded her before closed the door.

  LaRaine stuck out her tongue at the retreating broad shoulders.

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  Chapter Eight

  AS FAR AS LARAINE was concerned, the evening meal that night was such a success that it even surprised her. When Travis came in she had the table all set, complete with a relish tray with ingredients obtained from the refrigerator. At his suggestion and with his assistance, she opened a can of green beans and heated them in a pan on top of the stove. The roast, potatoes, carrots, and onions were cooked to perfection. With every bit LaRaine silently congratulated herself. Cooking was a snap!

  Joe ate with them, but he added very little to the table conversation. LaRaine had the feeling that he was silently in awe of her, which was a tremendous boost to her ego. Only two things kept the meal from being flawless: she had forgotten the coffee and there was no dessert. Travis corrected both of those by making a pot of coffee and taking some ice cream from the freezer.

  Cleaning up afterward, LaRaine concluded, was a tiresome, thankless chore, and the only one with which Travis didn't offer to help. While she washed and dried the dishes, he went into the living room and did paperwork at the old desk. Joe disappeared somewhere outside.

  When she was done, LaRaine saturated her hands with lotion, determined that she wasn't going to get dishpan hands. She stared with distaste at the prunelike wrinkling of her fingers and wiped excess lotion from her hands. As she entered the living room, Travis was closing his books and returned them to a side drawer. He looked up when she walked in.

  "All through?" he asked.

  "Yes," she nodded, and tried not to think about the state her hands were in.

  Uncoiling his long frame from the chair, Travis said, "So am I. Good night, LaRaine."

  "You aren't leaving?" she protested. "It's early."

  "Not by my standards." He wasn't swayed by her argument. "Goodnight."

  The house was unbearably empty after he had gone. Night-time made the rooms even more dismal than they were in the daylight. There were all sort of creaking and groaning sounds coming from different parts of the old and tired house. Strange night sounds from outside invaded the house. Something howled mournfully and LaRaine suspected it was a coyote.

  It was too depressing sitting alone in the house with nothing to do but try to identify the weird sounds. She wasn't all that tired, but sleep was preferable to boredom.

  In the bedroom, she changed into a lacy black nightgown and climbed into bed. Immediately she rolled into the dip in the center of the bed, becoming nearly lost in the hollow. The pillow was almost as hard as a rock. She pushed it with her fist, trying to make an indentation for her head. Between the lumpy mattress and the hard pillow, it seemed to take forever before she fell asleep.

  As soon as she did, it seemed that something was trying to waken her. She refused to rise to full consciousness. A hand was shaking her shoulder and she tried to shrug it away.

  Dimly she heard a voice say, "Come on. It's time to wake up."

  "I'm sleeping," LaRaine muttered into the mattress.

  "Not anymore, you're not," the voice denied. "Get up!"

  When she didn't obey, she was rolled onto her back.

  She groaned and looked through the narrow slits of her lashes. Travis was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking disgustingly rested. Beyond him was the window and a pinkish gray light in the sky.

  "It isn't even morning," she told him, and shut her eyes tightly. "I'm not getting up yet."

  "Yes, you are." A large pair of hands slid under her arms to sit her up in the bed, then stayed there to keep her steady.

  At first LaRaine tried to push him away, but it was like trying to push a wall. Her finders felt the flexing muscles in his arms—living steel. Slowly raising her lashes, she changed her tactics. Linking her fingers behind his neck, she arched her back in a feline gesture of tiredness.

  "Please, Travis, let me go back to sleep," she coaxed with a little-girl pout to her lips.

  He studied their unpainted ripeness. With scant effort, he drew her toward him. Half-drugged with sleep, it took LaRaine a full second to guess his intention. By then his mouth was tasting her lips, parting them with arrogant mastery. She seemed enveloped in a cloud of the manly fragrance clinging to his smoothly shaven face. The kiss was a slow insidious seduction of her senses, catching her at a moment when she was vulnerable and unprepared.

  The pressure of his mouth became demanding and she found herself answering it, returning the ardor, and thrilling to the dizzying wave of strange, wonderful feelings. She arched toward him, feeling her breasts brushing against the cotton material of his shirt, their peaks inflamed by his body heat.

  His large hands glided downward to the sides of her rib cage, his thumbs barely touching the swelling upward curves of her breasts through the lacy material of her nightgown. LaRaine didn't understand this wild, crazy fire bursting through her veins, but it didn't seem important that she understand it.

  Then his mouth was pulling away from hers. Unconsciously a mixed-up sigh came from her lips as she opened her eyes to look at him. Something smoldered in his eyes, and her heart skipped a few beats.

  "Travis," she whispered his name, and tightened the linking of her fingers behind his neck to pull him back and show her again the magic of his kiss.

  "Get out of bed." The hand that wasn't supporting her slapped her thigh.

  Startled by the stinging slap, LaRaine loosened her grip. She couldn't hold onto him when he suddenly rose from the bed. She quickly braced herself with an arm to keep from falling backward. When she didn't immediately obey his order, Travis reached out and flipped the covers off her feet.

  "Come on. It's time to fix breakfast."

  "At this hour?" LaRaine didn't want to think about food. Her gaze kept straying to his mouth, wondering how much of the devastation it had caused had been real and how much of it had been left over from dreams.

  Unconsciously she obeyed him in spite of her protest, swinging her feet out of the bed and onto the floor, Travis waited for her she slipped into the black lace robe lying at the foot of the bed.

  "I'll show you how to make coffee before I go do my chores," he said. LaRaine followed him into the kitchen, shivering at the coolness of the floor beneath her bare feet. He took the coffee pot from its place on the counter top and carried it to the sink. "I'm only going to show you how to do this once, so pay attention."

  He was lecturing her again, like a teacher with a pupil. Some of her radiant confusion dimmed under his sternness. LaRaine watched how much water he put in the pot and how many scoops of coffee in the basket.

  "Do you know how to do it now?" Travis demanded, she nodded affirmatively. His gaze raked her with unnerving thoroughness. The faintly condemning light in his dark eyes made LaRaine pull the front of her robe more fully together. "There's bacon and eggs in the refrigerator. If I were you, I'd get dressed before I started breakfast. Joe is young and become embarrassed easily."

  The implication of his comment was that LaRaine was accustomed to parading around half-undressed front of strange men. She bristled in anger at the unspoken accusation.

  "I fully intend to get dressed." She was wide awake now. "You were the one who dragged me out of bedroom to show me how to make coffee. It wasn't my idea. And the next time you want to wake me up, knock on the door."

  "I did knock, but you didn't hear me," Travis replied evenly. "Remind
me to bring you an alarm clock so there won't be a repeat of this morning."

  It wasn't exactly that LaRaine didn't want a repeat of this morning as much as she didn't want him making those kinds of remarks about her. Before she could open her mouth to take back her hasty statement, Travis was walking out the back door.

  Angered with herself as much as with him, LaRaine stalked back to the bedroom. Stripping out of her night clothes, she chose a pair of white slacks from the closet and a black, gray and white patterned blouse. She tied a matching sash around her waist and turned to the plain, square mirror above her dresser to begin applying her makeup. The overhead light provided the only illumination in the room, which slowed her down. She was only half-done when she heard the front door open and slam shut, and footsteps walked to the kitchen.

  "Where's breakfast?" Travis called.

  "I haven't fixed it yet!" LaRaine shouted back, frowning at the dimness of the light as she tried to see if she had applied too much dark shading to her cheeks.

  "Why not?" The demand came from much closer to her bedroom.

  "Because I haven't finished dressing," she explained impatiently.

  "You haven't finished?" Travis echoed. "I left the house thirty minutes ago. What have you been doing all this time?" He appeared in the doorway, a dark frown creasing his forehead.

  "This light is terrible." LaRaine gestured toward the covered bulb overhead. "I can barely see to put my makeup on."

  Travis stared at the collection of jars, tubes, brushes, and eyeshadow palettes on her dresser. "What is this?" he pointed.

  "Lipstick."

  "And this?" He went down the line, making LaRaine identify each one. Bottles of moisturizer, cleansing cream and skin freshener he set to one side along with a tube of lipstick. With a sweep of his arm he cleared the top of the dresser, dumping all the rest of her cosmetics into the metal wastebasket on the floor.

  "What are you doing?" LaRaine shrieked.

  "All the makeup you need is on the dresser." His mouth was drawn in a ruthlessly straight line. "No more makeup, LaRaine. No more masks."