by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
“I, um—” She felt her mouth go dry.
Luckily, Eliza bounced into the room at that moment, her cloud of curls unusually buoyant.
“I think it’s going to rain,” the child announced. “Look,” she invited, pointing to her head. Eliza held to the theory that she could predict wet weather by her hair’s degree of unruliness.
“My,” Penny agreed, glad for the distraction as she walked over to peek out the window. “If those curls are any indication, a monstrous storm must be brewing.”
Despite the lingering smell of burnt beef, the birthday dinner proved to be a success, thanks to Macgorrie’s quick thinking and the almost edible blancmange. Josh poured blackberry wine liberally, while Eliza steered the conversation time and again to any trivial commonality shared between Josh and Penny.
“Isn’t it interesting, Papa,” Eliza commented, “that you and Penny both like to play hazard?”
Or, “Did you know, Penny, that Papa’s birthday is in March, just like yours?”
One particularly frivolous observation concerning a shared fondness for asparagus caused Josh and Penny to exchange knowing glances across the table. However, as soon as their eyes had met, Penny wished she had not looked in his direction, for there was more in his regard than merely amusement. She nervously cast her gaze to her fingers twined together in her lap.
She, better than most women, recognized the effects of drink on men; she understood why Josh’s mood continued to improve in direct relation to the amount of wine he’d consumed. Still, she felt strange and uncomfortable as she sat there, examining her tattered fingernails, his gaze upon her.
Although Penny had years of experience in deflecting the interest of drunken men—and was admittedly skilled at it, having mastered all sorts of tricks involving bony elbows, hot drinks, and broom handles—never had she found herself in a situation where she felt attracted to any of those same tipsy men. But she had a niggling suspicion, even a growing fear, that she might be attracted to Josh Cooper. How else might she explain her cotton-dry mouth, her restless hands, her uneasy stomach?
Well, to be fair, the blancmange might have had something to do with her unsettled stomach. But what about the rest of it?
He wasn’t at all the kind of man she had imagined she would be attracted to. In her fantasies, she had pictured a princely gentleman, fair-haired and charming, who spoke French. Or maybe Italian. He would be poetic and suave, with big, brown, expressive eyes. She snuck a peek across the table. He wasn’t supposed to have cobalt eyes flecked with shards of silver that seemed to cut right through her as if she were made of warm butter.
She took a breath, thinking that her insides rather felt like warm butter. Soft and pliant. Perhaps she had had a wee bit too much wine herself.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me.” She stood, suddenly eager to retire. “It’s been a lovely party and a very long day, so I’ll bid you all a pleasant good night.”
“So early?” Eliza asked, her disappointment plain.
“It’s not that early,” Penny said. “In fact, I think it’s close to your bedtime, as well.”
As she pushed back from her chair, thunder cracked overhead, followed by the gentle ping of the storm’s first raindrops. Eliza proudly announced, “I told you so” to no one in particular, while Penny popped her head into the kitchen to thank Macgorrie for washing the dishes, although he had grumpily informed her several times that she shouldn’t be thanking him for doing what he was paid to do.
Eliza was pleading with her father to let her stay awake another hour when Penny quietly slipped away to her room.
She did not know how long she’d been sleeping when she abruptly sat up in bed. The house was dark, the wind like a mournful dirge through the trees. She listened, uncertain as to what sound had awoken her. Had it been Eliza, frightened by the storm? Or had it been the thunder and wind?
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep without checking, she threw her shawl over her shoulders and tiptoed down the chilly hall. The parlor’s grandfather clock chimed two o’clock. The child’s bedroom door stood ajar. She stole a quick look through the narrow opening and saw that Eliza lay as peacefully as a veritable angel, her white-blond hair spread across her pillow. Penny was about to withdraw when a flash of lightning cast a glow into the room, illuminating a figure in the chair beside the bed. Her breath caught before she recognized Josh Cooper.
She inched backward, careful not to draw his notice. But his attention was fixed on the sleeping child, as he sat there simply staring at his daughter. Curious, Penny hung back, watching him watch Eliza. What was he doing here at this time of night?
She probably stood there a minute or two, until another burst of lightning flickered through the room, allowing her a fleeting glimpse of Josh’s face. The ghostly light threw into relief the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. But what caused her heart to turn over was the raw emotion she read in his expression. She would not have believed she knew the man well enough to see all that she saw in his face, yet she could not deny what she had witnessed. And what she felt.
She backed away, strangely moved by the tenderness in his expression. But it had been more than tenderness; she had also sensed vulnerability and yearning. As if he were a man desperate for something that would forever elude him.
Her thoughts heavy, she wrapped the woolen shawl more tightly around her and headed back down the shadowy hallway.
Josh wasn’t a praying man, but sometimes he wished he was, because he damned sure could have used some divine guidance from time to time. Like now.
Leaning forward, he pulled the blanket up to Eliza’s shoulders to ward off the chill night.
God, just look at her. She was so beautiful. So perfect. How could anything so delicate and precious have come from him?
Her hand lay outstretched on the satin counterpane, her lips slightly open, parted by shallow breaths. She lay in the darkness, so trusting. Trusting that he would take care of her. Trusting that he would make the right decisions for her.
If only he knew how.
At eleven years old, she seemed to know a lot better than he did what she needed.
After watching Eliza and Penny these last couple of days, Josh had gained a much clearer picture of what had caused Eliza to hatch her harebrained scheme in the first place. Apparently, a young girl needed giggling and petting and cooing. The feminine fussing over colored ribbons, and the messy dipping of cookies in milk, and the gentle humming while brushing out wet hair.
He didn’t know how to give Eliza all of that. He didn’t know how to be a mother.
But perhaps . . .
Perhaps he could give her one.
He dropped his head into his hands, laughing softly at himself.
Hell, who was he kidding? He was merely looking for excuses, wasn’t he? Was his greatest concern really finding a mother for Eliza? Or, could he be honest for once and admit that he wanted that redhead for himself?
He squeezed his temples until he could feel the blood pounding beneath his fingertips.
Stop it, he told himself. Just because a man got an itch in his pants didn’t mean he married a woman he barely knew. Particularly not after managing to dodge every other matrimony-minded miss who had crossed his path these last six years. Then again, he had married Madeline when he’d known her not at all. And he sure as hell hadn’t been itching in his pants for her.
Josh felt a pang of regret, thinking of Madeline, aware that he hadn’t been much of a husband to her. He had wanted to love her—he’d tried. And she had been a fine, decent woman in many ways. She just hadn’t been his woman.
No, he needed someone fiery and sassy and earthy. A woman who was strong enough not to be intimidated by him or his wealth or by the challenge of frontier living. Someone with curvy hips and long legs and a mouth that was made for—
“Christ.”
Josh burst out of the chair. Enough. He didn’t care if it was the middle of the
night, he was going to run over to Rose’s and take care of business even if he had to knock down the damned door.
In his rush, he didn’t see the figure at the other end of the hallway until he’d nearly walked into her. She wore a plain cotton night rail and a shawl.
“What are you doing awake?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, irritated that he’d not seen her, and even more irritated that he hadn’t the sense to march away that very instant.
“I thought I heard Eliza.”
She was too close. She smelled too good.
“You should go to bed.”
“I will.”
Yet she did not move. What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she tell that he was as randy as the proverbial goat? That he was seconds away from doing something insane that he couldn’t blame on whiskey and wine?
As a test—of himself or of her?—he placed his hand on her elbow. “Go to bed. It’s cold. You’ll catch a chill.”
But where his fingers wrapped around her arm, there was nothing but heat. Heat spreading up into his shoulder, across his chest, everywhere.
Still she did not pull away.
Slowly he bent toward her, waiting for her to wrench free of his grasp. He came closer, his gaze fixed on her mouth, giving her plain notice of his intent and ample time in which to say no. Her lips trembled, but she merely let her lashes flutter closed as she leaned into him.
A voice inside warned him that he was playing with fire, flirting with madness. By God, he was supposed to put the woman on a steamer next week. All the same, since the moment he had seen her in the attic, a radiant vision in white satin, he had scarcely been able to think of anything else.
Anything . . . but this.
His lips settled softly on hers, not asking too much, a delicate caress. But what began as gentle and questioning flamed into a kiss that had her pulled hard against him, his hand cupping the back of her head, her fingers gripping his shoulders.
He backed her against the wall, feeling as if he wanted to devour her. He kissed her ear, her neck, the hollow of her throat. She moaned breathlessly as his palm skimmed her waist, then moved higher to explore her breast’s ripe fullness.
His knee pushed between her legs and he could hear his heart hammering above the crash of thunder. Nuzzling her neck, he took a deep breath, doubtful that any perfume could have matched the scent of her warm skin. As he tried to shove the night rail from her shoulder, he felt her body go stiff beneath his.
“Josh,” she whispered, her voice tremulous and uncertain.
Suddenly he realized just how far he had fallen. He was minutes away from taking her right there in the hallway of his house.
“I—” An apology stalled in his throat. How could he apologize when he would have bartered his very soul to finish what they had begun?
“Penny.”
He had hoped to explain himself. Instead, he turned away, strode down the stairs, then through the front door and out into the stormy night.
Chapter Five
Penny did not sleep the remainder of the night, but lay in bed, listening for Josh’s return. After daybreak, Eliza awoke, and they ate sugared toast, then played draughts before the parlor fire. The day stretched on while the storm grew yet more violent, trees bending in the wind and rain pummeling the earth with torrential force. When it came time to sit down for the evening meal and still there was no Josh, Penny quietly took Macgorrie aside.
“I’m worried,” she said. “What should I say to Eliza?”
The older man shrugged. “Ye don’t have to say anything. The girl is used to his comings and goings. He’s more likely than not seeing to business affairs.”
So Penny and Eliza ate their dinner and then read for an hour before Penny tucked the child into bed.
By the following morning, Penny’s concern was enough to send Macgorrie out to check some of Josh’s favorite haunts. Fortunately, the weather had finally begun to turn, the rain reduced to occasional showers and a hint of summer warmth returning to the air.
Macgorrie had been gone less than an hour when a forceful pounding sent Penny racing to open the door, Eliza hard on her heels.
“Oh, sweet Mary.” With one hand, Penny clutched the doorframe to steady herself, while with the other hand she held Eliza back from looking onto the porch.
Two burly men whom Penny recognized from the general store were carrying Josh on a canvas stretcher. Macgorrie, stumping behind as fast as he could, was barking orders like a Union general.
“Take him straight on in,” he told the men, his accent heavier than usual. Then he instructed Penny to “put the kettle on and have Liza pack a rucksack.”
“Pack?” Penny questioned.
As the men approached her with their burden, Penny saw that Josh, muddied and wet, lay unconscious. Blood oozed a thick crimson ribbon along his hairline. Behind her, Eliza strained to look past, but Penny held her back.
“Aye,” Macgorrie explained as he hobbled onto the porch. “He’s runnin’ a fever, and we’d best take no chances with the lass catchin’ it. I already spoke to the widow, who’ll keep her for a couple of days.”
Fever. Penny remembered that Madeline Cooper had died of fever. Swinging around, she swiftly herded a protesting Eliza out of the room.
“What is it, Penny? Is Papa ill?”
“Yes, he is, and he wouldn’t want you catching whatever he has. So you’ll be going on holiday at Mrs. Murphy’s for a day or two.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
Penny shook her head. She could hear the men grunting as they carried the litter into the bedroom she had been occupying this past month.
“No, but there’s no need to fret,” she told Eliza, helping the child put clean clothes into a carpetbag. “If anyone ought to be worried, it’s me, since the widow will no doubt spoil you rotten and then I’ll have to undo all her handiwork when you come home.”
Despite Penny’s playful tone, a frown still creased Eliza’s forehead.
“He is going to be well again, isn’t he?”
“Heavens, of course. Why, it’s probably just a wee bit of a cold.” Penny made no mention of the frightening head wound.
Eliza snapped the bag shut, her perplexed gaze encircling the pink-and-white room. “I never stopped to think what might become of me if something were to happen to Papa.”
Penny stilled. “Nothing is going to happen to your father,” she assured her, although a shiver rippled down her spine. “Hurry up now, and I’ll walk you over to the widow’s.”
Within thirty minutes, Penny had returned from depositing Eliza at Mrs. Murphy’s house on Jackson Street. She rushed upstairs, knocking softly on the bedroom door before letting herself in. Macgorrie stood at the side of the bed. He waved her back into the hallway, but not before she’d had a long look at Josh. She didn’t like what she saw. Although Macgorrie had cleaned him up and managed to rid him of his sopping-wet clothes, he appeared pale. Pale to the point of gray, his brow bruised and gaping open.
Macgorrie met her in the corridor.
“What happened?”
He scratched at the top of his head, sending a few feathery hairs flapping aimlessly.
“Well, from the looks of it, lightning struck that big oak down there on the other side of the creek. Now, he may have been hit by a fallin’ limb or could be he was tryin’ to dodge the limb or the lightnin’, and then hit his head. Either way, I found him lyin’ in the creek. It’s hard to say how long he’d been there, but long enough. He’s damned lucky he didn’t drown, if ye ask me.”
“Is there a physician to call?”
“No use. With the measles goin’ round, the doc’s been runnin’ ragged. I heard tell he was called over to Port Townsend.”
Penny gnawed at the side of her thumbnail. “I don’t like that gash in his head. I’ve seen a few of those in my day, and I think he needs to be sewn up.”
“Aye, but not by me. The widow is handy with a needle. I’ll go fetch her.”
�
�No.” Penny stalled him with a hand on his forearm. “I can do it.”
Macgorrie’s bushy white brows lifted. “Ye think so, do ye?”
Swallowing her misgivings, Penny nodded. She’d had to do it only once before, and that patient had been stone-cold drunk. With Macgorrie’s help, she swiftly assembled the supplies.
The wound stretched almost two inches long above Josh’s temple, a ragged tear. No matter how neatly she sewed it up, it was bound to leave a nasty reminder of the accident. But she saw that this scar would hardly be his first.
Macgorrie must have noticed her staring at the white, puckered mark that ran along the top of Josh’s bare shoulder.
“Aye, that one I gave him.”
“You?”
“Aye, ye could say so. We was working at the camp, and a load of logs came loose from their moorings. I lost my leg, but ’twould have been a helluva lot worse if Josh hadn’t come after me.”
Penny glanced again at the large blemish. So that was how Mac had become the Cooper family’s caretaker.
“How long ago was this?” she asked, while threading the needle, glad to see that her hands were steady despite her nerves.
“Oh, ten years ago now, I suppose. Been here in Seattle ever since.”
Penny allowed herself a hint of a smile. She had never heard Mac so talkative. Either the man was finally warming up to her or he was as anxious as she was.
“Do you think he’s going to feel anything?” she asked as she perched on the edge of the mattress.
“I’d say ye’re about to find out.”
With a steadying breath, she pierced the loose flap of skin on one side of the wound. Behind her, she heard Macgorrie sputter a cough.
“I’ll go put on the kettle,” he offered, then bolted from the room.
“I guess,” Penny muttered, listening to the hasty thump-thump of Macgorrie’s retreat, “I am on my own.”
One stitch. She sighed with relief. Two. Three neat little stitches.