by Karen Kirst
Taking the basket from the coop’s roof, he reached in the nest and transferred the remaining four eggs. “I forgot to mention that if the eggs are dirty, the hens have worms. Tell me if that happens and I’ll treat them.”
Her nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting.”
“You may live in a fancy house, but this is rural country. You can’t be ignorant about farm life.”
“I choose to focus my interests elsewhere and let the paid workers do the less appealing work.”
“You mean chose. You no longer have that luxury.”
Planting her hands on her hips, she groused, “You really know how to start the day off right, don’t you?”
Settling a hand on her shoulder, he turned her toward the entrance. “Come on,” he coaxed. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve milked Lulabelle.”
“I thought we were eating breakfast.” She dug in her heels. “If you’d set aside your pride, we could sit down to a scrumptious meal right now. Remember how much you like Cook’s flapjacks?”
“With practice, you can make them as good or better than hers.”
Duncan worked to keep his amusement hidden as he instructed her in the art of milking. He had to hand it to her, she didn’t complain often. But she did tend to give up easily. Her confidence was surprisingly low. Good thing he was a patient man.
After fifteen solid minutes of trying and failing, and getting whacked in the face with a cow tail, he sensed she was nearing the end of her frustration. He touched her arm.
“Let me take over. We’ll try again tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, joy,” she muttered, pushing a hank of hair out of her eyes. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright.
“Hey.” Cupping her shoulders, he dipped his head to capture her gaze. “It’s okay if you don’t get it right on the first try.”
She didn’t look convinced. He almost told her about his background and how he’d had to learn a lot of new things once he struck out on his own. He decided against it.
His stomach rumbled. She arched a single brow as if to remind him what was available a short walk away.
Letting his hands slip free, he walked around her and lowered himself onto the stool. “I’ll have this done in a few minutes if you want to take those eggs inside. How does an omelette sound? I can grab a green pepper and tomato from the garden.”
“I think it sounds like an upscale dish for a traveling Scotsman.”
“You meet people from different backgrounds and ethnicities when you travel.” Leaning his shoulder into Lulabelle’s side, he began to direct streams of milk into the pail. “So? Does that sound agreeable?”
“It does.” He heard her move toward the doorway. “I’ll get the vegetables if you want. Since you’re busy.”
He paused to look over his shoulder. “I’d appreciate that.”
“It doesn’t take skill to separate a vegetable from the vine,” she quipped before slipping out.
His curiosity about Caroline deepened. He mulled over the scant facts he’d gleaned during their short acquaintance and found himself hungry for more. What was her greatest disappointment in life? Her deepest hurt? What made her laugh? What were her favorite things to do? He had no clue if she’d been in love or had her heart broken. He wasn’t privy to her political views. While he had to be careful to guard his feelings, it was important to get to know the woman he’d married.
Chapter Eleven
Taking refuge in her private sanctuary later that morning, Caroline guided the tweezers to the papier-mâché half mask and carefully set the aquamarine feather in place among the others. The precision required to decorate a mask worked to calm her tumultuous emotions and help her forget her problems for a while. Duncan wouldn’t be happy to know she was here instead of picking the cucumbers he’d said would rot if left on the vine another day. But she’d thought of a way to earn money to satisfy the blackmailer. Neither Duncan nor her father would have to know.
She lifted her bird-themed creation and examined it for flaws. Masquerade balls were a popular pastime in Charleston. She could use her family’s business connections and arrange to sell them in stores there. Some customers might even want them to display in their homes. Of course, mask making was delicate work. In order to free up her time, she would use a small portion of what money she did have to pay Sylvia to do the menial chores Duncan expected her to do. Good thing she had stocked up on supplies recently and wouldn’t need to purchase any in the foreseeable future.
If only her workroom wasn’t in the stables. When Caroline had first decided to try her hand at masks, she’d chosen to pursue her new hobby in a place her mother didn’t frequent. Old George hadn’t bothered her here, and of course her father didn’t concern himself with her pursuits. Duncan was another story. She would have to be sneaky in order to avoid his detection.
The prospect bothered her. The rugged Scot was turning out to be the opposite of what she’d first assumed. Oh, he was still infuriating. He still made her want to stomp her feet and howl in frustration sometimes. But he had good qualities, too.
He’d been a remarkably patient instructor. She’d never admit it, but cooking with him—both last evening and this morning—hadn’t been the tortuous activity she’d thought it would be. He doled out encouragement like it was penny candy and hadn’t complained when she’d burned the corn bread to a crisp. Cleaning up the mess afterward wasn’t as tedious with him beside her.
Scrutinizing the many masks hung on the slat walls, she wondered what he’d think about her hobby. This was the one thing she was truly good at, yet no one besides Wendell knew about it. That Duncan hadn’t demanded she show him astonished her.
Activity on the other side of the door alerted her to someone’s presence. The deep, slick voice didn’t belong to Duncan. The feminine voice was too muffled to identify.
Caroline replaced her tools in the container and untied her apron. She checked her muslin dress for stray feathers and smoothed her hair, ensuring the proper bun was tidy in the mirror. She was glad she hadn’t glimpsed herself that morning. Fresh embarrassment stung her cheeks. Over the years, she’d perfected her beauty routine and didn’t emerge from her bedroom until her stylish armor was in place. No one besides her mother and Betty had ever seen her at less than her best. And now Duncan had seen her with her hair resembling a bird’s nest and her skin crying out for moisture-rich lotion.
Out in the stables, the conversation ceased. She pressed her ear to the wood for long moments. Reassured, she left the workroom and hurriedly locked it. Turning, she yelped at the sight of Theo’s suit-clad chest.
“What are you doing here, Theo? I thought you’d left already.”
“I had planned to, but my horse was favoring his front leg and had to postpone. Your husband promised to tend him.”
That meant he’d be sticking around a while longer. Wonderful. “Well, I hope Thunder recovers quickly. Good day, Theo.”
He grasped her hand. “There’s no need to rush off, is there? We haven’t had a chance to talk since the ceremony.”
“What is there to talk about?”
He tugged her closer. “Marriage agrees with you, Caroline. There’s something different about you.” His gaze roamed her features in frank admiration.
“I’m the same woman I was the night of the party.”
“No, I don’t believe you are.” The pressure of his hand intensified. “I was crass that night. And foolish. I apologize.”
“Release me, Theo.”
“I regret not scooping you up when I had the chance.”
This was the sort of scene that would evoke her husband’s ire. The last time Theo had bestowed his attentions on her—nearly kissing her full on the lips!—Duncan’s temper had spilled over and it had not been pleasant.
“You and I would not
have made a pleasing match.”
He arched a sardonic brow. “And you and that Scotsman do? Forgive me for being blunt, but neither of you seem happy with your current circumstances.”
A scraping noise on the cobblestones sent alarm skittering over her nerves. “Someone’s coming. Let me go.”
He did as she requested, to her relief. Spinning around, she glimpsed the telltale gray-and-white uniform.
“Sylvia!” Caroline pursued her into the yard, catching up to her at the kitchen stoop. “Sylvia, I require a minute of your time.”
The spindly young woman had her hand on the doorknob. Tendrils of her brown hair had slipped from beneath her white cap to curl around her stiff collar. She faced Caroline and clasped her hands at her waist. While not classically pretty, Sylvia Leonard was attractive in a unique sense—her large, yellowish-brown eyes, pointy nose and diminutive mouth having put Caroline in mind of a cat. “Yes, miss? How may I be of service?”
Entering the shade thrown by the trees on this side of the house, she noted the hyacinth bushes were blooming at last and the bee balm was nearly taking over the garden beds.
“I have a proposition for you,” Caroline explained. “Would you be interested in earning extra wages?”
Her nose appeared to twitch. “Extra wages? I believe I would, miss. Doing what?”
“Odd jobs. I wouldn’t need you every day, of course.”
Sylvia stroked the skin above her upper lip. “My mother has been ill these past months and unable to work. Any additional income would be helpful.”
Caroline hid a cringe. She hadn’t known. And she should have.
“Here’s what I need for you to do today.” She gave her instructions. “Oh, and Sylvia? Let’s keep this between us.”
“Understood, miss.”
With a sigh of satisfaction, she returned to her masks. She now had the entire afternoon to use as she wished.
* * *
He was going to throttle her.
Feeling bad about Caroline’s frustrating morning, Duncan had decided to pay her a visit midafternoon and offer his assistance with the chores. He hadn’t gotten around to giving the dilapidated cabin a thorough scrubbing since his arrival, and he could imagine how overwhelmed she must be at the long list of tasks to tackle. At first, he’d thought the figure crouched in the garden was her. But then he’d hailed her, and the skinny maid named Sylvia had bolted to her feet in surprise. She’d been reluctant to provide him with answers, no doubt urged to secrecy by Caroline.
Nearing his boiling point, he stalked along Main Street in search of her statuesque form. Ten minutes in, his gaze was drawn to the post office entrance and the beautiful, not-completely-put-together blonde exiting. His long strides eating up the dirt, he halted her progress with his bark, drawing curious stares from onlookers, as well.
“Duncan.” Her forehead creased. “What’s the matter?”
Taking her elbow, he propelled her into the alley between buildings. The shade did little to assuage the heat tightening his skin and the sweat beading on his temples.
“You deliberately defied my wishes.”
She shot a sideways glance at the people passing on the boardwalk several yards away. “Lower your voice.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you wish to add to the gossip already swirling about us?”
“We agreed we wouldn’t pay others to do what we ourselves are capable of doing.”
Her navy eyes swirled like the ocean deep in the grips of a hurricane. “You have a faulty memory, sir. We did not agree to any such thing. You decreed your opinion as if it were law. Am I not allowed to think for myself? Must I come to you with every decision for approval?”
His shirt was damp and sticky. Pulling the material away from his skin, he fanned it in a vain search for relief. “The household is your domain. You have responsibilities. Sooner or later, you’re going to figure out that the woman you were before you met me is gone. You are no longer Caroline Turner, heiress to piles of money and coordinator of formal dinners. Your world is no longer about the latest in European fashion and the juiciest bits of gossip shared over tea and pastries. You’re a farmwife now, like thousands of other women across this great nation.”
His chest heaving with the force of his speech, he belatedly noticed her growing pallor, her pinched features and the hurt in her eyes.
“Look, maybe I didnae word that right—”
“Oh, I believe you said exactly what was on your mind.” Her voice was shaky. “Not surprising, considering you’re only concerned with what you think and how you view the world.”
Head high, arms stiff at her sides, she marched in the opposite direction of Main Street.
“Caroline!”
She didn’t break stride. Once again, they were at odds, and he hated it.
“Mr. McKenna? Everything okay?”
Mopping his face with his handkerchief, Duncan greeted the deputy. “I’m no’ sure if anythin’ will be okay again.”
Coming alongside him, Ben MacGregor squinted in the direction Caroline had fled. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Willnae help.”
“There’s something you should know about me.” Grinning, Ben thumbed the brim of his Stetson up. “I’m acquainted with a great number of women. For whatever reason, they’re drawn to me.”
Duncan couldn’t stop a small smile at the younger man’s boast. “Is that so?”
“Yep. One thing I’m sure of is women like to be courted. They like to be romanced. You don’t have to spend a fortune on them, either. A bouquet of wildflowers has the same impact as a box of expensive chocolates. It’s the thought that counts. They want to know you’ve put some effort into pleasing them.” He paused. “You didn’t have a chance to court Caroline, did you?”
“You already know the answer.”
“Apparently you needed me to point it out.”
Duncan heaved a sigh. “Apparently.”
Ben’s green eyes twinkled as he clapped Duncan’s back. “I missed lunch. Let me buy you a bowl of chicken noodle soup at the Plum Café.”
“I heard eating there’s a waste of hard-earned money.”
He nodded. “It is if you don’t know the menu. Stay away from the meat loaf and fried chicken. The pork chops aren’t bad if you’ve a sturdy set of teeth. Now, the chicken noodle soup is downright tasty. Just have to add a touch of salt.”
Duncan hesitated.
“We don’t have to talk about Caroline. You can tell me about your travels, and I’ll answer any questions you have about the town.”
“Do they serve cold drinks?”
“Lemonade.”
“Sold.”
The Plum Café had a dingy, abandoned feel to it. The woodwork around the fireplace was dull and coated with dust, the mirror above it cracked and the maroon tablecloths threadbare. The young waitress wore an expression of boredom. Only two of the tables were occupied.
Choosing a corner table with four chairs, Ben set his hat on the empty seat between them and gave their order to the girl who looked to be around the same age as his youngest brother, Bram.
“Sure you don’t want dessert?” he asked Duncan. “The spice cake’s not bad. Right, Sally?” Tilting his head to one side, he grinned up at her and was rewarded with a stammering blush.
“That’s right, Deputy.”
“I’ll pass this time,” Duncan said.
The waitress promised coffee and ambled toward the kitchen door. A dark-haired man emerged and waylaid her. Lean to the point of thinness and unkempt, he didn’t look well.
“Is that the cook?”
“That’s Alexander Copeland. He owns this place.” Sinking against the chair slats and crossing his arms, Ben eyed the man with curiosity. “I’m surprised to see him. He bo
ught the café a few years ago from the previous owner, Mrs. Greene. We all assumed he’d maintain her high standards. Unfortunately, that didn’t turn out to be the case. He spends most of his time locked away in his office and doesn’t seem to care about the decline in business. Lets his employees do as they please. He avoids interacting with the locals.”
“Do you know anything about his past? Why he came to Gatlinburg in the first place?”
“The sheriff and I did some poking around, with little success. He didn’t meet our inquiries with enthusiasm, to say the least. Only thing we can do is monitor his actions and keep an eye on the wanted posters on the off chance he’s been involved in shady dealings.”
Duncan fiddled with the silverware. “So tell me, if you’re a connoisseur of women, why haven’t you chosen one to settle down with?”
A laugh burst out of Ben. “I grew up with four younger sisters who made it their mission to torture me. Flirting is fun and harmless. Actually taking on a female who I’d be responsible for for the rest of my days? No, thank you.” Leaning forward, he said, “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like how you’re going to go about wooing your wife?”
“I thought we weren’t going to discuss her.”
“You know, if you were a local, I’d be a lot less optimistic about your success. But there’s something about you that makes me think you’ll be able to win her heart.”
Duncan gazed out the window, his mind in turmoil. He didn’t wish to win Caroline’s heart. He simply wanted peace in his home.
* * *
Caroline rolled a stray cucumber away from the counter edge and closer to the mound in the middle. The pint jars were lined up in a straight row, shiny and clean, the necessary pickling ingredients beside them. She read the instructions for the third time.
The door opened and, at the glimpse of a facial structure Michelangelo would’ve paid handsomely to carve, she braced herself for another row. If there was one thing they were good at, it was making each other boiling mad. At least he hadn’t showed up a few minutes earlier and seen the package of masks she’d shipped to Charleston. He would’ve demanded answers and that would’ve unraveled everything.