by Jane Porter
Jaw gritted, she turned to look at the boards nailed to the doorway trim, the rough planks hiding the entrance.
It was crazy to block off the kitchen. She’d married a lunatic. She was just glad her father wasn’t alive to see this.
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas entered the kitchen, pleased to see Ellie there. She was sitting at the table, finishing a slice of bread with a thick curl of butter.
He glanced around the kitchen, checking the stove and counters and tabletop to see if she’d prepared him anything. She had not.
He pointedly looked at her.
She lifted a brow. “You didn’t actually expect me to make you anything when you treat me like a servant in my own home?”
“You’re not a servant in this house. You are the mistress of this house. And as mistress of this house, one would think you’d want to take care of those residing under your roof. For most women, it is a point of pride, but they are excellent hostesses.”
Ellie’s lips compressed and her gaze clashed with his. He could feel her anger, her fury and resentment palpable in such a small space.
He held her gaze, undeterred by her tight, defiant expression. If she wanted a battle of wills, she could have it.
He would win, though, in the end. He always won.
He was tough, hardened. A survivor. Consumption took five of his family members, but not him. He, his mother, and middle sister, Eliza, had nursed the others through the disease, before his mother contracted it, and then finally Eliza. They all died, every one of the five, but him. There was no reason for him to escape unscathed, but he had.
It was almost a curse, surviving.
Small, stubborn Ellie Burnett Sheenan had no idea what she was up against, and he stood there, in front of the stove, and stared back at her until she finally averted her head, her cheeks flushed red.
She rose stiffly and crossed to the cupboard to retrieve a plate. At the table, she cut a thick slice of brown bread, and then spread butter on it and shoved the plate across the oilcloth, toward an empty chair that wasn’t hers, or her father’s. “There. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” he said, approaching the table and taking the plate from the spot she’d put it and carrying it to the seat he’d chosen as his own.
But before he could sit down, she swiftly yanked her father’s chair away from the table, pushing it behind her to keep him from sitting in it. They were standing close, just inches apart. He could easily reach out and touch her, or take the chair back.
“You will not win,” he said softly, meeting her defiant gaze.
She didn’t shrink from him. If anything, her green eyes blazed, fire in the depths. “You don’t frighten me. You are just a big bully.”
“And what am I hoping to achieve by bullying you, my sweet bride?”
Ellie heard how his voice dropped, and deepened. The husky note made her nerves tighten and tingle, her lower back suddenly exquisitely sensitive and the hair on her arms and at her nape rising. She drew a quick painful breath. “You’re trying to force me to bend to your will.”
“It would be nice if you stopped fighting me.”
He was so tall that he towered over her, dwarfing her, and then Ellie reminded herself that her father had been tall, too, and she’d grown up around strong men. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. She lifted her chin and looked up into his eyes. “It would be nice if you could find somewhere to go that wasn’t in my house.”
His lips quirked as his dark gaze bored into her, letting her feel his tension and impatience. His muscular body hummed with energy. It was a palpable thing, nearly as palpable as the intensity in his gaze. “I will work Monday through Saturday on the property. On those days I’ll leave early and return late. But Sundays we will spend together. Today will be spent together.” And then he sat down in her father’s chair.
Ellie counted to five, and then ten, and finally fifteen.
She couldn’t let him upset her like this. She couldn’t give him so much power over her. She’d gone to bed livid and angry, but she didn’t want to start a new day angry.
Instead she went to the wooden cupboard and took out the canister of coffee beans and poured beans into the small metal grinder. He’d made coffee earlier but she wasn’t about to drink his.
He noted what she was doing. “There is still coffee left in the pot on the stove.”
“Yes, but it’s your coffee and I know you don’t like sharing,” she answered as sweetly as she could.
“I have no problem sharing.”
“Really? Then why did you throw away the roast last night?” She let her eyebrows rise, her expression innocent. “Or perhaps I misunderstood you?”
“You didn’t misunderstand.”
“You like being wasteful.”
“No.”
“Or maybe you are so rich that it doesn’t bother you to throw away perfectly good food.”
“Apparently, I am a wealthy man, and I had no idea how wealthy until I went to the Bank of Marietta and met with Henry Bramble. He was happy to go over the accounts with me.”
Her insides churned. He hadn’t wasted time getting to know his net worth, had he? “Is there anything you don’t know yet?”
“You. You’re my big mystery.”
She didn’t even try to answer that. Teeth gritted, she twisted the grinder handle, crushing the beans, wishing she could crush him as easily. She despised him. Everything about him. He wasn’t at all the man she’d thought she’d married. Baker, Fridley... any one of them would have been a more suitable groom than this Irishman.
“I know your father used to take you to town on Sundays so you could see friends, so I’ve invited your friends over for an early supper,” he said when she’d finished grinding. “Mr. and Mrs. Douglas accepted, and Mr. Douglas’s sister, Miss Douglas—”
She froze. “You what?”
“I invited them to supper.”
“Here? Tonight?”
“They’re worried about you, and I know your father would not want you taking to your bed for months on end. He’d want you up, riding, and socializing—”
“You don’t know him. You have no idea what he’d want.”
“I know your father never spent weeks in bed, not even with his cancer. It was only his last day that he took to bed, and he wouldn’t approve of you locking yourself in your room now. Harrison told me your father believed in fresh air and exercise, but you’re not getting either.”
“Mr. Harrison talks too much.”
“Mrs. Baxter agreed with Harrison. She said he must be rolling in his grave—”
“I’m glad Mrs. Baxter is gone then,” she interrupted fiercely. “I thought I could trust her, but I see I was wrong.”
Thomas’s mouth firmed. “Harrison and Mrs. Baxter are trying to help you, and your friends, the Douglasses want to help you.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need help from any of you.”
“But you do. You can’t keep going on as you have, and so, while I gave you those three months—three uninterrupted months—to mourn, it’s time to return to the land of the living and take care of your responsibilities.”
“My responsibilities?”
“Your house and your husband.”
Ellie’s stomach fell even as her face went hot then cold. She prayed she’d misunderstood him. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, you lost your father in April, but you also became a bride. I’ve been here three months without so much as a word from you, nor have you walked your property, visited your horse, or taken care of our home. You are the mistress of this house, and entertaining friends tonight will give you a chance to catch up on news and enjoy yourself in your own home.”
“I am not ready to entertain.”
“Left to your own devices, I’m not sure you ever would be, which is why I’m helping you by inviting people over who love you, and miss you—”
“Send word that supper is cancelled.”
“I’m not going to do t
hat.”
“Do I look ready to entertain? Do I seem like I’m ready to cook for a large group?”
“I’m happy to help you with the meal, if you like.”
She laughed, feeling almost hysterical. Had he lost his mind? “No. And no. And no again! I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing, but I am not going to take orders from you, and I have no desire to see anyone, not even if they are my closest friends. I’m sad, Mr. Sheenan. I’m angry and upset and”—she broke off and drew a tremulous breath—“devastated. I’m devastated. And I’m not going to entertain just because you’re tired of me spending my days alone in my room. It’s my room. And I want to be alone.”
“And you are my wife. My bride. And I am ready for my wife to act like my wife, not like a crazed woman whispering about the house late at night and early in the morning. From now on you will rise when I rise, and prepare me breakfast before I leave for the day to work and on weekends, we’ll entertain, or go to town and have a meal there. But we’re going to live, and we’re going to do it together.”
“Are you well? I’m worried you might be feverish and confused, because I am not your servant, or employee. I have never made anyone’s breakfast except on Sunday when Mrs. Baxter didn’t work and even then I would prepare a light meal for my father. So, on Sunday, whenever that is, I’ll make you toast and tea at a decent hour, not early, but an hour that is suitable and convenient for me.”
“Today happens to be Sunday, Sunday July sixth, and we’ll skip the tea and toast today to give you more time to prepare supper for our guests.”
“You must have either a hearing loss, or a mental deficiency, because I’ve been quite clear that I’m not ready to entertain. Send one of the hands to let the Douglasses know that supper has been cancelled.”
“All the ranch hands have today off. It’s Sunday. A rest day. And we’re not going to cancel now, not when the invitation was extended five days ago.”
Her jaw dropped. “It baffles me, sir, that you’d extend an invitation without consulting me.”
“I’d hoped company would cheer you.”
“I don’t want to be cheered. I don’t want to be pleasant and gracious—”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“If there is no one available to ride to the Douglasses and cancel the invitation, then you must do it.”
“I’m not cancelling.”
“I’m not entertaining.”
“Then saddle your horse and go tell them yourself.”
She gestured to her rough, matted hair. “You know I can’t go out like this!”
“Then do something about it.”
“I think that’s enough.”
“I’ll stop when you take action. You need to remember who you are.” He gestured to her hair and then robe. “This isn’t who you are. It’s time to pull yourself together.”
Ellie’s heart was racing so fast she could barely breathe. He was so unbelievably callous. She’d never met a man so hurtful. “You’re not helping.”
“Do you want me to bathe you? If so, I can. I’ll bring the tub in, and heat the water—”
She picked up the coffee grinder and flung it at him. It just missed his head before crashing to the floor, spilling beans and grounds everywhere. “Get out!”
He rose from the table and stepped over the mess. “An excellent suggestion.”
Thomas closed the mudroom door behind him.
Round two had proven to be even more volatile than round one, which wasn’t a total shock considering he was the one who’d boarded up the kitchen, and then casually announced that they had three guests coming for dinner.
Even though they didn’t.
They would, soon, but it wasn’t happening today. She didn’t need to know that now, though. What she needed to do was return to the world of the living, and if it required a shock to the system, so be it.
He’d meant to get her attention this morning, and he had. Were the tactics kind? No. But eventually she might thank him.
Maybe not until she realized that Sinclair Douglas and his wife and sister weren’t coming to eat this evening, but hopefully by then, she’d at least be clean, and in a pretty dress, and trying to pull something together for a meal.
Thomas didn’t want a banquet. He wasn’t anticipating anything fancy or formal. He just wanted to see some effort on her part. He wanted to see her doing something.
In the barn, Thomas saddled his horse, eager to go for a good, long ride while it was still cool. He glanced at Oisin as he led his horse, Crockett, from the stall. Crockett had been Archibald’s horse, the big handsome red stallion named after Colonel David Crockett who died in the Alamo.
Thomas wanted to get Ellie back on her horse, riding, soon. His goal was to have her riding by next weekend. He hoped he wouldn’t have to tie her to her saddle to make it happen.
As he thought of her, he remembered how she’d chucked the coffee grinder at him, and how it just missed his head.
She was a hellcat. And trouble. But the fact that she was up, and trying to make coffee this morning was progress, and progress was what mattered most to him.
When he’d first met her, she’d been beautiful and elegant, a fiercely proud woman with a fiercely independent mind and tongue. But now she reminded him of a stray in dire need of a hot bath, a decent meal, and some obedience training. He could handle the training. Hopefully she’d take at least care of the bath.
After Thomas left, Ellie finished making coffee and ate some breakfast and then confronted the big copper tub in the mudroom.
She didn’t know where Thomas went, or when he’d come back, but now seemed to be the right time to bathe and try to deal with her hair. Just thinking of her hair made her touch the thick braid. It was rough and coarse and tangled beyond belief. She’d tried to work the tangles out on several occasions but gave up when she kept breaking the teeth in her favorite comb.
Dragging the tub into the kitchen, she placed it close to the stove and began heating water. She didn’t need to fill the tub all the way, but she did want the water to be slightly warm.
Holding her breath, Ellie removed the ribbon from her braid and began to loosen her hair. This was not going to be easy, or painless.
Thomas rode for an hour and then returned to the barn where he rubbed down his horse and then cleaned the bridle well.
He tried to stay busy, not ready to go back to the house, but he felt a niggle of worry as he used the leather soap on the straps and took apart the bridle, cleaning each of the metal bits one by one. As he worked, he kept an ear toward the house, wishing he wasn’t uneasy, and not even sure why he was worried. He’d left her many times before. He’d gone to town before and hadn’t thought twice. So what was bothering him now?
Growling with frustration, Thomas threw down the rag he’d been using and left the barn, his strides long, worry making him hurry. Reaching the back door, he opened it and was about to enter the mudroom when he saw that the copper tub was gone. She must have moved it for a bath. He hesitated, listening. At first he heard nothing, and then there was a soft sniffle.
And then another.
He frowned, thinking it sounded suspiciously like crying. Suppressing a sigh he called to her, “Ellie, are you all right?”
She didn’t answer him.
He pushed the door wider. “Answer me, Ellie Sheenan, or I’m coming in.”
“Don’t!”
“Then tell me what’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just stay away.”
“Are you in the bath?”
“Yes.”
“Did you just get in?”
“No. I’ve been here forever.”
“Then get out. The water must be cold.”
“It is.”
“Wrap up in a towel and I’ll remove the tub. You must be shriveled like a prune by now.”
“I can’t,” she said faintly, her voice cracking.
“Why not?”
For
a long moment she didn’t answer, and then she said, her voice whisper soft, “Because I need help.”
Something in her voice made his chest tighten. She sounded scared, and teary, and far too vulnerable. “Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly.
“No. But I’ve made a mess of things and it’s just getting worse.”
“What can I do?”
She hesitated then choked, “I need you to cut my hair for me.”
“What?”
“Don’t sound like that. I’m already really upset. Just get the scissors from my father’s desk—and if you can’t find those, then maybe the shears from the barn—because I need you to cut my hairbrush out. It’s too knotted and there is no way to get it out now—” Her voice broke and she made a soft hiccupping sound. “Please just do it quickly and promise you won’t look at me.”
“I’m coming in.”
“Not without the scissors!”
He ignored the command, and pushed the door open, entering the kitchen. The kitchen was on the east side of the house, which meant it was bright in the morning but dim late in the day. But even in the shadows, he could see Ellie’s pale back and slender shoulders and the thick red hair that looked like a bird’s nest billowing around her head.
She grabbed for a towel sitting on the stool, sending water splashing. “You’re looking!”
“You’re my wife.”
“We had a deal.”
“There is far too much negotiation in this relationship. So be quiet and let me see what you’ve done.”
Her eyes were enormous as he approached her, her lips quivering. “Just cut it out,” she said thickly. “Just do it fast and be done with it.”
“Stop telling me what to do, woman. It’s annoying.” He crouched next to her, and tipped her head down to have a look at the back of her head where he could see just a bit of the wooden handle of the brush, the stiff boar’s bristles entirely hidden by the angry tangle of hair. “How did you do this?”
“My hair was knotted and I couldn’t wash it properly, and I thought maybe brushing it would help get some of the knots out. Instead it just knotted it even more.”
“I knew I should have stayed—”