Romance in the Rain

by Anthology

  “I’ve got just the thing for your ‘well-behaved’ dog,” James claimed. He disappeared out the door. When he returned, he tossed a bone in the air, which Bjorn expertly caught in his jaws.

  “Ladies, won’t you please sit down?” Tilford offered, waving Helene onto one of the stools.

  Mattie took the other stool. Under no circumstances was she going to sit on that bench with Mr. Caldwell.

  Soon enough they were all settled with tea in their cups and food on their plates. The cups and teapot were made of white china with a delicate blue pattern. Mattie couldn’t imagine James bringing them across the country, but perhaps Tilford had. The food, too, was a surprise. There were the jam tarts favored by Bjorn, but also tiny sandwiches with thin slices of venison as well as a plump little cake.

  Despite what Mattie expected, the conversation flowed easily and quite often she found herself laughing. This was mostly due to James, who knew how to tease without insulting and, more importantly, allowed himself to be made the target of Tilford’s wit. Something had changed between the two of them, but Mattie couldn’t put her finger on what. She liked how relaxed they were, though. She also enjoyed sitting across from James and freely admiring his green eyes, crinkled at the corners from his frequent smile, and his thick auburn hair, tucked behind his ears.

  Eventually, though, the tea leaves settled to the bottom of their cups and only crumbs remained on the plates. James rose and came to stand beside Mattie. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Mrs. Jensen?”

  Despite her admiration for his face and form, no, she did not want to walk with him. She didn’t look up, but shook her head. “No thank you.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  All her good humor from the last three-quarters of an hour vanished. “You cannot insist that I accompany you. Please have some respect for my wishes, Mr. Caldwell.”

  He cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner. Mattie craned her neck to glare at him but in the process noticed Tilford and Helene. He appeared ill-at-ease and Helene had twisted her lips into a sheepish expression. They wanted to be alone. Of course. Tilford could hardly propose with an audience.

  This is why you usually guard your tongue.

  “I’m sorry.” She jumped off the stool and raced outside, hoping James wouldn’t follow her, but knowing he would, knowing he must. Still, she rushed blindly forward, dashing away the stupid tears that wouldn’t stop.

  “Mattie.”

  She blundered ahead.

  “Mathilda!”

  With his longer stride he passed her and planted himself in front of her. She crashed into his chest. She nearly choked on the desire to stay there, to hope he would wrap her up in his arms and never let go, but she found the will to push away.

  “Put it out of your mind, Mattie. You are amongst friends.”

  How could he speak to her in such a reassuring tone after she’d been so rude to him? “I should cut out my tongue.”

  “Absolutely not. You need it for kissing.”

  At that, she dared to look up at him. His smile was comforting, but surely the devil had put that twinkle in his eye? “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

  He lifted one large shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  Mattie dragged in a breath and wiped the damp from her cheeks. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” he replied readily as the breeze blew a lock of hair across his forehead. “I’ve never met a more exasperating woman than you, but fool that I am, if I can’t be anything more, I’d at least like to be your friend.”

  Her tears made a valiant attempt to come back, but she managed to suppress them. He was good-looking on the outside and good-hearted on the inside. Really, a girl never stood a chance once she’d met James Caldwell. “Why do you always know the right thing to say?”

  “I always figure if I say enough words, some of them are bound to be right.” He grabbed her hand and pulled. “Come, you can help me get my wedding gift ready for Tilford and Helene.”

  She followed him to the tent he and Tilford had first called home, knowing she should take back her hand, but not attempting to do so. His palm was warm, firm, and surprisingly rough.

  At the entrance to the tent, he released her and ducked inside. “Can you tie a ribbon into a bow?”

  “Um, yes.” Now she was even more curious to know what he’d got for the couple.

  He pushed a chair through the flap. A gorgeous piece of furniture made from cedar with a buckskin seat. The legs were round and sturdy, the arms wide and curved at the ends. Then James emerged from the tent with another, identical to the first, except this one had an H carved into the back whereas the other had a T.

  She ran her hand over one of the smoothly sanded arms. “Where did you get these?”

  He handed her a white ribbon, one eyebrow lifted. “I made them.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. I made the table, stools, and bench inside the cabin too, but those were hastily thrown together. I wanted these to be a bit more special.”

  Despite the clouds and the chilly breeze, Mattie’s temperature rose. “Oh, yes indeed. More special.”

  He waved at the chair with the H, an impatient gesture. “Would you mind tying the ribbon?”

  He thought she was exasperating? She glared at him. “James, you told me you had no useful skills.”

  He sighed and nodded. “I’d rather not revisit that subject. I would, however, very much appreciate observing your ribbon-tying skills.”

  “Forget the damned ribbon!” The wind carried away much of the force of her shout, but still his eyes widened. “Tell me again. Did you or did you not carve these chairs with your own two hands?”

  He threw up said hands. “Yes, I did. I had no idea woodcarving made you so angry. You are an odd woman, Mattie Jensen.”

  She let that insult pass because if she didn’t, she was liable to pick up one of the chairs and bash him over the head with it. He was an intelligent man; he was just being… daft at the moment. That thought almost made her smile—James Caldwell, daft like her. She gestured to one of the chairs. “May I?”

  “Certainly.” He smiled graciously.

  She seated herself and arranged her skirts just so. Then she leaned back. “Oh, this is quite comfortable. Nicely done.”

  “Thank you.” He beamed in appreciation.

  Mattie tilted her head up and pinned him with her gaze. “Do you not think, Mr. Caldwell, that making furniture is a useful skill?”

  “Oh, well of course it is. But I—”

  “Mrs. Iddings, for one, would pay a handsome sum for something this fine.” Mattie curved her fingers around the end of the arm, admiring the craftsmanship despite her irritation with the carver.

  “I suppose Tilford is free to sell it if he wishes, but I would hope…” He glanced back at the cabin.

  She scuffed her boot into the ground, trying to control her temper. Really, what had he expected to do out here on the frontier? “Do you have a second given name?”

  “Alexander,” he said, his eyes clouded, lost in his own thoughts. Although she was beginning to doubt the existence of such things.

  Mattie jumped out of the chair. “James Alexander Caldwell! You are skilled. You can do something useful.” She waved from the trees to the chairs. “You can turn that, into this.”

  “It’s a hobby.” He shrugged, in a bored, aristocratic way that rubbed raw her irritation.

  “Your hobby could earn you a small fortune. Not that you need one,” she mumbled. “There are people arriving here every day. People who have been unable to bring all their possessions with them. People who need chairs to sit on, tables to eat at, and beds to sleep in.”

  He looked at her askance. “I can’t sell them.”

  She rubbed her forehead and then smoothed her hands over her hair, not that a single strand had escaped the tight bun she’d made. Then she spoke with all the patience she could muster. “Not those two chairs, of course. But others you make, perhap
s to order.”

  “I couldn’t do that. We don’t do that.”

  “We? The English?” She was fairly certain the English made and sold furniture.

  “No, my… family.” He gripped the back of Tilford’s chair, staring at the seat, his knuckles turning white. “You don’t understand. It isn’t done. We don’t work with our hands. We use our brains. Which is where the difficulty comes in for me.”

  The truth stole her breath away. He was in earnest—it had never occurred to him he could use his hands to make something useful. And be paid for the product. She should probably rage against his snobbery, his condescension, and his insular thinking, but how could she? He’d lived most of his life this way, around other people who thought the same way. Even Tilford must think the same of him, in order to perform his own duties.

  She stepped toward him and touched his arm. “James? I, for one, think this would be a brilliant way for you to make a living here in the northwest. But I know you’ve set your heart on leaving, so it doesn’t really matter. I just think you should know your chairs are beautiful and will surely be much appreciated.”

  He lifted his head and she saw the “thank you” in his eyes before the words ever left his mouth. For once she was glad she’d stopped to think before speaking and found the right words to say. “Now,” she ordered, “let me have the ribbon.”

  “No,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers.

  She didn’t duck away, as she should have, but tipped her head to just the right angle to receive his kiss. He tasted of tarts and tea, so English. Yet the scent of cedar swirling around them, tinged with a hint of rain and a whiff of marine life from the sound, was pure American. They were so different. He was a viscount’s son; she was a merchant’s daughter. He was eloquent and charming; she was awkward and reserved. He was full of life; she was filled with grief. There was no hope for them.

  The negative thoughts weighed her down and she slipped out of his grasp, breaking the kiss. Her conscience screamed, Idiot!

  “No, Mattie, please don’t go.”

  His pleading stoked her conscience, weakened her resolve. And when those big arms enveloped her, drawing her into his warmth, she returned willingly. More than willingly—fiercely—she captured his lips. Kissed him, tasted him, breathed him. His baritone moans fueled her boldness. She pushed her hands inside his coat and rubbed them over the span of his well-muscled chest. Her hands skimmed down his sides and ventured to his backside, which was just as granite-hard as his chest. She gripped him, reveling in the pressure of his erection against her lower stomach.

  “Sweet heaven, Mattie,” he breathed against her lips.

  See? You could be as different as day and night. Doesn’t matter. You both deserve—need—this pleasure. Ask him. No, better yet, tell him.

  She moved her hands to his waist, restoring a few more brain cells to working order. “James…” She kissed his neck and the bruise beneath his eye, unable to stop even while she spoke. “James, I know you’re leaving the day after tomorrow, but we could have this one night. You and me. It could be, would be, beautiful. One night together. To remember forever.”

  With each word she spoke, he stiffened and inched away. She paid no attention at first but by the time she finished he was no longer touching her. He must be concerned. Of course. She held onto his waist, anchoring him close. “Don’t worry; I know how to protect myself. I won’t get—”

  “What in creation is wrong with you? You can’t possibly think I want…” He wrenched out of her grasp and shoved a hand through his hair. “Mattie, no.”

  Oh God. The horror in his eyes shriveled her insides. She found herself nodding, stepping back. Again. And again. Her lips were trembling and she wanted so badly to make them stop.

  “Hulllooo, Caldwell!” Tilford stood in front of the cabin, beckoning.

  They both looked that way. Vision blurred, Mattie could only see Tilford and Helene, standing as one, grinning as if they’d invented fire.

  She wanted to scream. Instead, she snatched the white ribbon from the ground where it had fallen and, turning her back to the cabin, tied a precise bow around Helene’s chair. Silently she prayed for one of those quakes the natives had told the settlers about. She’d give anything to be swallowed up into the earth at this moment.

  James waved and called, “We’ll be right there.”

  Indeed they would. Mattie grabbed one of the chairs and marched toward the cabin without another glance in his direction.

  Chapter 6

  Though he had refused Mattie the privilege, James wanted nothing more than to slice his own tongue out. Always knew the right thing to say, did he? Obviously not. He’d meant the words he’d said. What in creation is wrong with you? You can’t possibly think I want… He just hadn’t meant them the way Mattie had taken them.

  As he watched her heft the chair up to the cabin, her strength no doubt supplied by her anger, he wished he’d finished his sentence. You can’t possibly think I want you for just one night. But the thought, the truth of it, had astonished him. Until that moment he hadn’t known exactly what he wanted from her. Now he did. He didn’t want a few stolen, feverish moments with Mattie Jensen. He wanted a lifetime of laughter, tears and, God yes, feverish moments. She was quite skilled at those.

  He looked to the cabin. Tilford’s grin was wavering. James grabbed the other chair and strode toward the gathering group. He reached them a second after Mattie did, setting his chair down next to the one she carried.

  “What is this?” Tilford asked.

  James shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Beside him, he could see Mattie shaking. He had to speak to her again and say the right things. “It’s nothing but firewood until you make an announcement.”

  Tilford squeezed Helene’s hand. “Well then, let me announce that Miss Stover has graciously agreed to become my wife.”

  “Congratulations, old fellow!” James slung an arm around Tilford in a quick embrace. At least Tilford was happy. He turned to Helene and bowed over her hand, lightly kissing the back of it. “We must have a private chat sometime, my dear. I’ll tell you just how to deal with Tilford and his many moods.”

  That earned him a withering gaze from his friend and a lilting, I’m-in-love laugh from Helene. Mattie stood to his right, stiff and silent.

  After a moment she stepped forward and hugged Helene, almost leaning into her friend. Helene squeezed her tight in return for what seemed an unusually long time.

  At last Mattie pulled back. “I am so happy for the two of you. You’re a perfect match.”

  “Why don’t we go inside?” James suggested. “I fear any one of these clouds could open up and destroy your wedding gift. Plus, I believe I have something with which we could toast our glorious couple.”

  Tilford allowed Helene to enter first and would have done the same for Mattie, except he noted and correctly interpreted James’s gesture to go on ahead. After Tilford disappeared, James laid his hand on Mattie’s shoulder. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  She shook him off and stepped inside the cabin.

  James swore under his breath and followed. For the next half an hour he was trapped. They drank to Tilford and Helene’s happiness and James presented them with their gifts. They exclaimed over the chairs and his skill at making them and he couldn’t fail to notice the superior little sniff Mattie gave at that point.

  He tried to approach her, but every time he took a step closer, she put three more steps between them. At last he gave up, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched her. She was discussing wedding plans with the other two, her voice friendly and supportive, her posture rigid and irate. Every now and then, her gaze slipped to the left, to him, and her brown eyes hardened. He continued to watch unabashedly. Her dress was as dull as the sky. Not a wisp of hair had dared to escape the severe bun on the back of her head. She looked as if, at any moment, she would turn on him, screeching and snarling, calling him every horrible name she could think of.
<
br />   He loved her.

  Loved her when she was unsure. Loved her when she was angry. Loved her when she was grieving. Loved her when she suppressed all that and smiled in happiness for her friend.

  He must speak to her again.

  Bjorn scratched on the door and James let the dog in. He spent a few minutes playing with the pup and then, blessedly, caught sight of Mattie alone by the stove. Tilford and Helene had disappeared into the other room. Somehow James managed to walk, not run, to where Mattie stood, poking the red-hot logs inside the stove with a stick.

  “Mattie…”

  She stabbed one of the logs particularly hard. “Mr. Caldwell. I made you an offer and you refused. We have nothing further to discuss.”

  Seeing as she didn’t turn to look at him, but spoke directly into the fire, he was surprised the ice in her voice didn’t extinguish the flames. Cold as they were, though, her words penetrated his feeble brain.

  She’d asked to spend one night with him. That was all she wanted. Mattie didn’t care about lifetimes, didn’t believe in them. Not anymore. She didn’t care about James beyond how he made her feel physically.

  His tongue felt five times too big for his mouth, but somehow he replied, “You are correct, Mrs. Jensen. I will not bother you again. Good day.”

  He strode out of the cabin as fast as his boots would take him.

  James secluded himself in the tent, even after Tilford came to say he was escorting the ladies home. Stretched out on the cool ground, he listened to crows squawking and trees creaking in the wind. Eventually rain drops began to splash onto the canvas roof. Still, he lay there, hands pillowing his head, trying to figure out how he’d fallen in love with the wrong woman. He didn’t know who the right woman was, but she certainly wasn’t Mathilda Jensen.

  Unfortunate, too, since Mattie had given him such a gift. When she’d admired his furniture, he’d suddenly felt ten times more brilliant than he was. If he could make Mattie proud every day for the rest of his life…