Lips tight, she collected the eggs. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets a bucket upside their head,” she hissed.
Which produced further hilarity from the homesteader.
Mustering as much dignity as she could manage, she sashayed out of the coop, her skirts swishing. And still he laughed.
Until … until a hen followed Eugenia out of the pen. The rooster and two more hens strutted into the barnyard.
“Shut the gate,” Cort shouted. “Latch the hook.”
He lunged, but too late as the henhouse emptied itself into the yard. “Of all the stupid—”
“Who’re you calling—?”
“Don’t just stand there.” He dove for one of the scuttling hens. “Don’t let them get away.”
Squawking, clucking—and that wasn’t only the chickens—they scurried after the escape artists.
“Go that way.” He gestured. “I’ll cut ’em off over there. And we’ll herd them into the pen.”
Arms spread wide and working together, they wrangled all the chickens inside the gate, except for the rooster. The bane of her entire existence. Other than Cort Dahlgren, of course.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. Bested by a chicken brain? Eugenia Alice Rutherford thought not.
Hunching her shoulders, she cornered the rooster against the water trough. And pounced. Grasping on to its tail feathers, she and the rooster rolled in the dust.
“I’m losing him,” she yelled. The rooster flapped its wings, weakening her grip.
“Cort,” she screamed. “Help!”
His large, tanned hands closed around the rooster. “You can let go now, Genie. I got him.” He smiled.
She liked the way he smiled at her—when he wasn’t being overbearing. “Thank you.”
He shut the rooster inside the coop. She brushed the dirt off her skirt.
Genie. No one had ever called her that before. And to her surprise, Eugenia found she rather liked it. Or at least the sound of her name on Cort Dahlgren’s lips.
“You’re going to run out of clean clothes.” He slapped his dusty hat against his thigh. “But no worries, wash day is tomorrow.” He gave her that cockeyed smile of his.
Her heart did a funny flutter-flop. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
Cort stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got to check on the horses, but I’ll be in the house soon for supper.”
Supper? She bit back a sigh. If it wasn’t one thing, it was two dozen more. How did these farm women manage to draw an even breath?
“No need to hurry,” she called to his back as he headed toward the barn. A broad, stalwart back, tapering to his strong, narrow waist. “Take your time.”
Cort Dahlgren was definitely unsettling. More than she’d supposed from a mere homesteader. Much more in fact than she’d reckoned out here in the wilds of Silver Strike, Montana.
She wondered with an uncomfortable disquiet how long harvest lasted. And if it would last long enough. She mopped her suddenly perspiring brow.
Long enough for what?
If Cort lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the sight of the silver heiress doing battle with his rooster.
Grinning, he strode toward the house. The sun hovered in a final blaze of orange glory above the rim of the mountain range. And some of his resentment at her high-handed ways dissipated.
He bounded up the porch steps. The hinges creaked as he pushed open the door. His stomach rumbled. He stretched his arms over his head, loosening his tired, knotted muscles.
“Take off your boots, Cort.” Speaking of a certain heiress … “I just swept.”
Removing his hat, he ducked inside the kitchen. Eugenia hovered over a skillet on the stove. The table was set for three.
His gaze landed on the tiny figure of his grandmother ensconced in the chair beside the hearth. Toeing out of his boots, he hung his hat on a peg and padded across the wide-planked floor to her.
“Look at you,” he whispered, pleased and surprised to find Granny out of bed.
She offered him a cheek to kiss. “I look good, don’t I, darlin’? Thanks to Eugenia.”
Granny did look good. The best he’d seen her in a long time. Her hair was coiled into the bun she’d worn throughout his childhood. She smelled of lavender. Out of her nightgown and in an actual housedress. The heavy, sorrowful weight he’d borne since her stroke lifted a smidgen.
His eyes flitted toward Eugenia. Thanks to Genie. No one was more surprised than he when the nickname slipped from his lips this afternoon. An endearment?
Cort shook off the notion. Disturbed more than he cared to admit. But Eugenia Alice Rutherford had a funny way of growing on a person. Especially him.
“Thank you, Miss Rutherford.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She gave a small, somewhat thready sigh. “After wrestling chickens together, maybe we can afford to be a tad less formal.”
His pulse quickened. Was the ice princess thawing? “Whatever you think.”
She crouched in front of the oven. Using her apron, she opened the door and withdrew a pan. Her shoulders slumped. She clanged the pan onto the counter.
“I’m sorry, Cort.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “I—I can’t seem to do anything right.”
Sorry about what?
Granny patted his arm. “Getting the oven temperature right takes practice. And with giving me a bath, she got distracted.”
His grandmother pinned him with a look. “She tried her best. Please don’t be too hard on her. She’s crushed at the prospect of disappointing you. Again.”
Eugenia Alice Rutherford, crushed? And since when did she care what a homesteader like him thought?
But she wrung her hands in the folds of her apron. As for the blackened lumps of dough on the tray? Biscuits, he supposed.
He gulped. “I—I like my bread toasted.”
Eugenia’s eyes glistened. “Toasted, not charcoaled.”
Those beautiful eyes of hers …
He peeled away the top layer of the dough. “Charcoal is supposed to be good for the stomach. Aids digestion.”
Eugenia’s lips trembled. “The bottoms are burned, too.”
“The insides are fine.”
Not true, but he stuffed a portion of the undercooked middle in his mouth. He fought the urge to gag. Forced himself to chew and swallow.
“You cannot possibly like my biscuits.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Cook wouldn’t have fed this mess to the pigs.” She sniffed. “Not that we owned pigs.”
Cort noticed how the blue blouse accentuated the color of her eyes. His heart did an unexpected lurch.
He’d been too harsh. His expectations too lofty, perhaps he’d unfairly set her up for failure. She’d probably never ventured below stairs in the Sacramento mansion in her life, much less cooked or kept house.
“The pigs aren’t picky.” He wrapped a dish towel around the iron handle of the skillet. “They’ll love it.” He scraped the ruined contents into the scrap bucket.
She bit her lip. She had beautiful lips, he thought not for the first time.
“You must be hungry ….” Her eyes welled.
Something akin to lightning sizzled his brain. He could deal with her sarcasm and bossiness. Her tears? Not so much.
“Next time you’ll do better.”
Tiny lines feathered Granny’s eyes. She smiled at him from across the room. “Exactly.”
“Where are those eggs you gathered earlier?” He cleared his throat. “Scrambled eggs anyone?”
Chapter 5
She never realized how useless an existence she’d led as the pampered daughter of a silver baron.
Eugenia insisted on helping Cort scramble the eggs. Watching and learning as he poured the eggy contents of the bowl onto the heated skillet. At his elbow, her sleeve brushed his. The scent of hay and the enticing, musky aroma of Cort Dahlgren filled her senses.
Distracted by his nearness, she glimpsed a different side of him
as they worked together to put dinner on the table. She’d been wrong about him being arrogant. She admired his gentle ways with his grandmother. And like his granny, he also possessed a gracious heart.
“You’ve helped Granny find her spark again.” He smiled. “This is the happiest I’ve seen her in months.”
Eugenia warmed at his words of praise. She slipped into the chair opposite Granny, and Cort eased into the chair at the head of the table.
When he steepled his hands to say grace, she bowed her head, too. Cort talked to God like a friend. Thanking God for the sunshine and the rain. The blessings of good work.
She’d never considered work as a blessing. She’d assumed everyone—those less fortunate than herself—tolerated work as a curse or, at best, a necessary evil.
“Thank You, God, for the blessing of our new friend, Eugenia. And for her loving care of Granny.”
She blinked. Cort Dahlgren was thankful for her? She wasn’t sure she deserved to be called a blessing. And her throat constricted when he called her his friend. It would be an honor to be Cort’s friend.
Taking care of Granny hadn’t proven to be the chore she’d imagined. What had changed since Silver Strike? She had the strange sensation maybe the only thing that had changed was her. Upon reflection, a change long overdue.
“I thank You, O God, for the good health You’ve given us to enjoy this food.” Cort’s voice grew husky. “And each other. Amen.”
She felt his gaze travel over her face. Her hair. Her eyes. Her mouth. Eugenia quivered at the intensity in his eyes. They shared a long look.
“Amen,” she whispered, breaking the spell between them.
Granny told Eugenia about her work at the orphanage in town while Cort dug into his supper.
“I miss the children.” Granny fingered the lace edging her collar. “It has given my life meaning since my husband, Lars, died.”
Eugenia glanced at Cort. He’d laid his head onto the table and fallen asleep. His forehead rested in the crook of his arm.
Remorse pricked her conscience. He’d put in a good day’s work and then some. Especially after trailing the missing nurse to town and bailing Eugenia out of jail. She resolved to be more of a help to Cort and less of a hindrance tomorrow.
“Should we wake him?”
Granny gave her sleeping grandson a fond look. “Let him rest his eyes a few moments. Once he hired Mrs. Anderson, he set up a bedroll in the hay loft.”
Eugenia wrapped her arms around the thin fabric of her dress. “It’s kind of chilly once the sun sets, even if it is July. You think he’ll be okay out there tonight?”
“Cort’s tougher than he looks.” Granny’s face sagged. “He had to be, losing his parents so young like he did.”
Something they had in common. Her fingers twitched with the desire to smooth the lock of dark hair out of his eyes. Instead, she moved the empty glass away from his elbow.
Granny rested her gnarled hands on the table. “Surrounded by old folks, he didn’t have much of a childhood. He’s always worked hard and felt a great responsibility to carry on the family legacy.”
Eugenia could totally see that about him. “The homestead.”
Granny dropped her gaze. “That and other family obligations.”
Yet Cort had a refreshing self-confidence, unlike the preening conceit of most of the men she knew from higher society. And even more attractive was Cort Dahlgren’s solid faith. Despite her father’s example, not something until now she’d believed to be of much use.
She gazed around the kitchen. The parlor maid’s room contained more articles of value than this poor farmhouse sported in its entirety. An abundance she’d taken for granted as her right.
But after today’s unfortunate misunderstanding, she was learning she had no rights or entitlements. Nothing beyond her father’s generosity. If her father had truly disinherited her, nothing stood between Eugenia and a hand-to-mouth existence.
She squared her shoulders. She wasn’t Junius Rutherford’s daughter for nothing. He and her mother had come from humble roots. And if Eugenia Alice Rutherford was forced to start over, she would.
At least, the Dahlgrens possessed their land. Cort’s hard work to keep the homestead going in the face of incredible obstacles was nothing short of remarkable. And the more she came to know this enigmatic young man, her respect for him grew.
“Your grandson is a credit to you, Mrs. Dahlgren.”
Granny wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Cort will make some woman a fine husband one day.”
For inexplicable reasons, the thought of Cort taking a wife sent a pang through Eugenia.
Granny’s eyes sparkled in the glow cast by the oil lamp. “Seeing the two of you makes me feel almost young again. I might yet be of use to those around me. That’s what the good Lord put us here for, I reckon. To serve others.”
Another notion Eugenia resolved to turn over in her mind.
She came to a sudden decision. “If you’d like to visit the children at the orphanage again, I see no reason why we can’t work toward that goal each day.”
Granny cocked her head. “It’s a busy time on the farm. I didn’t want to burden Cort with the half-baked wishes of an old woman.”
“As long as you feel strong enough, I don’t see any harm in trying.” Eugenia tossed her hair over her shoulder. “And as for half-baked?” She shrugged. “I’m the queen of half-baked.”
The next morning at the cry of that hateful rooster, she rose from her bed with aching muscles she’d never suspected she possessed. She found Cort already brewing a pot of coffee. Chagrined, she vowed to rouse herself earlier the next day and add no more duties to his workload.
She marched out to the chicken coop with a bucket and broom, armed for battle. Time to show that cockerel who was boss. It was with a great deal of personal triumph she emerged victorious—and unscathed—from the henhouse, a half-dozen brown eggs in her pail.
Cort was slicing a loaf of bread when she returned to the house.
Bread? Another task to learn. But no problem. Heady with the routing of the rooster, she felt ready to tackle anything farm life threw her way.
When she proudly—the good kind of pride this time—placed the plate of scrambled eggs on the table in front of Cort, his eyes lit with appreciation. “Quick study, aren’t you?”
“I promise you something besides eggs for dinner.”
He gave her that lopsided smile, which did funny things to her nerve endings.
After he headed to the barn, she turned her attention to helping Granny, who wanted to be out in the fresh air while Eugenia tackled wash day.
She dragged a chair out of the house and placed it under the shade of the giant oak. Her arm around Granny’s waist, she helped Granny outside.
Granny’s right foot dragged a little, but Eugenia noted a healthy color had replaced the old woman’s previous pallor. And Granny had taken a few more steps than yesterday.
Eugenia spent the morning hauling water in a huge iron pot from the well to hang over the fire—per Granny’s instructions. She gathered the sheets, the bedclothes, and soiled clothing. Using the homemade lye soap, she scrubbed at the stains and stirred the pot full of clothes. Her knuckles were soon bruised and raw from the scrub board.
Midmorning as the heat of the day increased, she transferred Granny into the house. She wiped her arm across her brow where perspiration beaded her forehead. The gingham work dress Granny found inside a trunk for Eugenia to wear was streaked with soot from the fire. Her hair hung in sweaty hanks to her waist.
Back and forth from the pot to the clothesline, she carried the wash. Her arms ached from stirring the pot, carrying the basket heavy with wet linens, and then pegging the clothes on the line.
When Cort emerged from the cornfield, she slumped. She’d forgotten about lunch. Heaving a sigh and leaving the wash, she lumbered toward the steps.
Mounting the steps, Eugenia swayed, clearly exhausted.
Cort rushed
forward and cupped her elbow in his hand.
“I should’ve had lunch ready. I’m sorry, Cort.”
“No problem.” He steadied her arm and ushered her inside. “I’ll help you.”
“It’s not your job to do lunch. It’s mine.”
When he touched her hand, she sucked in a breath and wrenched free of his grasp.
His gut tightened. “What’s wrong with your hand, Eugenia?”
She pressed her hand against her chest. “Nothing.”
“Let me see,” he grunted.
“Never mind.” She avoided looking at him. “I need to get—”
“Ham sandwiches?” Granny leaned against the butcher block beside a tray of sliced ham.
Cort stepped around Eugenia. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
Granny shooed him away. “Stop fussing. I’m not an invalid.” She threw Eugenia a smile. “I’ve still got a lot of life to live.”
His grandmother arched her eyebrow into a question mark. “I’m assuming you’ve washed your hands?”
Cort frowned. “Speaking of hands … Eugenia, I insist you allow me to inspect yours.” He hunched his shoulders. “Please, Genie?”
With reluctance, she withdrew her balled fist from the folds of her skirt. Stifling a sob, she uncurled her hand.
Cradling her hand in his palm, he winced at the bleeding, oozing sores. “Genie …”
She snatched her hand away. “I wasn’t used to toting the water bucket.”
He felt terrible. “It’s too heavy for you. I should’ve realized you weren’t used to that kind of labor.” She had to be in tremendous pain.
“This is my fault.” A rush of tenderness consumed him. “I’m so sorry, Genie. I’d rather be hurt myself than to see you hurt.”
She lifted her chin. “It’s my job to wash the clothes.”
He took her hand again, careful not to rub the raw flesh. “But I’d never want to see your lovely skin marred….”
She shot him a quizzical look, and Cort flushed, realizing what he’d said.
Her face clouded. “My hands need to toughen up. Like me.”
Cort stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ll put ointment on it. We’ll need to keep it bandaged to avoid infection.” The back of his eyelids burned. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am this happened.”
The American Heiress Brides Collection Page 3