“A chicken coop?”
“Yes. Maggie and I were small, so there was plenty of room.”
From anyone else, he’d think they were lying, but knew Mary wouldn’t lie about that. About anything. “You miss her, don’t you? Maggie.”
“Yes, I do. Mainly because I worry about her. That’s the thing about family, you love them, but at the same time they can worry you to death.”
“You wouldn’t trade your sister for the peace of mind, though,” he answered softly.
“True enough.”
Then, because his mind was starting up all over again, he said, “I better get some sleep. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Steve made his way down the hall and into his bedroom, and long after he’d lain down, his mind was still going in several directions. By the time the sun rose, he wasn’t sure if he’d slept or not, and was wondering if he should let Nelson court her. If she married the doctor, at least she’d live in town, near her sister.
* * *
Each day that passed brought Mary no closer to a solution, but it did bring about the time for the first batch of tonic to be sweetened and bottled. Jess had taken the other crate to Maggie a few days ago when running an errand for Steve. The guilt at keeping it hidden under her bed had made her feel terrible about defying Steve.
Bottling this batch did, too, but she had no choice. It was her and Maggie’s future. She decided to use the dried apples out of the pantry for the syrup, and planned on making several apple pies so no one would question the smell of apples cooking. Her bottling plan was somewhat thwarted when a rainstorm appeared out of nowhere while the men were still eating breakfast.
“Looks like it could be an all-dayer,” Rex said while peering out the window.
“We sure need the moisture,” Steve said.
“And a day to get a few other things done,” Leroy said. “Every bit of my tack needs a good oiling and my saddle needs a new leather strap.”
Others agreed and started discussing what they could do during a rainy day. With all of them around the house, Mary couldn’t bottle the tonic, but she could at least make the syrup and pies.
As soon as the men departed and the breakfast dishes were done, she started on the pies. Rex’s suggestion that if she didn’t need him he’d venture into the parlor to work on rope he was braiding lessened the worry of him questioning the syrup, for he was the only one she felt might notice.
By the time the pies were done baking, the syrup was bottled and hidden in the back of the pantry. She cut two slices of warm pie and carried one into the parlor for Rex and the other into the office where Steve had been working all morning. He smiled as she set the tray on the corner of his desk, and her heart skipped a beat.
“I thought I smelled apples,” he said.
“Apple pie.” She handed him a plate and fork and then a cup of coffee.
“My favorite.” After taking a bite, he said, “I don’t think I pay you enough.”
A bout of shame had her admitting, “I think you pay me too much.”
“Says the woman who insisted upon forty when I offered thirty-five a month.”
“Only because I knew Brett would pay it.”
He set the fork down. “You wouldn’t have to work so much at his place.”
She bent down and scooped up Spit and Spat, who’d followed her out of the kitchen. In truth, they followed every step she took, which she loved. “But I wouldn’t have these two.”
He patted the head of each coon. “They’ve grown a lot in a week.”
“Yes, they have.” The day would come when he’d say Spit and Spat needed to move to the barn, and not wanting that to be today, she changed the subject. “What are you working on?”
He took another bite of pie before saying, “Ranch records. I keep track of all the stock, the feed we buy and grow, wages, supplies, that sort of thing.”
“It must be expensive owning a ranch.”
“It is, but it’s profitable, too.”
“And a lot of work.”
He shrugged. “It’s not really work if you love what you do.”
It was strange how he could say something in a way she’d never thought of before. “That’s true. I love cooking and—Oh!” Spit for whatever reason leaped out of her arms and bounded across his desk. A split second later, Spat followed, and in her rush to capture them, her coordination failed. The inkwell flew in one direction and the cup of coffee toppled in the other. Steve reached for the coffee at the same time she reached for the ink, and their hands collided. Somehow they managed to splatter ink and coffee over each other, and themselves.
“Oh, I’m so—” Her breath stalled. His laughter was the reason. She hadn’t heard him laugh before, not like this, and it made her laugh too, and then say, “Sorry. You have coffee on your face.”
“You have ink on yours.”
“Oh, those little rascals,” she said, examining her ink-splattered hands.
“I think we are the one that spilled everything, not them.” Standing next to her, he reached down and lifted the hem of the cloth she used as an apron. Using the corner, he wiped her cheek, then grimaced. “Oops.”
“Oops what?” she asked.
He wiped her cheek again. “All I did was smear the ink. It looks a bit like war paint now.”
“Really?”
Not doing a very good job at holding back a grin, he nodded.
Knowing what would happen, she used an ink-covered fingertip to wipe at a drop of coffee on his chin. “Oops, now it looks like you have war paint on, too.”
“Well, you little imp,” he said, while swiping a finger over her other cheek.
“Imp you say,” she challenged while smearing ink on the end of his nose.
The battle was on then, with both of them smearing ink across the other, dipping their fingers in the inkwell when needed, and laughing. Laughing like she hadn’t in so long she’d forgotten how good it felt.
His face was practically covered with ink when he captured both of her wrists.
“Enough.”
He was still laughing, and so was she. And happier than she’d been in years.
Nodding, she said, “Yes, that’s enough. You’re a sight.”
He pulled her closer. “So are you.”
The pressure of his chest against her breasts sent her heart pounding, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. In that one unbelievable split second when her brain registered what he was about to do, a shiver of delight spread throughout her body, and the moment his lips touched hers, it was as if she became weightless. Boneless.
His lips were warm and firm and she grasped his shoulders as her useless knees threatened to buckle. He released her wrists and his arms encircled her, pulling her closer as the firmness of his lips increased. She stretched onto her toes to match the pressure, and stretched again when the tip of his tongue floated along the seam of her lips.
Following some silent but natural suggestion to part her lips, she squeezed his shoulders when his tongue entered her mouth. With one fascinating swish, the kiss became as fun, as fast and enjoyable as their ink-smearing contest.
When something intruded upon her enjoyment, she tried to ignore it, but couldn’t ignore how Steve’s lips left hers and his hands once again grasped her wrists.
“Yes, we’re fine,” he said.
She opened her eyes and took a step back at the same time the door swung open.
“I heard all sorts of commotion and then silence,” Rex said, entering the room.
“The coons spilled the inkwell,” Steve said.
“On your faces?”
Steve still held her wrists, and as she glanced from Rex to Steve, her eyes were drawn to the blue ink on his shoulders. The handprints
, her handprints, couldn’t be missed on the white shirt.
“Yes, on our faces,” Steve said, releasing one of her wrists and tugging her to walk beside him by pulling on the other. “We’re going to the kitchen to get cleaned up. Catch Spit and Spat.”
“No need to,” Rex said, moving aside so they could exit the room. “They’re following you.” His laughter boomed in the room. “They probably need to get cleaned up, too.”
Chapter Twelve
If any of the cowboys noticed how hers and Steve’s hands and faces were tinted blue, none of them asked, and thankfully, Rex didn’t inform them of what had happened. Perhaps because she claimed to have baked one entire pie just for him. By the time lunch was over, so was the rain, and Steve suggested they ride out to check for flash flooding.
Shortly after the dishes were done, Rex claimed fish always bit after a rain. Leroy, who had stayed behind to finish working on his tack, hitched up a wagon for him and Rex to take to the river.
Which meant she was completely alone. Bottling the tonic wasn’t as enjoyable as she imagined it would be. Not with Steve’s kiss still mingling in her mind. Looking at the second jug made a lump form in her throat.
She considered dumping it out, but couldn’t. It was her and Maggie’s livelihood. The only way they’d have to make money once she left the ranch.
The idea of leaving the ranch made the lump grow so big she could barely swallow around it. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do about any of it. Not the tonic, leaving, or the kiss, so she kept pouring the now thickened tonic into small bottles, corking them, and hiding them amongst the logs. There was more tonic than she had bottles, so she borrowed a couple empty canning jars out of the pantry, telling herself she’d make sure Steve got them back.
Rex had explained that Steve purchased the canned and dried foods, as well as the pots of honey, from neighboring farmers each fall, and always returned the pots and jars to them when he bought more the next year.
Sanitizing and washing the bottles had reduced the stains on her hands, and upon returning to the house, she added some baking soda to lard and washed her face. It did the trick, but she was also a bit disappointed. The ink stains had been proof of the fun she’d had. That was a silly notion, but true nonetheless.
The milk she’d set their clothes to soak in as soon as they’d changed had done the trick too, so she heated wash water and had the clothes hanging on the line by the time the men started returning to the house.
Rex and Leroy had caught enough fish for everyone, and after supper she mixed up more lard and baking soda for Steve to wash with. No one else may have noticed, but she could see the faint ink stains on his face.
“I wondered how you got it off your face,” he said as he took the bowl.
She shrugged. “I thought it was worth a try and it worked.” Standing this close to him had her insides fluttering. “I—I got the ink off your desk too, but I’m afraid some of your papers got splattered.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m the only one who sees them.” Eyeing her critically, he asked, “Are you doing all right?”
She had an inkling he was referring to their kiss, but knew she couldn’t admit that each time he kissed her, which had only been twice, caused her to wish she wouldn’t ever have to leave. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.”
She nodded. “You?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good.” An awkwardness had overcome her. “I—I think I’ll go on up to bed then.”
“So soon?” he asked. “I was going to sit on the front porch. You could join me.”
As badly as she’d have liked to do that, she shook her head. “No, I think I should go up to my room and... Um... I’ll ask Rex to help me make a place for Spit and Spat in the barn tomorrow.”
“Why? What happened wasn’t their fault.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was mine for letting them stay in the house.”
“Mary—”
“Good night,” she said quickly, all but running from the room. She’d never had this need before. This I gotta run feeling. Not ever. Not even when Da had said they had to hit the road. But she’d never wanted someone to kiss her again so badly, either. Never had wanted someone to kiss her at all.
* * *
Watching Mary scoop up the coons and hurry out of the room left Steve feeling lower than a snake’s belly. No wonder. It was his fault. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it had, and just like the first time, kissing her had been like getting hit by a bolt of lightning. He’d kissed plenty of women over the years and not one had affected him the way Mary’s had. Did. Practically all he could think about was kissing her again. And again.
He was a fool. That’s what he was. She’d said she didn’t want to get married. Not that a kiss would lead to marriage, but in her mind, she might think it could. He’d have to set her straight on that. Tell her he’d kissed other women and never intended on marrying any of them.
While smearing the lard and soda on his face, he re-thought that thought, determining that might not be a good thing to tell her. He had no idea what might be, either.
After what seemed like an hour of scrubbing, he walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Mary, how the hell did you get this lard off your face? I’m greasier than an axel!”
She appeared at the top of the stairs. “You have to use hot water, and soap.”
“I did.”
“Did you heat up the water that I left on the stove?”
“No, it was still warm.”
“Not warm enough,” she said, walking down the steps.
“You want me to scald my face? I’d rather have ink on it.”
“Oh, good heavens.” Reaching the bottom, she grabbed his arm. “How did you manage before me?”
“I don’t know, but I never had to scald myself. Never got ink all over my face, either.”
She shot him a glare, but he saw the smile there too, and gave her a wink.
To his delight, once he was grease-free, and fortunately, not scalded, Mary agreed to join him on the front porch. Along with Spit and Spat and all of the cowboys including Rex. A day of light work didn’t have any of them falling into their beds as soon as their stomachs were full. After a bout of storytelling, mostly by the cowboys and about him, which had Mary laughing so hard she had tiny tear droplets falling from the corners of her eyes, Walt pulled out his harmonica. In no time, Henry ran to retrieve his banjo and Leroy to fetch a couple of spoons out of the kitchen.
Soon, the lively music had Rex tapping his peg leg on the floor.
Noting Mary’s toe tapping, too, Steve stood and grasped her hand. “Let’s dance.”
“Here?”
“No,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Down there. The porch isn’t big enough.”
“All right.” With a giggle, she agreed, and ran down the steps beside him.
They danced to a few songs, before, knowing he had to be fair, he let the other men have a turn at twirling her around. However, when the boys started playing a slow ballad, he stepped up to claim her again.
She curtsied, he bowed, and then as they started slowly sashaying around the lawn, she began singing. It was in Irish, he knew that much, but had no idea what the words were. Her voice was mesmerizing, though, as were her eyes that never left his.
When the music ended and her singing quietly faded on the wind, they stood alone together for a moment, still holding onto each other, and Steve knew he’d never been more content, that life had never felt more right.
Rex proclaimed it was time for bed, and as the boys moseyed toward the bunkhouse, Steve escorted her up the steps.
“The dancing tuckered these two out,” Rex said, handing her two sleeping coons.
“I know how the
y feel.” She gently tucked the coons in the crook of her arm. “I’ve never danced so much.” Glancing toward Steve, she added, “Or had so much fun. This may have been the best day of my life.”
“Mine, too,” Steve admitted.
“Well, good night,” she said, including Rex in her nod.
“Night,” he and Rex said at the same time.
Steve started to follow her, but Rex took a hold of his arm.
“Sit down.”
“Why?” Steve asked.
“So I can say my piece.”
Steve didn’t sit. “What piece?”
Using the crutch, Rex pulled himself up out of his chair. “You best do right by her.”
He’d known Rex for as long as he could remember, all the way back to his early years in Georgia, before the war, before Rex had lost one leg, and respected him far more than Rex probably knew, yet Steve shook his head. “I don’t need advice—”
“I’m not giving you advice,” Rex said. “It’s a warning. You break that girl’s heart and you’ll answer to me, boy.”
* * *
Mary heard the front door open and close as she entered her bedroom, and held her breath in order to hear footsteps on the stairs. When none sounded, she released the air and closed her door. A skeleton key was tied to the knob with a piece of string, and she questioned using it. Not for safety, but sanity. She might very well bolt out the door when Steve walked by.
“Oh, fairy dust,” she muttered. “Of all the silly ideas.”
Leaving the key hanging, she carried Spit and Spat to the bed and then crossed the room to retrieve her nightdress. The moon was bright enough she didn’t need to light a lamp, or to see her own reflection in the mirror above the dresser. “You’re smitten, Mary McCary,” she whispered to the reflection. “And you best figure out a way to get un-smitten real quick. If Steve Putnam had wanted someone to be smitten over him, he’d have paid the money to have a chance at one of the brides. He hadn’t. A fact he made perfectly clear.”
Mail-Order Brides of Oak Grove Page 10