Loner's Lady. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ I wore an apron, it was waterproof linen and I was taking off a man’s leg. I feel ridiculous in this frilly little bit of—”

      “Put it on,” she ordered. “Unless you like getting flour dusted all over your front.” Against her will, her gaze flicked to his well-worn jeans. The thought of his lean, hard body encased in her soft feminine garment made her grin. “’Course, you don’t have to.” She tried hard not to laugh.

      “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

      She raised her eyes, worked to keep them riveted on the second button of his shirt. She couldn’t tell him. Putting her apron on a man like him was like spreading frosting on a tree stump. “Your shirt is still damp,” she improvised.

      “Bet it’s cooler than yours. It’s hot in here, and it’ll be worse when we stoke up the fire in the stove.”

      He slipped the neck band over his head and tied the apron strings behind him. “Look at me.” He shook his head in disbelief at what he was doing. As a final gesture he fluffed out the ruffled hem.

      Ellen laughed out loud. “You look quite fetching.”

      “Feel damn silly if you want the truth.”

      “Who’s going to know, Mr. Flint? We’re private. You said so yourself not ten minutes ago.”

      He shot her a withering look. Ellen’s heart doubled its beat until she saw the corners of his lips twitch. When the telltale twitch blossomed into a real smile, her heart skittered again. His sharp, hawklike face relaxed when he smiled. And those wary, dark blue eyes lost the hungry look that made her so curious about him. When his eyes softened, something different shone in their depths. Something arresting. She liked his face when he smiled.

      She grabbed her red painted receipt box and thumbed through the slips of paper. “You will find butter in the cooler. Sugar’s in the small barrel, flour in the big one.”

      With a sideways look he eyed the swinging door she indicated, then returned his gaze to her. “How much of each?”

      She pretended to read the recipe, though she knew the ingredients and the measurements by heart. For some reason she needed to be doing something with her hands. A smiling Jason Flint made her even more uneasy.

      “One teacup-size lump of butter, two of brown sugar, three of flour. Take two bowls. Put the butter and the sugar in together.”

      He gathered up two china mixing bowls from the shelf next to the stove and disappeared into the pantry. She heard him open the sugar barrel, then the flour barrel, which had a cover so tight-fitting it squeaked. He emerged with a bowl in each hand; in one, a glob of butter the size of his fist rode on a mound of brown sugar.

      “What next?” he said as he plunked the bowls on the table.

      “Cream the butter and the sugar.”

      He cocked his head at her and frowned. “Cream? You didn’t tell me to get cream.”

      Ellen laughed out loud. “You don’t need cream. That just means to mix the butter and the sugar together. Here, use a fork.”

      He took the utensil offered and began to squash the ball of butter into the sugar. Something about the way he used the fork, slowly pressing it down through the soft butter, then lifting the sugar up from the bottom of the bowl, sent an odd thrill into her belly. His hands—that was it. His fingers moved with deliberation at the task, his motions unhurried and thorough.

      He walked the same way, Ellen thought. Loose-limbed and sure of himself, as if he were stalking something. She wrenched her gaze away and began cracking eggs into a soup bowl.

      “Three eggs,” she said, just to make a noise in the suddenly quiet room. “When the butter and sugar are mixed, dump in the eggs. Then I’ll beat it while you sift the flour.”

      He nodded, still frowning, and pushed the bowl of butter and sugar within her reach. She stirred the contents smooth, then started on the first hundred strokes with the wooden spoon. It was hard to do while seated; after fifty strokes, her arm ached and she gave it up.

      “Baking soda,” she announced when he looked at her for instruction. “Then add some spices to the flour. Cinnamon and nutmeg and crushed anise seeds.” She pointed to the small savories cabinet hanging on the wall next to the sink. “A teaspoonful of each.”

      His care in measuring out the spices struck her as unusual. Few men would proceed with such delicacy, spilling nothing, gently grinding the anise with her mortar and pestle. The rich scent of licorice filled the warm kitchen. Anise always sent her imagination flying away to far-off places that smelled of exotic spices—ginger and cardamom—instead of farm dust. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

      “Tired?”

      “Certainly not. I have four hundred more strokes to do after you mix in the flour and a little buttermilk and some vanilla extract. Then I will be tired.”

      “How much is ‘a little buttermilk’?” His look of genuine puzzlement touched her. A man like him was a fish out of water in a kitchen. But he was trying, she’d give him that.

      “Just enough so it looks right,” she said gently. “The amount’s different every time. Cooking is an inexact art, Mr. Flint.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He squinted over the measuring, working his lower lip between his teeth as he dipped the spoon and leveled the spices off with his forefinger. Completely absorbed in the task, he seemed unaware of Ellen’s sharp perusal of his face until he glanced up suddenly and his eyes met hers.

      An unspoken question appeared in his gaze, but he said nothing. Instead, he raised one dark eyebrow in a rakish challenge of some sort.

      A wave of dizziness swept over her. The heat. The spice-scented air in the kitchen. The smell of the man’s body as he bent near and set the mixing bowl before her. Soap and sweat and something else. She flushed crimson, from the V below her neck where she’d left Dan’s shirt unbuttoned, all the way up to her hairline.

      She kept her eyes on the bowl of cake batter and counted her strokes. At three hundred fifty-seven, her arm gave out.

      “Finished?” he asked.

      “Close enough. Butter those two round tins and see if the oven’s ready.”

      “How do I tell when it’s—”

      “Stick your hand in for a count of four. If you can’t make it to four, it’s hot enough.”

      “An inexact art,” he muttered. “Like you said.”

      “I find that very little in life is clear-cut,” Ellen responded. “The Lord does not seem to understand ‘exact.’”

      Jess caught a flicker of some emotion that crossed her face and just as quickly disappeared. Regret. And a generous dose of bitterness. She’d been through a lot, managing without Dan. Even a strong woman would break eventually. He wondered how long she would last.

      At her direction, he poured the batter into the tin cake pans, dropped them sharply on the surface of the stove “to break up air bubbles,” and slid them onto the oven rack. When he straightened, he noticed Ellen was nodding sleepily СКАЧАТЬ