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      To her astonishment, Thad’s cheeks turned pink. “It means you are unusual. Not like other women.”

      She hesitated. “Is it…is it because I am Chinese?”

      “Oh, hell no, Leah. That doesn’t much matter to me.” He reached out and gently squeezed her narrow shoulders while she stood before him, the broom still clutched in her fingers. Moisture burned at the back of her eyes.

      “It will be all right, I swear.” He lifted the broom out of her hands, turned her toward the bedroom and gave her a little nudge. “Go along to bed now.”

      She moved away quickly so he would not see her tears.

      For more than an hour she lay in the big double bed and, despite the flutter in her stomach, her eyelids kept drifting closed. Thad did not come. The moon rose, sending a cold silvery light through the single bedroom window, and still Thad did not come.

      Had he changed his mind and climbed up into the loft to sleep with his son? Or perhaps he was sleeping in the barn? Why did he not come to his own bed? Was it because she was there?

      At last she heard the front door open, then close, and suddenly there he was at the foot of the bed. Bathed in moonlight, he looked to be coated in shiny armor. Like Ivanhoe, as she had imagined him when she was growing up. It had been her favorite book.

      “You still awake?”

      “Yes,” Leah murmured. “I thought it polite to wait for you. I kept myself from falling asleep by thinking about…Ivanhoe.”

      A laugh burst from the tall shadow by the bed. “Ivanhoe!”

      Thad began to unbutton his shirt. He fumbled with the buttonholes halfway down his broad chest, stalled, swore a Gaelic curse and abruptly yanked the garment off over his head. His wool undershirt followed.

      “Ivanhoe wouldn’t have to cope with buttons,” he muttered.

      “Ivanhoe,” she heard herself say, “would have a squire to unbuckle his armor.”

      Thad’s hands at that moment rested on the leather belt at his waist. He stopped and sent her a challenging look. “You want to be my squire?” he joked.

      “Oh, no,” she cried. “I could never—”

      He laughed softly. “Leah, you’re gonna wash my clothes. You’re gonna get so used to my trouser buttons you could undo them in your sleep.”

      She pulled the sheet up over her head. The next thing she knew the bed sagged under his weight and a long, very cold body stretched out next to her.

      “Oh! You are frozen! Where have you been?”

      He chuckled aloud. “I’ve been out talking to my wheat field. Do it every night, mostly to reassure myself it’s still there.”

      “Your wheat field? Why would it not be there? Is it growing?”

      “Oh, aye. Little by little. But it’s like waitin’ for a kettle of water to boil.”

      Leah rose up on one elbow. “Do all American farmers talk to their crops?”

      “Nope.”

      There was a long silence, and she wished she had not spoken out in such a bold manner.

      “Dunno why I talk to the wheat, really. Well, that’s not true—I do know. That crop means a lot to me for two reasons. One, it’s a challenge. A gamble, really, but I like a challenge. Always have. And the other reason is this—when I was real young, about Teddy’s age, back in Scotland, my da had a farm. One year there was an awful storm that killed all our crops except for the red winter wheat Da had sown. We lived on that wheat, and goat’s milk, for a whole year. Nothing else survived. Neither would we have, if not for that crop of wheat. Saved our lives, it did.”

      “That happens in China, too. If the rice crop fails, many people starve to death.”

      Thad grunted. “Guess that wheat field makes me feel, well, like no matter what happens, my boy and I will survive.”

      Leah gazed out the window. “Can you see your field from here?”

      “Nope. Good thing, I guess,” he said with a chuckle. “Otherwise I’d be mooning out the window half the time instead of milking the cow and feedin’ the horses.”

      Silence.

      “Leah, you’re the only person I’ve told all this to. Townfolk think I’m a little crazy. Nobody grows wheat in Oregon. They’re all getting a good laugh over my experiment, I guess. I’m in debt up to my ears for what’s growing on those three acres, but I believe in a few years this whole territory will be growing wheat.”

      “Mr. MacAllister…Thad…?”

      “Go to sleep, Leah. It’s been a long day.”

      Go to sleep? “Are you not going to—?”

      “Nope,” he said. “We’re married, but we don’t hardly know each other. Let’s give it some time.”

      Leah rolled onto her back and lay staring up at the ceiling. Thad MacAllister was a most unusual man.

      Or perhaps he does not like me.

      But then he laid his arm across her waist and gently nudged her closer. Her silk-clad shoulder and hip brushed against his skin and his warmth enveloped her like a fine wool robe.

      “You sure feel warm,” he murmured. “I’ve been kinda cold for a while.”

      Leah smiled into the dark. It was a good beginning.

       Chapter Seven

      Before dawn, Leah awoke and snuggled into the space where Thad had lain until a few moments ago. It was still warm and it smelled like him, a mixture of pine trees and sweat. She liked it. She liked him.

      She thanked the gods of good fortune for finding this man, for allowing her to take this step—safe and protected—into a new life.

      She glanced at the bedroom window where faint gray light was beginning to filter in. He must have left before dawn—to do what? She knew farm chores waited, scattering feed for the chickens and gathering eggs, feeding and watering the horses, milking the black-splotched cow she’d glimpsed in the pasture yesterday. It was the same in China, except that her mother had milked a nanny goat. What would Thad expect her to do?

      Fix his breakfast! She scooted out of bed, hung the pink silk night robe on one of the hooks that marched across the wall beside the bedroom door, and pulled on the jeans and red shirt she had worn yesterday. The stiff denim fabric scratched her inner thighs and the pointy shirt collar jabbed her neck whenever She turned her head.

      How uncomfortable these American garments were! She longed for the silky feel of her Chinese-style tunic against her skin and the soft folds of the loose trousers.

      The СКАЧАТЬ