Frontier Want Ad Bride. Lyn Cote
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Название: Frontier Want Ad Bride
Автор: Lyn Cote
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Вестерны
isbn: 9781474069793
isbn:
“Good night, Asa,” she replied, her throat thick with gratitude for his understanding. It felt strange to call a stranger by his given name and to hear him address her in the same way.
She entered the room and sat down on the bed, suddenly spent. For a moment she just sat there, gazing around in the scant light, listening to Asa moving about the cabin, barring the door and then extinguishing the lamp. She heard the ladder rungs creak as he mounted them to sleep in the loft.
Finally she let out a sigh. Sights, sounds jumbled in her mind. She swept them away by rising and preparing herself for sleep. Light from the fire around the curtain provided just enough for her to do what she needed, and soon she snuggled into the chilly bed, shivering slightly.
Her deep fatigue and rampant confusion fought it out, but fatigue won and her eyes closed just as she finished her nightly prayer. It included concern for her sister, whose day had not gone as expected, either.
At the last moment, she recalled that upon meeting Asa, she’d thought she’d seen him somewhere before. But that was ridiculous, probably just nerves. She’d given her promises to Asa, and even if she wasn’t the pretty sister, the one men always paid attention to, she would do her best to be a good wife.
* * *
Asa soon wrapped himself in his quilts on the pallet he’d made up in the loft. The knowledge that someone else was sleeping here leaked through him, easing a tightness in his chest. A woman was here, and he wouldn’t face another long winter alone in his cabin.
Yet after the war, he’d come to the cabin wanting to be alone.
Army camps had been crowded, teeming with thousands of men. He’d never been able to get away, by himself. And when he’d returned home, people had sought him out and brought up the war every time they met him. He’d finally left home to come here to homestead, find peace. Put the past behind him...if he ever could. But he found that silence only caused him to remember sights he longed to forget.
He tried to relax and stretch out, forcing himself not to dwell on how pretty his bride was and how sweet. He began to tell himself that everything was going to turn out right. He had a place of his own and now a wife.
After they got used to each other, life would smooth out. His past, his secret guilt, would remain secret. She had not said a word about recognizing him. After all, she would have seen him only at a distance, and he’d been in uniform and bearded both times. He would be able to keep the past and the present separate.
He continued to reassure himself. He’d made a wise decision to go along with Mason Chandler and put that ad in the Dubuque paper. Everything was going to turn out fine. He’d survived a war. He could survive adjusting to marriage. Though the war had burned away all his tender feelings, he would be a good provider and try to think of his wife’s needs before his own. That’s the best he could do.
The next morning, Judith dressed and walked out through the curtain. She’d heard Asa, who had already built up the fire before he left, telling her he was going to milk the cows. She approached the area near the hearth that appeared to be the kitchen, preparing herself to make her first meal in her new home for her new husband.
She’d never cooked over an open fire before. Her home had always had a wood stove, but cooking was cooking, right? And she definitely didn’t want to make a mess of her first meal for Asa. On a wooden counter she found a bowl of brown eggs. Nearby in a barrel were a sack of flour and some other necessaries, and she began to mix up pancakes.
Outside she heard someone stomping his boots and then, with a gust of cold wind, Asa hurried inside. “Got a dusting of snow last night.” He hung his coat and muffler on pegs by the door.
“Well, that’s not surprising for March,” she replied, trying to sound natural, though her stomach was doing some kind of nervous jig.
“What’re you mixing up?”
“I thought pancakes for breakfast?”
He nodded. “Soon I’ll be tapping trees.” He set a jug of milk on the counter.
“Tapping trees?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.
“To make maple syrup.”
She sent him an approving glance. “You are an enterprising man, Asa Brant.”
He grunted in reply and walked over to warm his hands by the fire.
She was curious about this man. Now they could get to know each other better. “Did your father teach you how to tap trees?”
“Noah Whitmore taught me.”
“Noah?” She mixed in some of the milk he’d brought.
“Man who married us.”
“Oh.” The scene yesterday in the schoolhouse where they’d exchanged vows flooded her. She shook it off. “I’ve never cooked over an open fire before,” she admitted. “I take it I pour the batter into the skillet and then hold it over the fire?”
He moved to her side. “Right. Always warm the skillet over the fire first, melting the fat.” He opened a crock that obviously had fresh rendered tallow in it. “Here are a couple of trivets so you don’t have to hold the heavy pan and try to flip at the same time.” He pointed to the trivets stacked under the counter. Both wrought iron, one with shorter legs and one with longer.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll become accustomed.”
“Should have got you a wood stove. It might have been more practical than a sewing machine—”
Judith halted in midstep. “Asa, you chose the perfect wedding gift. I love to sew, and I’ve wanted a sewing machine...forever.” Their gazes locked. The air between them seemed to thicken, and she felt herself blush.
“Glad you like it,” he said finally.
“I do.” She looked down, and her stomach growled embarrassingly. “I better get these pancakes done.”
He stepped back.
She moved toward the fire and the trivet he’d positioned for her.
He suddenly gripped her arm. “Be mindful of your skirt near the fire. A woman was burned just this winter from not being careful.”
She halted with a gasp. “I’ll be careful.” She looked down to her skirt and where the fire was on the hearth. She set the cast iron skillet on the trivet, poured in batter and reached for the spatula. “I’ll be careful,” she repeated.
Asa grasped the coffeepot bubbling on a hook over the fire, moving to sit at the table. “Coffee?”
“Thank you, Asa.” She concentrated on the batter bubbling in the pan, then on flipping the first pancake and keeping her skirt back from the fire. Soon she carried a platter of pancakes to the table, where Asa had poured cups of coffee and set out a cruet of maple syrup and a jug of cream.
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