Caleb tried to right himself under the glare of the sputtering woman but found nothing but slick floor boards beneath him. He tried rolling onto his stomach to push up from the floor but landed on his face.
A few more maneuvers, and he managed a sitting position. The pretty gal looked as if she wanted to wring his neck, and he fully expected the first words out of her mouth to be directed at him.
Instead, she surprised Caleb by looking past him. “Might I trouble you for a length of toweling, Mrs. Sykes?”
A length of toweling? She certainly wasn’t from these parts.
She met his gaze, and her eyes narrowed. At that moment Caleb felt about as welcome as a wet dog at a church picnic.
“What are you doing here?”
It was more of a demand than a question, really, and with her glaring like that, Caleb had to think hard to remember how to respond. “I came to fetch the butter and honey,” he finally managed.
She seemed less than impressed with his answer. Of course, with honey smeared across the front of her dress and a streak of butter running from the corner of her mouth to her nose, she probably wasn’t paying much attention.
“I thought I was helping,” he decided to add. “Best batch of biscuits that ever come out of the cookstove, ma’am,” he said to the widow.
Widow Sykes looked like she was about to double over laughing. “I appreciate that, Cal, but I’m not the one who mixed up that batch.” She gestured to the dark-haired gal. “You’ve got Miss Bertrand to thank for that.”
Caleb dared a sideways glance at Miss Bertrand. “Them’s prize-winning biscuits, ma’am.”
She lifted the corner of her apron to swipe at her cheek, smearing the butter in the process. “Glad you liked them,” she said without much enthusiasm.
“Miss Bertrand’s gonna be cooking for us. Least until she says her ‘I-dos,’ that is.”
“Is that right?” When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “So when’s the hitchin’?”
“Hitchin’?”
“Your wedding. When’s the wedding?” He reached for his hanky, clean as of this morning, and handed it to Miss Bertrand.
She dabbed at the butter, then handed it back. For a moment her expression softened. “I’m not exactly sure.” Soon as the words were said, the temper returned. “I’m thankful it’s not today. This was my only clean dress.”
“Bein’ as I’m not your intended, I’d rather not imagine you without a clean dress, ma’am.”
His joke fell flat. Rather than smiling as he hoped, she deepened her frown. “Just what are you suggesting, sir?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Bertrand. It’s just that you’ve unintentionally given me an image of you that a gentleman doesn’t need to have.”
Caleb dabbed his finger in the honey and tasted it for effect. Yes, it would be mighty fine on those biscuits waiting for him back in the dining room. From the look of his clothes, however, he probably ought to eat on the run.
Dare he hope the widow might see fit to send a meal or two his way while he was a guest of the jailhouse? He’d have to ask once he knew exactly how long a term he faced.
With that thought weighing on his mind, Caleb struggled to his feet and reached to offer help to Miss Bertrand. When she declined, he made his way back upstairs to step into the last set of clean clothes he owned: his Sunday suit.
He knew he looked ridiculous wearing it to jail on a Tuesday morning, but it was better than parading over to the jail in his long johns.
“Be still, Miss Lydia, or I’m never gonna get that honey outta your hair.”
Lydia leaned farther over the basin while May poured yet another pitcher of water over her sticky hair. She gritted her teeth and entertained a few unsavory thoughts as the icy water splashed onto her neck then began to trickle down her back.
“That Wilson fellow is the most irritating man I’ve ever met. I mean, the nerve of him. Last night he hauled me around like a sack of potatoes. A sack of potatoes, May. Do you hear me?”
“Um-hum.” May began to work lavender soap through Lydia’s tangles. “Potatoes. I hear you.”
“And today. If you’d been there, you would have seen what a cad the man is. Can you feature that he would actually be amused by causing me to spill butter and honey all over myself?”
May stopped scrubbing and reached for the pitcher.
“And of all the nerve. Do you know what he said to me? He said he was a gentleman, and he didn’t want to imagine me in my—.” Lydia yelped as icy water cascaded over her head. “Warn me next time, May.”
“Cold water ain’t what you need to be warned about, chile.” She set the pitcher down. “You all done. Now let’s get you dry.”
Lydia stewed until May finished the process of drying and braiding her hair. When the last pin went in, she could stand it no more.
“What exactly do I need to be warned about, May?”
May pressed the wrinkles out of the skirt of the yellow frock Lydia had worn the day before, then held it out toward her. “I don’t believe you really want an answer to that question, Miss Lydia.”
She stepped into her dress and frowned. “And why not?”
“Why, indeed.” Whirling Lydia around, May began fastening the row of buttons that ran down the back of the dress. “It most certainly wouldn’t be to your likin’.”
Lydia stepped away and turned to face May. “Try me.”
The older woman shook her head. “Chile, you are as stubborn as your mama sometimes. When are you gonna learn that the Father knows what’s best, and it ain’t no use to run from Him or put off what He’s a-wantin’ you to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s no use frettin’ and fussin’ when the good Lord brought you here for a purpose. You know why you’re here—now you need to go present yourself.”
Lydia swallowed hard. “You mean, just walk up to him and say, ‘Hello, I’m Lydia, the bride you ordered’?”
May rested her hands on her hips. “That’s exactly what I mean. Now you scoot outta here and do just that, or I’m gonna start worryin’ you’re gettin’ sweet on that fella who ’bout ran you down in the kitchen.”
“That man?” Lydia grimaced. “Trust me, May. He’d be the last man I’d ever be sweet on. I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I don’t know ’bout that.” May made a soft clucking sound as she turned her back to empty the basin out the window. “I got me a feelin’ ’bout you and that fella.”
She pointed to the letter her mother had sent along with the one she’d written. The man who paid her way to Dime Box had penned this. The man who bought her lock, stock, and petticoat.
Lydia took one last look in the mirror. “Your feelings aren’t worth anything when compared to that letter over there. Fetch it and let’s go get this over with.”
“How ’bout we take him a pie, Miss Lydia?”
She stopped short. “A pie? Whatever for?”
May shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ a man likes better’n a good fresh-baked pie, and you done made an extra this mornin’. I doubt Miz Sykes’ll mind.”
“Oh, all right. But if this fellow’s awful, I’m heading for the hills. You understand?”
May chuckled. “Oh, I been speakin’ to the Lord, and I believe He’s got a nice surprise for you.”
Lydia squared her shoulders and refused to comment.