Thomas strode into the parlor. He could smell coffee and something burning. The table was set. Coffee simmered on the stove. Beside the coffeepot, a big cast iron pot made loud bubbling noises, like frogs plopping up and down in a muddy pond.
Charlotte spun around to face him. “I made you breakfast.”
Thomas smiled at the pride in her tone. What more could a man ask for? A pretty wife and a meal on the table. He nodded and sat down, too overcome to speak. Charlotte flitted about in a flurry of green skirts and a white blouse. Her hair was coiled up on her head. Thomas hoped the curls would soon unravel to tumble down her back.
He watched, ready to interfere if she risked burning herself, or created some other calamity. She remembered to use a cloth to protect her hands as she poured out the coffee. Thomas peered at the black trickle that flowed into his cup. It had the consistency of tar. Perhaps he could eat it with a spoon.
“It might be a bit strong.” The pride in her voice had faded.
“I like it strong.” Bravely, Thomas took a sip. And managed not to grimace. He ran his tongue over his teeth to stop them from sticking together with the glue-like substance.
“Perhaps a bit too strong,” he said and pushed the cup toward her across the table. “You might add a drop of water into it.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Charlotte plunged the steel dipper into the pail and poured some water into his cup. Thomas didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d meant hot water, not cold. He stirred the mixture. Lumps of coffee floated around the cup. He ate them with the spoon, trying to get the balance between coffee and water about right.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked.
“Porridge.”
“Porridge?” he said, puzzled. “Not many people make it from wheat. Let me know if you prefer oats, and I’ll get you some. I grow it for the horses.”
“This is...wheat porridge.” She waved airily toward the pot that had stopped rumbling like a volcano and was now making a sizzling sound. The burning smell had intensified. Whirling to the stove, Charlotte wrapped a cloth around her hands and prepared to lift the pot to the table.
Thomas jumped to his feet. “Let me do that.”
“No. I’m doing this. Sit down.”
Startled, he sank back into his seat. She might be small, she might appear fragile, but his wife could muster up an air of command if she wanted to.
He watched, muscles tense, ready to leap to her aid if she faltered. She managed to transport the heavy pot without mishap. All Thomas had to do was to reach across the table and shove a slate holder beneath the iron pot to stop the heat from scorching the tabletop.
Charlotte lifted the lid. A notch appeared between her brows as she peered into the pot. Holding the lid in one hand, she dipped a wooden spoon into the porridge. A stunned expression spread across her face. She put down the lid and gripped the wooden spoon with both hands. With a grunt and a heave, she levered a huge lump of something solid out of the pot.
Thomas positioned his plate beneath the object. It fell on the china plate with a splat. He poked at the thing with his fork. It had the consistency of rubber. “Is this how they make porridge in New York?”
“Err...it’s not really porridge. It’s called a...porridge dumpling.” Charlotte passed him a knife. “You cut it into slices.”
“I see.” Thomas felt laughter tickle in his throat. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was biting her lip. Her shoulders were shaking. He lost the fight and burst into laughter.
Charlotte swatted at him with the cloth she’d used to protect her hands. “It’s a porridge dumpling,” she managed between bursts of mirth. “Eat it.”
“I’ll eat a slice if you eat a slice.”
Quick as a flash, she sat opposite him. “Challenge accepted.”
She pushed her plate next to his, picked up a knife and reached over to cut a wedge and slipped it onto her plate. After pulling her plate back in front of her, she stared down at the wedge. Her features puckered in determination, and then she picked up the congealed lump of wheat and crammed a huge bite into her mouth.
Her eyes bugged. Her cheeks ballooned. She chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And finally she swallowed, with a shiver that rippled all the way down her delicate frame. Thomas rocked in his seat, laughter rumbling in his chest, his eyes streaming with helpless tears.
A dainty forefinger jabbed into the air. “Your turn.”
Thomas dropped his gaze to the big dumpling on his plate. He cut a wedge and shoved it into his mouth. The stuff had the flavor of sawdust and the consistency of boot leather.
“You forgot salt,” he said after he’d finished chewing and swallowing.
His wife lifted a single eyebrow. “I’ll remember it next time.”
Thomas burst into another gust of laughter. Charlotte joined him. Between them, they ate every morsel of the porridge dumpling.
Ten minutes earlier, Thomas had looked at his pretty wife and the table set for breakfast and thought, What more could a man ask for? If pushed for a reply, he might have said, Tasty food to fill his plate. Now he knew it didn’t matter. His happiness was complete, even if he had to survive on porridge dumplings for the rest of his days.
* * *
Charlotte washed the breakfast dishes and Thomas dried them. She had never thought there would be such sweet symmetry in housework. Her mother had tried to explain the thrill of sailing on a boat with her husband, just the two of them, united against the elements. Charlotte had never understood, until now. A wave of nostalgia washed over her. She lifted a hand to dash a tear from the corner of her eye.
“It’s all right,” Thomas said softly. “It was a good effort.”
“I’m not downhearted about the cooking. I was just thinking of my parents...of how it was for them, working side by side...the way we are doing now.”
“Were they happy together?”
“Blissfully. We were all happy. A happy family. Our father was a sea captain, but he gave up the long voyages after we were born. He loved sailing, and so did my mother. I didn’t, and neither did my sisters. Father often joked we must be changelings because we all got seasick on the boat.” She glanced up at him. “You said you have five brothers. Were you a happy family?”
Thomas turned away to stack a plate in the cupboard. He knocked over the sugar bowl. “Darn it,” he said, and seemed to forget her question as he focused on scooping up the sugar before it got ruined.
By the time they had finished tidying up after breakfast, sweat beaded on Charlotte’s brow and trickled down between her breasts beneath her blouse. She peeked out through the window. Bright sunshine played on the leaves of the cottonwood trees.
“It’s going to be another hot day,” she commented.
“The summer will be here soon,” Thomas replied.
She hesitated. “Would you mind if I took off my wool skirt and just wore a petticoat? I’m already sweltering, and I’d like to save my skirt for trips into town. I have nothing else to wear, just the two petticoats and one skirt.”
“Wait here.” Thomas gestured for her to remain in the parlor while he strode into the bedroom. She heard the blanket box lid creak open and then slam shut.
He returned carrying a bundle of clothing. “Try these on.”
She took the garments, turned them over in her hands. It was a pair of sturdy denim trousers and a faded cotton shirt. “Whose are these?”
“Doc Timmerman’s grandson stayed with me a couple of weeks last summer. He left those behind. You can use them if they fit. He was a strapping boy of thirteen. If he comes back this summer, he’ll have grown out of them.”
She looked up from the worn garments. “I’m surprised there’s a doctor in Gold Crossing. Why did he stay when the town closed down?”
“The doc’s really retired. He’s around seventy. His wife is the same age. They decided they were too old to leave. Art Langley stayed because he can’t afford to leave.” Thomas shook his head. “Poor Art. He keeps hoping.”
“Hoping for what?”
“Hoping that the town will burst back into life. You’ve met Art. He owns the Imperial Hotel. And the saloon attached to it, the Drunken Mule. And the mercantile. And the row of empty buildings beyond. Even the schoolhouse.”
Charlotte recalled the innkeeper’s amusement at her wedding. “Is he the gaunt man who likes to play solitaire and laugh at other people’s misfortunes?”
“Don’t hold it against him if he tries to find something to laugh about. Art Langley discovered the seam of gold and started the mine. He invested everything into the railroad spur. When the mine played out, he was left with barely enough to buy the buildings as people moved away. He spends his time trying to keep everything in good repair. He believes that one day someone else will find gold and then the music will play again and the whiskey will flow and the dancing girls will dance and the mine owners will pay him to use his railroad to haul out the ore.”
Curious, Charlotte arched her brows. “Could someone find gold?”
Thomas shifted one shoulder in an indifferent gesture. “I guess it’s possible. Art believes there’s gold up there, and he knows a lot more about mining than I do. Dozens of prospectors roam around in the mountains. They are what keeps the saloon and the hotel and the mercantile going, and generate enough business for the doc to see out his days in Gold Crossing.”
“It’s sad,” Charlotte said wistfully. “A whole town just...vanishing.”
“Don’t shed too many tears. If the mine hadn’t played out, I couldn’t have bought the farm. Land values plummeted. My operation is small. I trade with Art for things I can’t grow or make myself. In the fall, I make a couple of trips to Jerome and Flagstaff to sell the wheat and the corn.” His voice fell to a rough murmur. “I hope you understood you were not signing on for a life of luxury.”
Charlotte heard the strain in his words. She flashed him a bright smile. “Let me go and try these clothes on. If they fit, I can dress like a proper farmer’s wife.”
* * *
Thomas waited, standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, taking deep breaths of the fragrant spring air. Sundown was his favorite part of the day, but sunup was not far behind, and he liked middle of the morning too, like this moment. The cow had been milked, the horses moved to pasture. The chickens were clucking contentedly around the barn.
“What do you think?”
He heard the voice before he heard the clatter of feminine footsteps across the porch. He turned around. The sensation that slammed into his chest was becoming all too familiar. Maybe he was developing a heart condition.
Poised on her toes, Charlotte pivoted a full circle and repeated her question. “What do you think?”
Thomas let his gaze drift over her. The denim trousers hugged the curve of her buttocks. The shirt swamped her. He could see at least three inches of pale skin above the loose collar. His gut told him that if he stood right beside her and looked down when she bent forward, he might get a peek inside the neckline.
“What do you think?” she asked for the third time.
Thomas allowed himself one final second of perusal. Best of all, her upsweep had failed to stand up to the swift change of clothing. Curls were unraveling to spill down past her shoulders. Delicate wisps framed her face, dancing in the breeze.
“That’s good,” Thomas said. “Just like a farmer’s wife should look.”
She gave a peal of laughter and racketed down the steps, bubbling with excitement. “Let’s go. I want to see everything. A complete tour.”
Thomas showed his wife the beaver dam. She laughed and pointed in delight when she saw a flash of brown fur in the water. He showed her the lake. She strolled along the bank, seeking the best spots for swimming. He showed her the pomegranate garden with its fading blooms. She ran around, chasing the fragrant petals that floated like snowflakes in the air.
By the time he’d showed her the fields of wheat and corn, he had become painfully aware that his wife knew nothing about agriculture. She seemed to think farmers frolicked in the sun and Mother Nature took care of the rest.
“You have to plant the corn every year?” she asked, brows furrowed, head cocked in surprise. “It doesn’t grow back in the spring on its own?”
Thomas clamped down on the twinge of disappointment. It was clear that she was an intelligent woman. New York had an excellent public library. He’d hoped she might have taken an interest in his profession, had prepared for her new life by reading a book or two.
He shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes dwell on her slender frame and tumbling curls. A man couldn’t ask for everything.
“No,” he said. “Corn doesn’t grow on its own. You plant in May. Then you water. A couple of times a week should be enough unless it gets very hot. You harvest the crop in August.”
Her face brightened. “Irrigation. That means watering, doesn’t it? I promised to help. Show me how to do it.”
“Later.” He pointed at her feet. “You’d ruin your leather boots. It gets muddy by the pump. Travis Timmerman left behind a pair of old rubber boots. They’ll be too big for you but you can pad them out with old newspapers.”
He continued the tour by taking her into the barn. The big timber building was divided into two in the middle, with an entrance at both ends. The wood store and chicken coop occupied one end, the milk cow and the pair of horses the other.
The chickens, all white leghorns, were scratching about in the dirt, clucking and squabbling. Thomas shooed them out of the way and led her into the shadowed interior of the barn. Stacks of firewood stood on the right, and straw-padded perches lined the wall on the left.
He heard a frightened cry behind him and spun around, poised for a quick rescue, looking for whatever trouble his wife might have landed herself in this time. Charlotte was squatting on her heels on the earth floor, sucking at her forefinger. Next to her a hen danced in fury, flapping its wings and screeching.
“It bit me,” she mumbled around the finger, scowling at the furious hen.
Thomas crouched beside her. “Show me.”
She pulled her finger from her mouth and held it out to him. A dot of blood gathered at the tip. Slowly, Thomas lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed away the droplet at the fingertip. His eyes held hers. He could see a blush rise to her cheeks. Her hand was tiny in his, her skin soft. He could smell the faint scent of lavender.
What did it matter if she wasn’t the helpmate he’d hoped for?
What did it matter that she’d more likely add to his workload than ease it?
He was no longer alone. That was all that mattered.
“Don’t try to pet the chickens,” he told her quietly. “They are like cantankerous old women. That one—” he paused to nod at the aggressor “—is getting on in years. She is no longer a good layer and she likes to hide her eggs.”
“What’s she called?”
Thomas smiled. A chicken pecks her and she wants to know its name. “Harrison.” He pointed at the birds rootling and pecking on the ground in turn. “That’s Tyler. Polk. Zachary. Fillmore. Pierce.” Each bird wore a metal band on one leg, trimmed with a scrap of cotton in a different color, so he could easily identify them.
Her merry laughter tingled down his spine. “The presidents! You named your chickens after the presidents.”
Thomas nodded. “I started from Washington but a few have died. Tyler and Taylor sounded too similar, so when it came Taylor’s turn I used his first name, Zachary.” He pushed up to his feet and pulled her up with him. “Your job will be to collect the eggs every morning.”
“The eggs! Where can I find them?” She spun around to face the wall with the straw-lined perches.
“Sometimes they sit in plain sight on top of the straw,” Thomas explained. “Sometimes you need to search around. Sometimes it could be anywhere. Harrison likes to hide hers between the stacks of firewood.”
In a comical stalking motion, feet rising high, fingers curled like claws in front of her, Charlotte marched up to the wall and searched the nearest perch. “I’ve got one.” She hurried back to him, as excited as a child on Christmas morning. A single white egg sat cradled in her cupped palm.
Her whole face lit up in a smile—eyes shining, cheeks dimpling, lips parting to reveal a row of pearly teeth. To Thomas, that smile delivered more warmth than the sun in the sky.
He took the egg from her, moved aside to prop it on the stack of logs.
Charlotte darted to the next perch and looked back at him over her shoulder while she searched about with her hand. “I’ll get a little wicker basket to collect them in,” she told him, full of enthusiasm. “Is that the right way to do it? Or do I need to collect them in an apron?” She lifted a single eyebrow, the way he’d seen her do before. “How does a proper farm wife do it?”
As she rummaged about without taking proper care, the egg rolled over the edge of the straw perch and crashed down to the dirt floor. Charlotte jumped back. She stared at the mess of broken shell and spreading white and yolk and uttered an unladylike word.
Thomas tried not to laugh as he observed her fraught expression. Something moved inside him, an odd sense of tenderness, like a warm flicker in his chest. With a rueful smile, he said, “A proper farm wife does it without breaking the eggs.”
* * *
Four eggs! She had found four eggs, including the one she’d smashed. Now she knew what farming folk ate for breakfast. Thomas had told her that the hens laid an egg most days, except for the elderly Harrison. He’d warned her not to become attached, because if they wanted a proper Thanksgiving dinner, Harrison would end up in the pot.
When he mentioned Thanksgiving, she fell into silence.
Don’t spoil today by worrying about the future, she told herself.
They took the eggs into the cabin. Thomas showed her one more time how to make coffee. Three spoonfuls. That was right. But the small spoons. Not the big. And level spoonfuls, not heaped. She was learning from her mistakes.
The porridge dumpling sat heavy in their bellies and they only had coffee and dried biscuits for lunch. Then Thomas took her to meet the milk cow. Charlotte followed him into the shadowed barn. The smell was different on this side of the building. The chickens had an acrid odor, but the stable had a more fertile smell.
“Muuu,” the animal greeted them.
It was huge. An enormous lump of brown matted fur on four legs—legs that seemed far too spindly to bear its hulking weight.
“Milking her will be your job,” Thomas said.
Charlotte slid her terrified gaze from the cow to him and back again.
“She’s called Rosamund.” Thomas walked up to the fur-coated brown monster and patted its flank.
“Muuu,” went Rosamund.
Charlotte eased closer, hiding behind Thomas. She peeked past him at the animal, which was straining its head toward them. “Does it bite, like horses?”
“She won’t bite. You can pet her nose. Like this.”
Following his example, Charlotte held a flattened hand in front of the huge pink nostrils. Cool, damp breath brushed against her skin. A wet, slippery nose nuzzled her palm. Startled by the touch, Charlotte pulled her hand away.
“I guess you can’t just press a button and the milk will come out,” she said, eyeing the cow with a speculative look.
“I’ll show you,” Thomas promised.
She scooted backward, keeping safely behind Thomas as he moved away. He lifted a small wooden stool from a hook on the wall and set it down next to Rosamund. Then he turned toward her and pointed at the stool.
He wanted her to sit there.
Right under Rosamund’s huge belly.
Charlotte inched forward. Don’t be a coward. She slipped onto the stool. The wide flank of brown fur filled her sights. Surely, the animal would crush her, if it decided it was tired and wanted to lie down.
Thomas crouched behind her. His arms circling her, he reached for the pink udders that dangled from Rosamund’s belly. His hands curled around two of the teats.
“You tighten your fingers one by one, starting from the top, and at the same time you pull your hand downward. Like this.” His hand moved. A thin stream of milk spurted into the straw.
“You try,” he said.
Charlotte leaned deeper beneath Rosamund’s sagging belly and fisted her hands around the udders. She tightened her fingers and pulled. Nothing happened. No stream of milk. She tried again. Rosamund made an angry noise and shifted her enormous hooves. Charlotte shrieked and toppled back on the stool. She would have fallen over, but strong arms closed around her, steadying her.
She was lifted in the air. Thomas perched to sit on the milking stool and settled her between his muscled thighs. His arms on either side of her, he guided her hands back to Rosamund’s udders and laid his hands on top of hers. His body surrounded hers, even more completely than it had at night when they slept.
Every trace of fear vanished. Rosamund was getting restless, grunting and stomping, but Charlotte could feel Thomas all around her—his chest against her back, his legs outside hers, his arms circling her. He was a barrier to keep away any threat of danger. As long as she sat snug in his lap, nothing could hurt her.
His fists closed over hers. Fingers squeezed. One hand slid down. Milk rained into the straw. Thomas lifted his hands away from hers and she tried alone. Nothing. Rosamund protested, an unhappy bellow and the angry clomping of hooves.
“That’s enough for today,” Thomas said. He eased back, his arm firm across her waist, and rose to his feet, lifting her with him. He held on to her for a moment longer, while she found her footing, and then he released her and stepped away.
She turned toward him. “I can learn how to do it. I will learn.”
He reached one hand to touch the curls by her face. “It’s not important.”
The gentleness of the gesture, the soft acceptance in his voice flowed like a magic spell over Charlotte. The restless noises of the cow, the smells of the stable, everything seemed to fade away. She was only conscious of Thomas. His eyes held hers, and again she could see a sharp, almost painful longing in them, like she’d seen when he’d brought her home in the wagon across the desert.
Something stirred within Charlotte. Something other than guilt. Respect. Admiration. Perhaps even envy. Thomas wanted so little in life. Just to grow enough food to survive on, and to live peacefully in his valley, with a wife by his side.
For a moment, she almost hoped that she could be that wife. A temptation seized her, to lean into his touch, to rise up on her toes and move into him, to have his arms close around her in an embrace. To give something to him, instead of just taking from him—food, protection, guidance and affection.
Rosamund let out another angry bellow. Thomas flinched, as if he too had drifted into some inner world, detached from reality. He made a small, fraught sound low in his throat and turned away to soothe the restless animal.
Charlotte could feel her body trembling. What would have happened if the moment had not been broken? What was happening between them? Was it simply the idyll of two people isolated from others, like Adam and Eve, or was it more?
She did not dare to think about it. She must keep her distance. Anything else would only cause more problems, bring deeper hurt when she returned home to Merlin’s Leap. And she would have to return, there was no question about it. Her duty was to her sisters, her responsibility as the firstborn something she must never forget.
As they left the barn and crossed the sunlit yard to the paddock where two horses grazed, Thomas’s words played on Charlotte’s mind. It’s not important, he’d said when she promised she would learn how to milk Rosamund.
It’s not important. As if he was resigned to her being incompetent, unable to deal with the farm chores. She would learn. Otherwise she would be nothing but a burden to him.