Helplessness was not in Wil’s vocabulary, but as soon as Doc Carver told him not to get the cast wet, the idea of a good soaking hit like a maverick steer at the end of a short rope.
If he could get in the tub and hang his leg over the edge, everything would work out just fine.
But it was the gettin’ in part that soured the deal, and he dang sure wasn’t going to ask for help.
The best he could do was clean up while sittin’ on a chair next to the tub.
He slicked his hair back, stropped the razor, and lathered his face. He’d shaved often enough on the trail that he didn’t need a mirror. Still, it would have been convenient, but his own razor and glass were in his war bag, and Lord only knew where that was.
His saddlebags hung over the chair back, but first things first.
After as good a bath as possible, a stopper in the bottom invited him to pull it, and the water drained out. Beat bailin’.
Feeling more in control of things than he had since waking up in Carver’s surgery, he rolled everything but the razor and strap into the towel and with a crutch, pushed it over near the wash tub. The idea of Lena washing his clothes made him twitchy, but she’d already done it once. Probably cleaned him up too, and he refused to think too hard on that. He’d been unconscious, so it shouldn’t matter. Except it did.
He hadn’t known her then—how her eyes lit up when that teasing streak took over, or how her voice rippled like music when she laughed. Too many times he’d caught himself day dreaming about what it’d be like to have someone like her on his place when he got one.
If he got one.
He lifted the saddlebags to his lap and unbuckled the near side. Reaching in, he ran his hand along the smooth bottom, feeling for a row of buck stitching along one edge.
Hope snagged on a tight knot at the end. This might be the best Christmas he’d had since he was a kid in Texas, but without his pocket knife, he’d have to wait to find out. He’d sewn the false leather bottom in tight enough to keep what coins he had from jingling. Apparently, it’d fooled the thieves.
An idea sprouted like spring grass, along with an image of Lena Carver walking through that grass. His grass. On his spread. He might be gettin’ ahead of himself, but if his stake was secure, and he really did get the spread he’d saved for, then he’d have something to offer a wife.
Wife.
The word made him shiver and sweat at the same time.
He sat for a minute, pondering the notion. Looking at it straight on and admitting to himself that he’d taken the first step in that direction and done so without help of those blasted, short-legged hobbles.
The next step was figuring out if Lena felt the same. Two weeks wasn’t long, but he’d spent every day of it with her. Hopefully, a couple more and he’d know if she’d have him.
He checked the other bag and found it like his Uncle Otto had said, dark and empty as a stille nacht. Interesting comparison, since that first stille nacht hadn’t been exactly empty.
Slinging the bags over his shoulder, he picked up the strop and razor, suddenly caught by another idea. He sat down and reached into the near bag, pinched the knot between his thumb and forefinger, and applied the razor.
~
The November afternoon slapped Wil with a cold hand when he opened the door, and he prayed it wasn’t a harbinger of Lena’s reaction if he asked for her affections.
Ignoring that depressing thought, he focused instead on the dog coming at him, head low and sniffing.
“Just me, cleaned up some.”
It looked almost relieved.
Low-bellied clouds bunched over mountains that bowled around the north end of the shallow valley where Piney Hill lay. The smell of snow hugged a growing breeze. Another storm comin’ for sure.
Inside the warm kitchen, pumpkin pie was also comin’ for sure. Wil hung his bags over a chair back.
Carver was washing up at the sink.
“Much obliged for the use of your razor.”
Drying his hands, Carver turned and scrutinized Wil’s face, no doubt looking for wounds to stitch up. “And a fine job you did.”
At supper, Wil caught Lena watching him as if he were a stranger. He should have checked himself in the mirror by the hall tree before he sat down. But the sweet aroma of a home-cooked meal won out and he stayed put.
A bowl of stew and a quarter pie later, Carver laid his fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair, satisfied as a milk-fed pup.
“You out-did yourself tonight, Lena.”
Wil agreed. “Thank you for supper, Miss Lena. And for the extra clothes, Doc.”
Carver chuckled. “They’ll do until tomorrow.” A sparkle lit his eye. “Thanks for cleaning up so well.”
Wil expected a comment like that from Lena, not her sober brother. Especially after the solemn ride to the livery.
He shoved his hair back. “Soon as I’m out of this plaster, I’ll get in to the barber and clean up even better. You won’t know me.”
“No need. Lena can cut it for you. She cuts mine.”
Doc Carver was sure one for volunteering his sister’s services without her say so.
She sat lock-jawed in her place at the table, staring a hole clean through her sibling.
Wil wasn’t sure he could handle her running her fingers through his hair right now, but he wouldn’t mind finding out.
A rosy tint ran up her pretty neck and into her cheeks, and she shifted her eyes to the remains of her pie.
Doc took his plate and bowl to the dishpan. “Isn’t that right, Lee?”
Lee?
If looks could ground-tie a man, Doc’d be spending the night in the kitchen. As it was, he shrugged into an old coat and gloves. “I’ll be chopping kindling.”
He left, tugging the door hard against a gusty wind.
Silence fell harder. No smiles. No light-hearted banter.
Wil cleared his throat. “Thanks again for supper. Especially the pie.”
He might as well take up public speaking, seeing he had such a gift for oratory.
The dog groaned from its place by the door, the traitor.
Lena stood and whisked his dishes away. “Stay where you are, and I’ll see what I can do with your hair. Otherwise you might not find your way to the cot.”
Once her feet hit the stairway, he grabbed a crutch with one hand and the pie pan with the other, then managed to clear the rest of the table and shave soap into the dish pan before she returned.
Pausing at the doorway, she took in what little he’d accomplished, and a pleased expression set in place.
“Since you’re over there, grab a tea towel from the second drawer.” She pulled a chair from the table.
He straightened to his full height and held the crutch with his left hand. “You’re not puttin’ a bowl on my head.”
Her mouth quirked and her eyes snapped. “I wouldn’t think of it.” She indicated the chair. “Now, if you’ll please take a seat, I’ll lower your ears.”
Relieved—a little—by her joviality, he complied.
She took the towel from him and draped it over his shoulders. Then lifting the fringes of his hair, she tucked the towel inside the nightshirt, all the way around his neck.
Her warm hands grazed his skin in the process, and for all he was worth, he couldn’t recall a barber ever increasing his blood pressure like she did. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
But when she came around in front of him and pushed her fingers through his hair, her skirt brushed his knees and the smell of her brushed his good sense, and he prayed his manners would survive the coming ordeal.
~
Smoothing the towel in place, Lena ran her right hand over Wil’s shoulder, exactly like she did Tay. But Wil Bergman tensed up, rigid as a barn door. Did he find her repulsive? Did he doubt she could do the job, given her condition?
Never mind it. Tucking her chin, she pulled in a deep breath, drew a comb and scissors from her apron pocket, and circled behind him. She’d not be put off by his doubts when she knew she was perfectly capable of the chore, despite how many fingers she did or did not have.
Guiding the comb through his long hair, from his forehead straight back, she repeated the move, careful not to gouge the bullet trail above his ear. As she combed in easy, repetitive movements, his shoulders relaxed. Tension lifted like steam off fresh bread from the oven.
He sighed and sank against the chair.
When she stepped to her right, she could see his eyes were closed.
A bit disconcerting. Tay had never reacted this way when she cut his hair. Theirs was usually a lively, teasing banter, with her threatening to nick his ears.
But Tay was her brother. And he didn’t have a mass of hair that flowed through her fingers like dark silk. Nor were his shoulders so broad and straight. Wil Bergman filled the chair, the entire room, for that matter, and his scent swept around her. Clean. Strong. Masculine.
She’d best keep her mind on the task, or she’d be sighing as well.
Switching the comb to her left hand, she held it between thumb and forefinger, lifting sections of hair and cutting along the comb’s edge. Then she worked around in front of him, combing his hair back again, distracted momentarily by movement beneath his eyelids. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? What would it be like to—
Snip.
Oh dear. She combed up the same section, evening out what she had done, praying he didn’t notice when he viewed the results of her barbering skills.
Clippings fell from her scissors to the towel and the floor. She trimmed her way around him, stepping over his extended leg, and shortening his hair to just above his collar. After finishing, she studied the overall affect.
The line of his jaw was clearly visible since he’d shaved, his mouth firm yet kind. His brows still cut a sharp contrast to his pale forehead, but he looked nothing like the wild-eyed man who’d held her in a death grip that first night in the surgery.
Then he opened his eyes.
Dark and deep, they locked onto her, holding her as firmly as he had before. Something in his gaze drew her, begged her, matched a longing in her heart note for note, and she could not move or look away.
A gusty blow slammed the kitchen door opened, and Tay tromped in with an armload of wood for the cook stove.
Lena filled her lungs with cold air—the first breath in how many moments?
Wil Bergman’s mouth tipped on one side. No mockery. No sneer. More like something akin to pleasure. Something she’d never seen on a man’s face.
“Well?” he said.
She blinked. Watched his mouth widen in a full smile.
“How do I look?”
“Oh. You look fine.” More than fine. She dropped the comb and scissors into her apron pocket and folded her arms, reaching desperately for detached composure.
“Almost civilized,” Tay blurted as he shut the door. “There’s a mirror at the other end of the hall.”
Wil grabbed a crutch.
“Wait.” She combed through his hair for stray clippings, then removed the towel and folded it into a bundle for shaking outside. She’d wash it tonight with his mud-spattered clothes—a concession she’d not make for herself or Tay.
After Wil left, she laid the bundle on the table and fetched the broom and dustpan from the pantry, counting off the reasons why she shouldn’t beat Tay with it and sweep him outdoors for getting her into this fix.
She came up with only one.
Two, when she found him leaning against the counter eating pie with his fingers, beaming mischievously as if he were twelve.
“I knew you could do it.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He snorted, then choked on the last bite. Served him right.
She swept the floor clean and gathered the bundle.
“No harm done, Lee.”
Maybe not to you. “You had no right.”
Tay came close and laid a hand on her arm. “He’s a good man, Lee. I feel it in my bones. You get to know a person living with them day in and day out. I think you know it too. You’re different with him here. You’ve laughed more in the last few weeks than in the last year.”
She pulled back, kept her jaw clenched. If she opened her mouth, all her hopes and dreams might come spilling out. And for what purpose? To what end?
The last question broke her resolve.
“No man wants deformity, Tay. Hasn’t that been clear enough over the years? Besides, the only thing we really know about him is he’s a Bergman. He’s probably just like his uncle, but we haven’t seen it yet.”
Tears marshalled at the accusation she knew was unfair and unproven. “Bring the kettle out to me when it boils.”
Tay started to speak, but she opened the door to a brutal wind. It whipped around the house and across the porch, stinging her eyes.
She made it to the wash room before the tears fell.