“What are you doing?” he chided. “You’re going to cut yourself...”
“I haven’t yet,” she answered loftily, cutting another hunk of cheese, trying to hide her embarrassment at the awkward movements. At least she was making do. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a simple meal.”
He lifted the milk pails onto the counter and came around to her side. “It’s not safe to point the blade at yourself like that.”
She didn’t stop what she was doing, even though he held out his hand as if he wanted the knife from her. “It’s the only way I can make it work. If I can’t secure what I’m cutting, it sticks to the knife and slides along the work space.”
He watched as she finished cutting several more thick wedges of the cheese. “What about a weight?” he mused.
She sensed he was talking to himself more than to her. He reached out and tapped the bread slices she’d already placed on two plates. “But not too heavy...”
Because if it was too heavy, it would smash the bread. Or the tomato. Or whatever she was trying to chop.
This was what she had to face now.
His attention remained on the counter as she plated the cheese and found two late-fall apples to add to the meal. He ran one hand over the surface as if he was measuring it—she could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Have you always had an interest in inventing things...finding new ways to do things?”
He glanced up at her, surprised, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “I’d better check on Ned, bring him something to drink,” he said.
“Daisy...” Belinda’s wavery voice echoed down the stairs.
“I guess we’ll have to grab a bite when we can,” he said.
She stuffed a bite of the bread in her mouth, even as she rushed toward the stairs to help her sister.
Later that evening, Daisy found herself back in the kitchen for the umpteenth time. But this time, something was different. It took a moment to see what he’d done.
There was an attachment on one corner of the counter. Two flat pieces of wood had been attached—nailed!—to the counter at right angles to each other. A third piece angled up at the point where the two pieces reached a V. Beneath it, someone—Ricky—had left wedged the remainder of the loaf of bread.
She reached out and ran a fingertip over the wood. It was smooth, the edges softened as if he’d sanded it.
He’d done this, for her? When had he made time for it? Between caring for her family and the chores all afternoon, he must’ve spent every spare moment he’d had to create this for her.
As if she’d conjured him with her thoughts, Ricky came in the back door, stamping his feet outside the threshold to remove snow clinging to his boots.
His face brightened beneath his hat, and then he was removing it, running a hand through his curls. “You saw it. What d’you think?”
“You can’t just...change the kitchen.” For her.
He frowned a little. “Maybe I should’ve asked first, but it’s your kitchen, too. Besides, a little modification like this doesn’t take up too much room. Belinda and Audra can use the other end of the counter if it’s in their way. Try it out,” he suggested.
She stared at the contraption, a flash of anger going through her that she needed it. Followed quickly by a flash of thankfulness that the intelligent man watching her now had the capacity to think of something like this and had taken the initiative to install it for her.
She tried it. The knife slid through the bread much easier than when she’d been bracing it against her own body. She didn’t mangle it nearly as badly, and imagined that with more practice, she might eventually be able to slice it neatly.
He placed a canvas bag on the counter and a glass. Closer to her, he smelled of the cold and very slightly of sawdust.
He rummaged in the bag and came up with a rectangle, one half of which had been cut away in a half circle. “I had the idea that if I affixed this to the counter, it could steady a bowl you needed for stirring or even keep a glass from falling over while you’re pouring.”
Pouring had been difficult for her, especially when the pitcher was particularly full.
As her throat was right at this moment.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For thinking of me.”
He looked down on her, eyes holding for a moment. She saw an awareness of their closeness in the depths of his gaze before it cut away. He set the wood on the counter and took a step back. Backing away?
“The horses are all tucked in. Ned and Beau said they spread most of the hay for the sheep days ago, but if the snow holds, I’ll need to go check on the flock and spread some more so they don’t run out.”
She nodded. “The twins haven’t vomited in the last several hours. I can’t tell if it is because they are on the mend or because there is nothing left inside them. They still have fevers, which concerns me some.”
“Not the most enjoyable way to spend Christmas,” he said.
Christmas. That’s right. Christmas was tomorrow.
“Forgot to tell you, I picked up your gifts in town. Maybe telling the boys they’ve got presents under the tree will give them incentive to get better.”
His steadiness, the camaraderie flowing between them, had eased this whole ordeal.
She smiled slightly. Then had another thought. “We’ll have to launder all their bedclothes once the fevers break.”
Laundry seemed an impossible task with only one arm. And Ricky was needed to care for the animals. She couldn’t ask him to shirk his other duties to help with this one.
“We’ll deal with it when the time comes,” he said, seeming to follow her thoughts to the hard work ahead.
She sent him a trembling smile. “All right.”
He stepped closer. “Why don’t you rest for a while? I can watch over everybody for a few hours. You’ve been on your feet all day—”
“So have you,” she countered with a lift of her chin. And he’d ridden to town in the cold, been out to the barn caring for the animals. She didn’t expect special treatment for herself—and this was her family.
He shrugged. “We can flip a coin if you like, we’ll both take a shift and at least get some rest.”
So he wasn’t insisting on preventing her from working, just that they both get what rest they could.
“All right,” she acquiesced. “But I’ll pull my share.”
“I know you will,” he said quietly.
And he was close again, looking down on her again as if he...cared. He was so near, she had to tip her head back slightly to look up into his face.
He leaned slightly down and she thought he might...he might...
Kiss her.
But he quickly pulled away and turned to face the window, though all it offered him was a reflection—he couldn’t see outside.
Stung, she swallowed a lump of disappointment.
Of course he didn’t see her like that. Friends. They were friends.
She could only hope he didn’t see her as helpless as the rest of her family did. Someone to care for, not care about.
“Good night,” she whispered.
Chapter Eleven
Ricky had been on the verge of passing out when he’d finally roused Daisy in the middle of the night. He hated to wake her, but Terrance’s fever had risen and he thought she’d be upset if he didn’t give her a turn to care for her folks.
He’d barely had the energy to drag himself out to the barn loft to his cot before he’d fallen asleep.
He woke later than usual, to find morning light streaming into the barn through the upper window. He rushed through his ablutions, the cold water shocking him fully awake when he splashed it on his face.
The barn was quiet as he worked through the morning chores, as if the animals knew something wasn’t quite right with their human caretakers. He missed Beau’s cheery whistling and even Ned’s grumpy demeanor.
And then, after he’d milked the cow, he couldn’t put off going to the h
ouse any longer. He traipsed across the yard to the house, hoping Daisy wasn’t too put out that he’d overslept. She’d been a real trouper up till now.
In the kitchen, the scent of wood burning in the stove and fresh bread greeted him.
Daisy stood over the sink full of hot, soapy water. She half turned, saw him, and her lips flattened into a white line.
She looked frazzled, brushing strands of her hair away from her face with the back of her wrist, slightly flushed and harried. He felt an immediate rush of aggravation at himself for not waking earlier.
“Sorry I left you to care for everybody,” he said quickly.
She shrugged, turning back to the dishwater as he set the two pails of milk on the counter.
“Terrance’s fever broke, but Todd seems slightly worse. I can only hope we’re coming out the other side of this thing.”
She spoke to the basin in front of her. He saw crumbs beneath the wooden holder he’d installed last night. Beside her on the wall counter, there was a towel laid out and an orderly line of clean dishes drying.
His chest puffed with pride on her behalf. Seemed as if his project had worked, if she’d been able to have her breakfast.
He moved toward her, catching sight of the side of her dress. It had dark patches of water as if she’d splashed herself filling up the sink with hot water from the stove.
And then he saw the red mark at her wrist. Everything inside him cinched up tight.
“Did you burn yourself?”
“Not bad.” She was still talking to the water and for the first time, he registered that she hadn’t smiled at him the same way she had last night.
When he stepped toward her, she turned her shoulder slightly away from him.
Something was wrong. Was she angry that he’d overslept? He had the sudden memory of pulling away last night, when he’d so desperately wanted to kiss her.
Had she sensed his indecision? Was she angry because he’d promised friendship?
“Let me look at it,” he said. “I’ll help you put some salve on it—”
“It will keep,” she said stiffly. “Papa was asking for you—”
“Your pa can wait,” he said. “This won’t.”
When she plunged her hand into the soapy water again, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle. He took it as a dare and gripped her elbow, turning her toward him.
She huffed a breath, but went with him to the table, allowing him to push her into one of the chairs. The house was quiet around them and she didn’t speak as he found a cloth and made a cool compress, which he pressed against her wrist.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The pot of hot water slipped,” she said stiffly.
He removed the compress and turned her hand palm up in his grip, his thumb resting against the base of her palm. He skated his index finger down from the inside of her elbow until it almost met the red welt where she’d been burned.
Her shoulders stiffened.
“If I hadn’t caught it there, the water would have splashed all over me. It could’ve been much worse.”
He frowned down at her arm, not liking the thought of her getting hurt doing an everyday task.
“It’s fine,” she said, still with a stiffness to her voice and her manner. She tried to tug her arm out of his grasp.
“At least let me wrap it,” he said gruffly.
“Fine,” she agreed with bad grace.
He sensed the distance between them. Knew it had to do with that almost-kiss. Wished he hadn’t messed things up.
But maybe it was better this way. If she wanted to keep a distance between them, that was probably better. It would lessen his temptation—and lessen his chances of messing up.
He wrapped the wrist quickly and she went back to the dish tub, only throwing, “Papa’s upstairs, waiting on you,” over her shoulder.
“Daisy—” He didn’t know what he’d intended to say, or where the intense urge to fix this had come from, but it didn’t matter, because she interrupted him.
“I’m almost finished here.”
A voice called out from the parlor, and Daisy put the mug she’d been rinsing next to its match on her towel. Her shoulders released some of their tension—as if she was relieved they’d been interrupted. “I’ll check on whoever that is.”
Her words were a clear dismissal, and he was smarting as he stomped—lightly—up the stairs.
The boss stood at the head of the stairs, white as a sheet.
“What—” Ricky started, and then made a grab for the man when Owen Richards wobbled on his feet.
“Thought I wanted to go down to the office,” the older man grunted. “Changed my mind.”
Obviously, he wasn’t past the worst of it.
When Ricky had helped the man to bed and returned downstairs, he poked his head into the parlor. Ned was snoring lightly on his pallet, oblivious to what was going on around him.
Beau looked somewhat better. He was sitting up on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the sofa, nursing a cup of milk between his hands.
Beside him, Daisy sat on the floor also, with her legs folded demurely beneath her skirt. Her back was to him and Ricky couldn’t see her face, but Beau was as discomfited as ever—but that wasn’t stopping him from answering whatever she’d asked as they shared a quiet conversation.
The exchange was spoken in low voices—likely to keep from waking Ned—and Ricky couldn’t make out their words.
He didn’t have to, to see what was happening. His plan was working. Beau and Daisy were talking, and there must be sparks between them.
Her face turned toward the other man and Ricky saw the profile of her nose, her lips spread in a smile—an open one, unlike the tight pretense of a smile he’d received earlier.
His chest cinched tightly, right beneath his breastbone.
He ducked back into the hall, a floorboard creaking beneath his boot. He put his back to the adjoining wall and tried to breathe through the suffocating pain.
This is what he’d wanted. Daisy and Beau.
He kept telling himself that.
But...
It wasn’t really.
The scales had fallen from his eyes. He didn’t want Daisy with Beau. He wanted her for himself.
She deserved someone like Beau. Someone pure and sweet and without a past hanging over his head as Ricky had. Not to mention that she had no idea he’d been the cause of the accident. If she ever found out the truth, she would probably never speak to him again.
But that didn’t stop the awful pain in his gut. He could name it. Jealousy. The confusion prompted by her stiff reaction in the kitchen earlier and now the swift hurt slicing through him made him want to rush into the room and sock one on Beau—a stronger reaction than he’d ever experienced over a woman before.
But he was a new man, and he needed to remember that.
He wanted the best for Daisy, and Beau was it.
Not Ricky.
*
Midmorning, Daisy found herself at loose ends for the first time since Ricky had woken her in the dark hours of night.
Everyone was sleeping, which must be the best thing for them as their bodies tried to fight off the illness and recover.
Terrance and Todd were much improved and complaining that they were hungry. She thought that was probably a good sign, along with the embarrassment they’d expressed that she’d seen them weak and sick and that she’d cleaned up after them. Maybe their embarrassment would translate to them leaving off the constant teasing and following her around after they’d recovered.
She could hope anyway.
The sounds of pots and pans clanking drew her to the kitchen doorway, where she stopped short. Ricky was pushing a large pan, overflowing with what looked like a goose, into the oven. On the far counter was a large pile of potatoes and a knife, as if he intended to peel them. Carrots and celery were also laid out nearby. The smell of dried herbs tickled her nose.
On the
work counter he’d gathered flour, butter, sugar, cinnamon, eggs and baking powder, and as he rose and moved away from the stove, she saw a pot heating there.
“What are you doing?”
He started, as if he hadn’t heard her come in. When he turned her way, she saw he had a streak of something white, maybe flour, across his shirt.
He gave her an easy smile that reminded her to take a breath and step back. Ricky was just friendly. He wasn’t interested in her as a woman.
His smile faded a little as her lips tightened in reaction. He moved toward the counter, not quite meeting her eyes. “I thought you and I deserved a Christmas supper for all our hard work.”
Christmas.
She’d completely forgotten what day it was in the rush of caring for her sick family. It was easy, too easy, to imagine what it would be like to belong together. They made a good team; worked together almost effortlessly as they’d fetched and carried and helped folks out to the outhouse.
But thinking about that wasn’t helpful.
“Plus, we can use the bird in a nice stock when the folks start wanting something to eat.”
“I think the boys are already there,” she murmured. “What’s this?” She motioned to the flour and other things on the counter.
“Going to be doughnuts. I like a nice dessert on Christmas, but I doubt I’ll have time to bake a pie...”
He started measuring flour into a mixing bowl.
“You can make a pie?” she asked.
“Sure. If I wanted to and had the time.” His voice was relaxed, but there was a tightness around his eyes that belied the easy tone. And he still didn’t quite meet her eyes. This wasn’t the same easy friendship they’d shared yesterday.
It made her think of how he’d pulled away from her last night, their near-kiss. He wasn’t interested in her like that. Maybe he was even uncomfortable knowing she was attracted to him. He’d told her he wasn’t an innocent with women. He could probably tell.
“I brought in your Christmas packages. They’re under the counter.”
She came up with two brown-paper-wrapped packages and brought them to the nook table, thankful for something to focus on, other than the awkwardness between them. The paper crinkled and crackled as she dropped them on the tabletop.
A Cowboy for Christmas (Mills & Boon Love Inspired Historical) (Wyoming Legacy - Book 5) Page 12
