Preston’s bright eyes shone through the mess. He seemed frozen, as if he didn’t know how to react, and stood there like a statue.
“Don’t be mad, Miss Redding!” Peter begged. “Please don’t be mad.”
Mr. Jensen stepped into the kitchen just then. “What’s going on?”
“Preston was just tryin’ to help,” Peter said. “He didn’t mean to spill.”
“Do you know what I think?” Mariah said, folding her arms across her stomach.
“What?” Peter asked, sounding fearful. Preston hadn’t taken his eyes from her.
“I think Preston looks like a snowman.” Mariah reached out and grabbed a carrot from the counter. She held it up to his nose, then looked at him critically. “Yes, he’s definitely a snowman.”
Preston giggled.
“I’ve got some coal out in the forge,” Mr. Jensen offered.
“Get it! Get it!” Peter hollered.
Mariah shook her head with a smile, glad that Mr. Jensen had gotten into the spirit of the thing. There was something obviously troubling the boys, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it. She picked up a dish towel and began dusting off Preston’s face. “You need a bath, but I’ve got your blankets soaking in the bathtub right now, so you’ll have to wait a little bit, all right?”
He nodded.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Mr. Jensen grab the broom and began sweeping. She nearly objected, but she realized that he was just trying to be helpful, and so she let him. “Why did you think I’d be upset?” she asked Peter casually as she continued dusting flour from Preston’s shoulders.
“We’re not tapposed ta waste food,” Peter explained. “Flour costs a lot of money.”
Ah. That made sense. The boys’ parents probably didn’t have much, and to lose a whole sack of flour would likely ruin their food budget for the week. “It’s hard when you don’t have money,” she said, maintaining her casual tone. “Mamas and papas like to be sure they can take care of their children, and sometimes, they worry, and that makes them seem angry.”
Peter nodded. “Mama worried a lot sometimes.”
Mariah glanced over at Mr. Jensen. His lips were set in a firm line as he swept. He wasn’t doing a very good job and she’d want to go over it again when he was done, but she was glad that he had something to occupy himself during what was likely an awkward conversation.
“I think it’s just because she wanted to make sure you had enough,” she said to Peter. “We’ll clean this up and we’ll get more flour, and we won’t worry about it. I do think that the grownups should be the ones to lift the flour from now on, though. What do you think?”
Both boys nodded.
Once the first layer of flour had been dusted off Preston’s clothes, she had him go outside, where she ruffled his hair until it was mostly clean, and then she had him change. He’d definitely still need a bath, but he could now wait until the blankets were on the line. She sent the boys upstairs to play and prepared to rinse the laundry.
“I didn’t realize,” Mr. Jensen said, and she paused. “I didn’t realize how poor they were.”
“You couldn’t have known,” she hurried to say, but he continued as though she hadn’t spoken.
“When I moved away, I cut my ties and didn’t look back except for occasional letters. If I’d stayed in touch, I would have known, and I could have helped.” He tapped the broom on the floor, sending up a small cloud of flour. “There’s no reason for a little boy to be scared over such an innocent mistake.”
Mariah couldn’t help it. She crossed the floor and touched his arm. “He’s not scared anymore, Mr. Jensen. We’ll make this room look like new, and we’ll buy another sack, and he won’t even remember it happened.”
He nodded. “I’ve chastised myself so many times over the last few days, but in truth, I can’t fix my mistakes of the past. I can only do better from here on out.”
She was immediately curious about what he meant by his mistakes, but that was his to share when and if he felt the time was right. “And you will do better,” she told him. “Listen—they’re playing up there, not feeling sorry for themselves, and not scared anymore.” She gave his arm a little squeeze and then stepped back. “You’ll be exactly what they need.”
“I can’t take credit for any of it, Miss Redding. That was entirely your success.” He met her gaze with his. “I don’t know why I’ve been so reluctant to see it, but you are needed around here. Would you consider staying on? Again, I can’t pay much, but what I have is yours.” He looked down, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I mean, we’ll make it work.”
She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Jensen. We’ll make it work, and I’m delighted to stay on.”
“That’s one thing we need to talk about.” He held up his finger. “I think it’s time we moved on to given names, don’t you? I’m getting tired of all this formality just for custom’s sake. Please, call me Hans.”
She smiled again, glad he’d brought it up. “And I’m Mariah.”
“Mariah! That’s it. I knew it started with an M, but I couldn’t remember for the life of me.” He chuckled. “Welcome to the family, Mariah. Thank you for your help, and I’m sorry I’ve been so resistant about it. I struggle with pride.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” she said, sending him an exaggerated grin. “Thank you for your help with the broom, but I’ll be fine from here.” She reached out to take it, but his fingers were still wrapped around the handle. They stood there, frozen in time, their fingers intertwined, and she thought for sure she’d forgotten how to breathe. Then he let go and stepped back.
“I’ll be in the forge,” he mumbled, and she watched him go, completely unable to come up with a reply.
When the kitchen door closed, she sank into a chair, trying to understand what had just happened. She’d known she was attracted to him, but this—this went far and beyond anything she’d expected. If he were to send her away now, it would be the cruelest thing he could ever do.
***
No. Absolutely not. Hans pulled a piece of metal from the fire and began to pound it, releasing the strength of his emotions. He was not going to fall in love with his housekeeper. Otto Clay was responsible for putting the thought in his head, but he didn’t have to entertain it. She might be pretty and kind and everything he needed in someone to run his house, but that was it—he was not going to fall for her.
And he wasn’t going to keep remembering how their fingers had touched and how her breath had caught and how he’d seen her heart beating in her throat like a butterfly. Or the way his own breathing hitched when he looked down at her. That was all physical and didn’t mean anything—he would have reacted that way to any young woman standing in his kitchen who loved his nephews and worked tirelessly for them and had eyes that looked like shimmering pools in the rain.
He brought his hammer down one more time, then wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He might as well give up—he had no resistance to her, and it seemed foolish to keep up the fight. Otto would be glad to hear it, but there was just one problem—she was going on a picnic the next day with Mr. McFuddyWuddy or whatever his name was. And she seemed to be looking forward to it. He should have been kinder to her from the start. He shouldn’t have been so overbearing and stubborn. It would serve him right if she went off and married this other fellow.
No, it would serve him right to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. That seemed like a much better ending to the story.
He shook his head. He had work to do, and so did she. Tomorrow and the offending picnic would arrive soon enough, and he’d see what happened. Maybe it would rain. That would be an excellent solution.
***
“Boys, I have a surprise for you,” Hans said after they cleaned their teeth that night. “Go climb in your bed and I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Preston, his hair still a little damp from his bath, scampered up the stairs with Peter right behind him. Hans grabbed the Bib
le from the shelf and joined them. Mariah had washed all the blankets, and their bed was fresh and neat. He’d have to see about making them a bed frame—maybe when he made the supports for the clothesline. He shook his head. He’d promised to get that done, but it had slipped on his list of priorities. He’d just have to push it right back up to the top. Mariah was becoming more important to him by the minute, and if there was something he could do to lighten her burdens, he wanted to do it.
He lowered himself until he was sitting on the edge of their straw tick, then he held up the Bible. Preston’s eyes went wide, and Peter’s jaw dropped. “You got one!” he shouted. “You’re not a heathen anymore!”
Hans laughed. “I’m not sure that’s what being a heathen means, but yes, I got one. Actually, do you remember the other night, when you prayed for us to get a Bible?”
“’Course I do,” Peter replied confidently. “I remember all my prayers.”
“Well, it was the very next morning that we got this one,” Hans said. “Miss Bing brought it when she came to see us.”
“And now you can read it to us?” Peter asked, his face hopeful.
“And now I can read it to you,” Hans replied. It had been a long time since he’d picked up a Bible and he figured it would do him some good as well as the boys, but he did feel just the smallest bit reluctant to delve into it again. The language was sometimes hard for him to understand, and he wasn’t sure just how much of the Old Testament content would really be appropriate for such young boys. “What’s your favorite part?”
“Preston likes all the sheep stories,” Peter said.
Hans felt his mind go blank. “The sheep stories?”
“Yeah. The ones where Jesus takes care of His baby sheep. Those make us feel warm inside.”
Hans turned the book over and over in his hands. “I’m not sure where to find those stories, but I promise you, I’ll ask someone, and we’ll read them tomorrow, all right? In the meantime, how about the story of when Jesus was born?” He could remember where that was well enough—they’d read it every Christmas when he was growing up.
The boys agreed, and he read them those verses. He couldn’t help but remember his sister as he read. She loved those passages in the Bible and would listen to their father read with shining eyes. She loved everything about Christmas. He’d bet she made the holiday a beautiful thing for her boys—when winter came, he’d have to see if he couldn’t pump them for some information and decide how to incorporate their traditions here.
He bet Mariah would love to help.
If she was still there and hadn’t married that picnic person.
He shoved that thought aside, told his nephews goodnight, and left the room. It seemed that was part of his nightly routine—tuck the boys in and then collapse against the wall in the hallway. They sapped every last bit of strength from him, and he was only with them for a short time each day. He could only imagine what Mariah felt like, being with them from breakfast until dinner. She must be absolutely exhausted.
Thinking about her brought a smile to his face. A lock of her hair had slipped from her braid, and he’d wanted with everything inside him to reach out and tuck it into place. Why hadn’t he done it? He imagined that it would feel like silk against his roughened hands.
He could only pray that he’d be given another chance.
Chapter Thirteen
Mariah chose her clothes with special care the next morning. This was her first outing with a man since she’d arrived in town, and she felt the nerves building up inside her. She wondered what colors Mr. McCormick liked best. Immediately on the heels of that thought, though, she wondered what colors Hans liked best. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. She had to keep her growing attraction to Hans under control. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for her to be pining over him like a lovesick puppy while she was supposed to be washing the dishes.
And it’s not like she actually was pining—she wasn’t some silly girl who could be so easily swayed by strong arms and charming smiles and sharp wit.
She straightened her shoulders and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was done up in a braided bun, and she thought she looked rather well. Now it was up to Mr. McCormick to decide what he thought about her looks.
Mrs. Gladstone was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, another of her infamous baskets in her hands. “I have more things for the boys,” she said, passing the handle over to Mariah. “I just can’t help myself.”
Mariah laughed. “Neither can half the town. They’ve stopped bringing in meals since I started working there, but we’re still getting baked goods and outgrown clothing and all kinds of things. I don’t think those boys are going to want for much.”
“You have a nice day, dear,” Mrs. Gladstone called after her as she walked down the sidewalk. “Take care.”
Mariah unpacked the basket as soon as she arrived at the house, looking for anything that might need to go in the ice box. She found some peppermint candies tucked away in between the tinned peaches, and she smiled. The boys weren’t the only ones in town with a sweet tooth, and it was kind of Mrs. Gladstone to share out of her secret stash—a stash that wasn’t very secret because Mariah had been shown both its location and its contents. She didn’t know if the boys liked peppermint, but she was willing to believe the answer was yes.
There was a jar of lemonade, which she’d bring along on the picnic. Mr. McCormick had seemed to indicate that he’d be in charge of the food, but an extra beverage was always nice.
Almost as though he knew she’d been thinking about him, he knocked on the door a moment later, and smiled when she greeted him. “Good morning,” he said. “I’ve come to see about our plans for the day. Are you able to come out with me?”
“I am, and the boys are looking forward to it too.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be by around eleven thirty, if that suits.”
“That sounds perfect,” Mariah replied, and he gave a tip of his hat before he was off again.
Eleven thirty. That gave her time to chop some vegetables for the soup she’d make later, and also to darn some socks. She was so glad the laundry was caught up, for now—her back ached from her work of the last two days. Washing blankets was her least favorite thing to do in all the world, but it had made her happy, knowing that Hans and his nephews had nice clean beds.
She hadn’t seen Hans that morning. He was already out in the forge when she’d arrived, the boys still sleeping peacefully. She didn’t know how she was going to look Hans in the eye when he came in for breakfast. The moment they’d shared the day before over something as simple as a broom—she’d thought about it far too much since it had happened, wondering what it would have been like if he’d kissed her, but that was silly. They were handing off a broom—there’s nothing romantic about brooms. It had sure felt romantic, though, and her heart wouldn’t be convinced otherwise.
She pulled in a deep breath and started some breakfast bread, then pulled out the darning while the oven heated up. The boys came running down a few minutes later, already dressed, just as she’d taught them the first day. Her heart warmed when she saw them. They were such dear little souls, even if they had worn terrible holes in their socks.
She got them fed, then sent them outside to gather wood chips from around the chopping block. Hans had brought in quite a nice stack of wood, she could see from the box by the stove, and she was sure there were quite a number of chips she could use for kindling. The boys were all too happy to take a basket and go looking.
A moment later, Hans entered the kitchen and stood in the doorway. His hair was damp, and he smelled like soap. She tried not to think about the day before, but he was giving her something close to the same look, and that made her resolve hard to maintain.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked. “I’ll have some hot food on the table in a minute.”
“Just coffee, please,” he said.
She felt his gaze following her as she moved over to th
e stove and poured his cup. When she turned to hand it to him, she found that he’d come up behind her, and he took the cup and set it on the counter. He was standing close, so close. She swallowed.
He reached up and touched her cheek, tracing her jawline with his fingertip. “What time is your picnic?” he asked.
“We’re being picked up at eleven thirty,” she replied, hardly able to speak.
“Hmm.” He trailed his finger across her lips. She couldn’t take her eyes off his gaze—what was he doing? Well, she knew what he was doing, but why? Oh, forget it—it didn’t matter why. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and he pulled her in and kissed her.
Her hands came up and grasped his collar, keeping him close until they were both out of breath. When he finally released her, she was a little dizzy, but he kept his arms around her waist. “I just wanted you to know that you have options,” he said. Then he let go and stepped back out to the forge, closing the door behind him.
She leaned against the counter, trying to catch her breath. What on earth . . .? Had that really just happened? Oh, yes, it had, and she wouldn’t mind it happening again.
Just then, the boys came in through the back door, carrying a basket of wood chips between them. “You got a lot,” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal. “Good job.”
“There’s some more, but the basket was getting heavy,” Peter replied.
“We can get the rest later. Let’s get ready for our picnic, all right?” Suddenly, she didn’t want to go. How was she supposed to spend the afternoon with Mr. McCormick when she still had Hans’s kiss on her lips?
***
Hans sank down on the stool inside the forge and ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t believe he’d just done that. He hadn’t kissed a woman like that since . . . no, he’d actually never kissed a woman like that. He and Jean were young and naïve, and kissing meant sweet little pecks after some handholding and a stroll in the garden. That—well, he wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but it most certainly was not a sweet little peck. He could still feel the way Mariah had completely melted in his arms, accepting every emotion his heart was transmitting. He chuckled to realize that his coffee was still on the counter, but he’d better not go back in there to get it or they might have a repeat performance, this time in front of the children.
Bribing the Blacksmith (Cowboys and Angels Book 9) Page 9
