by Lisa Bingham
“Just what did you have in mind?” she asked in what she hoped sounded like a calm voice.
Orrin shrugged and pulled the hat from his head. His hand ran over his jaw, and he peered into the mirror hanging above the dry sink. The slight rasp of his hand on his stubbled skin filled the silence of the room. For some reason the intimate sound caused a flutter deep in Ginny’s stomach. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have him kiss her with those same whiskers grazing her skin.
“Nothing fancy,” Orrin stated, seeing her in the reflection of the looking glass.
Ginny pulled her thoughts back with some difficulty, irritated at her own wayward imagination. Carefully she schooled her features into more appropriate lines.
“We’ve got eggs and enough bread left to keep us until you can bake more this afternoon.”
Bake bread? She’d never baked in her life.
He fixed her with a pointed look. “Is that all right?”
“Fine. Fine.”
She eyed the pail of eggs, then the huge iron stove. She had no idea at all how one went about cooking on the thing. She wasn’t even sure if she could light it.
To her profound relief, Orrin bent and stoked the coals, added a few pieces of wood, then lifted a kettle from the rack overhead and walked toward the door. “I’ll just heat some water. If you want to get things ready, I’ll tell the girls we’ll eat in a few minutes.”
“Fine, fine.” The moment he passed through the door she sagged. How in the world was she going to keep up this farce? It was only a matter of time before Orrin realized she couldn’t cook. Had never cooked.
Not wanting him to return and find her idle, she removed a heavy iron skillet from the rack over the stove. Then, taking the eggs, she cracked open the whole lot of them and dropped them into the pan. A few pieces of shell and straw fell in as well, and she muttered softly under her breath. But when she heard Orrin whistling on his way back to the house she grabbed a fork and stirred the mess. Perhaps if the eggs were scrambled, no one would notice.
Orrin entered, and his whistle petered away. Peering at the pail, then the huge pan filled to the rim with eggs, he asked hesitantly, “You used all of them?”
“Well … yes.”
“There were nearly two dozen eggs there. I would have taken them to the spring house as soon as you washed them.”
Spring house? Washed them?
Ginny opened her mouth, wondering what kind of explanation she could give before finally saying, “I’m very hungry.” She turned back to the pan, furiously stirring the eggs. “I always eat a hearty breakfast.” Her stomach lurched at the lie, but she forced a benevolent smile to curve her lips.
Orrin regarded her curiously. “It’ll cook better if you put it on the stove rather than next to it.”
She flushed. “Of course. I was just testing the … consistency.”
He walked behind her, and Ginny started when one of his broad hands slid around her waist and splayed over her stomach as he peeked over her shoulder. “It could use a little water. Or you can use some of that milk I brought in.”
“O-of course.” For a moment she couldn’t move. He was so broad and warm. Then without warning he bent to press a nuzzling kiss against the curve of her shoulder.
A weakness stole over her as his whiskered jaw abraded her skin. She became aware that she’d lain awake most of the night, too conscious of the man’s masculinity to fall into even an uneasy sleep.
“Ginny?”
“Mmm?”
“Good morning.”
“G-good morning.”
In one lithe movement he turned her in his arms and his lips lowered to brush against her own, teasingly at first, then returning to capture her mouth with a hungry, searching caress. He drew back, grinned at her obviously dazed expression, and pulled away.
Ginny fought to appear unaffected, but it was difficult when her limbs threatened to buckle.
Vaguely she tried to remember what she’d been doing before the kiss, and finally the sound of bubbling eggs reminded her that breakfast still awaited her ministrations. Orrin had told her to thin the mixture and had suggested she use the milk. She took a mug from the cupboard and went to the table, where he’d left the pail.
She grimaced at the smell that rose from the frothy liquid, then shuddered when she dipped the cup into the mixture and found it was still warm from the cow’s body.
Ginny crossed back to the stove, poured the milk into the skillet, then returned to the table for more.
Behind her she heard the rustle of clothing. When she saw Orrin sliding his suspenders from his shoulders she paused. When he began to unbutton his shirt she gasped.
Their kiss had only been a prelude! The man meant to take her here and now. In the kitchen.
Orrin caught her wide-eyed stare.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, no, you don’t” She held up a restraining hand. “I know a wife has certain … obligations to perform. But I will not do … that in the daylight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You just put that shirt right back on your shoulders.”
“But I need to shave.”
Ginny opened her mouth, paused, then repeated blankly, “Shave?”
Orrin rubbed his stubbled chin. “Yes. What did you think I meant to do?”
Ginny felt the blazing heat enter her cheeks at the same moment Orrin’s eyes sparkled in comprehension, and he began to laugh.
He took a step toward her, two steps, his face filled with wicked delight. “Perhaps another day, Ginny.” He pinned her against the table, his thighs pressing against her own. “But I’ve got the harrowing to do this morning.”
Feeling embarrassed and utterly outraged, she pushed him away and headed for the door.
“Best get the children for breakfast, Ginny,” Orrin called behind her, his voice still thick with amusement. “But I wouldn’t tell them what you nearly offered your husband in addition to the food.”
Stomping out of doors, Ginny halted only a few feet from the house. Orrin’s three children were clambering in the muddy yard, playing some version of King of the Hill near a pile of moldering straw.
It was painfully clear that a man had been taking care of them for the past few years. With their cropped hair and baggy overalls they looked more like little boys than little girls. Of course, Ginny couldn’t guarantee that they would do any better under her care. She couldn’t even guarantee they would survive her care.
If the girls had been older, as Ruby had promised, Ginny would have felt a little more qualified. After all, what more did a teenager need than a little gentle guidance about fashion trends and deportment?
But these children were mere babies—and their youth terrified Ginny. She was so afraid that by some word or action she would hurt them or cause them to misbehave. And though she hated to admit it, Ginny wanted them to like her.
Eunice turned, and, seeing Ginny’s close scrutiny, tugged on Imogene’s pants leg. Imogene slapped her away, but after a few more insistent pulls she looked behind her, then nudged Baby Grace.
Ginny could tell exactly what they were thinking. And none of them were pleased to see her. It was plain that just as Ginny had wished away the kitchen mess, they’d wished her away.
She felt an inexplicable sting of hurt. Of all the challenges facing her at Eden Creek, Orrin’s children seemed to be the most daunting. They regarded her as if she were the enemy. Imogene stood in open hostility with her feet planted wide, her hair a tangled mass of curls. Eunice watched in wary silence, her straight dark hair lying in a lopsided Dutch cut, her fists shoved deep into her pockets. And Baby Grace … well, Baby Grace didn’t know what to think, so she poked her thumb in her mouth and glared.
They weren’t about to make her homecoming easy. And judging by the stubborn jut of their chins, they would do anything they could to see her gone. Ginny knew she would have to fight for the upper hand. No doubt these three young gi
rls had Orrin wound about their little fingers. One false step and Ginny would have three bitter enemies.
Yet if she were going to survive as a mother to these children, she would have to control them. Otherwise her life at Eden would be a living hell.
There was no time like the present to begin taking charge. She smiled as sweetly as she could, calling, “Breakfast,” then marched back into the house.
A long pause followed as she returned to the stove. The kitchen remained silent save for the splash of water as Orrin washed the soap from his jaw, then shrugged into his shirt. Wondering if the children would disobey her over something so simple as breakfast, Ginny jabbed at the gooey concoction on the stove. Then she took the spoon and began to march back into the yard and paddle them into submission if necessary.
She’d taken no more than a half dozen steps when the three girls finally entered the keeping room. Their collective gaits implied obvious reluctance and barely concealed rebellion. When they saw the empty table, their faces displayed their wariness.
Several silent moments passed before Imogene demanded, “Where’s breakfast?”
“You’ll get it as soon as you wash.”
Ginny’s comment was met with mulish silence.
Orrin’s lips twitched in betraying amusement.
When the children remained where they were Ginny considered them with tightly folded arms, her eyes narrowed in firm authority. “Wash,” she repeated.
“We don’t never wash up.” Imogene defiantly looped her thumbs around the straps of her overalls.
“Ever,” Ginny corrected automatically.
“Ever what?”
“You don’t ever wash up.”
Rather than realizing she’d been corrected, Imogene took that as permission and sauntered toward the counter where the last of the bread loaves were covered with a dish towel. When she reached out to snatch a piece Ginny rapped her with a wooden spoon.
“Not until you wash.”
Imogene rubbed her dirty knuckles. “You aren’t my ma.”
“No, but I am the cook. Wash up.”
She heard Orrin chuckle and whirled to point the spoon in his direction.
“You, too.”
His laughter died, and he stared at her in disbelief. “I just washed.”
“Wash again.”
“Ginny—”
She made note of the streaks of dirt lingering high on his forearms, then glanced pointedly at each one of the girls. “No one eats in this house until he can reflect light. Wash.”
“It’s not even Saturday!” Imogene snapped, stamping her foot.
Ginny fixed her with a stern gaze. “My cooking can hold until then. Can you?”
Twenty minutes later, though none of them would win any prizes, the Ghants had taken their places at the kitchen table. They were scrubbed, combed, and clean. “It’ll have to do,” Ginny pronounced, secretly relieved they hadn’t called her bluff. Though she’d won the battle, Ginny knew that she had by no means won the war.
A small tug came at her skirts, and Ginny saw Baby Grace staring up at her with pink cheeks and huge brown eyes. Her flyaway hair had been savagely combed and slicked back with water.
“It’s burnin’.” She ran toward her father. “Daddy, it’s burnin’.”
Ginny watched the child in confusion. Then suddenly it dawned on her. The eggs!
She rushed to the stove in time to find that her mess had long since hardened, the edges crisp and black. She reached for the pan, then cried out when the hot cast iron seared her. Jumping up and down in panic for a moment, she finally used her skirts as a hot pad and lifted the skillet free. Then, not knowing what to do with it, she stood for a moment in indecision. The heat was beginning to seep through the cloth. Hissing, she dropped the skillet into the dry sink, where it knocked against Orrin’s shaving basin. She watched in disbelief as the entire pan of eggs was flooded with soapy water.
She heard the scrape of a chair and felt Orrin shadowing her. He looked over her shoulder at the mess.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any other ideas. The children and I are hungry.”
Ginny tried to tamp down the anger flaring within her. Darn it! She was doing the best she could. “I could cook more…”
“You already cooked them all. The hens won’t be laying any more until morning. ’Course, if they get wind of this, they might not lay at all.”
The fury within her reached a boiling point. Ginny grabbed a butcher knife from the counter. “Just … sit!”
He lifted his hands as if to calm her, obviously shocked by her sudden outburst, not to mention the way she brandished the knife in front of her.
“Now, Ginny…”
Ignoring him, Ginny stomped to the far cupboard and savagely sliced what was left of the loaf of bread on the counter. Then she opened a tin of beans and slapped it onto the table.
“Eat,” she commanded curtly.
Eunice stared at the fare, her eyes filling with huge crocodile tears, her chin trembling. “We had this last night,” she complained in a choked voice. “I thought we was havin’ breakfast.”
Orrin took the can, using his fork to ladle a healthy portion onto Eunice’s plate. “Just eat it, honey. Ginny hasn’t had a chance to settle in yet. She’ll fix us something extra special for dinner.”
Ginny went back to the hutch under the pretext of gathering more utensils. Instead she eyed the huge iron stove and the tinned food in the hutch. She’d ruined the eggs—she’d barely managed the cold beans! What in the world was she going to do for “something extra special” come dinner?
The children grudgingly ate their breakfast, then stomped outside.
Orrin spooned the last of the beans into his mouth. “Aren’t you going to fix yourself something to eat?”
Ginny whirled from where she’d been scrubbing at the kitchen hutch to discover that the Ghants had finished everything on the table.
Drat it all! Did he plan to starve her, too?
Orrin didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “I’ll be working in the south pasture. Imogene will show you where that is. I won’t be in for lunch, so I’d appreciate it if you could send something out.” He took a quick sip of the milk left in his mug and scowled. “Tomorrow I’ll wake you a little earlier so you’ll have time to brew the coffee. A man can’t plow with a stomach full of milk.”
Ginny gritted her teeth, wondering why he hadn’t made it himself. He’d already told her that her coffee-making skills were less than adequate.
“I made a list of chores for you to do.” Orrin motioned to a scrap of paper tacked to the wall above the dry sink.
Ginny read it quickly, stiffened, and read it again. Bake bread. Organize cupboards. Mend linens. Feed chickens. Clean coop. Till garden. Slop hogs … The list continued from there, each task more arduous and time-consuming.
She could barely contain her anger. Although she hadn’t expected to start a new life without problems, she hadn’t expected to become a common laborer either. The tasks he’d outlined would take an army of men a month or two to complete.
“I realize you’ll need a little time to get used to things today, so I’ll tell the girls to leave you alone and play by themselves.”
“You are too kind,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “But what should I do in my spare time?”
Her sarcasm floated over Orrin’s head. He shrugged and mopped up his plate with a chunk of bread. “I guess you could tidy up the place.”
Ginny didn’t think twice. She reached out for the pail of milk and without a moment’s pause, dumped the contents over the top of his head.
Ginny spent a few minutes walking through the pine grove in an effort to calm herself. Then she returned.
She saw nothing of Orrin or his children. The only thing that noted her reappearance was a nasty-tempered goat that eyed her from a dirt-encrusted face. As Ginny approached, it bleated at her, fixed her with a malevolent stare, then chased her into the house.
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nbsp; That evening Ginny reluctantly dished up the evening meal to a wary family. She’d meant to make some sort of a stew. Instead the pot floated with a noxious concoction of half-cooked beans, chunks of potatoes, and a watery broth. Orrin and the girls stared at the meal with a certain guardedness but ate the fare, leaving Ginny to clear the table and heat the water for the dishes.
While Ginny washed and dried the crockery, Orrin worked on patching the broken harness. Never once did he remark on the fact that Ginny’s stew had been terrible—even though Ginny herself would have been the first to admit it. Never once did he criticize the awkward way she tended the kettles and scrubbed the soiled pans. He merely regarded her with curious eyes.
Then he suddenly stood from his work, startling Ginny from her thoughts. “I’ll just put the girls to bed.”
He emerged a few minutes later and quietly cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go ahead and undress in the bedroom? I’ll … I’ll just check on the animals.”
He gathered his hat and walked to the door, then paused. Ginny shivered as he watched her with a masculine awareness. He came back to her, and each footfall reverberated deep within her stomach.
Taking her face in his work-worn palms, he bent to brush a gentle kiss over her jaw, her cheeks, her neck. Then he released her and slipped out the door.
He wanted to love her. Though he hadn’t said a thing, she knew he wanted to love her.
Ginny walked into the bedroom on trembling limbs, stripped off her clothing, and pulled a simple batiste gown over her head. Then she climbed beneath the covers. Though she knew she had an obligation to submit to Orrin’s needs, she didn’t think she could do it. Not with his children just inches away.
She heard him enter the keeping room, but several minutes passed before the door opened and the weak lamplight revealed her husband.
He’d come to her wearing an old threadbare nightshirt that stretched too tightly across his chest and left most of his legs from the knee down exposed. Strong, muscular legs.
He motioned to the children, who lay fast asleep in the trundle bed. “In light of your … delicate sensibilities, I undressed in the keeping room.”
