by Deeanne Gist
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I was hoping to shave first.”
“I’m not sure that’s such good idea. What if you get lightheaded standing up like that?”
Pretending to consider her words, he let out a long sigh. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. It sure does itch, though.”
She glanced at his shaving instruments. “What if I hold the mirror for you? Then you could shave right here.”
He brightened. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, eat something first. Then, we’ll give it a try.”
Anna tried to hold the mirror still, but she could not completely suppress the tremors besetting her. Always before, she’d taken only surreptitious peeks at him when he shaved. Now she had front-seat viewing.
The tangy smell of his shaving cream hung like a cloud around them. He angled his head to one side and painted white, frothy lotion on his cheek, jaw, and neck.
Dipping the brush back in the bowl, he glanced up at her. “Is your arm getting tired?”
“No. What about yours?”
He hesitated. “I’m all right.”
But he wasn’t. She could see that the entire affair was taxing his strength. She bit her lip. She should never have let him help with the potatoes. Clearly it had been too much. And now, after he’d sharpened his razor and mixed up his lotion, he could barely lift his arm.
She lowered the mirror. “Perhaps it would be best if I did that for you.”
He considered her offer for a long moment, then handed her the brush and bowl.
With an air of unconcern, she whipped up the lather and began to spread it on in long, straight strokes.
He placed his hand over hers. “Circles. It’s better if you swirl it on in circles.”
He demonstrated, guiding her motions, then released her. The tips of his fingers brushed her arm on their way down. Bumps covered her skin and the hairs on her arm rose.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No. Yes.” She swallowed. “A little.”
He kept his eyes on hers. She kept her eyes on what she was doing. Finally, she set the bowl and brush down, then reached for the razor.
Frowning, he eyed the blade. “Have you ever done this before?”
“No. Never.”
He pressed himself back into the pillows. “Maybe I’d better do this part.”
“You can barely lift your arm, Joe.”
“I’m feeling better now.”
She tsked. “I can do it. How hard can it be?”
“It’s not hard, exactly, but it does take a steady hand and a smooth touch.”
“I can do it.” She placed a finger on his chin and lifted.
The closer she came with the razor, the more alarmed his expression until his eyes rolled like a spooked horse. A giggle bubbled up from inside her.
He grabbed her wrist. “Stop. Your hand shakes when you do that.”
Her giggle turned into a laugh. And the more she tried to stop, the more tickled she became.
He wrenched the instrument from her hand. “Hold the mirror. I’ll do it myself.”
“No,” she gasped, clutching her side. “I’ll stop. I will.”
He raised a brow, sending her off into another round of laughter. When she finally settled down, he was trying to hold the mirror with one hand and shave with the other.
She grasped the mirror. “I can do it.”
“No thank you.”
She shook her head. “For a big, strapping fellow, you sure are skittish.”
“I happen to value my jugular.”
She smiled. “I value it, too.”
Heat leapt into his eyes. All humor fled from her, replaced with something just as likely to give her unsteady hands, though.
He released the mirror.
She gently took the razor from him. Touching his chin with her finger, she lifted.
“Start from the bottom and come up.” Joe's fingers closed around her wrist. “Don’t press too hard. The edge of that is extremely sharp.”
She wiggled loose from his grip. “Quit talking. Your Adam’s apple jumps around when you do that.”
Starting at the base of his neck, she pulled the blade up along the curve of his throat. A faint scraping noise accompanied its ascent. Lotion piled up along the flat side of the razor.
Keeping her finger on his chin, she swished the blade in a bowl of warm water, then repeated her action. When she came to the center of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Hold your breath for a minute,” Anna said, taking little scrapes around the bulge in his neck. Straightening, she released his chin and touched her neck. Nothing. She pressed along its entire length.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m looking for an Adam’s apple. Do girls not have those? Yours is gigantic.”
He touched his neck. “No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.” She shrugged. “But I’ve shaved it now. You don’t need to hold your breath any longer.”
That was a matter of opinion. He’d thought only to find an excuse to get her near. Never occurred to him that she hadn’t done this before. But of course she hadn’t. How could she have?
She held her tongue clamped between her teeth as she finished his neck. Twisting around to swish the blade clean, she gave him an unrestricted view of her silhouette. The blue-and-white fabric strained against her chest. He flattened his hands on the sheet.
Grasping his chin, she turned his face to the side.
“Wait,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down for this part. It’ll be easier to reach that way.”
He scooted over. She settled down next to him, then leaned close. Very close. Contorting her face, she flattened her cheek against her jawbone, mimicking what she needed him to do. He mirrored her actions. She shaved his cheek.
When she got to the part between his nose and lip, she stretched her lips down over her teeth. Joe did the same, wondering if she even realized what she was doing.
He inhaled, trying to see if he could catch another whiff of the twinflower, but all he smelled was the minty aroma of his shaving cream.
When Anna finally finished, she turned his face this way and that, inspecting her handiwork. “Not so much as a nick.” Smiling, she picked up the shaving instruments. “Hold on and I’ll get a warm cloth.”
She returned, both of her hands covered with a steaming rag. He sucked in his breath as she laid it on his face, then began to relax as the heat dissipated. Cupping the cloth—and his face—with one hand, she used the opposite corner of it to blot up remnants of the shaving cream.
He could have easily taken over the task, but did not. Her gaze followed her ministrations. Down his sideburns, over his jaw, round his chin, across his lips.
She lifted her gaze and stilled, the rag in her hand forgotten.
Without breaking eye contact, he took the rag, then dropped it on the chair beside the bed. Sliding his hand to the back of her neck, he slowly, slowly drew her to him, giving her plenty of time to withdraw. Her eyes fluttered shut.
The kiss was soft, hesitant, and gentle. Then she moaned and all cognizant thought deserted him. Pulling her against him, he deepened the kiss. Her hands slid up his arms, onto his shoulders, and into his hair. He ripped his mouth from hers, kissing her eyes, nipping at her ears, nuzzling her neck.
She squirmed against him.
Recapturing her lips, he pulled her onto his lap and fell back against the pillows, twisting her around so she lay half on the bed, half on him.
If you plan on compromising her somehow in order to get her to wed you, you’re going to have a bunch of fellows to answer to.
He stilled, then gently pulled back. Pillows cushioned her head. She stared at him, wonder and desire fogging her eyes. Bits of honey-colored hair curled along the white of her neck.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyes cleared.
Gasping, she shoved him back and scrambled off the bed. “Good heavens!”
Her cheeks filled with color. Whirling, she ran from the room and up the stairs.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Anna fell onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow. Was that what people referred to as sins of the flesh? She rolled onto her back and touched her lips.
No wonder mothers were so adamant in their warnings. If Joe hadn’t stopped, no telling what would have happened. He certainly was gaining his strength back in a hurry, though.
She flung an arm over her eyes. How could she ever go down those stairs and face him again? What must he think after she’d sprawled herself clear across him and his bed?
Shame and embarrassment washed through her. She might have decided she’d marry him if he asked again—and if that kiss was any indication, she felt sure he would—but that was no excuse for putting the cart before the horse. And it was up to her to see that things remained circumspect until after the vows had been said.
She glanced out the window. In another hour or so, she needed to serve him his lunch. Yet she couldn’t simply hide in her room the whole time.
Pushing herself up, she went to her washstand and poured a bit of water into the bowl. It had been a while since she’d given the upstairs a thorough cleaning. Maybe she’d do that now.
She cooled herself with a rag and water, then headed to one of the vacant upstairs rooms. She worked her way through the entire floor and all too soon stood at the threshold of Joe’s room. Pushing on the door, it slowly swung open.
A massive family bed—a symbol of strength and stability—dominated the far wall. She’d been in his room many times before and it always disconcerted her. This time it was worse. Worse because she’d given herself permission to accept his marriage proposal. Worse because the remnants of their kiss still lingered. Worse because she realized much more than kisses would take place in here once they wed. If they wed.
The walnut headboard consisted of three levels of carved finials that triangulated to a narrow peak near the ceiling. A nightstand and matching bureau topped by a huge mirror completed the bedroom set. Stepping into the room, she opened the curtains, illuminating the exquisite Rococo Rose wallpaper.
It never ceased to surprise her. It simply wasn’t what she imagined a lumberjack would choose. Of course, he’d prepared this room for his bride. The one who didn’t live long enough to see it.
She smoothed his bed covers, which featured an English countryside printed in red against a white background, then wiped down the oil lamp on his nightstand. The Taming of the Shrew lay on top of a small writing box.
Had he continued to read it? He must have. Why else would it be here? She quickly dusted it and the writing slope. A piece of paper protruded from a corner of the box. Lifting the lid, she tried to tuck the correspondence back inside, but it was snagged on the pages above it. She pulled it from the stack, meaning only to lay it on top of the pile, when Bertha’s name leapt from the page.
. . . Bertha Wrenne’s husband not dead STOP Is returned from confederate prison camp STOP . . .
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, Anna read the telegram in its entirety. Not dead? Mrs. Wrenne’s husband was alive? Her friend must have been thrilled at the news.
Anna looked at the date. July thirteenth. The telegram had been sent four days after their arrival in Seattle. One day before Joe had returned to town to see Mrs. Wrenne.
A knot formed in Anna’s chest as pleasure for her friend was quickly overridden by an impending sense of betrayal. He’d known about Mrs. Wrenne all this time? Before he’d shared the picnic with Anna on the redwood stump? Before he’d purchased the fabric on her behalf? Before the quiet evenings in which he’d read to her?
She glanced at the volume of Shakespeare. Will you, nill you, I will marry you.
Her breath came in short, erratic spurts. He’d known. He’d known about Mrs. Wrenne’s husband. Yet he’d pursued her, wooed her, then culminated with a marriage proposal. All under false pretenses.
A pain similar to the mourning she’d felt after her family members died seized her. What a fool she was to think he loved her. And she’d responded completely. But clearly, he was only manipulating her. Using her to save his land.
She felt hot. Light-headed. Nauseated. Shoving the telegram in her pocket, she clutched her stomach, bent over, and hung her head between her knees in an effort to regain her equilibrium. She recalled the staunch arguments she’d foolishly given him on Mrs. Wrenne’s behalf.
I just don’t want to see her hurt.
Which do you think would hurt her more? Canceling the marriage or marrying her even though my interests are elsewhere?
His interests were elsewhere, all right. They were in his land and himself. Her stomach tightened. Seemed he was a bit like Hoke after all.
Tremors took hold of her body, starting on the inside and spreading to the outside. She tried to relax but couldn’t. She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. Moisture collected on her face, neck, and hands. No longer able to stay balanced on the side of the bed, she moved to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest, curling into a ball. She waited for the pain to go away. But it never did.
Joe glanced up from his book when Anna entered. One look at her face and he knew he had some apologizing to do. At least he’d had the presence of mind to put his shirt on before she returned.
“Anna?”
She stepped next to the table and uncovered a plate that held the same lunch she’d packed for the men earlier. “What would you like to drink?”
He threw off the covers and moved to the table where she stood. He wanted to touch her but thought better of it.
“You’re supposed to stay in bed,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” he whispered.
Her eyes filled.
Taking the plate from her hands, he set it back on the table. “Please don’t cry. I took advantage and I had no right. I’m sorry.”
She moistened her lips. “Can you be more specific in what you mean when you say you took advantage?”
He frowned. “This morning. I’d only planned to . . . well, it was supposed to be a simple kiss. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”
“You planned it?”
“I’ve been planning to kiss you for quite some time now.”
“I see.” She glanced at his plate, her tone flat. “Would you like some milk with your lunch?”
He studied her face. Something wasn’t right. He could understand her being upset, but she looked awful. Ill, almost. Still, he knew she’d enjoyed the kiss as much as he had. Slipping his hand into hers, he gave her a gentle squeeze. “What is it, Anna?”
“I was wondering when I would be released from my debt to you?”
He stilled. “Actually, I was hoping you would reconsider your answer from the other evening and would consent to marry me.”
“What about Mrs. Wrenne?”
“The agreement between Mrs. Wrenne and me is no longer.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Anna looked him square in the eye. “It matters a great deal.”
He needed to tell her. If he didn’t, someone else would the next time she went to town, and then where would he be?
Bracing himself, he intertwined his fingers with hers. “It turns out Bertha’s husband is still alive and came to Seattle to collect her.”
Surprise briefly touched her eyes, but other than that she gave no outward reaction to the news. “Well, that must have come as something of a shock. When did you discover this?”
Does it matter? But he didn’t voice the question again, because he already knew the answer.
She pulled her hand from his. “When will I be released from my debt to you?”
“I haven’t worked out the exact date yet.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
Swallowing, Joe took a deep breath. “It will take a while. Your passage ended up being four hundred dollars.”
&nb
sp; “I knew nothing about all that. I only agreed to fifty dollars.”
He stood his ground. “And my offer of marriage?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t reconsider.”
“Why not?”
She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him.
His breath hitched when he recognized it. “You looked through my things?”
“Not on purpose. It was sticking out of your writing slope when I was dusting. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go collect some eggs.”
He tried to catch her wrist, but she swerved out of reach.
“Anna, please.”
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, her face pale and void of expression. “How much longer do you have before losing your land?”
“Twelve days.”
She nodded. “I am sorry, Joe. I really am. And I will stay until my debt is paid off, but then I’ll be leaving.”
No. “To go where? To do what?”
“Does it matter?”
She threw his words back at him, then didn’t wait for his answer as she slipped out the door. And it was just as well. There was nothing he could say. The game was up. He’d taken an all-or-nothing gamble and gone bust.
He was going to lose his land. In twelve days’ time, Tillney would walk onto half of his land and harvest the wood Joe had staked his future on. He could divert the stream. He could build a house. He could set the whole thing on fire and Joe could do nothing.
So why was the loss of Anna grieving him even more than the loss of his land?
By the time she returned with the eggs, her calm had been restored and her stomach had settled. Joe was nowhere in sight. His bed by the fire was made. His shaving utensils were cleaned and put away. His book was gone.
Was he in the necessary? Had he gone to his room to lie down? She tiptoed upstairs. His door stood open. His bed, untouched.
Returning to the kitchen, she kept an ear cocked for any noise from outside. What if he’d fainted again? She slipped out the door and slowly approached the privy.
“Joe?”
Nothing.
She knocked. “Joe? Are you in there?”
Shielding her eyes so that she’d only see his boots if he were inside, she opened the door. It was empty.
