Still pumping, Katie Ellen threw a look over her shoulder, and what she saw nearly made steam beneath her raincoat. It was that Josiah Huckabee interfering with her business once again.
“Get away from them!” she hollered, her breath coming in hops as she ratcheted the lever.
He stood in the downpour in nothing but a homespun shirt and trousers, wetter than a crawdad in May. “I’m helping them across!” he hollered back. His normally blond hair lay plastered dark and wet against his head.
But Buttercup had already read the writing on the wall. Her calf was going and she had to follow. She’d edged closer to the bridge, lowing in protest but making the trip of her own accord.
Josiah slapped her on the rump to hurry her along. “Yaw!” he yelled. “Get on, Buttercup. Go on across with you.”
Sure enough Buttercup did a half trot until her feet hit the slick boards beneath the water. She wobbled, and in a flash Josiah was at the cow’s side.
What was he doing? If the bridge didn’t wash out with the cow, then it sure as Sunday wouldn’t hold the cow and Josiah. That boy never had any sense, but he did have strength, and from the looks of his rain-soaked shirt, he had it in abundance.
The strap around the tree spun and twisted the handle out of her grasp. What had happened? Katie turned around to see the calf sprawling, fighting for footing on the slippery boards. And then it was gone. The calf disappeared beneath the water, the rope ending at a foaming bulge.
No . . . Katie Ellen’s lips formed the word, but no sound came out.
Forgetting her terror of the bridge, Buttercup started for the side, unable to see beneath the water to where the boards ended. And just like that Josiah lunged to Buttercup’s side and threw his shoulder against her. “No you don’t.”
Katie Ellen’s heart leapt to her throat. He had to be teetering on the very edge of the swollen footpath, matching his strength against a crazed bovine’s. Had she mentioned he had no sense?
As he struggled to keep the cow at bay, she heard his deep voice carry through the rain, “Get the calf!”
Her neck heated at her mistake. Bracing again, she doubled her efforts at the winch, fueled by frustration that Josiah had caught her in a blunder. Although the rope had been swept away from the bridge, she could still reel the calf in. She pulled the calf closer and closer to the edge, even though the current battled her for every foot.
Only once did she brave a glance at Josiah, surprised to see that he, too, was making progress, but she wouldn’t be distracted again. After what seemed an eternity, a cinnamon-colored muzzle broke above the water. Katie Ellen’s arms burned, but with a few more tugs a head appeared. This was the biggest catch of her life. Too bad the retelling would have to include Josiah.
Suddenly the calf touched ground and broke through. Still in the flooded riverbank, Katie Ellen didn’t stop with the ratcheting until the calf had reached dry land . . . or at least solid footing.
She turned just in time to see Buttercup finish her journey, too. Now that the calf had crossed, Buttercup raced ahead of Josiah, trotting to sniff and lick her exhausted baby.
Heart pounding, Katie Ellen flexed her fingers, working the pain out of them. She’d be sore, no doubt about it, but sore muscles wouldn’t be what kept her awake tonight. Safely across, Josiah moseyed to the calf and removed the halter from its head. Then for good measure, he stacked the rails of the broken fence atop each other and shook it to make sure it’d hold. His smile was never so devilishly handsome as when he’d just accomplished the impossible. Soaked to the bone, his sopping wet clothes stuck to him like a coat of wet paint. With a sigh, Katie Ellen pulled aside her raincoat to peek at the hem of her skirt. Still dry.
“You need help getting your gear to the barn?” Josiah asked, dropping the rope at her feet.
Taking ahold of the winch, Katie Ellen pulled the rope through and loosened it from the tree. “No, thank you. I can do it.” She dropped her equipment into the wheelbarrow and took to the handles.
He stood in her way, arms crossed, mischievous grin on his face. “I’d heard your folks were gone. Thought I’d come check on you. Good thing I did.”
She lowered the wheelbarrow with a splash. “Both cattle were coming across before you ever got here.”
“I risked my life crossing that bridge—”
“I didn’t ask you to, did I? And you’d better hurry back across the river while you still can. If it gets any higher, you’ll have to swim home.” She swiped at an errant chestnut-colored lock of hair that had dared venture across her cheek, and again lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow.
“And leave you here alone?” Beneath his straight, thick brows, his brown eyes twinkled. “Ma would wear me out for not bringing you home, at least until the storm blows over.”
Katie Ellen shook her head. Why would she give up her tidy, dry home to bunk down at the Huckabees’ log cabin with his multitudinous younger siblings? Not when she’d been left in charge here. “This is my place and I’m staying here.”
He raised his hand to tip his hat, but forgetting he had no hat—in a rainstorm, the fool—he settled for a tap of his forehead. “Have it your way, Katie Ellen. I know better than to try to persuade you otherwise.”
But for some reason his easy surrender riled her up even more.
Josiah stepped sideways and barely kept her from running over his toe. Katie Ellen had to be the only girl in Missouri who could stand in a gully washer and look as fresh and crisp as a new dollar bill. She stopped once on the way to the barn, lowered the wheelbarrow, and squeezed her shoulders up to her ears before continuing. She’d expended some force for such a slip of a girl. She’d feel it tomorrow. Buttercup and the calf were already waiting next to the barn door, so she probably didn’t need him after all.
He pushed his hair back from his forehead and blinked the rainwater away. Suppose he’d better head back to the farm, although there wasn’t much to do there on a day like today. His livestock had already been put up, which was exactly why he’d set out to see if he could help anyone else. Josiah shoved a hand into his pocket and tried to whistle but only succeeded in sputtering rainwater. He’d been on the lookout for a little adventure, to tell the truth. Big rain like this, there had to be something dangerous going on, and sure enough, he’d found it exactly where he was hoping to—at the Watsons’ farm.
But the cow wasn’t nearly as dangerous as tangling with Katie Ellen. Being with her was more exciting than tracking a catamount, and he was just as likely to get clawed to ribbons. Still, he couldn’t stay away, and someday soon he was going make it clear why. Until then he hung around pestering her, making sure that no matter how angry she got, she couldn’t forget about him.
He walked the bank of the swollen river, trying to discern exactly where the bridge would be. Marking the angle of the oak tree, he drew a line in the air with how the rope had stretched across and gone just there. Where? When he’d looked before, he could see the bump in the river that marked where it was jumping the planks, but now there was no sign. Turning his head to look downriver, Josiah saw something that made his mouth stretch wide in a grin. A plank off that selfsame bridge had got caught in a washout. Twenty to one there was no bridge anymore. He shook his drenched head, throwing water like a dog coming out of the creek, and wagged his tail while he was at it. He wasn’t going anywhere. Wouldn’t Katie Ellen be pleased?
Chapter Two
Katie Ellen wiped her boots in the grass, knocking the mud loose before she reached the porch. At eighteen years of age, she was more than capable of watching the farm for a few days, but her parents still had their misgivings. These mountains had been ripe for trouble ever since Katie Ellen could remember, but with the rain, outlaws weren’t her only concern. So far she’d managed the flooding, the stock was safe and tidy in the barn, and she’d spread straw over the garden in hopes of keeping the seedlings from washing down the hill. Her outside chores were done until milking time. She could go inside and curl up
in front of the fire for the rest of the afternoon and promise herself that she wouldn’t gloom over the fact that she’d nearly let the calf drown.
Neither would she spend her day mooning over Josiah Huckabee. No, sir. He’d dallied with her once before, but this time she knew better. At the porch she removed her gloves and laid them carefully atop the stack of firewood. She’d need to rub some lard into them to keep the leather from cracking. Hanging her raincoat on the peg next to the door, she swiftly unbuttoned her boots and arranged them against the wall. She pulled up her toes to keep her socks from contact with the porch, but it didn’t matter. She swept the porch clean daily and it was only three steps before she would be inside and could put on her house slippers.
Once her slippers had been donned, she paused to take in her surroundings. The new sofa looked out of place in the log home, but Katie Ellen had convinced her parents that they needed a parlor suite, or at least the first piece of the six-piece set. Her grandmother’s quilt hung over the back of the birch frame and the crush plush upholstery. Even though the plank floor didn’t need the protection, the casters were in place beneath each leg. The cuckoo clock was wound for the day. The log from that morning burned slowly and evenly. The sliced lemon she’d left in a saucer continued to adorn the home with a zesty scent. Perfect. Just like she’d left it.
While she did miss Ma and Pa, there was a huge comfort in knowing that nothing could change without her express permission.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Katie Ellen spun to the door. Her mouth tightened. Surprises only happened when you lost control of a situation, and Katie Ellen didn’t favor being out of control. Who could possibly be at the door? No one would try to cross the river now. Swinging the door open, she braced herself, but it was hopeless. She was never prepared to come face-to-face with Josiah.
A trickle of water ran down the side of his face and pooled next to the dimple that was really too close to his mouth to be normal. Quick as a flash his tongue darted out and caught the stray drop.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“The bridge is out.”
“Then I won’t cross it. Thank you.” She stepped back and swung the door closed, but Josiah caught it and pushed it back open.
“Can I come in?”
Out of habit, Katie Ellen scanned the room, knowing the few spots she always found troublesome when company dropped in uninvited. Her pa’s pipe balanced perfectly atop his tobacco box and Ma’s sewing box had been hidden behind the spinning wheel.
“Ummm . . .” Why couldn’t she just once stop worrying about the condition of the house? Not like Josiah’s chaotic home could compare, but a compulsion had her checking the hearth for ashes and the corners for cobwebs.
The door creaked. She turned to find Josiah already across the threshold. The puddle beneath him spread like an ink stain.
“Stop it!” she cried. “You have to leave your wet clothes on the porch.”
That misplaced dimple showed up again. “If you insist. . . .” He stepped backward across the threshold, slid his palm beneath his suspenders, and shrugged one strap off his shoulder. The second strap was sliding down his arm when Katie Ellen slammed the door in his face.
She’d caught enough glimpses of Josiah swimming at the deep hole of the river to know he didn’t cotton to wearing clothes when he didn’t have to. An annoying predilection he hadn’t outgrown even as he’d filled out into a good-sized man.
Through the door he called, “I’m soaked clean through. How many of my clothes do you want me to leave out here?”
“Go home!” she hollered.
“I’m afraid I can’t. The bridge washed out.”
“When did that ever stop you? You can swim.”
His low chuckle unsettled her equilibrium. “Have you been spying on me, Katie Ellen?”
Guilty memories pricked her conscience. Angry at herself, she threw the door open, forgetting his naked threat, but his shirt and trousers were still in place.
“You can go down the bluff,” she said.
“That’s quite a walk back around to my place, and it’s long past dinnertime.”
On cue, her stomach grumbled. Traitor. But she had no reason to send him away. None besides he’d hurt her feelings three years ago. Yes, sir . . . hurt feelings. It sounded better than a broken heart. Besides, she’d passed a fair number of evenings alone of late, and she had a whole pot of poke salad boiling. Way too much for one.
“I suppose you did try to help with the cattle.” She’d probably regret inviting him in, but they were adults. Surely she could handle a simple dinner. If he got fresh, she’d toss him out on his backside before he knew what hit him. He stood at the doorway, already barefooted and waiting for word from her. With a confident nod she made her decision. “Wait right here.”
She hustled through the house, as always her eyes searching for anything out of place, but as usual finding nothing. At the pine chest, she bent, lifted the lid, and grabbed out a stack of thin cheesecloth towels. How to get him to the kitchen without making an even bigger mess? Beneath the towels her sleeve pressed into her wrist and she was surprised to feel dampness there. She’d thought that she’d stayed dry. Well, considering the downpour, maybe that one spot was forgivable.
When she returned, she found he’d disappeared. Frowning, Katie Ellen stuck her head out the door and looked both ways, but no sign of him. Then her eyes followed the trail of water across the main room to the kitchen. She forced her breath out her nose, dropped to her hands and knees, and mopped her way forward.
“I was worried about coming in,” he said. “Didn’t know if you’d booby-trapped this place or not.”
“Ma doesn’t allow my inventions inside,” she huffed as she flipped the towel over to find a dry spot. “But what’s your worry? They never kept you out of my tree house.”
“They’re the selfsame reason I went to your tree house—to see what you’d concocted.” He scratched at his chest. “By the way, I saved some of the boards from your bridge. Caught them hung up downriver.”
She should thank him, but being irritated at him was much safer. “What are you doing in here?”
“Your pot was boiling over.”
So was her temper. Sopping up the last of the rainwater, she bustled to his side. “I don’t like sharing my kitchen.”
“You cooked for us when Ma was ailing.” He lifted the kettle with a hot pad and set it on the table.
“Not on the tablecloth . . .” Visions of a scorched white cloth flashed before her eyes. She could use vinegar to get the mark out, but it’d never be same. She reached for the kettle, but he got it first.
“When did you get so particular, Katie Ellen? You ain’t no fun at all anymore.”
Her gut twisted. What he said was true, but she had her reasons.
“I grew up. Now, give me that kettle. The greens need to be rinsed again.” She reached for the hot kettle, but he raised it over his head and out of her reach.
“Let me help you.” His deep voice broke through her thoughts of ruined tablecloths, and his light touch on her shoulder felt like it would scorch her shirtsleeve instead. Brushing off his hand, she grabbed for the kettle.
Except she forgot about the hot pad.
Her hand knew she’d been burned before her brain figured it out. The kettle crashed to the floor, strewing dark green poke salad everywhere with splashes of it sticking to the calico covering that hung from the kitchen counter.
Katie Ellen glared at him, her eyes speaking words her mouth wasn’t allowed to utter. She cradled her hand against her chest. Josiah grimaced. Then, quick as a wink he reached for her butter dish. With a scoop of his finger, he produced a creamy glob. “Here, smear this on the burn.”
“I’d just molded that loaf of butter,” she gritted from between clenched teeth. “Now it’s ruined.”
“Katie Ellen, you are being downright cantankerous. Give me your hand.”
“Butter goes on bread, not skin
.”
“If that’s what you want.” Reaching behind him, he snagged a stale biscuit from the bread basket and smeared his finger into it. He offered it to her, but when she shook her head, he took a hearty bite out of it. “When do your folks get back from Fayetteville?” The hair around his forehead was drying in blond wisps. His dark brows amplified the effect of the sparkling eyes beneath.
Choosing to focus instead on the messy floor, Katie Ellen looked away. “Tomorrow, or the day after, Lord willing . . .”
“. . . and the creek don’t rise,” he finished for her. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with them. Thought maybe you were sweet on the Freeson boy.” He finished off the biscuit.
“Maybe I am.” She swooped down to snag the copper kettle lying on its side. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Junior were to ask Pa if he could call while he’s down there.”
Josiah stepped out of her way as she deposited the kettle into the basin. “Don’t seem right a pretty girl like you would have to go all the way to Arkansas to find a fellow. Seems like there was a feller ’round these parts who was partial to you not so long ago.”
Her mouth went dry. She blinked rapidly. How could he act so nonchalant when he’d hurt her so badly? But hadn’t she done everything to guarantee he didn’t know how she felt about him?
And he could never find out. “Go home,” she said. “Dinner’s on the floor and I’m not hungry anymore.” The wind rattled the front door, giving her an excuse to leave the kitchen. The soggy poke leaves would have to wait. She couldn’t stay in the room with him a moment longer.
Katie Ellen marched into the main room of the cabin, intent on going to her bedroom and slamming the door, when movement by the fireplace startled her.
“Pa?” she said. But it wasn’t Pa standing in her house. It was a stranger.
The man turned around, stroking his graying beard with a bony, nearly skeletal hand. A chill ran up her back, and this time it wasn’t because of the rainwater puddling on the floor.
With This Ring? Page 8
