Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  Nearly eighteen months of independence and she still found it a potent brew to drink each day. She had grown fiercely protective of her rights as she perceived them. Catherine felt a little guilty, for Louis had not been a cruel man, just typical for the time. She mourned his death at a young age, and in her own way. It was a terrible thing to discover that passion was a poor substitute for deep, abiding love. And she wouldn’t lie to herself. She had deeply resented, almost hated the daily command performance of how she had spent her day. Woe to her if all had not been to his exacting plan of what was right and proper. His death had set free an imp of mischief that allowed no such restrictions.

  “Is there something wrong?” Greg asked. “Have I said something to offend you?”

  With a slight shudder, Catherine shrugged off the past. It was petty to argue with the man after he had apologized. Obviously he could be reasoned with, and it certainly didn’t hurt that she found him attractive. She curbed those thoughts. He was here to get well, not to ease her longings.

  Greg, not noted for his patience, began to be irked with her continued silence. What did the woman want from him? An apology on bended knee? Groveling at her feet?

  “Madam, have I somehow created a difficult problem? Either you accept my apology or not.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

  “Do you know,” he said, tilting his head to one side, “I’m inclined to believe you.”

  Catherine was uncertain if he was provoking her or stating the truth. “Do believe me. I never lie. Well,” she corrected herself, “hardly ever.”

  “Not about important matters,” he observed.

  She shied from replying. She didn’t know one woman, herself included, who cared to be read so easily, or so quickly, by any man, even if what he said was true. She found that the day suddenly seemed warmer under his direct gaze. A most irksome habit of his.

  “We’d better finish unloading your luggage,” she suggested.

  Ah, I’ve hit a nerve with that one, he thought. But he let it pass without comment, tucking the knowledge away. It only made his curiosity about her intensify.

  “And my apology is accepted?”

  “Accepted.”

  “Then may I suggest—”

  “I knew it.” Catherine pushed aside her loose hair. “Give a man an egg and he’ll want an even dozen.”

  “I’m sure there is some country wisdom in your remark, but it escapes me.” Greg put his hands on either side of the small trunk that Catherine had been wrestling with and dragged it closer.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Mayfield?”

  “Taking the trunk off.”

  “I can see that for myself,” she returned with a touch of asperity. “I meant to know how you intend to take it off.”

  “Watch. And perhaps lend me a hand.” Greg bent beneath the edge of the trunk. “Push it toward me, if you please,” he ordered. When the trunk’s weight was centered on his shoulder, he started to rise.

  “Careful now,” Catherine warned. “Don’t strain yourself. I don’t think this is a good idea. That trunk is heavy. Suzanne would never forgive me if you hurt your back.”

  Greg straightened, gripping the trunk with both arms. “Your advice, madam, is noted.” Damn, but the woman was right. The trunk was heavy, and he was no dockworker with the brawn to lug it about. Pride refused to allow him to admit that she was right.

  Catherine watched him stagger beneath his burden as he held on and maintained his balance. Twice she thought he would fall, and twice bit her lip rather than call out. He wouldn’t appreciate her cautioning him again. She took matters into her own hands. She removed the coarsely woven lap robe from beneath the buckboard’s seat. She was careful about putting weight on her throbbing ankle as she climbed down, spread the material on the ground, then climbed back into the buckboard.

  A loud thump came from the house. She waited with bated breath for some indication that he was all right.

  Silence.

  She was torn. Should she stay or go see if he was hurt? He was a prickly sort, and she had no desire to provoke. On the other hand, she had a responsibility to make sure he didn’t injure himself.

  As she leaned forward to climb down again, Greg strolled out of the house. He brushed his hands one against the other in a self-satisfied manner.

  “Ready for the next one?”

  “Yes, but this time we’ll do it my way. Less effort, you’ll agree.” She pushed off another trunk before he could open his mouth. “Now, you take those two ends, and I’ll grab hold of these. We’ll drag it up inside.”

  Three trips later and an exhausted duo surveyed the trunks in the hall.

  Catherine spied her cat sneaking up the stairs. She had no doubt he was going to Mary’s old room, the one where she had already put Mr. Mayfield’s luggage. With her guest now settled in the parlor with his trunks of books, one of the few pleasures Suzanne allowed him, Catherine then wasted no time in mounting the stairs. The throbbing in her ankle reached an unbearable level, but she had to forestall the cat’s mischief.

  Lord Romeo surprised her. He sat in the middle of the bare mattress grooming himself. She might have been another piece of furniture for all the attention he paid her.

  “You and I are going to have a talk,” she warned the cat. “Off you go.” She reached over the bed to lift him up and set him on the dresser. “There’s a new house rule for you. This is the last time you come into this room until our guest is gone.” With a rumbling purr, the cat licked her hand. She scratched behind his ears and was rewarded with another lick. He raised his head, a sure indication that he wanted his neck stroked. Catherine obliged.

  “He doesn’t like cats so you see the sense of forbidding you his room. I’ll make sure he keeps temptation out of your way by closing his door at night.”

  Lord Romeo ceased purring.

  Catherine left him to take what she needed from the linen closet. She returned to make up the bed. “I know you like to sleep in here. But you’ll obey me this time or I’ll banish you to the barn. Think about that if you’ve got mischief in mind. All those kittens climbing over you, demanding to play while you’d like to sleep. Let’s not forget Hector. That rooster doesn’t like you, even if Miss Lily does.”

  She tucked the ends of the sheet beneath the mattress and glanced at the cat. He sat on the dresser with his forepaws tucked beneath his body, eyes slitted.

  “If you’re very good, you’ll have salted fish every day that Mr. Mayfield’s here. I’ll promise extra cuddling, too.”

  “That animal hasn’t the sense to appreciate your bribes,” Greg said from where he stood in the doorway.

  Catherine was too startled to hear the wishful note in his voice. And she took exception to his belittling Lord Romeo’s intelligence. “He understands. Don’t doubt that. See how his tail is whipping from side to side. He knows you dislike him. Cats, Mr. Mayfield, are sensitive to the people they come in contact with. If they have an aggressive nature, they will provoke someone who doesn’t like them. Trust me to be telling you the truth.” She spread the quilt and plumped the pillow. “There, all ready for you.”

  “I usually sleep with three pillows.” When I sleep alone. But he didn’t add the last, for he had a feeling the dainty-looking widow had an aggressive nature to match her cat’s.

  “Three?”

  “I like my comfort. If you don’t have—”

  “Oh, I can provide all the comforts of home. I’ll just be a minute.” Catherine willed herself not to limp as he stepped aside to let her pass into the hall. She had the strange sensation of being watched and judged. Lord, if he turned out to be anything like Louis, she would not survive the next few weeks. But Louis had never ruffled her nerve ends with his nearness.

  Greg strolled into his room and with considerable apprehension approached the cat. “The widow credits you with intelligence. I propose we have a truce. You keep out of my way, and I’ll do my be
st not to annoy you.” He felt foolish talking to the cat, who sat with its tail wrapped around its hindquarters. He almost believed the widow when the cat turned its head and regarded him with great green eyes that held a faintly annoyed look, as though Greg had no business discussing matters best left to his mistress.

  There was a small porcelain bowl filled with dried flowers on the corner of the dresser. A faint, pleasing scent rose from it. Greg kept his eye on the cat’s tail. There came a rustle and footsteps from the hall. The cat sprang from the dresser and shot across the room. The animal’s lunge pushed the bowl to the edge of the dresser. It teetered there.

  Greg grabbed for it. He caught the bowl, but not the contents. Still, he attempted to snatch the dried flowers from the air. His stomach slammed into the sharp point of the dresser. He swore as pain spread, but he clutched the bowl to him.

  “Are you so stubborn a man, Mr. Mayfield? Must you provoke my cat after I warned you?”

  He faced her. She had an armful of pillows and a candlestick dangling from one hand. Her head was tilted to one side. There was something regal about her as she met his gaze with a faintly scornful look. Perhaps it was because of the way her brows arched, or the disdainful droop of her lovely lips. Pity about her mouth, it was made for kissing. He shook his head. What put that thought in mind? He wanted no militant miss in his life. Not even temporarily.

  “I did not provoke that creature. I merely tried to save your bowl from breaking. You seem to have enough to do without picking up shards of porcelain.”

  Catherine stared pointedly at the potpourri scattered over the hardwood floor. She nodded. “Yes, I can see how you’ve saved me additional work.”

  Greg felt his face grow hot. “I made the attempt. I did keep the bowl from breaking,” he observed icily.

  “Yes, you did.” Catherine crossed to the bed and dumped the extra pillows on it. She set the candlestick on the bedside table. “You must be exhausted. Have a rest. I’ll call you when I’m ready to serve your meal.”

  Poison, most likely, he thought. Greg listened to the door close behind her. Confound that woman! And confound her damn cat! Provoking creatures. A light tap on the door stopped him from ruminating further.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “May I open the door?” Catherine asked.

  “It’s your house, madam.”

  Oh dear, he’s back to calling me madam. As if this were a brothel. But then she was reminded that when Mary’s husband, Rafe, had come seeking aid for his wounded daughter, he thought the merry widows ran a brothel. But really, madam? Cranky male. She opened the door a crack. He had not moved from his place in front of the dresser.

  “I’m the one who apologizes this time. Thank you for saving the bowl from breaking. Forgive me?”

  Contrary woman! Using that syrup-laden voice to disarm his anger while she was likely making faces at him behind the protection of the door.

  “We’ll begin anew, Mrs. Hill. Again. One of these times, I’m sure we’ll get it right. And now, if you will allow me, I’ll do as you suggested and rest. It’s been a most trying day. Unfortunately, it isn’t over.”

  A nicely delivered snub! Catherine was tempted to stick her tongue out where he couldn’t see her do it, but withheld that childish gesture. “As you wish, Mr. Mayfield,” she murmured, and closed the door. It was a pity, she mused as she limped down the hall, that men didn’t have visible feathers. She would love to see Mr. Mayfield with his all at sixes and sevens. Provoking male creature!

  She could fix his tail feathers. She could prepare a meal according to the strictest dictates of Suzanne’s instructions from the man’s physician. The man needed coddling. She’d give him coddling. Charity and compassion, a nagging little voice warned.

  “Yes, and they begin at home. Start as you mean to go,” she reminded herself.

  Using the banister to brace her body, she hopped her way down the stairs. Her ankle wanted tending, but that she’d forgo until after evening chores.

  All thought of curbing her impulsive nature fled.

  There was something about her houseguest that tickled the devil in her. She was going to enjoy matching wits with the man.

  And she had the strangest sensation that Gregory Mayfield felt the same.

  Chapter Five

  For the first time in days, Greg had what he wanted. Peace and privacy. Then why, by all that was holy, was he pacing his room? Having a solid floor beneath his feet should please him no end. The cessation of the rocking motion of the stagecoach, the lack of incessant conversation and the absence of his drunken, snoring seatmate all should be reason to celebrate.

  Then why was he restless?

  The bed, with its soft feathered mattress and clean-smelling linens, invited him to rest. The pillow held the indentation of his head where he had lain for a few minutes.

  Still, he paced.

  Moving the lace curtain aside, he stared out the window. The view of towering treetops and mountain peaks transferred itself into his thoughts as lumber to be milled to meet the growing demand of the men building shoddy housing for the immigrants flooding the eastern shore in search of a better life, a richer one, too, and to feed the demand for grand estates of newly made millionaires.

  Mining the forbidding-looking mountains provided riches to be transformed to adorn the bodies and the homes of the wealthy.

  Money. He couldn’t even remember when the game of amassing a fortune to provide for Suzanne’s future, as well as his own, had become an obsession. His sister called it that. He couldn’t admit to her that she was right. Greg turned away in disgust.

  But old habits died hard. He looked at his watch. If he were still in New York, he’d be at his office, which occupied one entire floor of the Trinity Building, one of architect Richard Upjohn’s showcases. A late lunch then, at either the Astor House or the imposing Fifth Avenue Hotel with any of a dozen newly made millionaires, all looking to parlay their first fortunes, made in mining, land and cattle, shipping and railroads, into another fortune, then another. None had believed him when he denied making this trip to seize opportunity for riches. They considered him a savvy man with unerring instincts for the right deal.

  Despite the terms of his bet with Suzanne, the idea tantalized him that he was in the land of opportunity. He thrived on putting together the sort of deals where money was made on a handshake over lunch and rolled over three times or more before the evening ended.

  And the women… Greg stopped pacing. He mentally shut the door on thoughts of the fleeting, meaningless relationships he’d had over the years. Marriage might never be in his future. No matter that Suzanne claimed the right woman would be the making of his eternal happiness. He could not imagine having to depend upon someone else to make him happy. He certainly didn’t want that responsibility for a lifetime.

  What his sister should do was to speak with her circle of married friends. Many of them wouldn’t agree. Otherwise languid glances and other not-so-subtle invitations would not come his way.

  If he could only put a name to this vague discontent, he could do something to correct it. His gaze fell on the washstand, in particular the water pitcher. He could do with a wash and a shave. Empty, he discovered a moment later. But what a perfect excuse to rejoin the lovely widow. He didn’t understand why he was drawn to her when he wasn’t even sure he liked her. She certainly held no resemblance to any woman who had attracted him in the past.

  There was just that indefinable something that intrigued him.

  Greg’s entrance into the large, sunny kitchen was abruptly halted. The widow was bent over the open oven. Her perfectly shaped derriere was outlined by the taut pull of her trousers. Had the woman no shame? But it made for an arresting, and arousing, sight. He leaned against the door frame, water pitcher dangling from one hand, while he admired the view. His sudden lusty thoughts didn’t raise a speck of guilt.

  Catherine, unaware of his presence, poked the tops of the biscuits she had baking. The teakett
le whistled, adding its steam to that of the boiling pot where eggshells clacked against one another as they cooked to the hard-boiled stage. She intended to serve her guest coddled eggs, but she was hungry, too, and hated runny eggs.

  Mary and Sarah teased her that, no matter what troubled her, she never missed a meal. She smiled thinking about it, and how lucky she was not to resemble Caroline Arquette, a widow who owned the town’s café. Caroline swore that she had an image to maintain as both the owner and cook, and as a Frenchwoman by marriage. Catherine pushed the tray back and closed the oven door.

  She snitched a pinch of gingerbread Caroline had traded for two dozen eggs only this morning. Licking her lips so not to miss one crumb of the spicy cake, she caught herself wondering how Greg’s lips would taste. She imagined his face, honing in on his eyes. Definitely spicy, she decided.

  Suzanne’s mention in one letter that her brother was refusing all effort to seriously look around for a wife popped into her mind. She didn’t know why that idle bit of information or the fact that he no longer had a mistress in keeping mattered to her. She had her own problems with a few local men, especially with Hillsboro growing rapidly this year, who attempted to court her. She discouraged them all. It was far too soon to think about marrying again.

  She had made a terrible mistake with Louis. She thought passion was love. It was not, and it was not enough to build upon. She had never looked beyond the whirlwind courtship to the endless days of being no more than a china doll to adorn his arm when he chose, grace his house and behave like an empty-headed doll who had no thoughts of her own, no dreams, no desires beyond pleasing him. No, there would be no marriage for some time.

  And she knew from the kisses she had sampled, it would not be anytime soon. She wanted a love like the kind Mary and Rafe shared. One had only to look at them to see it.

  She pinched off another corner of the gingerbread and savored it. Soft and spiced. She was sure that was how Greg would kiss a woman.