by Reina Torres
She reached out and laid her hand over his where it lay on the table. “Quinn, please.” Brigid noticed a moment later that his hand was still under hers. Sitting back, she drew her hand back into her lap. “You don’t need to do anything else. I should be asking how I can help you.”
“I take care of everything. It’s routine for me. You should rest your ankle.”
The room quieted around them again and Brigid finally nodded. “Thank you, again, for all that you’ve done.”
He moved toward the door, calling over his shoulder. “I’ll be nearby. Call out if you need me.”
She smiled and knew without seeing his face that he was smiling too. He was just about to reach the door when she had an odd thought. “Quinn?”
He stopped and turned around, his mouth was indeed curved in a smile. The effect on his rugged face made him achingly handsome.
It took every ounce of effort for her to form the words in her head, it would have been infinitely more interesting for her to sit there staring at him. She would need to take every memory with her when she left.
“Birdie?”
The nickname made her shoulders shake with a soft spate of laughter. “Sorry, I was lost for a moment.”
“You seem to have that habit.” It might have been a rebuke from someone else, but with Quinn, it had become an endearing reminder of how they’d met, a joke just between them.
“You mentioned you had some clothing that you didn’t need.”
His nod was immediate. “You can find it in the same trunk,” he gestured toward the back wall. “Whatever you’d like, you can have. The needle and thread is in the side pocket of the trunk. I’ll be back in after I split the wood. If you’d like to help me with supper, I won’t turn down the help.”
He looked as though he planned to say more, but didn’t. He let himself out and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 7
Brigid startled awake and tucked her legs beneath her to peer out of a window. There was just a hint of light visible, letting her know that dawn was near. Scrambling from bed, she took a moment to right the covers and plump the pillows. She was nearly done when she paused, her hand smoothing over the soft pillow she’d laid her head on the night before. Giving in to an impulse she plucked the pillow from the bed and turned it over before bringing it to her cheek.
She leaned into the soft cotton and drew in a long slow breath.
Brigid blushed, but she didn’t move the pillow away. The scent was unique. It reminded her of wild grass and clean air.
She’d lived in a large town her whole life. She was used to the close press of people and buildings. Everywhere she looked, there was something new to see, but it was all man-made. Large glass facades faded into wide brick and wooden walls. Everything and everyone seemed to move with a rush of energy and intent. There was rarely a moment to stop and enjoy just being alive.
Coming to Bower had changed that for her. Just taking a step from the train onto the platform had been transformative, although she didn’t realize it at the time. With a rush of nerves coursing through her body, she’d only felt the eagerness to start a new chapter in her life, but that had changed when she’d found herself on the doorstep to Hampton House.
And again, when she’d woken to her first morning at Quinn’s homestead, her eyes seeing the tidy home she’d found herself in, she’d taken another breath and found the world a different place.
Brigid brushed the pillow against her cheek and sighed into the silence of the room.
Looking back on the day before, she’d found her idea of a rustic life had been turned on its head. Living in the woods didn’t mean long hours of inactivity, sleeping under a canopy of trees instead of a bed canopy. Instead, she realized she’d never know someone as industrious as Livingstone Quinn.
From what she’d seen of his efforts she’d been amazed, but that evening over a supper that he’d started at the same time he’d prepared a cold mid-day meal, she’d encouraged him to detail the number of things he had to do on a daily basis.
The conversation had been eye-opening, but what had made the biggest impact on her was how he saw all of his accomplishments as mere survival. To her, it had been a dream.
She had gone to sleep, tucked warm and safe in his bed, with a smile on her face.
Reluctantly setting the pillow back down on the bed, she reached for the first button of her night-shirt at the base of her neck. He’d given her free reign to his cast-off clothing and the night before she’d made use of his generosity and found some old clothing that could be of use. A shirt that had been repaired a few times with a careful hand became her nightwear. Her height meant that one of his shirts didn’t cover that much more on her than it did on him, but it covered enough and kept her warm at night.
Removing the nightshirt, she’d washed, quickly performing the necessary ablutions before donning her new clothing which she hoped was as functional as it was comfortable.
The sunlight was barely kissing the far end of the yard when she peeked outside and froze. Livingstone exited the barn, his fingers combed through his shoulder-length hair, pushing it out of his face. Slung over his shoulder, held secure by his other hand, was an assortment of metal pieces and chain. Thinking back to their conversation the night before, she had a feeling she knew where he was going. Much of what he ate and some of his clothing materials came from his traps. Quinn was heading out to check his traps and possibly replace them with others, it would, by his account, keep him busy for a little over an hour.
Leaving her plenty of time to do what she’d planned as she’d lain awake the night before.
Waiting a long moment before she stepped outside, Brigid crossed the yard to the barn door, enjoying the soft touch of her borrowed boots against her legs. Leaning over the half door, she heard a soft bleat of sound.
“Good Morning, Dandy.”
The little goat called back to her and started across the floor.
She held out her hand. “You stay right there,” she told him and the little one stopped obediently, waiting. Reaching her hand around to the lock, Brigid opened the door and slipped inside. Once she was there, she crouched down and gave the little baby a hug. “I would love to let you out, but I would never forgive myself if you got lost. So you, my little one, are going to stay in here.”
His soft bleat sounded more like a sigh, but he remained in place, watching her as she moved about the barn looking for the basket he’d described.
She found it atop a wide shelf along the wall and picked it up with a proud little swing. “Now, I’m ready.”
On her way out of the barn, she bent down and gave little Dandy a gentle rub on his head.
“Wish me luck.”
The chicken coop was affixed to the side of the barn, making use of one wall for both. It was economical, but it was also smart to share the strength of the larger structure with the smaller one.
As she approached the gate, she paused as the rooster rushed forward and trumpeted a warning. Whether it was for her or the chickens, she didn’t know.
What she did know was that the chickens heeded the call, en masse. Like a flood of feathers and beaks they pushed toward the fence, looking up at her as if they were as curious about the newcomer as she was scared about her intent.
Learning from the day before, she realized the rooster, with his sleek body and crown of red was the key to making this work. Setting the basket down, she lowered her head to meet him, eye to eye.
“Hello, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”
He turned his head and his long tailfeathers swished about, bumping into a few of the hens.
“I want to help Quinn with some of his chores, but I’ve never done this before.” She offered up a wan smile as she started to laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you like you’ll understand, but I’ve already made a fool of myself a few times and I’m not eager to do it again. Quinn shouldn’t have to rescue me from a chicken.”
She winced.
Quinn shouldn’t have to rescue her from anything.
“So I’m proposing a deal. You and your ladies just let me step inside and collect the eggs. And I’ll do my best not to step on anyone.”
Brigid waited for a minute and when the chickens didn’t seem to object to her prattle, she stood and reached for the latch on the gate. With a steadying breath, she pulled it open and wedged her body into the opening so the chickens would stay inside.
Once she was in, she dropped the latch on the other side of the gate and waited, cringing a little, ready to put the basket between her face and the rooster if he felt so inclined to go after her again. Seconds stretched on, and when she opened both eyes and looked down at the chickens, she found them staring back intently.
“All right then.” Crossing to the coop was a slow process. She picked up her feet but not too high off the ground. The chickens seemed to shift around her feet, moving out of her way, but allowing her to make her way without incident. Opening the latch to the coop she exhaled a breath and reached a hand into one of the straw lined boxes. When her hand closed around the warm shell of an egg, her face blossomed with a smile.
Gently cradling it in her palm, she set it lightly in the basket hanging on her arm. Again and again, she reached in and found eggs. Some of the boxes held more than two or even three eggs. She marveled in the snug confines of the coop, the smoothly sanded walls, and the long runged-ramps that crisscrossed the back, allowing the hens to walk up and down if it suited their purpose.
When she filled the first basket she looked down at the myriad of colored eggs that she’d collected. When she finished collecting the rest of the eggs she allowed herself to let out a satisfied sigh.
She turned and gently closed the front of the coop. She’d made her way through the milling throng of chickens and waited while the rooster flapped and fluttered at her feet before he settled down and moved away from the gate. Shaking her head at his antics, she pushed open the gate and closed it up behind her. “Not quite columns of numbers, but I think I’ve done a fairly good job.”
“Well, I would say so.”
The surprise shocked her and she struggled to keep her hold on the basket.
Quinn stepped forward, his long strides eating up the short distance between them. He took hold of the bottom of the basket and helped her lift it from her arm. “I came back to find someone rifling through my coop.”
She shrugged and she reached across her body to massage the muscles in her arm. “I thought I’d make myself useful, since I’ve taken up so much of your time.”
Holding the heavy basket against his side with ease, Quinn shook his head in reply. “You’re a guest. You don’t have to do anything.”
She pressed her argument, nearly toe to toe with him. “I’m a guest who you’re feeding and clothing. You don’t even sleep in your own home because of me. The least I can do is help.” Looking about the yard she couldn’t seem to remember the next step in his morning chores. “So,” she looked back at him, smiling into the face of his confusion, “what’s next?”
Quinn waved a hand. “Nothing. I’ll draw some water from the pump and we can get the morning meal on the table.”
“I like the way you said ‘we’ but I can help with the water,” she explained, “you can put up the eggs for the trip to Bower, and I can pump the water.” She’d seen it done before. Her old home had a pump in the back by the kitchen door. “It’s not hard.”
He gave her a measuring look and she straightened her spine and pushed her shoulders back to meet his gaze.
“Well?”
Quinn’s smile held a note of humor that she was determined to ignore. He stepped to the side and gestured at the pump. “I left a bucket there last night. Fill it a few inches from the top and I’ll come and carry it inside.”
When she didn’t move right away, he turned and she felt his gaze on her face.
“Birdie? Is there something wrong?”
“No,” she had tried for a cool, aloof tone, but the way he’d said her nickname, the soft questioning tone coaxed a determined smile to her lips. “I can do this.”
“If you need help-”
“No.” She knew he wasn’t being rude but she wanted to prove it to him and to herself. “I can do this.” Before she could think better of it, she crossed the yard to the pump.
It took longer than normal to put up the eggs in their pallets. Having lost a trip into Bower because of the storm, he had to find the extra pallets he’d made and use them, but he’d also spent some time looking out from the half-open door to make sure that Brigid was okay.
When he emerged from the barn, he went straight to the pump, set down an empty pail and picked up the first one, stopping only to give her a smile and an encouraging nod. “Good job.”
“Thank you.” She already had her hands on the pump handle, lifting the heavy metal handle in the first of many strokes.
When he returned from the house, she was nearly done with the second bucket.
“That was quick.”
She finished a down stroke on a big smile. “I think I finally understand the rhythm of it.”
He set down the first bucket and meant to say something else, but he caught sight of the sunlight in her hair. It was golden, like the winking spark of gold dust in a pan, and his fingers itched to touch it.
The first night when she’d washed the mud from her hair and had appeared at the door with her long drying waves tumbled about her shoulders, it had taken all his concentration to keep his hands to himself. Something about his Birdie called him to touch. His Birdie.
In his head, he withdrew the slightest bit. He had been shocked to find an unexpected guest, let alone a woman, stumbling into his homestead. At first it was shock. And then worry. And now, the idea that he was going to have to take her back to Bower and into the waiting arms of a fiancé, twisted in his middle.
He felt a warm touch on his arm and he looked down to find her hand on his sleeve. Blinking back at her, he struggled to focus. He could see her lips moving but he couldn’t seem to hear anything besides the rushing river in his ears. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
She smiled and twisted the knife deeper in his middle. “I said, ‘I’m done.’”
Nodding, Quinn bent down and picked up the bucket, narrowing his eyes carefully as she pulled her hands behind her. When he straightened back to his full height she didn’t bring her hands back into sight. “Birdie?”
She turned an artfully blank look toward him and he knew something was wrong.
“Show me your hands.”
Brigid hesitated for a moment, but she must have seen the intractable expression on his face, because she finally drew her hands forward and turned her palms up.
“How much does it hurt?” He didn’t bother asking her ‘if.’ The blisters he saw on her pale skin had to hurt terribly.
She smiled, but the skin around her eyes was tight. “A little.”
He shook his head and couldn’t stop the soft laugh that fell from his lips. “Are you always so stubborn?”
The lift of her chin was enough of an answer. “Come inside with me. I’ll put some salve on your hands.”
She could have stood there, ignoring him, but she preceded him inside.
She had a feeling he started talking to distract her and she was grateful for it. The first time she’d felt the heat on her palms, she attributed it to the heat of the sun rising overhead. After she began pumping water into the second bucket she felt something tear. A little piece of skin had pulled loose and she’d struggled to put it out of her mind.
Sitting before Quinn, taking up his only chair, she was more than happy to listen to the sound of his voice and ignore the pain in her hands.
“Did I hear you right earlier? Did you name my rooster?”
She nodded, but kept her eyes studiously on his shoulder. “I just used the name you did.”
“The name I did?” He paused, the cool wet cloth pressed against her skin. �
��I just told him to get down. He was bothering you.”
She nodded. “I think you’ve said that to him more times than that. When I said, ‘I just need to put this down,” he pushed his way through the hens and stood beside me, looking up as if I’d called him over.”
He pondered her words and ended up nodding. “So he thinks his name is Down.”
Brigid gave a resolute shake of her head. “He knows his name is Down. You just didn’t realize that you’d given it to him.”
He dipped the cloth into the wash bowl and squeezed it out again. “Have you named any more of my animals?”
She shrugged and then hissed when he touched a particularly sensitive area. “A few.” Brigid didn’t wait for him to ask. She thought to get it out of the way before he tried to spread the salve. It might be less painful. “The little goat. I call him Dandy.”
“Dandy?”
She looked up and narrowed her gaze at him. “Did you have another name for him?”
He paused and shook his head. “I just wonder why that particular name.”
Brigid sighed as the cloth soothed a painful spot. “It’s better than Dandelion. He has that tuft on his head that looks like the flower. He jumps around a bit so a short name like Dandy fits.”
She looked down when she heard the metallic scratch of a jar lid. He set the lid aside and she caught a whiff of the contents, turning her head away. “Goodness.”
“It smells like-” he paused and then continued on, “it smells horrible, but it works quickly.”
Brigid let him smear the thick mixture on her palm and then lifted it up to her nose. “Oh, that’s… unique.”
He laughed, a big gut laugh. “You do have a way with words, Birdie.”
She felt her cheeks flush with color, but when he spoke next, she was stunned into silence.
