Mum shook her head. “No, you don’t heat the lye. It gets hot on its own when you add it to the water. An’ ya gotta make sure you add the lye to the water, not the water to the lye. Else ye’ll blow up the kitchen.”
The memory work seemed to be effective. Mum was speaking more clearly than he’d heard her in weeks.
Cathleen pushed back from the table and turned to scan her ingredients.
He eased forward a step. “Just tell me what to do.” He kept his prodding gentle, but he wanted to make sure she knew he was here to work.
She tossed a distracted glance his way, then peered over a pot on the work counter. “Could you get some fresh water from the stream? Make it as clean as you can.”
Good. That was work he could handle without feeling awkward.
When he returned with a full pail, Cathleen was bent over the work counter, peering at the old scales Mum used for soap-making. The mess of dough still sat on the table, but his mother was nowhere in sight.
“Here you go. Where’s Mum?” He set the bucket down by the stove.
“She needed to rest.” Cathleen didn’t take her focus from the scales she studied.
“What are you weighing?”
“Lard. She said five pounds, but this scale only goes up to two pounds. Which means I have to transfer the stuff again until I get everything measured out.”
He studied the dial on the scale as she spooned more of the thick, gelatinous stuff into the bowl on the scale. She slowed her scooping as the dial neared its two pound limit.
As he did the calculations in his head, he was missing one important number. “How much does that basin weigh?”
She darted a wide-eyed glance up at him. “Um. I don’t know.”
The look on her face, like a frightened deer, bubbled up a chuckle in his chest. With all her other talents, arithmetic must not be as high on the list. “All right, then. Let’s get this to the two pound mark, then we’ll weigh the bowl by itself.”
As they finished weighing the lard and got it transferred into the smaller black pot, an easy split of roles developed. He handled the measurements, and she handled the thick, messy ingredient.
At last, he stepped back. “All right. Five pounds of lard. What’s next?”
Cathleen shifted the pot to the stove. “Now a little less than two pounds of water.”
He frowned. “How much less?”
She shrugged. “A little less is what she said.”
“How do you normally do it?”
Her mouth pinched. “I don’t.”
“You don’t use water?” Why weren’t they making soap from her recipe, the one she was familiar with?
She turned in a flounce of skirts and faced him dead on. “I don’t make soap. I’ve never made soap. I have no idea what I’m doing here, other than praying your Mum’s memory is strong enough to give me all the details. And it doesn’t help that part of the instructions included something about not blowing up the kitchen.” With that last sentence, she threw her hands into the air, making a bit of an explosion herself.
He stood mutely as her words sank in. Then he couldn’t help but cock his head as he studied her. “You’ve never made soap?”
Now she glared at him. “No, Reuben. We bought our soap readymade. I’ve never needed to cook the stuff from scratch.”
He should hold his tongue, but the questions kept prodding him. “But you’re an apothecary’s daughter. Didn’t you make soaps to sell in the shop?”
Another withering glare. “I could mix any salve we carried, and perfectly recreate Lydia Pinkham’s Herb Medicine, but Dad always purchased the soaps we stocked.”
As her spurt of anger subsided, a vulnerability he’d not seen before glimmered in her eyes. Her lack of ability—or at least knowledge—really bothered her. Was that because she was so competent in most other areas of keeping house and nursing? Or maybe she wasn’t as experienced as she let on. How many other times had she fumbled her way through a task since she’d come to the homestead? If that were the case, she was sure accomplished at hiding it. And that was a challenge he could relate to.
He offered Cathleen a grin. “Well, I guess that makes this the first time for both of us. Do you think Mum’s memory was good enough to get this done?”
She nibbled one corner of her lip. “I think so. I hope so.”
An idea came to him. “Maybe I should head down the mountain and buy it. I’m sure we could use some supplies anyway. With all the snow melted, this might be our only chance.”
Her brows lowered and her teeth worked harder on her lip. “I…really need soap today.”
“Today?” What was the rush?
She nodded. “We’ve been low for a while, and your mum’s had several accidents lately. When Alex brought the supplies I thought we’d be fine, but it turned out there was no soap in the lot. I should have made it yesterday, but…I guess I just couldn’t work up the nerve to try.”
The way she prattled on, he almost had to laugh. “So there’s no soap left at all?”
She shook her head, dejection drooping her shoulders. “Not for a few days now. And your mum’s out of clean clothes.”
He reached for his left shirt sleeve and started to roll it. “Let’s make soap then.”
~ ~ ~
“YOU WANT TO pour the lye or stir?” Cathleen held the wooden spoon toward Reuben.
“I’ll stir.” His hand brushed hers as he took the spoon, and a tingle shot up the nerves in her arm. Being near this man did funny things to her, no doubt about it.
“All right.” She examined the pot of water and the bowl of lye crystals on the work counter. “I guess we just mix. She said we had to let it cool, but I’m still not clear on how it gets hot to begin with. She did say to make sure we pour the lye into the water. That was where the part about not blowing up the kitchen came in.”
He stepped up behind her, and his warm hand touched her back, pressing a little to ease her forward. “Let’s do it then.”
His hand stayed at the small of her back a while longer. The warmth and protected feeling that settled over her made her want to sink against him. But all too soon, his hand fell away, and she was left with a bowl of lye in her hands, longing for that warmth again.
While she poured the lye crystals into the water, he stirred the cloudy mixture. With every rotation of the spoon, his upper arm brushed against hers. Did he feel each touch as strongly as she did? She should add more distance between them, but truth be told, she didn’t want him to stop.
“How do we know when it’s cool?” His voice came out a little husky, so close to her ear.
She forced her mind away from Reuben and back to Mrs. Scott’s instructions. “She said stir until it gets clear. Maybe by then it will have cooled?” She hazarded a touch to the outside of the pan. Heat definitely warmed the surface, and a noxious odor permeated the air around them. It tickled her throat, and she turned away to cough out the fumes.
“Strong stuff, huh?” Reuben coughed too, then snatched up the handle on the pot. “I think I see why Mum always made this outside.”
With long strides, he carried the pot toward the door and out onto the porch, holding it as far away from himself as his long arms would allow.
The smell followed him out, and Cathleen coughed again to rid her lungs of the wretched stuff. Something bubbled on the stove, and she stepped closer to peer into the pot of lard. It was a clear amber liquid, and while she watched, another bubble rose to the surface and popped. Definitely time to let it cool.
After she’d moved the pot to a leather pad on the work counter, she headed toward the porch to check on Reuben.
He sat on the top step, still stirring the lye mixture. She settled beside him. “How’s it coming?”
He raised a brow at her, not stopping the motion of the spoon. “I never realized how much went into making soap.” A twinkle slipped into his eye. “It’s kind of fun.”
And she felt the same way, although she had a strong
inkling it wouldn’t be half as pleasant without him there.
The rest of the process was fairly uneventful. After they poured the lye mixture into the lard, Reuben stirred for what seemed like half an hour.
Cathleen kept her post seated beside him, absorbing his nearness. “So are you finished with the hides you’ve been working on?”
“Almost. Just a half dozen or so to finish softening.”
“What will you do with them then?”
He shrugged. “I usually take them down to the mercantile or the dry goods in Butte. Sometimes trade them to a freighter when the wagons start coming through in the spring. The hides are usually enough to restock supplies around here for most of the year.”
Such an interesting job. Some men were doctors or dentists, others worked in the mines, but this man helped provide for his family by trapping.
Reuben cleared his throat. “So you have a niece and nephew in Butte?”
She glanced up at his face, but he stared casually into the mixture he stirred. He was making small talk?
“Yes. Amanda’s just three months old, but William’s a year now. That’s actually why I came west. Both my brothers’ wives were expecting, and Mum was in a fit about someone being there to help. Dad wouldn’t leave the shop, and she didn’t want to leave him, so…I was the likely choice.”
She shot him a smile, and he glanced up at her but didn’t return the expression. “You miss Boston?”
Did that thought bother him? Because his face certainly looked troubled. She chose her words carefully. “I miss my parents. The city’s nice, but...not anything as special as these mountains.”
Those blue eyes pierced her, probing past her words. “You like the mountains?”
She met his gaze squarely. “Very much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the view from this front porch when the trees and the far mountain range are covered with snow.”
“One day I’ll take you to a spot that’s even prettier.” The tenor of his voice dropped, turning husky again. “You can see mountains for miles and miles. It’s like you’re standing at the top of the world.”
Something fluttered in her chest. “I’d like that.”
He reached to brush a finger along her temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch left a tingle everywhere it landed. She couldn’t help but lean into the sensation, and his palm slid around to cup her cheek.
“Cathy.” The hint of a smile played at his mouth as his gaze searched her face. “That’s what your brother called you. Do you like it?”
She liked it too much, when it came from his lips. Like warm cinnamon tea flowing through her. “Only my family calls me that. Makes me feel loved.” Her words came out like a breathy whisper, though she couldn’t seem to summon enough air with him so close. Touching her.
“Cathy.” His gaze flickered down to her mouth, which had gone as dry as cotton. “I like it.”
Her eyes sank closed as he drew closer. The touch of his breath gave warning just before his lips brushed hers. The gentlest of kisses. But…oh…so perfect.
She slid a hand up to his neck, and he came back for another, deeper this time, yet still so tender. She rested her other hand on his shoulder.
Oh, mercy. Who would have thought a kiss from this mountain man would be so exquisitely gentle?
~ ~ ~
SHE EVEN TASTED of cinnamon. Reuben pulled her closer, every bit of her filling his senses until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only crave. His hand slid from her cheek, into her hair. So soft. So perfect, every part of her.
He had to stop this madness. Even as his mind gave the command, his body said no. But he didn’t want to scare her. Except, considering the way she kissed him back, fear seemed to be the last thing on her mind. But still…
Gradually, he eased the intensity of his kiss, moving into quick light kisses on her bottom lip, the corners of her mouth, then touching his mouth to hers for one final memory.
He finally pulled back a few inches and let his eyes take in her beauty. Those full lips now bloomed rosy red, the same flush filling her cheeks. And her lashes… As they fluttered open, he saw how truly long they were. Elegant, just like every part of her. Those brown eyes were cloudy as they lifted to his, and the look almost made him come back for another taste.
Instead, he pulled her to his chest. He had to get a handle on his breathing. And his racing heart.
She molded to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and planting a feeling in his chest that almost burned from its intensity. “Cathy.” He murmured the word as he pressed a kiss into her hair.
Her response was a contented sigh, and she pressed even closer. That definitely wasn’t helping slow his galloping pulse. He’d better get her down the mountain soon, before he did something they’d both regret.
Chapter Seventeen
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Reuben stopped scraping the hide to listen. Was that a scream he’d heard?
No sounds drifted from the yard now. All the animals were out enjoying the last of the temperate weather, since it looked like the chinook had blown through. Snow would come again soon.
Dropping the pelt to the work table, he touched his hip to make sure his knife was in its holster, then grabbed his Sharps and sprinted toward the open barn door.
The cry could have been the squeal of a horse, but it sounded like it had come from the direction of the house. He couldn’t take chances.
When he reached the yard, two figures on horseback drew him up short. He’d recognize the horses and the beadwork on their blankets anywhere, but seeing his good friends here—in the yard of his parents’ homestead—gave him pause.
Gathering himself, he strode toward the men. They saw him right away and turned their animals to close the distance. Akecheta sat proud and tall on his horse, the warrior worthy of his name. But Mato…something was definitely wrong there. His frame had always been slighter than Akecheta’s and most of the other braves, but the way he slumped over his horse… Was the man injured? Sick?
Dread snaked through Reuben as the horses stopped in front of him. He raised a hand to greet the men and spoke in their native language. “Welcome, friends. It’s a good surprise to see you here. All is well?”
Akecheta gave the sign of greeting, then nodded toward Mato. “We came to your mountain for hunting, but this one is sick. He needs a resting place.”
Reuben studied Mato closer. Yes, the man had lost most of the color on his usually tanned face. Could be due to blood loss from an injury, but Akecheta had used the Crow word for illness. What did the man suffer from? One of the diseases spread from the white people? He’d seen yellow fever rip through an Indian band and kill more than half of them. If that was what Mato suffered from, his friend was in a bad way.
He stepped around the sick man’s horse and raised a hand to touch his forehead. No fever that he could feel. Looking over to meet Akecheta’s gaze, he asked, “What is he sick with?”
Akecheta spoke a word Reuben hadn’t heard before, and mimicked vomiting something from his belly.
No fever, but there was vomiting. That would explain some of the man’s pallor. “Can he drink water?”
“A little.”
Well, that was a good sign. He needed to get the man bedded down and try to feed him broth or something. Maybe Cathleen would know what else to do. But he couldn’t let the illness get close to her or Mum. Not until he was certain what the man suffered from.
He pointed toward the barn. “Make a bed for him in the hay. I’ll get food and drink for you both. Feed your horses in the stalls.”
As his foot touched the first step of the porch, Cathleen jerked the front door open. “Who are they, Reuben. What’s wrong?”
His chest did a little flip at the sight of her, his body remembering their kiss from that morning. He’d secluded himself in the barn purposely to let those feelings settle, but just the sight of her stirred everything anew.
But the angst on
her face helped to sidetrack him a little, and he stepped closer. “Everything’s all right.” He couldn’t stop himself from brushing a wayward strand of hair from her cheek, but he did refrain from swooping down for another kiss.
“Do you know them?”
He had to blink to pull himself back to the cause of her worry. “Yes. It’s Akecheta and Mato, friends from the Crow band that winters near my cabin. They said they came this way for hunting, but Mato’s pretty sick.”
She started to push past him as she craned her neck to search the yard. “What’s wrong with him? Are you bringing him inside?”
He grabbed Cathleen’s arm before she ran out to meet them, then guided her through the cabin door. “They’re settling in the barn. I don’t want them near you two until we figure out if it’s catching.”
She gripped his wrist with her free hand, slowing their forward progress just inside the doorway. “What is it, Reuben?” She searched his eyes, lines creasing her forehead.
“Some kind of stomach illness. He’s vomiting, but I don’t think he’s feverish.”
She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting as her thoughts took over. “I’ll make some ginger root tea. Can he eat? Is he drinking? Do you think it’s typhoid?” She whirled and headed for the kitchen shelves.
Reuben followed in her wake. “I don’t think so. A little. And I have no idea.”
She fluttered about like a whirlwind, pulling herbs from a box, clanging pots on the stove, stoking the fire.
“What can I do?” Anything to keep from standing there like a bump on a log.
“We need to get him in the house where I can tend him. Get some extra blankets from the trunk in my room.”
“I’ll get the blankets, but he’s not coming in. Not until I know it’s safe.”
The Lady and the Mountain Call (Mountain Dreams Series Book 5) Page 13
