The gravy was hot and steaming and smelled like onions and pork drippings and he savored each bite. A jar of vegetables, a mixture of this and that from what Faith said were last summer’s end-of-the-season pickings, filled out the menu, and they ate steadily. Faith worked hard and enjoyed her food for the most part, and Max decided she was not about to allow his questioning to spoil this meal for her.
He did not lack appetite, either, and between them they managed to make a good-sized dent in the food she’d prepared. “There’s enough left for dinner tomorrow,” she said, rising to put the meat and potatoes in a smaller dish, then pour the remaining gravy over the whole thing. “I’ll make a pot pie from it.”
“Sounds fit to eat,” Max said lightly, carrying the plates to the sink. He was careful to help with the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, aware that she did more than her share both inside the house and out. The chores had been pretty well equally divided between them during the past weeks, and he’d given Mrs. Metcalf a tidy sum when they’d visited the store in town, ordering her to apply it to Faith’s account so that she’d lack for nothing.
“Brace can’t read or write,” Faith said quietly, her back to Max as she entered the pantry.
He was stunned, not only that a grown man in this day and age would be illiterate, but that Brace should be afflicted so. The man appeared to be intelligent and competent, and certainly held the respect of the townspeople. If it was a secret—and apparently it was, or Faith would not have been so closemouthed about it—then Max would be duty bound to keep the knowledge to himself.
“Have you thought about helping him learn—” he began, only to have her slice a hand through the air as she turned back to him.
“I don’t think I’m the one to take on the job,” she said. “I almost offered a couple of years back, but he was mortified that he’d had to confess his lack to me, and so I suggested that I write letters for him and look at his bank statement when he picks one up from the manager a couple of times a year.” She bent to lift the lid from the food safe in the pantry floor, and Max watched, his gaze caught by the line of her bottom, the lifting of her hemline and the sight of bare feet as she straightened and returned to the kitchen.
She had slipped her shoes off, gotten rid of her stockings in the process, and now walked lightly across the kitchen floor, her toes visible beneath the hem of her dress. It was the most inviting vision he’d seen in hours. Ranking right up there with the sight of her early this morning when she’d arisen and walked from the house in her nightgown just before dawn.
He’d watched from the kitchen, wanting to know that she was safe, heading back to his bedroom when she’d closed the outhouse door behind her and returned through the pale gray light that preceded dawn, to the porch. She’d stayed out there for long minutes, and he’d been tempted to return to the kitchen to make certain of her well-being. But after a bit, she’d come through the kitchen door, careful not to let it slam behind her.
He’d felt like a callow youth still wet behind the ears, peeping at her through the window. Yet she’d seemed caught up in the stillness and early morning sounds, and he’d decided not to disturb her solitude, but had gone back to his bed. Only the start of her rooster crowing minutes later had allowed him to join her in the kitchen as she put a pot of coffee on the stove.
She hadn’t been wearing the soft, lacy sleeping garment he’d purchased for her, and for a moment he’d wished for the opportunity to see her garbed in the creation. But even in her simple, nondescript nightgown, with her hair tumbling down her back, she’d been a vision to behold. One he yearned to take as his own—and only her quick retreat to the bedroom to dress for the day had saved her from his impetuous behavior.
Now, he dwelled on the bare feet that carried her to the pantry and back, watched as she swept the kitchen floor and tossed the sand and crumbs off the porch. The broom was deposited back in the pantry, and she sent him a long look. “How about sitting on the front porch, on the swing, for a while?” she asked.
He was only too ready to join her there, and nodded in agreement. They walked through the hallway to the parlor and then out the front door. Trees spread sheltering branches over that side of the house and a breeze blew from the west. It was quiet, peaceful and still warm from the heat of the day.
The swing moved as he settled in one end of it, and Faith held the other side, her hand gripping the chain as she slid back on the seat. “You get to push,” she said with a grin. “My legs aren’t quite long enough to touch the floor.” Her feet hung several inches from the wide boards that made up the porch, and he cast a long look in their direction.
“I can do that,” he said with a smile, and nudged the floor with the toe of his shoe. As if she’d noted his look of interest, she lifted her feet and tucked them beneath her dress, a modest gesture he didn’t appreciate.
“Not very ladylike of me, is it?” she asked. “Going barefoot, I mean.”
“I’d think you were a lady no matter how much or how little you wore,” he told her, and felt a grin take over his countenance. The thought of how little she might wear reminded him of the day the filly was born and Faith had been garbed in the simple dress, with nothing beneath it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she declared accusingly, smiling at him as if they were conspirators. “I hope Nicholas wasn’t aware of my lack of undergarments the other morning when he showed up to see the filly.”
“He was,” Max said. “He glanced at you, then looked the other way. I think he didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Her cheeks turned rosy at his words and he laughed aloud. “I can’t believe you’re blushing, sweetheart. Nicholas has seen more exposed skin than that any time he walks by the saloon in town. You were well covered.”
Faith propped her feet on the swing and enclosed her knees with her arms. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it? We’ve gotten the horses settled all around, and I managed to get my hen sitting on a clutch of eggs in one corner of the coop.”
“Isn’t it kinda late for new baby chicks?” he asked. “I’d think spring would be better to raise a batch of little ones.”
“Not any later for chicks than a mare having a filly in June. Mares are generally bred early on in the year, but when Nicholas found his sorrel last year, he wanted to breed my mare during her next heat. He couldn’t stand to wait another six months or so.” Faith smiled up at Max, her chin touching her knees, her eyes shining as she spoke of the mare.
“He’s an impatient man, I take it,” Max said. “And when will you be breeding her again?”
“In less than a month, probably. As soon as she comes in season.”
“Will Nicholas bring the stallion here?”
“I think so. And then take the filly home with him sometime before winter.”
“I’m surprised he’s willing to wait so long to claim her.”
“The mother’s milk is good for her, though if he had to, he could use cow’s milk to feed her.”
“When will you be going over there to get a new supply for yourself?” Max asked, drawing out the conversation, enjoying her quiet answers, her quick smiles.
“In the morning. Nicholas brought a jarful for me the other day, but I need cream for butter.”
“And you’ll take eggs there?” he asked idly.
“Umm…” She leaned her cheek where her chin had been only moments before, and Max thought she looked tired, her eyes closing as if she would drift off to sleep momentarily.
He reached for her and lifted her to his lap, holding her firmly when her eyes flew open and she flailed, her hands coming to rest against his chest. “What are you doing?” she asked sharply, pushing against him.
“Holding you on my lap.” And as if that were answer enough, he cradled her gently in his arms, shushing her with quiet sounds that seemed to be effective. She looked up at him, then relaxed against his chest.
“All right,” she said, and he smiled into the waves of hair that cascaded d
own around her shoulders. Her locks caught the glow of the setting sun and he thought he saw a bit of silver here and there in the soft curls. His fingers ran through the length of it, and she sighed, leaning against him more fully.
“You spoil me,” she murmured quietly and he nodded against her head.
“I hope so,” he said. “You don’t get enough of it. I see you working from sunrise to sunset, Faith, and it worries me that you should be so occupied with providing for your own existence.”
“And who better to provide for me?” she asked, then lifted a hand to place her fingertips across his mouth. “Never mind, forget I asked,” she said. “I already know your opinion on that subject.”
“I’d gladly take care of you for the rest of your life,” he told her, rocking the swing in a steady movement, enjoying the warmth of the woman he held. He clasped one small foot in his palm and massaged it gently.
“That feels good,” she said, stretching out her toes and arching her foot. “If this is taking care of me, I have to admit I like it.” And then she considered him, looking up as if she would speak words of importance. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job of looking after me lately,” she said. “I’ve gotten lazy since you’re here.”
His chuckle was quiet and his fingers firm against her skin as he considered her words. His mother would think Faith was doing the job of a cleaning woman, or housekeeper, both of them positions beneath her status as the wife of a man such as Maxwell McDowell. Yet Max thought his wife had more dignity than any other human being he’d known. Perhaps his mother could learn something from Faith.
And at that thought, he blinked and his hand encircled her foot, stopping its gentle massage. His mother had always been the ideal woman in his eyes. Strong, dignified, a model of womanhood, who helped the poor and took care of her household with an iron hand.
And that iron grip had bruised Faith, if he were to believe the memories she’d related of those days in Boston. Being here with her now, he was inclined to take a second look at the woman he’d revered all his life, the mother Faith claimed had been so cruel. He would hear more about those days of his marriage, if he had to drag the details out of Faith, bit by bit.
His hand pressed anew against her sole, even as his foot ceased the pushing and he allowed the swing to come to a halt. “I think you’re ready for bed,” he whispered, and was rewarded by a look of sleepy agreement. Faith tilted her head back and smiled, the sight reminding him of other days when he’d held her closely and she’d offered a signal such as this, one he knew would result in their sharing her bed before the evening was out.
If he hadn’t had a glut of work to complete in his study before he could climb the stairs to bed. His mother had always insisted that work must come first, and he’d made that his watchword all his adult life.
Now he wondered how many such evenings he’d wasted, leaning over his ledgers while Faith waited in her bed for the husband who tarried too long below stairs. Too many nights, he thought wistfully. But for tonight, he had no choice except to kiss her with a tender touch, release her from his hold and allow her to walk away, into the bedroom she would not share with him.
She rose, as if his thoughts were transferred to her mind, and her hand trailed from his as she turned to the door. “I can’t stay awake much longer,” she said, her smile sweet, her eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I’m going out to check the horses before I turn in,” he said. “Don’t worry if you hear me in the backyard.”
“I won’t.” She drifted through the door, her feet silent on the bare wood, and he mourned her leaving, wishing he had the right to follow after her and claim his due as her husband.
He’d best put that thought aside, lest he foul up what little progress he’d made with her, he decided. And rose to walk around the house and to the barn.
The days passed in a haze of summer. The nights were another matter altogether. For Max, it was pure torture to watch Faith throughout the day, ever yearning for her touch, yet bound by his own rules of behavior. Rules that did not allow him to force the issue of their relationship. Becoming so settled in her life that she would not be able to think of being without him was his first goal. In order to accomplish that, he must be her friend, her constant companion, and to that end, he worked beside her, spoke of the future as though it were a given that they spend it together.
That she sometimes glanced at him with questions in her gaze, that she didn’t approach him again with affection, marred his serenity. But he persevered, aware that his time was limited, that the summer was fast fleeting and he must consider the length of time he spent here in terms of the business he’d left behind in Boston.
As he worked with the filly each day, Faith watched him from the pasture fence, and he enjoyed showing off for her benefit. The docile foal was becoming attached to him, recognizing him as he arrived at the gate every morning, ready to provide her with their daily stint of training.
Seeing Faith perched on the pasture fence, he’d grinned and waved that first morning, the day after their evening on the porch swing. He cherished those remembered moments, knowing she had lowered her defenses for that period of time. And as if she had second thoughts, she’d become, once more, a bit reserved, a little removed from him.
But the weeks passed quickly, day by day, Max learning more about the functioning of the woman who spent her time planning for her future. The garden was a top priority, he found, and indeed, he learned the difference quickly between weeds and vegetables. His back ached some nights from hours spent on his knees as the plants took hold in the fertile soil, and his hoe got a workout as he dug weeds from around the hills of corn she had planted.
“Don’t be a coward,” she’d chided him, lifting tomato worms from the plants and slicing them in half with her hoe. That this woman, raised in the city, trained all her life to be a lady of leisure, could cope with such an ugly specimen of nature was nothing short of impossible for him to believe. But she did it. Firmly, showing no mercy to the critters who would eat her crop, she wreaked vengeance with a wicked sense of humor. And then laughed at him as he attempted to follow suit.
He led the filly beneath one of the trees in the pasture, careful to note where he walked, for the horses spent much time in the shade, leaving a mess behind with no care for his boots. Faith watched him from her perch, and he filled his eyes with the picture she presented. Her skin was tanned, her hair lighter day by day, and even now it shimmered in the noonday sun.
He released the foal from the lead line and wound the rope in a circle as he walked toward his wife. She grinned at him, and he felt a wave of emotion wash over him that made a lump rise in his throat.
I love her.
It was a thought foreign to him. Desire and need had always been enough when it came to his dealings with women. Even when it came to Faith in the early years of their marriage. Now he knew with certainty that the desire he felt trailed far behind the overwhelming love that arose in his breast.
He neared the fence where she waited, and sought for words to speak. “The filly’s doing well,” he said, stunned by his own inane attempt at conversation.
I’ve discovered that I love you. It should be simple to say the words aloud, and yet he hesitated.
“You’re right handy at the job,” she joked, drawling her compliment with slow syllables that made him laugh aloud.
“I’m learning,” he admitted, climbing up to sit beside her.
“Yes,” she said quietly, slanting a look at him, “I think you are.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, picking up on her tone.
She shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. Just an observation.”
Deciding to drop the subject, lest he push too hard, he changed directions. “Isn’t it about time for the mare to be ready?” he asked.
Faith nodded. “I think so. I need to let Nicholas know she’s starting to show signs. Maybe I’ll take the wagon over there thi
s afternoon. I could haul some hay for him. He leaves a good share here in the loft, but he may be running low. Even though his animals are all out to pasture, he’s bound to have a few head of cattle closer to the house where the grass isn’t as heavy. He’ll need feed for them.”
“I’ll help,” Max offered, turning to climb down from the fence on the other side, and then reaching up to grasp Faith and lift her down before him. He’d kept his hands away from her with diligence, hoping against hope that she would turn to him as she had once before in an impetuous gesture.
Now, he felt the need for some bit of assurance, and he held her for a moment, his hands around her waist, noting the slender lines of her body where once there had been softness, an added bit of flesh. “You’re so slim,” he said quietly. “You don’t feel the same as you once did.”
“I’ve changed in more ways than one,” she allowed, looking up at him, seemingly willing to remain in his embrace.
He took advantage, sliding his hands to her back, urging her forward until she leaned against him. And she did so with alacrity. His heart surged into a faster beat as he felt the pressure of her breasts against him, the scent of her rising to fill his nostrils with sweetness. One hand rose to tangle in the hair she’d scooped high on her crown, then allowed to fall down her back.
It twined about his fingers, clinging to the calluses that covered his palm, and felt like silk threads as he wound it around his hand. He used it to his advantage, tugging her head gently back, until the long, clean line of her throat was exposed to his gaze. Bending to her, he kissed the skin there, touched the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath her ear with his tongue and tasted the faint, salty flavor.
A groan rose from deep within and he allowed it utterance, unable to halt the desire that accompanied it. Within moments, he was as aroused as he’d ever been in his life, as ready for the act of loving as a man could possibly be, and yet only too aware that the woman he held would not follow his lead.
Texas Gold (Mills & Boon Historical) Page 12
