"What have you done to the turnips?" she asked, mystified.
"Rather you should ask what the turnips have done to me," he said sourly, looking up. "I cut my thumb." He held up the afflicted member as if to provide proof. A small nick on the ball of his thumb was barely beaded with blood. Such a scratch was totally undeserving of sympathy, and he got none.
"Where are the rest of them?" Susannah set the ham hocks down on the corner of the table and came closer to peer inside the pot.
"The rest of what?"
"The turnips!"
"They're all right here. What do you think, they jumped up and ran out the door while you were gone?"
Susannah flashed him a narrow-eyed look for his sarcasm. The heaping basket full of turnips, most of which had been peeled, occupied no more than a quarter of a pot they should have filled to overflowing.
Then she found the reason. Looking from the misshapen white blobs in the pot to the peels on the table, she saw that most of the meat remained on the peels!
"Look what you've done!"
"What?"
"You've peeled away half the turnips!"
Connelly frowned defensively down at the mound of peels. "I did not!"
"There's hardly enough left to provide a spoonful for each of us! Have you never peeled a vegetable before?" Susannah was more aghast than angry. Her hand rested on the back of the chair on which he sat as she shook her head disbelievingly at him. Seated, his head reached clear to her shoulder. She was reminded suddenly of just how large a man he was. He looked up at her, his hair brushing her hand as he tilted his head back so that he could see her expression. The slight contact drew her eyes. Washed and combed, the thick strands were as black and sleek as a starling's wing, with just the faintest hint of curl at the ends. Like his face, his hair was beautiful without being in the least feminine. Disturbed that she should even notice, Susannah quickly removed her hand.
"I must confess that peeling vegetables is not an occupation that has previously come my way," he said.
" 'Tis obvious." Susannah took the knife and deftly peeled the few remaining turnips herself. "See how it's done?" Only the thinnest layer of peel was removed, leaving large, glistening-white turnips, which she dropped into the pot on top of their misshapen brethren. She then salvaged what she could of the vegetables he had mangled and picked up the ham hocks to add them to the pot.
"What are those?" He frowned at the pink meat.
"Ham hocks." She put them in the pot and moved away to add water, first to rinse and then to boil.
"Ham hocks? But they look like—pigs' feet."
"They are," Susannah said, glancing back over her shoulder at him.
"We're eating turnips and pigs' feet?" He sounded so revolted that she almost had to smile.
"Yes, we are. They're delicious, you may take my word for it. Only today we'll have to have eggs as well, since you wasted so many of the turnips."
"Eggs I can handle. I like mine soft-boiled."
"Do you indeed?" Susannah hung the pot containing the turnips and ham hocks on the crane over the fire. "I hope you like collecting them as well as eating them. The henhouse is up the hill. You can see it from the back door."
"You want me to collect eggs?" His voice was curiously doubtful, but Susannah scarcely noticed as she frowned over another problem.
"I suppose you'll have to wear Pa's clogs. They're on the back porch. They'll be too small, of course, but they have no backs and I am sure you can squeeze in your toes."
"I'll wear my own shoes, thank you."
"I've sent Ben to town with your shoes, to get you some boots made. Pa's clogs will have to do till the boots are ready. You may take the basket the turnips were in for the eggs. And hurry, if you please. I have any number of things to do besides cook this afternoon."
He pushed his chair back and stood up. "The eggs are in the henhouse, you say?"
"Up the hill." She nodded, busy measuring out flour for the dumplings that would be needed to fill out the meal.
He hesitated the barest second, then without another word picked up the basket and padded out through the door. Moments later, through the kitchen window, she saw him following the well-worn path up the hill, moving a little awkwardly as he worked to keep her father's too- small clogs on his feet. The basket was tucked under his arms, and Brownie waddled along at his feet.
Mandy came into the kitchen, dressed in a sky-blue frock that was never meant to go gardening. A gay smiled curved her lips until, looking about the kitchen, she perceived that Susannah was alone.
"Where is he?"
Susannah added the dumplings to the boiling water and, wiping her hands on a towel, turned to frown at Mandy.
"If you mean Connelly, he has gone to fetch some eggs."
"Oh." She was obviously disappointed but brightened again almost at once. "That shouldn't take long."
Susannah had hoped not to have to warn Mandy off—in her experience, such an action was usually counterproductive—but the gleam in Mandy's eye presaged trouble. It was always possible that a few timely words might make Mandy stop and think before she plunged rashly ahead.
"Amanda. You will remember that he is our bound man. Moreover, he is a convict. As a beau for you, he is not to be considered. You may flirt with Todd Haskins or Hiram Greer or just about anyone else you please, but leave Connelly alone. Do you hear me?"
"But he's gorgeous, Susannah! Whoever would have thought it, as dirty and scruffy as he was when we brought him home?"
"You are not listening to me, Amanda Sue Redmon! I rarely forbid you to do anything, but I am forbidding you now—you are to stay away from Connelly! The man is dangerous!"
"Do you really think so?" Mandy sounded as if she found the idea thrilling.
Susannah gritted her teeth. She should have known better than to say such a thing. Had her wits gone begging lately? "I will make a bargain with you, Mandy. Do you truly wish to go to the Haskinses' party?"
Mandy's eyes widened. "Above all things!"
"If you behave yourself with Connelly—and I will be keeping an eye on you, so do not think to fool me that you are when you are not!—you may go to the party."
"And dance?"
"I would not go that far. You may watch the dancing."
"Oh, very well. If only I may go!"
Pa would be greatly distressed when he discovered that she had given Mandy permission to attend a party where there would be dancing. The teachings of their church severely frowned on such congress between unmarried couples. On the other hand, the alternative was far worse. Connelly could be injurious to far more than Mandy's reputation, though Susannah didn't mean to tell her father that. If Susannah had learned nothing else over the past dozen years, she had learned that it was sometimes necessary to compromise the lofty principles her father adhered to in the face of the reality of raising three lively girls.
"All right, then. You may attend the Haskinses' party, on the condition that you behave yourself with Connelly. Do we have a bargain?"
Mandy hesitated, then nodded, her beaming smile breaking out. "Oh, Susannah, may I really go to the party? I had not thought—I am so excited!"
"Yes, I can see you are. Don't chatter of it to all and sundry, now. Some of the parishioners will think it scandalous." But Susannah had to smile, despite her various misgivings, in the face of her sister's incandescent joy.
"You are so good to me, Susannah! Will there be time for you to make me a new dress, do you think? That green silk I bought in town the other day will be perfect!" Amanda twirled around the kitchen, stopping only to hug her sister enthusiastically.
"If you are going, I suppose you must have a new dress." Susannah returned Mandy's hug, only to have her twirl about the room again when she released her. Susannah watched Mandy with wry indulgence. What must it feel like to be that young?
"I must tell Em and Sarah Jane. Might they go, too?"
"Emily is too young, and Sarah Jane will not wish to, I think."
Bu
t Mandy had already flown from the room to share news of her good fortune with her siblings. Susannah looked after her for a moment, smiling. Mandy had been more work to raise than the other two put together, and there didn't seem to be any prospect of that changing very soon. But even if she could, Susannah realized that she would not alter so much as a hair on her sister's head. Susannah thought that over for a minute, then amended it, rather ruefully. There were a few things she might consider changing about Mandy, but not many, and Mandy's warm-hearted exuberance more than made up for her faults.
Only then did Susannah realize that Mandy was gone, and the vegetables were still unfetched. She opened her mouth to summon her sister back, then closed it again. It would be easier, and quicker, just to fetch the vegetables herself.
Picking up a basket, she went out the back door and across the porch. She had no more than set foot on the grass when a burst of wild barking from Brownie caused her to glance up the hill from whence it came.
She was just in time to see Connelly burst through the henhouse doorway, his arms raised to cover his head and an enraged red hen flapping and screeching behind him as it clung with its claws to the back of his shirt.
14
"Bloody damned creature! Get it off me!" Connelly ducked and twisted, trying to dislodge the angry bird as Susannah rushed up the hill to his rescue.
"You're frightening her! Stop flailing about!"
"Frighteningher! What do you raise here, killer chickens?"
Finally Connelly succeeded in knocking the hen to the ground. She landed, squawking and flapping her wings. Brownie, barking hysterically, darted at her, while some half dozen other screeching hens flew through the open henhouse door, passing not more than a foot above Connelly's head. Connelly ducked, cursing and throwing up a protective arm. The downed hen took wing to join them, chased by Brownie, who had not seen so much excitement in years. The entire flock landed clumsily in a nearby tree, while Brownie made excited, noisy leaps halfway up its trunk. Susannah, who had rushed to the rescue only to arrive seconds after Connelly rid himself of his attacker, burst out laughing.
She laughed so long and so hard her sides ached when she at last straightened up again. Never could she remember having seen anything so funny as Connelly on the run from her favorite hen.
"Hilarious, is it?" He had straightened to his full height now and had both arms crossed over his chest as he regarded her with disfavor.
"Yes." Susannah wiped streaming eyes. "Her name is Elise. She's ten years old, and she's a dear."
"If you are referring to that chicken, she bit the hell out of my hand!"
"You're swearing."
"So I am."
"Well," conceded Susannah with a chuckle that threatened to dissolve into a full-blown laugh at any second, "perhaps this time you have cause. Did she really bite you? No, of course she didn't. Hens don't have any teeth. They can't bite. She merely pecked you."
"Oh, is that all? It hurt like he—like the dickens, let me tell you."
"What did you do to her?"
"I couldn't find any eggs, and the old biddies were all sitting around staring at me and clucking. I thought they might be hiding them, so I tried to shoo them off their nests. That one attacked me."
"Oh, dear," said Susannah unsteadily, and started laughing again. She could just picture him, all six-feet- plus of menacing man, being made uneasy by the bright gazes of a roomful of nesting hens. Judging from his expression, he didn't much appreciate her amusement at his expense, so after a moment or so she heroically swallowed her chortles.
"Don't tell me," she said when she had herself under control, "you've never gathered eggs before?"
"No, I never have."
"Have you ever even been on a farm before?"
"Of course I've been on a farm."
"You have?"
"To collect the rent." The admission was somewhat sulky. Susannah lifted her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged. " 'Twas one of my jobs, once."
"You've never peeled vegetables, and you've never gathered eggs. Can you plow? No, of course you can't. What can you do, if you don't mind my asking?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I can ride with the best, drive to an inch, wench, dance, drink anyone you care to name under the table and never show it, play cards and win, and shoot the wick out of a candle at fifty yards, among other accomplishments that I cannot at the moment call to mind."
"Oh." Susannah heard this list with doubt written on her face. Then, in a more positive tone, she added, "Shay —the auctioneer—claimed that you can read and write."
"Oh, yes, I can read and write. How remiss of me not to mention that. Don't tell me that you cannot?"
"I can, and my sisters, because our father is a learned man and wanted us to be educated."
"How forward-thinking of him."
"You say you collected rents at one time. How else did you earn your living?"
Connelly hesitated a moment before replying. "I managed," he said curtly.
"Indeed? From your current circumstances, I cannot judge that you managed any too well."
"You know nothing of what brought me to this pass."
"I would be glad to listen, if you should care to tell me."
"I don't need a mother confessor, I assure you." Suddenly, he sounded almost hostile.
Susannah's lips compressed. "Everyone needs someone to tell their troubles to, I've discovered. Tis nothing to be ashamed of. Nor is being ignorant of farming, though when I bought you I'd certainly hoped . . . But 'tis too late to repine. Perhaps you can help me with the books, and Pa with his sermons. He cannot see any too well anymore and needs someone to write them out for him. And I will teach you farming."
"Do you have to?" There was a rueful note to his voice. Looking up at him—Susannah realized that the top of her head barely reached his shoulder and that she had to tilt her head back to a considerable degree to meet his eyes— she saw that he was smiling down at her. It was not the sensuous smile he had turned on Mandy, but a real grin. The humor of it reached his eyes, warming the gray depths to devastating effect. Susannah stared, startled as she realized anew just how very handsome he was. In her amusement, she had quite forgotten that he was the physical embodiment of a female's dream.
"Certainly I do," she said severely, flustered to realize that, like Mandy, she was in grave danger of falling under the spell of those reprehensible good looks. "We'll start right now. You may come with me, and I'll show you how to go about gathering eggs."
"I'd really rather not."
"You're not a coward, are you? Come, Elise and the others are still in the tree. There can't be more than a dozen left in the henhouse."
"How reassuring," he muttered, but he did follow her inside, ducking through the low door. Just over the threshold, Susannah stumbled over something and looked down to find one of her father's clogs. Her eyes widened, and she glanced back to discover her bound man in his stocking feet—only the stockings were well muddied now, and probably wet as well. Her lips twitched, and suddenly she was more at ease with him again.
"Here is one of your shoes," she pointed out. Spying its mate in a pile of straw, she added, "And there is the other."
"Thank you, but I prefer to be without them. Just in case we have to run for it."
"Don't be absurd!" The basket he had carried lay overturned near the second shoe, its bottom crushed. He had apparently stepped on it in his haste to escape the henhouse. It was ruined, of course. But Susannah was smiling as she retrieved the clogs and placed them in her basket. "If you will look in the empty nests, I'm sure you'll find some eggs."
"Yes, but will the guardians the others have left behind attack me?" He was eyeing the ten remaining hens with trepidation. They looked back at him unblinkingly, their little black eyes gleaming. Having collected eggs from the time she could walk—it was a task generally allocated to the younger members of a household—Susannah found his caution as ridiculous as it was endearing. She thrust her hand beneath
a feathered breast, felt around, and came up with an egg. The hen—Ruth was her name— clucked, but she did not offer to peck.
"See?" she said, holding the egg up to demonstrate. "And you have the advantage over me. You are tall enough to be able to reach into all the nests, where I have to fetch a stool for the ones on the top row."
She turned up the end of her apron to receive the egg and its fellows, as her basket was filled with his clogs. She rooted beneath another hen, came up empty. His eyes never leaving Matilda and Mavis, the closest of the roosting hens, Connelly took a careful step, and then another, until he stood beside her. He had to stand quite close, because the henhouse, a shed-like structure with a tin roof and neat rows of straw-filled nest boxes, narrowed at its far end. His legs brushed her skirt, and Susannah was suddenly very aware of his nearness. All at once the confines of the henhouse seemed far too restricted.
"You may check the top nests. I cannot reach them." It was all she could do to keep her voice steady.
"That's easily remedied," he said.
Susannah felt his hands grip her waist from behind. Seconds later he was lifting her clear off her feet. In her shock, she forgot to hold on to the edge of the apron and the single egg they'd found dropped to the floor. It broke, but she was barely aware of its fate. Her hands flew to his, and instinctively she clutched his fingers for balance as he held her high.
"Now you may check the nests for yourself," he said, and she knew he was teasing her even though she could not see his face. Her hands tightened over his. The warmth of his fingers beneath hers, the strength of his hands clasping her waist, set her senses atremble.
"Put me down!" she said fiercely, struggling to be free.
"Not till you check the nests." His hands tightened. His fingers dug into her flesh. In the face of his strength she felt suddenly helpless, and the sensation was unnerving.
"I said put me down!" The ferocity in her voice was quite out of proportion to the situation, she knew. But the awful burning sensation that pulsed to life inside her frightened her.
Clenching her teeth, she dug her nails into his fingers. She must have had the good fortune to connect with his cut thumb, or perhaps with the place where Elise had pecked him, because he yelped and released his grip, dropping her onto her feet.
Nobody's Angel Page 11
