by Regina Scott
He spied an opening in the trees and turned the horses west, up the track that led to his house. The forest was thinner here. Drew and his crew had taken out most of the big firs years ago, but John had left a few vine maples and madrone to shield the house from the main road. His home and barn sat on a bench, with fields running down to the road and spreading out on either side, the forest rising at the back. The arrangement had proved both practical and pleasing.
Yet the closer they came, the more he tensed. Why? It was a good, solid house with a sturdy barn, just as he’d told her. He had no reason to feel as if its worth was tied to her approval.
He pulled the wagon up before the wide front porch he’d insisted on having when Simon had sketched out plans for the place.
“I want to be able to sit under the eaves and watch the sun come up,” he’d told his brother.
Simon had frowned at him. “You get up before sunrise and head for work. When do you have time to sit?”
A literal man, his brother. But John had been firm. It was his house. He could do what he liked with it. Especially as it appeared he would never be sharing it with a wife.
“Here we are,” he announced, setting the brake. He jumped down, tied the horses to the porch rail to make sure they didn’t head for the barn and came around to help Dottie.
Her gaze was on the house. Did she wonder why a bachelor needed a second story or three chairs along the porch? Did she approve of the glass windows brought up from San Francisco? Or the blue paint he’d used to show off the door against the white of the house? Why did he care?
“It’s lovely,” she said, and he thought he might stand as tall as Drew for once.
He offered to help her down, but she merely handed him Peter. Now that the wagon had stopped moving, the baby cracked open his eyes. They widened as if Peter was surprised to see John holding him instead of his mother. John readied himself for the wail of protest. Instead, Peter’s face brightened in a grin.
He kept the baby in his arms as he led Dottie into the house.
“Parlor’s to the right,” he explained, nodding through the open door. “Main bedroom’s to the left. Kitchen runs across the back. Stairs lead up to a sleeping loft. Right now it’s full of furs curing from the winter.”
She wandered into the parlor, touched the bench Drew had carved for him, exclaimed over the woven rug his mother had made. John followed her, rocking Peter in his arms. The baby gazed about him, as if everything he saw was wonderful.
Not everyone was so entranced. A hiss told John he was in trouble. Glancing about, he sighted the ginger bullet on the windowsill a moment before it launched itself at him. John stepped back from the malevolent green glare.
“Oh,” Dottie exclaimed, “you have a cat.”
John managed a smile. “Mrs. Tyrrell, may I present Brian de Bois-Guilbert. He patrols for vermin.”
That sounded a lot more manly than the cat’s typical role—stalking John around the house with demands for attention.
Dottie’s face brightened. “Brian de Bois-Guilbert, like in Ivanhoe?”
At the moment, the cat did indeed resemble the villain of the tale. His tail twitched as his eyes narrowed on Peter.
“No,” John told him. “Down, boy.”
Dottie looked at him in obvious amazement. “Does he obey you like a dog?”
He shrugged. “I thought it was worth a try.”
She shook her head, then crouched on the rug and held out a hand to the cat. Brian refused to so much as glance in her direction. He busied himself licking his white mitten paws.
“Where did you get a cat out here?” she asked. “I’d think they’d get eaten by foxes.”
“I found him in my barn,” John told her, edging back from the cat in case Brian did have designs on Peter. “Pitiful thing, more bones than muscle. Some of our neighbors had cats, so Beth and I thought he might have escaped from a litter nearby. She named him after the knight in Ivanhoe, the one who couldn’t decide whether he was a hero or a villain. I think she was hoping to keep him, but he seems to have attached himself to me.”
As if to disprove it, Brian raised his head and let out another hiss, ears going back and eyes narrowing.
Dottie stood and glanced at Peter. The baby had started at the noise. Now he giggled. Dottie drew in a breath.
John wasn’t nearly so pleased. The cat had been good company when he’d lived here alone, but Brian, like many of his kind, tended to do as he pleased. And he seemed to feel John was his personal companion. Would he attack Dottie or the baby? John wouldn’t feel comfortable putting the cat out of the house on a permanent basis, but neither did he feel comfortable leaving Brian alone with Dottie and her son.
Dottie crouched again, ran her fingers along the rug. Brian watched each movement as if fascinated. Once more, John tensed.
“That might not be a good idea,” he murmured.
Dottie didn’t respond. Instead, she held out her hand again.
Brian eyed her a moment more, then his face and ears relaxed and his back came down. He wandered up to Dottie and ran his back under her fingers.
“Sweet kitty,” she crooned. “Darling kitty.”
As Brian turned for another pass, he glanced up at John as if to say See? This is how it’s done.
Dottie gave the feline another pat before rising in a whisper of wool. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
So it seemed. But, for the first time, John wondered just how many things would change in his life with Dottie and Peter at Wallin Landing.
Chapter Five
John Wallin had a cat.
Dottie wasn’t sure why that surprised her so much. Perhaps it was because most of the men of her acquaintance preferred dogs, and then for hunting or protection. The majority of the felines she’d known had been barn cats at her parents’ farm. They’d been wild, rangy things, used to hunting for their dinner. John claimed Brian de Bois-Guilbert served the same function here. She found that hard to believe. A lady at the apartment building in Cincinnati had had a cat she treated with the utmost courtesy. Brian had the same sleek, overfed, self-satisfied look.
Of course, for all Dottie knew, Beth had been the one doing the pampering. Dottie must not allow this whimsy to sway her opinion of John. Only time would tell if he was truly a gentleman worth trusting.
“It will just take me a minute to lead the horses to the barn, bring in your things and pack up mine,” John told her now. He held out Peter to her.
That he seemed to be very good at cradling her son was another mark in his favor. Some people had no idea how to treat an infant. She’d had to learn, first from her helpful neighbor Martha Duggin at the apartment building in Cincinnati, and then from Mrs. Gustafson on the boat. Now, as the baby passed between them, John’s fingers brushed her arm, as soft as a caress. A tingle ran through her, and she stepped back lest he notice her reaction. She had to remember that a handsome face and a fine physique were no match for character. She was glad when he nodded respectfully and left the room. A moment more, and she heard the front door open as he must have gone out to the wagon.
Why did the room seem so empty without him?
She was used to emptiness, but she’d been a bit dismayed to find the land outside of Seattle so remote, the farms few and scattered. Beth’s stories had made Wallin Landing sound so alive and vibrant. Dottie had needed to believe in a place like that. After Frank had left her, she’d felt so isolated. But now that she understood how far away the place was from Seattle, she could only wonder whether her isolation would be worse here.
Still, she could not deny that she felt welcome in John’s house. The scrubbed wood floors gave off a patina that was reflected in the whitewashed walls and ceiling. The carved bench that served as the main seat for the parlor was draped with a quilt done in shades of br
own and green, and the hearth was of rounded stones, browns and grays and whites, with splashes of gold almost the color of Brian’s hair.
The cat strolled back and forth around her skirts, setting the wool to swinging. Peter reached out a hand as if he longed to touch the softness.
“He’s a very handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Dottie asked. Then she clamped her lips shut. She’d become accustomed to talking to Peter, even before he was born. After Frank had left her with the threat that she should keep quiet or else, she’d stayed in the apartment for days. Talking to her unborn baby had been the only way to stay sane. But if John Wallin had heard what she’d said right now, he might think she was talking about him!
Although she would have been speaking the truth. He was a handsome fellow.
Dottie raised her chin. “Come along, Peter. If we’re going to live here, we might as well know where everything is.”
She started in the kitchen at the back of the house, Brian strolling along beside her. The cast-iron stove along one wall stood between a cupboard and a wood box, both well filled. Copper pots and tin pans hung on the wall on either side. The wood table across from it could seat four, and she wondered who else might join him on occasion. The gingham curtains on the window overlooking the barn had been tied back with bows.
Beth must have done that.
“I’ll be able to cook here,” she told Peter, smiling down at his beaming face. “I can make you applesauce. Would you like that?”
Brian meowed as if he thought it sounded like a fine idea.
She returned down the corridor, heading for the bedroom across the entry from the parlor, and again the cat accompanied her. She felt a little odd peeking into John’s room, but if the upstairs was full of curing furs, she would have no other choice than to sleep here. She was pleased to see the room contained a large bed made from hewn logs. The blue-and-green quilt in a block pattern looked thick and warm. Brian jumped up and dug his claws into it as if to prove as much. With a quick look out the window to make sure John had taken the wagon around to the barn and couldn’t see her, she bounced on the mattress. Not too soft and not too hard. Good.
There was also a trunk at the foot of the bed, the beautifully carved top showing an owl sweeping out over a forest with the moon riding high above. She traced the bird’s flight with one hand. “Look at this, Peter. Do you know what the owl says? Who-hoo.”
Peter pursed his mouth as if he could make such a sound, but nothing came out.
Might as well say “what-what.” What was she doing here so far from home? How could she make a way for her son with no husband, no employment?
From the back of the house, something clanked. Had John come in a back door instead of the front?
Brian’s head snapped up, then he leaped off the bed and darted under it.
A shiver ran up Dottie’s spine. She glanced out the window again but caught no sign of John. She swallowed nervously, then laid Peter on the center of the bed and pulled up one edge of the quilt to cover him. He’d just begun to roll over, but she didn’t think he could manage it with the weight of the quilt.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called, urging Brian out from hiding.
The cat poked his head out from under the bed, then scampered across the floor like a streak of sunshine and flew out the door. Dottie followed.
She cocked her head and called toward the kitchen. “Hello, is someone there?”
In answer, the door swung open, and John moved into the corridor, her trunk balanced on his broad shoulders. It had taken two men to carry that from the cab to the train station in Cincinnati. She had a feeling it hadn’t grown any lighter since then. Yet he walked as if it was no burden.
“Where would you like this?” he asked. And he wasn’t even breathless!
She stepped aside to let him pass. “In the bedroom, please.”
With a nod, he went to comply.
Oh, yes, quite a fine physique.
Blushing, Dottie followed John into the room. Peter was cooing from his bundle on the bed, hands reaching up toward a beam of sunlight that was coming through the window. John smiled as he straightened from positioning the trunk against the far wall. “He looks right at home.”
Dottie felt it, too. But that was dangerous. This wasn’t going to be home, not for more than a week or two at most. It was no more permanent than the hotel room in Seattle or the apartment she’d left behind in Cincinnati.
John was moving around the room. He opened his trunk and gathered some flannel shirts and wool trousers. She turned in case he meant to lift out his unmentionables. As she did so, she couldn’t help noticing that even the windowsill was clean of dust.
Dottie frowned. Everything was clean. The floors had been swept, the gingham curtains on the bedroom window recently washed and ironed, and they also sported bows. Not one article of clothing had been strewn about the bedroom. No man she knew kept a house so clean, so lovingly decorated.
Anger flushed through her, and she rounded on John. “You lied to me! You have a wife. I demand that you return me to Seattle, immediately!”
* * *
John recoiled from Dottie’s vehemence. Her face was red, her eyes flashing, and she marched to the bed and snatched up Peter as if to protect him from John.
He dropped his things into the trunk. “I’ll take you back, if that’s what you want, but I don’t have a wife.”
“Really.” The single word held a world of suspicion. “And I suppose you’ll tell me that you clean house for yourself.”
He frowned. “I do. Ma insisted that all her sons know how to cook and clean and wash. Once in a while Beth comes by to help. I think she just likes having someone to look out for.”
Her face puckered. “You really wash your own clothes?”
Was that so odd? As far as he knew, Drew, James and Simon helped on wash day in their houses. It was hot, heavy work, and someone had to make sure the children didn’t go anywhere near the lye.
“Yes,” he said, feeling as if she was questioning his manhood. “A bachelor needs clean clothes as much as anyone else. And I don’t particularly like living in mud.”
She put one hand on her hip. “And I suppose you like bows as well.”
Bows? He glanced around the room, trying to see whether his sister might have left a hair bow lying around. “I’m not sure...” he began.
She stalked to the window and pointed at the fabric holding the curtains back. “Bows.”
“The ties?” Now that he looked at them, they did resemble bows. He’d never noticed before. “Beth made them for all of us last Christmas.”
Brian chose that moment to stroll back into the bedroom. He went immediately to John, wound himself around his ankles and glanced up with a pitiful meow. Normally John would have picked him up, stroked the ginger fur. But with Dottie looking at him as if he was some kind of oddity, he wasn’t about to give her reason to doubt him further.
“I...see,” she said. She drew in a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wallin. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
It was a strong reaction, but he supposed she had reason. He made himself shrug as Brian bumped his head against John’s calf. “Strange location, strange people. Anyone might have done the same. But rest assured I have no wife or any intention of taking one.”
She nodded, dropping her gaze. Brian reared up and dug his claws into John’s trousers. John refused to so much as protest. The cat dropped back down and stalked out of the room in high dudgeon.
Very likely, Dottie would relax once he was out of the way. John gathered up his belongings again. “All the food is in the cupboard near the stove,” he told her. “The fire burns pretty evenly, but I’ve noticed you have to turn the biscuits to get a golden top all around.”
She was staring at him again. Perhaps biscuits we
ren’t the most manly thing to discuss, either.
“And there’s a pump in the sink.” That was better. Machinery, logging, buildings: those were things men discussed. “Sometimes it takes a few tries for the water to flow. Oh, and that window sticks when it rains, but you shouldn’t need to open it this time of year.”
She nodded. “I’m sure we can manage.”
He straightened, arms laden. “Just don’t let Brian outside for long. It’s too easy for him to get eaten or end up in a trap.”
She shuddered. “I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Right.” John shuffled his feet. “Well, then, I suppose I better get going.”
He started past her, and she caught his arm.
“Thank you,” she murmured before standing on tiptoe and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
It ought to have been a neighborly kiss, a sisterly kiss, but the floor seemed to be rippling like a wave on the Sound. He had to stop himself from turning his head and meeting her lips with his own.
“Ho! John!”
His brother’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far beyond the little bubble that enclosed him and Dottie. She dropped to her soles, lavender eyes wide. Peter giggled.
James strolled past the door of the bedroom. “John? Are you here? I saw a wagon out back.”
“Excuse me,” John murmured, passing Dottie to the hallway.
James turned at the sound of his movement. “Ah, there you are. What, is it wash day already? What a tidy fellow you are. Ma would be so proud.”
John had a sudden urge to push his brother out the door. “Can I help you with something?” he asked instead.
James smiled. His next closest brother in outlook, James had a few inches on John, though he remained whip-thin. He’d also inherited Pa’s light brown hair and dark blue eyes. “Rina’s tooth is bothering her,” he explained. “Catherine’s given her a powder, but she’d prefer to take the day off tomorrow. She wondered if you’d step in.”
