Читать книгу The Wedding Promise - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 10

“Damn dog belongs outdoors, Rachel!” Cord’s brows were lowered over stormy eyes as he confronted his new cook. The front of his shirt wore a lavish display of hot coffee, and his fingertips held the wet fabric as far away from his chest as possible, as he roared his disapproval.

Rachel’s lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes widened with dismay as she beheld her employer’s anger. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McPherson. The boys gave Buster a bath when they got up. They let him in the house so he wouldn’t roll in the dirt. I had him shut in the pantry during breakfast. He must have gotten out when I was clearing up.”

Cord’s fingers worked at the buttons of the shirt he’d donned, fresh from his drawer, only an hour ago. Undoing them and stripping the wet garment from his body, he muttered his thoughts aloud regarding the mutt who watched from behind the pantry door.

“Rules are rules, Rachel. Dogs belong outdoors.” He handed her the gray shirt and she reached to grasp it.

“Let me get some butter to put on the burn,” she offered, her gaze intent on the flexing muscles in his upper arms as he moved. “It will take out the sting.”

“A cold cloth will do as well,” he told her. She turned to the sink where a dish towel was pressed into service as she pumped water to wet it before wringing it out Rachel handed it to him, watching as he spread the cool cloth against his flesh.

He was tall, well muscled, his arms and shoulders seeming more powerful without the covering of a shirt. Her gaze was drawn by the width of his chest, her eyes fixed on the curling dark hair that centered there. He was big. There was no other word to adequately describe the man. His arms were long, thick with muscles and pale above the elbows.

She clenched her hands, fearful that the urge to touch him would somehow gain control of her, that her traitorous fingers would reach to flex against the flesh he bared to her eyes.

“Will you go up and get me a clean shirt?” He motioned to his boots, dusty from the barn. “I don’t want to track on the carpets. My room’s the one at the head of the stairs.”

She’d paid scant attention last night, once she’d put together a meal for ten. Though only nine had been around the big table in the kitchen. Cord had muttered something about Jake eating later and Rachel could only be relieved at one less to wait on.

The men had made short work of her fried ham and mashed potatoes, scraping every last smidgen from the bowl. Jay and Henry had eaten their share, silent for a change as they attempted to follow the fast-paced conversation. Rachel had only held her breath in hopes that the men’s monstrous appetites would be satisfied before the food ran out.

“Rachel?” Cord waited, hands on hips as his lowvoiced reminder prodded her into action. “The shirt?”

She nodded, feeling a flush paint her cheeks as she dropped her gaze, hurrying from the room. He’d think she was foolish, gawking at him that way. As if she’d never seen a man’s chest before! Pa had often stripped to the waist to wash up before a meal, in front of the sink in the kitchen.

But he’d never looked like Cord McPherson, she admitted to herself, her feet flying up the stairway as she hurried to do his bidding.

Matter of fact, she’d never seen a sight anywhere to match the man downstairs.

She opened his bedroom door and paused for a moment. It was a man’s room, no doubt about it, with no frills to be seen. A huge bureau sat against the far wall, between the two windows. She slid open the first drawer, only to find short stacks of undergarments. Her cheeks ablaze, she slid the drawer shut and opened the second.

Success. His shirts were folded neatly, four altogether, still bearing iron marks where the hot sad iron had imprinted itself.

Even fresh from the ironing board, they bore his scent, an aroma lye soap could not overcome. She’d noticed it on the shirt she held in her hand, that smell of leather and fresh air, the faintly musky odor that had caught her nostrils at the supper table as she served the food.

Snatching at a neatly folded shirt, she closed his bureau drawer and scurried toward the doorway. If he should see her standing like a dolt, staring at his belongings, he’d likely send her packing. The man had offered her a job in his house, not the right to moon over him like a…

She shook her head against the thought Whether or not she admired the sight of Cord McPherson’s body, he was her employer, and she’d do well to remember it.

Her feet skimmed the stairs as she hurried to where he waited and then she slammed to a full stop as she caught sight of him once more.

He was facing the sink, his back to where she watched at the kitchen door. His hands were occupied with wringing out the cloth he’d held against his reddened flesh and his skin stretched tightly across his back as he lifted his hands to apply the cooling towel once more.

Rachel’s gaze was caught by the exposed flesh, her eyes widening as she viewed the pale stripes crisscrossing his body. A sound of despair she could not recall slipped from her lips and she lifted one hand quickly to cover the lapse.

He spun to face her, his eyes dark and threatening as he scanned her wary stance. “You might have let me know you were there,” he said, lowering the towel he held in one hand. “Give me the shirt.” He reached for it, his palm outstretched, and she moved to obey.

He clasped the soft fabric and in the doing managed to grasp her fingertips. She’d gripped the fabric tightly, so stunned by the sight of his scarred flesh she’d been unable to release her hold. And then the warmth of his palm enclosing her fingers brought her to her senses and she murmured a soft sound of protest as she freed herself from his grasp.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and rolled them up, an automatic gesture that bespoke his usual mode of dress. His fingers worked the buttons rapidly, and then his mouth twisted in a dark, mocking grin that brought a flush to ride her cheeks.

“Would you like to turn your back while I tuck it in?” His hesitation gave her the moment’s grace she required and she spun to face the doorway, aware of the sound of his denim pants being opened, the brushing of his hands against fabric as he completed the donning of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she managed, aware of his gaze upon her, straightening her shoulders as if she must assume a cloak of dignity before she turned to face him again.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m the sorry one, Rachel. I embarrassed you, and I apologize.” His hands rested on her shoulders and he turned her to face him.

The vee of his neckline was before her eyes, a few strands of dark hair curling against the gray cotton and she felt stunned by the intimacy of it. He held her inches from his body, just a finger’s touch from his flesh, and from his skin rose that faintly musky scent she yearned to inhale.

“You’ve been hurt.” The whispered words were all she could manage.

His shrug was a mute dismissal of her concern, even as his fingers slid to tighten against her upper arms.

She trembled in his grasp and rued the emotions that ran riot throughout her. Sorrow, that he had been hurt. Anger, at the culprit who had damaged him so badly.

And most of all, fear, for herself, for the woman she’d become in these few short moments.

Cord McPherson held it within his power to ruin her, her mind proclaimed, the knowledge quickening her heartbeat. His strong hands could tug her against his body and she would go, willingly. His mouth could lower to hers and she, who had never known a man’s caress, would welcome the touch of his lips.

She’d made an unwise choice, coming here. An even graver error in judgment, pledging her presence in his home until springtime next year. With only the weight of his hands against her shoulders, he’d been able to melt her store of resistance to his greater strength.

With just a look from those dark eyes, he could send her insides churning in a whirlwind of emotion she had no ability to guard against

From girl to woman, she had turned the corner in these few minutes of time, and her heart ached with the knowledge of her own vulnerability to this man.

“Rachel? Are you all right?” His hands shook her, clasping her firmly as if he would support her entire body by the hold he had taken on her upper arms.

She blinked, roused from her soul-searching, and met his gaze with what she grimly hoped was a sensible smile of accord.

“I’m fine, Mr. McPherson. Just fine.” Her spine held her erect as she stepped back from him, her flesh cooling as his hands slid to his sides.

She was too tempting by far, this piece of womanhood he’d brought into his home. Cord’s mouth tightened as he considered his folly, not to mention his carelessness in shedding his shirt in her presence. And so his measuring glance was harsh, his words a warning.

“They’re old scars, Rachel. Too old to worry about now, and none of your concern.”

She lowered her lashes until she could no longer see his upper body, and she concentrated on his words, as if unwilling to meet his gaze any longer. “You’re right. I made a fuss over nothing. I’ll tend to my own business from now on.”

She watched his hand clench into a fist, there at his side, and then his fingers flexed and he rested his palm flat against his thigh.

“You’d better soak that shirt or the coffee will stain it,” he said, grumbling the order as he turned away.

“Yes…” Her whisper followed him, as did her bewildered glance, looking up from the clean, wide boards of the kitchen floor as he allowed the screen door to slam behind himself.

A clod of dirt received a swift kick, his hat was mercilessly swatted against his thigh, and words his mama had never taught him spewed forth from Cord’s mouth in a muttered litany. Each stride was a thudding release of the anger he directed at himself, jarring his teeth as he clenched his jaw.

“Shamus!” The roar was almost enough to rattle the rafters in the big barn. From inside, a growling reply met Cord’s ears and he halted in the wide doorway.

“You needn’t scare the bejabbers out of the mare, McPherson.” Bending over a hind hoof, Shamus Quinn spoke around the nails he held between his teeth. Beyond him, the mare turned to look at the noisy intruder, her placid manner belying the fright attributed to her by the man fitting her with the last of her new shoes.

Cord cocked one hip, his fist resting against the angle, his abused hat tugged low over his forehead. “When are you gonna learn who’s boss here?” he snarled, his jaw jutting fiercely.

Spitting the nails he held in his mouth into his palm, Shamus dropped them into the front pocket of the leather apron he wore. Lowering the mare’s foot to the earthen floor, he eased his back, stretching to one side, then the other.

“Don’t know as I’ve got a problem with that, McPherson.” His sandy hair was a riot of curls atop his head, and one hand rubbed slowly over the thick mat as he eyed his employer. His bowlegged stance and sunleathered skin proclaimed him a horseman, but the ease with which he handled the mare added credence to that title.

“Thought I told you to see to the new stud next.” Cord’s words were harsher than he’d intended, his ire easing as he watched the man who’d been his friend since childhood.

Shamus nodded. “So you did.” Moving back to the mare’s side, he lifted her foot and rested it against his leg.

“Hold still, girl,” Shamus murmured to the horse. “We’re about done with you.” With ease, he worked at the shoe, fitting it carefully, his pliers nipping at the exposed nails.

“I’m wanting to ride him today.” Cord’s voice had resumed a normal volume and Shamus cast him a sidelong glance.

“He’s ready for you. I took care of him first thing when I got up. Before breakfast in fact.” Easing the mare’s foot to the floor, Shamus stepped back. “You sure hirin’ that gal on was a good idea?”

Cord’s eyes narrowed. “What does Rachel have to do with anything?”

The other man shrugged. “Dunno.” He peered at Cord, a grin edging his mouth. “Seems like you been on edge ever since she got here yesterday. Havin’ a female around ain’t good for you. It makes you ornery. S’pose maybe you need a trip to town?”

Cord’s glance was fierce, his demeanor defensive. “We needed a cook. Sam’s got his hands full with Jake.” He frowned, thinking of his brother. “I haven’t taken time to see him yet today. Right now I need to get the rest of the calves penned up for branding this afternoon.”

He thought of the woman he’d left in the kitchen. To beat all, he’d snarled at her and stomped off in a fit of temper. He didn’t need a woman fussing over him, even though the thought of Rachel’s slim fingers brushing against the old, silvered scars he bore made him shiver involuntarily.

Just as well he’d snapped at her. She was too good a cook to lose, and if he let his urges loose on her, she’d be hightailing it up the road, sure as the world.

Shamus was on his way to the back of the barn with the mare, and Cord followed him. “Bring me my saddle from the tack room,” he called, halting before the big box stall enclosing his new stallion. The horse eyed him cautiously, then bobbed his head and approached, stretching out his neck and flaring his nostrils.

Cord’s big hand snagged the leather halter and drew the animal closer. “Remember me, boy?” His voice was low, his movements easy. “We’re gonna get on just fine, you and me.”

Easing open the door of the stall, he led the stud through the opening, snatching up a bridle from a hook on the outside of the enclosure.

His hands were deft as he exchanged the halter for the bridle and bit, dropping the reins to the ground as he worked. From the rear of the barn, Shamus whistled tunelessly inside the tack room. And then the door closed behind him as he headed back up the broad aisle to where Cord waited.

“Buck and Jamie been sortin’ out the last of the calves. I think that holdin’ pen’s about full already. They’ve been at it a while now, since right after breakfast.”

“I’ll check it out,” Cord answered, swinging his saddle to rest on the broad back of the stud with a lithe movement.

“Jake under the weather?” Shamus’s question was carefully casual. “He wasn’t around for supper last night and Sam didn’t mention him this morning.”

“Just a bad spell,” Cord muttered. “He gets in a mood and won’t eat. Sam just has to let him get past it on his own.”

“What does your new cook think about takin’ care of him?” Shamus asked guardedly.

Cord lifted into the saddle. “She doesn’t know about him yet, and she won’t be doin’ the takin’ care of anyway. I’ll talk to her at dinnertime.”

Shamus grunted his displeasure. “You better hope he doesn’t take to havin’ a tantrum in there.” His head nodded at the big house. “She’ll be skedaddlin’ to town faster than you can blink.”

His chuckle was low and his eyes lit with humor. “Damn, that gal sure can bake up a good pan of biscuits, McPherson. You better hang on to her.”

His stallion sidestepped in a skittish dance as Cord cleared the barn door and he held the reins firmly, his voice low as he spoke to the animal. Beside the corral fence, Rachel’s brothers watched, wide-eyed as the big horse vied for control with the man atop his back.

“You boys lookin’ for a job to do?” Cord called out.

Henry nodded. “Yessir, we can help out. Rachel said we were to pitch in.”

“Go inside the barn and tell Shamus I sent you. He’ll put you to work gatherin’ the eggs and tendin’ to the chickens.”

Henry’s smile lost its shine. “I thought maybe we could help with the horses, sir.”

“Start with chickens and work your way up, boy. Your sister won’t have time to tend to them this morning.”

“I brushed down my pa’s horses,” Henry said quietly, unwilling to be relegated to tending the hens.

Cord’s eyes narrowed as he took in the boy’s stance, shoulders back and chin uptilted. “Take care of the hens today, and I’ll let you give a hand tomorrow morning with the yearling colts.”

Henry’s eyes brightened with excitement and he nodded quickly. “Yessir, that’ll be just fine. Me and Jay can sure learn how to feed chickens in a hurry.”

Jay nodded his agreement, standing almost behind his brother. “Yessir, we can do that.”

Cord jerked at the brim of his hat, forcing it firmly against his forehead. “Don’t get into trouble, now.”

Two small heads swung in unison. “Oh, no sir, we won’t,” Jay warbled, poking at his big brother. “Did you hear, Henry?” he asked in his clear treble voice. “We get to be in the barn tomorrow.”

Cord’s stallion moved out quickly, and he watched as the two boys scampered toward the barn door, Henry calling for Shamus as they went.

Across the yard, Rachel stood on the back porch, shaking the dust a dozen feet had deposited before breakfast on the small braided rug she held. Her hair gleaming in the morning sunshine, she watched as he rode past the corral, meeting his gaze across the grassy expanse.

“Probably ought to take time now to talk to her about Jake,” Cord muttered to himself, regretful that he hadn’t said something last night.

From beyond the barns, a shout caught his attention and he swung in that direction, where a cloud of dust bespoke activity. A spiral of smoke from a fire caught the breeze and he sniffed at the scent of burning wood. The men were setting up shop without him, it seemed.

With a nudge of his heel, the horse beneath him turned in the direction of the holding pen, and within minutes Cord was enmeshed in the branding of his calves.

Setting a pot of beef to simmer on the back of the stove, Rachel surveyed her kitchen. Though it belonged to Cord McPherson, it had become hers the moment she donned an apron yesterday afternoon.

Already, she had rearranged the pantry shelves to her liking, adding her own meager stores to the bountiful supply of tins and sacks gracing the shelves. That any one household should be so blessed by an abundance of foodstuffs was almost beyond belief.

A thrill of anticipation brightened her eyes and lightened her steps as she gathered the ingredients for the beef stew she planned for the noon meal. The meat was cut up and browned right after breakfast, with several onions adding a tangy scent. She’d found a sack of sprouting potatoes and upended them in the sink, sorting and scraping at the lot.

Somewhere outdoors, she decided, there must be a cellar where the garden produce had been stored for the winter.

The pantry held cans of peaches and she determined to make a cobbler, with sweet biscuits crusting it. Then she’d discovered the jars of home-canned applesauce and her eyes had widened at the sight of such luxury. Traveling from Pennsylvania had inured her to the prospect of dried and unpalatable fruit, not to mention the absence of fresh meat, except for the rabbits her father had managed to shoot along the way.

Her heart sang with the pleasure of putting roses in the cheeks of Jay and Henry once more, too long fed with oatmeal and cornbread, a handful of greens and an occasional fish. Henry had brought down a few rabbits, but she’d had a hard time cleaning the small specimens he’d managed to bring home.

Her mind wandered as she peeled potatoes, setting them aside in a pan of water to wait for the stew to be ready, her mouth shaping the words of a song as she sang beneath her breath.

The memory of a piano she’d spied in the front parlor yesterday afternoon entered her mind, and she thought with longing of the music hidden in those black and white keys.

Cord McPherson had walked her past those open double doors guarding the formal room at one side of the house, affording her but a glimpse of the beautiful instrument. Perhaps she could just take another look, maybe even open the other doors on that long hallway.

A house of this size was a wonderment. That Cord McPherson was a man of means had been a given. After all, he owned the ranch. That his home should be so fine was a pleasure beyond her imagining.

Wiping her hands on the dish towel she’d tucked into her apron, Rachel looked around the kitchen. Midmorning sunshine splashed across the pine floor, too strong to be stopped by the streaked windows.

She’d do well to get out a keg of vinegar and wash them, instead of considering poking her nose into the nooks and crannies of Cord McPherson’s home, she thought virtuously. And then with a twirl of skirts and a girlish laugh stifled with her open palm, she left her apron behind and set off down the hallway.

The parlor was magnificent, with a plush sofa much like the one that had graced their own parlor in Pennsylvania. The library desk beneath the window held an assortment of pictures and small ornaments that beckoned her invitingly.

She paused beside the mantelpiece, admiring the brass figures and marble pieces gathered there for display, then hesitated in the middle of the room to turn in a full circle. Coming to a halt, Rachel faced the piano, her mouth opening, a soft, yearning sound passing her lips.

Her feet moved soundlessly across the carpet in the center of the wooden floor, her soft-soled shoes a whisper. With reverent fingers, she lifted the lid that covered the keys and eased it to its open position. One finger touched white ivory, and she tilted her head as she heard the clear tone of hammer striking string within the instrument.

“Ohhhh…!” It was more than a whispered exclamation of delight From the depths of her soul, the yearning of her hungry heart expressed itself.

Music. The gift that eased the longings of her spirit, that fed her, nourishing her with beauty beyond bearing.

The temptation was more than she could resist. Rachel slid onto the bench, yielding to the attraction of the sounds held captive within the depths of the instrument before her. Lifting her hands, she placed them on the keys.

A melody flowed with liquid beauty from beneath her right hand, the fingers of the left adding a counterpoint of chords and running trills. Her eyes closed with the sheer ecstasy of it and she bent her head, her ear attuned to each note.

From the hallway a roar of disbelief sounded, a bellow of rage that halted her hands in their melodious pursuit. She spun on the bench, one leg half-bent beneath her as she looked over her shoulder.

Framed in the wide doorway was a man, sitting in an invalid’s chair. Empty pant legs hung lankly to the foot rest, only one knee curved over the seat. His hair hung to his shoulders in dark disarray. Bearded and hunched, looking like a beast set on ravishing the cause of his anger, he leaned in Rachel’s direction.

“I’m so sorry I disturbed you.” It was barely more than a whisper, spoken from between trembling lips. Her hands were clenched between her breasts, her heart beating a rapid cadence beneath her fists.

But he paid her apology no attention, his whole being seemingly bound by the furious rage that impelled him. His hands gripped the wheels and he spun them, sending his vehicle surging in her direction. Dark eyes, narrowed and blazing with an unholy anger, stopped her breath in her throat as she met his gaze with dismay.

And then he halted, midway across the room, and snarled a curse that fell on her ears and caused her to draw an unbelieving breath. He spun the wheels once more and the chair bumped against the piano bench, jarring her from her frozen pose of horror.

One hand reached toward him, as if to fend off his attack, and he cast the trembling fingers a look of such scorn as to cause them to fall back in her lap.

“I beg your pardon, sir…” The words were stronger this time as her mind raced, seeking an answer to the appearance of this creature before her.

And then he spoke, the words spaced as if uttered in the presence of an idiot, to whom he must make himself clearly understood.

“Who the hell are you?”