Читать книгу A Home Of Her Own - Keli Gwyn - Страница 13

Chapter Four

“You come back late, boss.”

James started at Quon’s words, and the wrench he was cleaning clattered on his workbench. He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t heard the elder of the two Lee brothers enter the barn. “It took a while to make the repairs.”

If only Ralph Stratton had shown his young son how to operate the release valve James had installed. Instead, Davy had gotten frustrated and whacked the spigot with a shovel, breaking it off, when all he’d needed to do was twist the handle. Water had gushed from the pipeline James had installed that led to both his orchard and Stratton’s farm, creating a small lake in no time.

Quon sat on an apple barrel, his heels drumming a steady beat as they struck the empty container. “You very dirty. Need to take bath before you go in house. Must look good for new lady.”

“New lady? Oh, you mean Miss Martin.”

“Is she your special friend?”

“No!” James lowered his voice. “She’s Mutti’s nurse. She’ll be taking over her chores, too.”

Quon stilled his feet. “Good your mother have helper. Not good she need one.”

“I wanted an older woman. Miss Martin is seven years younger than I am.”

“You talk with mad voice. Why? She pretty? Make your head move?” He swiveled his in an exaggerated imitation of a man watching an attractive woman walk past, with his eyebrows doing a ridiculous dance.

James chose not to encourage Quon. “Did everything go all right while I was gone?”

“No trouble here.”

He wiped the mud off the last of the tools he’d sent Bobby to get and suspended the pipe cutter between two nails on the board over his workbench. “I see you and Chung finished plowing the garden plot this afternoon. Good work.”

“Miss Martin will plant soon?”

“I suppose so, but I’ll have to show her how. Since she’s lived in the city her whole life, I doubt she knows one end of a rake from the other.”

Quon thumped his chest. “I will teach her. I good teacher.”

“I know, but...”

“What? She not like Chinese people?”

“I don’t think she’s ever met any before.” James wasn’t sure how she’d react. Many people maligned the Chinese. Some went so far as to threaten them—or worse. He wouldn’t subject Quon and Chung to any mistreatment.

“She seem nice.”

“You’ve met her?”

“She look out kitchen window, see me and... I not know how to say it.” Quon waved.

James supplied the word. “I’ll talk with her about the gardening and let you know.”

Quon jumped to the ground. “I think Miss Martin have supper ready for you soon. It smell good. I go.”

James entered the lean-to at the back of the house minutes later and yanked off his muddy boots. The large washtub they used for bathing sat on the floor with steam rising from the surface of the water.

The door from the great room opened, and Miss Martin stepped inside, lugging a large pail. She sent hot water splashing into the tub. “Did you get everything fixed?”

“I did.”

“That’s good. I figured repairing a water line would be a dirty job and you’d want to bathe. I put clean clothes up there.” She tilted her head toward the shelf over the coat pegs. “I’ll have supper on the table shortly.” She left and closed the door.

She’d anticipated his every need.

“Thanks. I won’t be long.” The mouthwatering scents in the air had set his stomach to growling. He was eager to sample her cooking.

Minutes later he entered the kitchen. Miss Martin bustled about with confidence. A thick brown braid hung down her back, swinging from side to side as she moved, a captivating sight. He forced himself to stop staring.

She must have helped Mutti with her hair because the braid coiled atop his mother’s head was neat and tidy. Such tasks had grown increasingly difficult for her, although she had a hard time admitting it.

His mother sat at the table stirring a creamy concoction. He appreciated the young woman’s consideration. By including her, Mutti would feel as if she were making a valuable contribution.

Miss Martin turned from the stove and smiled. “You look a whole lot better, but...”

“But what?”

She tapped a finger to her head. “You might want to brush your hair.”

“Yes. I’ll do that.” He hadn’t meant his words to have such an edge. It wasn’t as though he cared what she thought of him, but he didn’t like that hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Be quick, Sohn. It is past suppertime.”

“I told you not to wait.”

Miss Martin set a pitcher of milk on the table. “We didn’t want you to have to eat alone.”

He completed the task as quickly as he could and took his place on the end of one of the two benches flanking the rectangular dining table, opposite Mutti. Miss Martin set the dishes before him. Jägerschnitzel and Spätzle with gravy—a good German meal.

She sat beside Mutti, her hands in her lap and her head down. Mutti bowed hers, too. “Would you please give thanks, Sohn?”

James bit back a sigh. Mutti knew he had difficulty praying, but she asked him to say grace every night. She couldn’t seem to accept the fact that he wasn’t on speaking terms with God. But as he had before every other meal, he would do his duty.

“Thank You, Father, for the food we’re about to eat. Please give Mutti a restful night and help Miss Martin’s ribs heal quickly. Amen.”

He heaped generous portions on his plate. The Jägerschnitzel tasted every bit as good as Mutti’s. The veal cutlets were tender, the small dumplings served with them were cooked to perfection and the mushroom gravy he’d ladled over everything was as rich and smooth as buttermilk. Miss Martin smiled when he helped himself to seconds.

“Becky is a good cook, ja?”

“Almost as good as you are.”

Mutti chuckled. “You do not have to humor me, Sohn, but I love you for it. You will soon see that she is the better baker.”

When everyone had finished eating, Miss Martin cleared the supper dishes, opened the oven door and flooded the room with the tantalizing aroma of peaches and cinnamon. She topped each slice of peach pie with a dollop of the whipping cream Mutti had made. He wasn’t going to have any complaints about his food with Miss Martin in the kitchen.

A short time later he shoveled in the last bite of the fruity dessert and tossed his napkin on the table. “Mutti’s right, Miss Martin. The pie was delicious.”

She focused on her plate, but a hint of a smile lifted her lips. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. O’Brien.”

Mutti’s brow creased. “I am glad you two are talking, but I do not like the stiffness. You both call me Mutti, so I think you should call each other James and Becky.”

Miss Martin’s fork froze in midair.

Leave it to Mutti to interfere. She meant well, but he couldn’t let her take charge. “She has a good point. Quon and Chung are my employees, and I use their first names. If you don’t object, I’ll use yours, and you may use mine.”

Calling a young woman by her first name seemed odd. He’d escorted the highly regarded Miss Sophronia Wannamaker to parties in Sacramento City for over a year before she’d given him permission to call her by her Christian name. That was often the case with a cultured lady of society such as Sophie, but Becky was different. This battered young woman with the warm brown eyes would become part of their family for a time, whether he liked it or not.

Becky set her fork down. “You may call me that if you’d like.”

Mutti patted Becky’s hand. “This is better. Ja? Now, I must go to bed. For some reason I cannot get enough sleep today.”

James jumped up. “I’ll get Kate’s bed moved.”

It took him no time to accomplish the task. He scooted the bed into the corner of Mutti’s room opposite hers and spied Becky’s books on the bureau between them. She’d placed a piece of ribbon in her dictionary. Curiosity compelled him to flip to the page she’d marked. A quick scan showed she must have been looking up impetuous. As he’d suspected by her furrowed forehead when he’d used the word earlier, she didn’t know the meaning. Quon, ever the teacher, would appreciate her eagerness to learn.

“Mutti wondered if—” Becky balanced a pile of bedding in her arms. She stared at the book in his hands, opened her mouth as though she intended to say something but clamped it shut.

His chest tightened, and he set the dictionary down.

Her words came out clipped. “If you’re done in here, I’d like to get the bed made up so I can help Mutti get settled for the night.”

“Of course.” He paused in the doorway and assumed an authoritative tone. “Come out when you’re finished, and we’ll talk.”

James gave Mutti a good-night kiss on the cheek, and she disappeared into her room. He knelt on the hearth and added a log to the fire. Settling into his wing-back armchair, he watched as the blaze crackled and popped, sending sparks flying. He’d seen another kind of spark in Becky’s eyes when she’d caught him snooping. You would think he’d been pocketing priceless jewels instead of looking in a dictionary that was falling to pieces. Perhaps since she had so little, she held tightly to what she did have.

He’d often wondered what possessed a woman to leave everything and everyone she knew and head West. Becky had escaped her abusive brother, which took courage. Her quiet strength would serve her well as she cared for Mutti. She could be somewhat obstinate at times. He’d doubted Becky’s abilities when he’d first met her, but it seemed she would make a good nurse, after all.

He tried to imagine Sophie in the role. The picture of her nursing Mutti was so inconceivable he nearly laughed out loud. How vastly different the two women were. Unlike unassuming Becky, Sophie oozed sophistication. No one could carry on a conversation or make people laugh the way she could. She was stunning, too, with her black hair and artistic features. He’d never felt more like a man than when she’d graced his arm at social functions. But he’d severed ties with her after the accident, sparing her the unpleasantness of further acquaintance. A woman of her social standing deserved a man others admired, not the disfigured son of struggling small-town immigrants.

Becky returned and leaned against his father’s large leather armchair, looking bone-weary. “You wanted to talk?”

“Please take a seat. I’ll be brief.”

She glanced longingly at Mutti’s rocker beside James but perched on Kate’s fancy purple chair on the far side of it, instead.

His conscience held him in its clutches. “I want to apologize for invading your privacy. It won’t happen again.”

Incredulity danced in her clear blue eyes, followed by appreciation. “I know the dictionary’s seen better days, but it’s important to me. Now please, tell me about my duties.”

Strong and forthright, too. A promising combination. “In addition to caring for Mutti, I’d hoped you could take over her chores—cooking, cleaning, laundry and so forth. She’s helped with the milking, chickens and gardening, too. I know that’s a lot, but...”

Becky nodded. “I can do everything inside, but I don’t know how to do the things outdoors. We didn’t have a garden or animals, other than the horses, of course.”

“Quon’s offered to teach you how to tend the garden, and I’ll show you how to do the rest. The milking is done early, so I’ll knock on your door in the morning if you’re not up. Any questions?”

“Will I have any free time?”

He hadn’t given that any thought. “I suppose so, when your work’s done, but you’ll need to be available to Mutti.”

“Of course. But would you mind if I read when she’s sleeping?” She glanced longingly at the books on his side table.

He loved to read, so he could understand her desire. “Not at all. Feel free to borrow any book in the house.”

“Thank you.” A smile lit her face, drawing attention to her round cheeks. He’d been so focused on the bruises marring them earlier that he hadn’t noticed the matching set of dimples. “Did you have anything else for me? If not, I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow and would like to get some rest.”

“That’s all.”

“Then good night, sir.”

“You may call me James.”

“I understand.” She rose and headed straight to Mutti’s room with her head held high.

He stared at the closed door. Becky’s show of independence surprised him. Having the spirited woman around could be interesting—and distracting.

* * *

Bacon sizzled in the skillet, and the invigorating scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen. Becky sliced two thick slabs of bread for toasting.

A bedroom door opened promptly at five, and James appeared. “You’re up early.”

“Yes.” She’d always been an early riser, but her internal clock must still be adjusting to California time, because she’d awakened at four. Not that she minded. She’d had time to read her Bible, pray and sneak some leftovers out to the dog. The friendly fellow had been waiting for her behind the cabin where she’d bathed him. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Over medium.”

She set James’s breakfast before him in short order. He dove into the meal, not even stopping to say a blessing, and finished it in silence while she began preparations for dinner.

The moment he set his fork down, she reached for his empty plate. “Would you like more?”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” He stood and grabbed his hat. “Come with me, please. I want to show you how to do the milking before Mutti wakes.”

“I’ll be right there.” She put the dirty dishes in the tub of soapy water to soak and met him at the door.

He waited with his hand on the latch and held out a cloak. “This was Kate’s. You’ll need it. The temperature fell overnight.”

She was tempted to forgo the oversize woolen garment since it hadn’t felt cold when she’d visited the dog earlier, but it wouldn’t do to challenge James about something like this. She’d have to choose her battles wisely, because she was certain there would be some.

A short time later Becky sat on a small three-legged stool in the barn beside a large cow.

James stood behind her. “It’s quite simple, really. Grasp the back teat from the two on the left and the front one from those on the right, clamp them between your thumbs and first fingers and squeeze down, alternating the pressure between the two.”

The teats felt a lot different than she’d expected. Firmer and stiffer. She gave one of them a squeeze, but nothing happened. Adding a little pressure, she tried the other, but once again there was no stream of milk.

“Don’t be so timid. Give them a good squeeze. You won’t hurt her.”

After three more unsuccessful attempts, she sighed. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

“Let me show you.”

She stood.

“No. Stay there.”

She sat. He reached around her and covered her hands with his own. A chill raced down her spine, and although she did her best not to, she shivered. She’d never been in a man’s arms before, and yet here she was with James’s brushing her sides and his breath warming her ear.

“Do it like this.” He squeezed her hands—hard—sending streams of milk pinging against the sides of the metal pail. He kept at it for what felt like an eternity.

She leaned forward and forced herself to ignore him, which wasn’t easy. When she could take no more of his closeness, she glanced at him. The uninjured side of his face was mere inches from hers.

My, but he was handsome. She swallowed in an attempt to moisten her throat, which had become as dry as stale bread. “You can move. I’ve got the idea.”

He shot to his feet, took several steps backward and leaned against the pen with his arms folded over his broad chest. “Let me see you do it, then.”

His high-handed manner rankled. Taking the teats in her hands, she squeezed one and then the other, shooting milk into the pail. She kept at it and silently rejoiced as the amount of frothy white liquid grew. Just as she turned to smirk at him, the cow’s tail smacked her across the face.

James chuckled. “You have to watch out for that. Buttercup likes to flick her tail when you least expect it. And be sure to keep your knees around the bucket, or she could kick it over.”

She huffed. “You don’t have to laugh at me. I’m doing my best.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa! There’s no need to get a polecat in your petticoats. It was funny. That’s all.”

“I doubt you’d be laughing if you’d just gotten a mouthful of tail.”

“You’re right, but I know to watch out for it.”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll learn.”

“You can finish up and leave the pail outside the pen. I’ll carry it in when I finish with the horses.” He sauntered off toward their stalls with his shoulders shaking.

Fine. She’d show him. She would get the milking done quickly and beat him to the house.

She’d barely resumed the milking when James returned. He stood at the back end of the cow, but Buttercup didn’t seem to care. She kept munching her breakfast. He patted her hindquarters. “There. She won’t get you again.”

He’d tied a piece of twine to the cow’s tail and secured it to the top rung of the pen. His thoughtfulness touched her. “Thank you, sir.”

“My name is James. You’re free to use it.”

“So you’ve said.” Becky dipped her head to hide her smile. She shouldn’t take pleasure in irritating him, but he could be so heavy-handed at times that she hadn’t been able to resist.

Before long her back ached and her hands screamed for relief, but she kept on.

She’d been at the milking a good fifteen minutes when James’s voice made her jump.

“Lean into her side. It helps.”

She did as he suggested and felt the cow’s bristly coat against her cheek.

To her dismay, he watched her work for a couple of minutes, and then he peered over her shoulder. “It looks like you’re done, so I’ll get that.” She rose and eased her weary body out of the way. It was a good thing she didn’t have to carry the milk, since her bruised ribs were aching.

“Let’s go.” He freed the cow’s tail and hefted the pail.

She followed him out of the barn, took one look at the orchard and came to a standstill. The sun had crested the horizon, stretching its far-reaching fingers to caress each blossom. “I thought it was beautiful yesterday, but this...” She flung her arms wide. “It’s breathtaking. Just look at all those trees with their loose petals floating in the air. It might seem silly, but I could see myself dancing in them.” He was clearly not amused, so she shoved her fanciful musings aside. “How many trees are there?”

He stood at her side. “About thirteen hundred currently bearing fruit, and five hundred more that I’ve started in the past three years.” Pride dripped from his every word. “I plan to add some more each year until I have all fifty acres planted.”

“I love the soft colors of the flowers, but I noticed yesterday when I took a short walk that some of the trees don’t have any blooms. Why is that?”

She tore her gaze from the apple trees and was rewarded with a sight sweeter than any fruit. The first rays of sunlight had illuminated James’s face, revealing a smile so filled with warmth she could bask in it.

“Those with the white flowers are Rome Beauty and Esopus Spitzenburg, my late-season apples. The pink blooms are my Winesaps. The Jonathans and Baldwins already bloomed and will be ready for harvest earlier.”

“When you’re not so busy, I’d love for you to show me which is which. I want to learn all about the apples, the trees and how you take care of them.”

His expression changed to one of wonder. Or was it disbelief? “You would?”

Disbelief, definitely. “I love apples and know very little about them. Other than how tasty they are and how to bake with them, that is.”

“You’re the first woman I’ve met besides Mutti who’s shown an interest. Neither my sister nor my—my friend...” He glanced from Becky to the house and back. “You’ll be busy with Mutti, but perhaps we could fit in a lesson now and then.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

He stared at her for several seconds, his face a study in conflicting emotions. Surprise. Curiosity. And was that admiration?

Color crept up his neck, and he shook himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare at you like that. I should, um, get this inside.” He took off in such a rush that he sloshed milk over the edge of the bucket.

She watched his retreating figure. James might be a bit brusque on occasion, but he had a softer side, too. Perhaps in time she’d figure out how to get him to reveal it more often.

Not that she’d be here any longer than necessary. Thanks to Dillon, she’d have to change locations frequently to avoid having him find her.

Even so, she welcomed this opportunity to learn all she could about the apple trees. If she happened to enjoy the company of the intriguing man who cared for them, so be it.