A Bride in the Bargain Part 11

"Leon!" she cried again. "Come back!"

But all she could hear were his footsteps running . . . running . . . running.

CHAPTER NINE.

"Anna. Wake up. You're dreaming."

She jerked awake. Rain pelted her face. The pounding of Leon's retreating footsteps continued. "Leon?"

"It's me. Joe. Joe Denton."

"What?" Darkness as thick as mola.s.ses surrounded her. "Where's Leon?"

"He's not here. No one's here. It's just you and me and Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare?"

"My horse."

She swiped the water from her eyes, trying to see through the darkness. His horse? The rhythmic pounding of Shakespeare's hooves penetrated her consciousness. Hooves. Not footsteps.

Her heart began to slow. Tears mixed with the rain on her face. "Where am I?"

"You're on a wagon in the Washington Territory."

"Yes, yes. I know. I meant where in the Territory am I?"

"Oh. We're about two miles from my home."

"It's dark."

"Yes."

"Isn't that dangerous? Won't we get lost?"

"No."

Anna took stock of his arms cradling her and with a jolt realized she was on his lap. She jerked upright.

Tightening his hold, he held her in place. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm perfectly fine. You can let go now."

"It'd be warmer and drier if you stayed put."

"I'll be all right."

"I know. You've got the coat. I was worried about me."

"Here. You can have it back." She reached up to shrug it off and discovered her arms were in the sleeves and its front had been b.u.t.toned.

Denton stayed her hand. "I was joking. Sort of."

"I wasn't."

"I don't want it back. But I would appreciate it if you'd stay close. Two miles can last a long time when you're wet and chilled."

She gently pushed and his arms fell away. Cold immediately rushed in.

"I'll give you your coat."

"Absolutely not."

She scooted off his lap, then sucked in her breath at the puddle of water that had collected on the seat beside him. The frigid moisture soaked through the fabric with alarming speed.

He pulled his hat low, but didn't offer it to her this time.

Leaning to the right, Anna stretched. A low groan escaped before she could suppress it.

"You all right?"

"Just a little stiff." She carefully straightened her legs as best she could. "How long was I asleep?"

"You missed dinner and supper."

"You stopped to eat and didn't wake me?"

"I never stopped. Just drove right through. So we made good time. Since we're almost home, though, I'd rather eat there if you can wait?"

"Yes. That's fine." She pushed her hair off her forehead. "Has it been raining the whole time?"

"It just started up again."

She squinted, but couldn't see more than a vague outline of Shakespeare. She couldn't imagine how Mr. Denton could see.

"Who's Leon?" he asked.

She gave him a sharp glance.

"You called out his name in your sleep."

Flipping up the collar of the jacket, she burrowed into its folds. "My little brother."

"Is he still in Ma.s.sachusetts?"

"He's dead."

The rain had chased away the sounds of any nocturnal creatures, leaving behind only the incessant splattering of raindrops on the trees, the puddles, and the pa.s.sengers of the wagon.

"The war?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

A gust of wind shook an extra dose of moisture from the leaves overhead.

"Me too," she whispered, and huddled deeper into his jacket.

By the time he pulled the wagon to a stop, Anna's fingers, toes, and ears ached from the cold, her nose was running, and she couldn't stop shaking.

"Come on," he said, lifting her from the seat. "I'll start a fire for you, then take care of Shakespeare."

Her legs buckled as soon as they met with solid ground.

He scooped her up, then took the porch steps.

She was so stunned at being suddenly airborne, she forgot to get an impression of the house from the outside. But the moment they stepped indoors, the sweet vanilla smell of what had to be twinflowers overwhelmed her.

Mr. Denton navigated his way through the dark house, pa.s.sing through one room, down a corridor, and then into another room. Again, the scent of twinflowers bombarded her.

"Here, hold on to this." He guided her hand to a hard surface.

She braced herself while he set her on her feet.

"You all right?" Large hands bracketed her waist.

"Fine, fine. I'm perfectly fine."

He released her, but his hands hovered.

"You really needn't fuss," she whispered into the quiet. "I was just unsteady for that initial moment."

"Well, I have a towel on a rack right over there. Will you be okay if I step away?"

"Yes, of course. I'm fine."

He took four quick steps, then was back with a towel. She tried to free her hands, but the sleeves of the jacket were too long.

Before she could protest, he cupped her neck and tilted her chin up with his thumb, then began blotting the moisture from her face.

She stilled in surprise. This was no rough rag, but a real towel-soft, absorbent, and smelling of sunshine. He patted her forehead, her nose, her jaw, then swiped the hair away from her face.

She closed her eyes and reached for her jacket b.u.t.tons, but again, the sleeves imprisoned her hands.

Denton quickly slipped the b.u.t.tons free and pushed the coat from her shoulders. It slid down her arms and onto the floor.

Raindrops tapped against gla.s.s windows. Only actual gla.s.s, not greased paper, would make that particular sound. The man obviously had done well for himself. Very well.

Opening her eyes, she could just make out Denton's silhouette. He was close. Too close.

He pressed the towel against her neck. She reached up to take it from him, her hand colliding with his.

After a slight hesitation, he stepped away. A few seconds later she heard the sc.r.a.ping of flint and steel.

He lit several lanterns, then went to work on a prelaid fire. They were in a kitchen. A large, well-supplied kitchen dominated by a modern stove with a ventilated oven on one side, a fire and roaster on the other, and a hot plate over all.

Scales, spice boxes, sugar, and biscuit canisters lined a set of shelves next to boilers, saucepans, and stew pans. A corner cupboard stocked with spatterware picked up the same colors as the braided rug, but it was the high level of craftsmanship that drew her attention back to the cupboard.

Never had she seen such an elaborate piece in a kitchen. Had Mr. Denton made it, or did he merely chop down the trees and leave the carpentry for someone else?

The fire crackled, its woodsy smell overtaking that of the aromatic flowers. She glanced at a cup of wilting, pinkish-white twin-flowers on a table. They were bell-shaped with two blooms per stem hanging down like ta.s.sels. Each mirrored the other. She wondered if, like honeysuckle, they made good syrup or sorbet.

Crossing the room in large strides, Denton slipped through a side door, then returned with a large pot of water.

She lifted a questioning gaze to him.

"The milk room's through there," he explained, setting the pot on the stove and opening the fire chamber. He threw in some pine for a quick hot fire, then began to light it. "I have an artesian spring that runs right by the house and have piped some in to cool the room."

Her gaze returned to the door he referred to. A milk room? And a natural spring?

Turning again to face her, he rubbed his hands on his thighs. "I'm going to see to Shakespeare and the milk cows. By the time I'm done the water should be hot. So, sit tight and I'll be as fast as I can."

He stepped to the back door, then without turning around said, "The necessary house is just out this door and around the corner."

And then he was gone.

Even though he wanted to rush, he took his time with Shakespeare, rubbing him, brushing him, and giving him an extra scoop of feed. All the while his mind was on the woman in his house.

She'd not been happy to find herself in his lap. But she'd kept sliding off his shoulder and it had been easier to keep her still in his lap. Was also easier to keep her dry. The fact that he liked having her there was beside the point.

Shakespeare paused in his eating to cast an eye back at Joe. He realized he'd stopped his brushing and immediately resumed his task.

He shouldn't have pushed his horse so hard. He was sorry he'd done it. It was one thing for him to skip his meals. Quite another to expect Shakespeare to.

Squatting down, he began to ma.s.sage the horse's back leg. What was his guest doing now, he wondered. Was she wandering through the house, soothing her curiosity? What would she think of it?

He paused. What if she went into his bedroom? Would she dare? He hoped not, because if she did she'd see the twinflowers.

Shakespeare flicked his tail. Joe resumed the ma.s.sage. He'd completely forgotten about the blasted flowers until he walked through the door and their smell hit him square between the eyes.