Eden

Katie looked at the bounty Berta had arranged on the kitchen table and felt her throat tighten, even as her head swam with the generosity of the woman who was prepared to welcome her without question. “I’ve never had anybody do for me this way,” she said, fighting to hold back the tears that begged to be shed.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, girl. Don’t make a fuss about it, and sure enough, I don’t want you to be crying. I came over to welcome you, not make you feel bad.”

“Oh, I’m not feeling bad, just pleased that you’re being so nice to me.”

“Well, let’s get this put away and set your kitchen to rights. I’ve probably got enough here to do you for a week or so anyway, along with whatever you can find in the smokehouse.”

“John had a good piece of bacon in the pantry and I fried some up last night when we got in from town. Made him a sandwich out of it and opened a can of beans, so he wouldn’t starve to death before morning.”

Berta dug in her apron pocket and found a small tin of tea leaves, announcing that a cup of tea was just the thing for midmorning, sending Katie to the stove where she slid the big covered teakettle over the hottest spot. In a few minutes they were sharing the tea, Berta declaring that next time she’d bring along some milk to put in it, Katie happy just to have the treat of tea, something that was a rare delight at the Schrader farmhouse.

Before long, Berta had taken her leave and looking up to where the sun hung behind a cloud, bringing its glow to the eastern sky a bit, Katie decided it was more than time to begin John’s dinner. One of the Mason jars of beef made up the base of her preparations, and she added three potatoes from the bag Berta had brought, a big onion from the mesh bag, and then a handful of carrots that Berta had said were but a drop in the bucket when compared to the bushels in her fruit cellar.

When the dinner bell rang loudly from the back porch of the big house, Katie was on her hands and knees, washing up the final square of the kitchen floor, the rest of it drying rapidly in the heat from the stove. John came in the door, and she lifted herself to kneel upright as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Berta called the men in for dinner, Katie, so I thought I’d see if you were ready with mine.”

“Watch the wet floor, John. Don’t slip. It’s not quite dry over there by the door yet. Wait a minute and I’ll wipe it with a towel and then I’ll be done here.”

“What are you up to, Katie?” He leaned past the table to see her, frowning as he caught sight of her kneeling near the stove. “It looks to me like you’ve been busy, girl. My trousers are almost dry out there on the line, and unless I’m dreaming, I can smell something mighty good on that stove.”

She couldn’t help the surge of pride that rose to the surface at his words. “It’s your dinner, John. I made you beef stew.”

His grin was wide and approving as he swept his gaze over her. “Well, doggone. This getting hired help is gonna work out just fine, Katie.” He sat on a chair near the door and pulled his boots off, careful to set them to dry on a bit of carpet he kept there.

He hung his coat and hat on the hook and then headed for the sink to wash up. Katie carried her bucket of wash water to the back door and dumped it over the railing as he scrubbed his face and rolled his sleeves up to wash his arms. When she closed the door after hanging the bucket on a nail in the entryway, he was drying off with a towel, watching her as she moved across the floor to the stove.

“I don’t want you working so hard, Katie. Doing the wash today was enough to wear you out, you didn’t have to scrub the floor, too.”

She stepped toward him and lifted her face to look at him squarely. “You don’t need to worry about me, John. I’m strong and well able to do anything that needs to be done in this house. What I do here is because I want to.”

John would have put his hands on her, would have held her close, but she’d already turned in a half circle and was reaching for the cupboard, lifting down plates and then searching out silverware in the drawer that held it.

And he thought better of his first instinct, that of touching the girl who had worked on his behalf all morning. She was not ready yet for a man’s hands to spread wide on her back, for a man’s lips to touch hers. And might not be for a long time to come. He’d do well to stifle his instincts and let the girl alone.

On the stove sat the coffeepot, the tempting smell of the fresh brew wafting to his nostrils, and he reached over her head to snatch up two cups, depositing them on the table next to the plates.

Katie folded her hands and tilted her head, as if she judged her meal ready to be served. “All right, John. Just sit down and I’ll fix your plate,” she said, locating a large spoon she’d put atop the warming oven. She stretched up on her tiptoes to reach it, and John’s breath caught as he watched her. Her arms lifted high, outlining her breasts against the bodice of her dress, the hem lifting to expose slim ankles and narrow feet.

He frowned as he caught sight of bare skin. “Where’s your shoes, Katie? You’ll catch cold that way. And you even went out on the porch barefoot. I don’t want you coming down with pneumonia, girl.”

She looked down quickly, as if she’d forgotten that her feet were bare of covering and then glanced at him, her reply coming quickly. “I took my shoes off when I washed the floor, and besides, I’m used to going barefoot. It saves on shoe leather.”

“Well, you can go without shoes if you want to, but not because you have to save on shoe leather,” he told her. “There’s plenty more shoes where yours came from. When they wear out we’ll get you new ones. In fact, they sell house shoes at the store, with soft soles you can slip on in the house.” His look in her direction was one that expressed his feelings, a smile that warmed her.

“You can have anything you need, Katie. I don’t want you ever going without food or clothing or whatever makes you happy. Understand?”

She nodded quickly. “I don’t need things, John. I’m happy just as I am, with what I already have. I don’t mean to argue with you, but—”

Her words broke off as he stepped closer and she lifted wide eyes to him, as if seeking out his thoughts. She was warm, smelling like soap and beef stew and woman, a combination he found irresistible. All of his good intentions fled as his head bent and his lips touched her cheek.

“Thanks for making my dinner and washing my clothes, honey. You’re satisfied with so little, I forget sometimes that your needs are easily met. But, know one thing, sweetheart. You don’t have to work so hard. I don’t want to see calluses on those pretty little hands.”

She watched his face as he spoke, and then drew her hands up between them to look at her palms, a frown on her face.

“I don’t have pretty hands, John. I’m used to hard work, and I know my hands show it, but that’s all right. I just want to do what I’m doing. I’m happy here with you.”

He took her palms in his, moving her back from him so that he could better see the small fingers and the roughened flesh he held.

“You’ve worked too hard during your life, Katie. I can see that by looking at you. And that’s all well and good, but it’s in the past. From now on you don’t have to work yourself to a frazzle. Just so long as you take good care of me, and keep my house clean and my meals cooked, I’ll be one happy man,” he said.

She looked puzzled at that and he relented, smiling a bit as he touched the end of her nose with his index fingertip. “You’ve got lots of years ahead of you to learn how to look after me, Katie. I’m planning on keeping you here for a long time, at least until you find yourself a good man and set up housekeeping in a place of your own.”

She shivered, her skin pale and her words put a lie to his prediction. “I don’t intend to ever get married, John. I didn’t see anything in my years out there at the Schrader farm to make me yearn for that sort of life. I’ll be happy to work for my keep and stay unmarried for the rest of my life.”

He sat down at the table and watched her as she readied his meal. “Haven’t you ever thought of having a family of your own, Katie? Children, maybe, and a husband to take care of you?”

The look she shot his way was dark. “I can take care of myself. And from what I’ve heard, it takes a man to help make babies, and that doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. I’ll stay as I am, thank you.”

If she wondered at the sassy grin he offered her, she did not question it or the words he uttered. “One day, you may change your mind.”

And thus she missed the measuring look he aimed at her as he spoke and the laughter that he muffled for her benefit.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT FOUR DAYS passed quickly for Katie, bound up in the discoveries she made in John’s cabin. An extra sheet from his closet was cut up and hemmed to make curtains for the bedroom window, and she begged thread, a needle and pins from Berta to accomplish her goal. Her stitches were fine, her skills honed by years of darning stockings and mending trousers, not to mention the few items of clothing she’d made for herself to wear over the past couple of years.

Mrs. Schrader had not been enthused about the art of sewing and by dint of hard work and much stitching and then tearing out and redoing, Katie had learned how to put together two pieces of fabric and sew a fine seam. Curtains were a joy to make, she decided, especially when she knew John would be pleased with her efforts.

Berta contributed a dowel rod and together she and Katie tacked it into place over the window and the curtains were duly admired over a cup of tea, Berta’s praise for Katie’s skills falling on grateful ears.

John’s thoughts on the subject were more than she’d expected, for he told her that they would find a bolt of material in the general store that she could use for the kitchen, where curtains were sorely needed. She agreed with enthusiasm and made her plans accordingly, mentioning to John that a piece of oilcloth would look well on the kitchen table. A suggestion he agreed with, his pleasure in her plans for his cabin obvious.

She looked forward to the evenings spent before the fireplace, when John spoke to her of the cattle and horses, of the men who worked with him, and occasionally of his past. He came from a big family, his father still alive, although his mother had been buried several years ago. He had several brothers and a younger sister, he told her, all of them miles away, but close to his heart.

She envied him, a quiet sort of emotion that took nothing from his joy in his family, but a yearning for someone to call her own. John was fast becoming her friend, she thought, but she yearned to know that someone, somewhere might think of her as their family, perhaps the way John cared for his father and the brothers and sister he’d left behind. And yet, there was in her relationship with John, more than mere friendship, for she found herself yearning, on occasion, for a touch from him, perhaps his hand on her shoulder or his lips against her forehead, something he seemed to find pleasurable.

His touch was a comfort, his arm resting across her shoulders sometimes before he left the cabin in the morning to work in the barn or out in the pastures. But better yet were the infrequent times that he smiled at her and his gaze touched her with a heated warmth that went beyond his other gestures of tenderness. He’d placed his lips against her temple or cheek more than once, as a gesture of affection, and she cherished those small touches, aware that her presence in his home pleased him.

Today, after ironing his clothes and straightening his dresser drawers for the third time, she’d cooked a light meal for their supper, knowing he’d rather eat more heavily at noontime. And after the third trip to the window to look out into the twilight, she began to wonder where he could be. He’d told her he could usually be counted on to come in for his supper before darkness fell. And the sun had set already, making it necessary to light the lamp over the table.

She’d begun to fret, unable to think of what might have happened to make him so late, hearing the sounds of men walking to the house, their voices calling back and forth. And still, John was not to be seen.

Until, like a silent spirit in the night, he was behind her in the kitchen. She’d just turned back to the stove, rescuing the beans cooked with bits of ham before they burned, stirring the creamed potatoes one last time, deciding to give up and slide the whole meal into the oven to stay warm.

His hand was on her shoulder, his voice a whisper in her ear and she dropped her spoon on the floor with a clatter, turning to him, a cry of surprise and relief on her lips.

“John. Where have you been? I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve been worried. When it got dark and you weren’t home yet, I thought something had happened to you.”