Almost a Hometown Bride

“No, I was named after my paternal grandmother. I’m told she was very pretty and had a sunny disposition, and they called her Merri. Me, they called Merritt.” The wind was bringing tears to her eyes and she blinked them away, hoping he didn’t see them and misunderstand. “Now that we have that out of the way, would you mind going on about your business? I have to get the stove ashes emptied and a new fire going. You may not have heard that there’s a storm coming, and I’m working the dinner shift. It’ll take half the night to warm that cabin if I don’t keep a good bed of coals in that thing.” As soon as she spoke, she wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. Why tell him the house would be empty later?

However, Cain didn’t focus on that. He asked instead, “You mean you’re walking back to town? What the hell is wrong with those people? Why doesn’t Leroy or someone pick you up?”

“Because they’re busy. Besides, I need to walk whether I want to or not. It’s therapy.”

“Therapy.” Once again his gaze swept downward. “You’re healing from an operation?”

“No.”

“So you should have an operation, but you won’t, and to keep your hip from totally freezing up you have to keep moving?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet that feels like crap. What happened?”

For a seemingly quiet man, he’d suddenly turned into a blabbermouth. “I fell.”

“Uh-huh. Probably from clumsiness again, like this morning?”

Merritt knew what he was trying to do; however, the words stung anyway. “That’s right,” she replied, stiffly.

Cain glanced at the dwindling pile of firewood on the porch. “I’ll get the stove going for you, but you need more wood than what’s left on your rack.”

“There’s more in back. I just haven’t brought it up yet.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

Dear heavens, was he looking for work? “Mr. Paxton, I meant what I said about being poor. I get by with what I make at the café, but that’s about it.”

“Did I ask you for a job?”

“No.”

Maybe it was her honest reply and expression that made him relax and shrug. “You led me to the best table in the café for someone in my situation. You didn’t treat me like poison, or worse yet, dirt, as some have. Can’t that be reason enough?”

She’d only done her job, and she wasn’t one to buy into gossip. As far as she was concerned, he’d needed to be seated before he cost Alvie business. As a new, stronger blast of wind cut through her jacket, she couldn’t quite stifle a groan. She wanted a hot mug of tea—and a painkiller—more than she wanted to argue semantics or social prejudice with this man. Besides, if he was a threat to her, he could easily have already made his move.

With a curt nod, she climbed the stairs in the only way she could—left leg leading, right leg slower to follow. When she made it to the porch, she unlocked the door.

The cabin was cooling, but not yet uncomfortable. Merritt went immediately to the fish tank and tapped on the glass. “I’m back. It’ll be better in a few minutes.”

The door closed with a thud. “You’re talking to fish?”

Merritt didn’t bother looking over her shoulder; she could tell by the tone of Cain’s voice that he thought her ridiculous. “I work too many hours to have a dog or cat.” She wasn’t going to admit there were cats in the barn. They were wild—or at least independent—and she was a bit scared of them.

“How smart is it to torture yourself for a couple of overpriced goldfish?”

“They know their names—Wanda and Willy.” She finally made herself glance back at him and got a blank stare in return. “From the movies A Fish Called Wanda and Free Willy?”

With a brief shake of his head, Cain crossed to the stove and flipped open the damper in the flue. That’s when his expression changed. He’d undoubtedly noticed what she’d been fretting about since lighting her first fire this season.

“It feels like the damper is about shot. It’s hanging on one side. By chance do you have another?”

“Do you mean this?” Merritt went to the brick wall behind the stove and picked up the round piece of metal that had been on the ledge for as long as she’d been a resident. Early on, Alvie had told her it would need to be changed one day when the old one wore out. “I’d hoped it would last until spring when I could let the stove cool enough to work in there.”

“You thought you could do this yourself? First of all, your arms are too short to reach in and up that high. Second, how did you expect to hold it in place and still stand outside and slip in the rod to secure it?”

“I guess I didn’t think,” she admitted.

He grunted his agreement and opened the door on the stove to gauge what he was dealing with. A moment later, he slipped off his jacket and tugged his T-shirt over his head.

“What are you doing?” Merritt gasped.

“These are the only clothes I own at the moment. I’d like to avoid ruining them.”

The last man she’d seen in this state of undress had been her stepbrother, Dennis, whose skin was as pale as a corpse with a beer belly that hung so far over his jeans he resembled cupcake batter overflowing a pan. In comparison, there wasn’t an ounce of flesh on Cain Paxton’s bronze body that wasn’t hard muscle.

“But you’ll burn yourself.”

Testing the side of the stove with his hand, Cain shrugged. “It’s cooled down quite a bit. It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll need you to help, though.” He pulled the stem from the outside of the flue and the subsequent rattle and thud was indication enough that the old damper fell into the remaining few coals. “See this?” He showed her the steel pin with its twisted end designed for control by hand of the level of airflow. “When I stick the new damper up into the stack, you watch through that hole. When these slots are aligned to the opening, you stick this pin back through. You have to slip it all the way and make it come out the other side of the stack. Understood?”

“Is that even possible?” The slots weren’t half the width of her pinky nail—and she’d heard too often than she had the hands of a preteen.

“It better be, or you’ll freeze tonight as all of the heat rushes up and out of here through the stack.” After opening the stove door, he nodded. “The buildup of ashes over the remaining coals will help suppress the heat,” he said, lowering himself to his knees. “I’ll leave them until I’m done.”

Merritt didn’t think he would get so much as his head and a shoulder into the opening, but he managed. Nevertheless, it took several tries to get the damper replaced, partly because Merritt’s hands were shaking from nervousness, partly because Cain had difficulty maintaining the correct position. But—after several muffled curses from him—suddenly the pin slid all the way through and out the opposite hole.

“Thank God,” she whispered, almost weak with relief.

“As soon as I clean up, I’ll get rid of those ashes and get you that wood,” Cain said, trying not to touch his jeans as he rose to his feet.

Merritt saw how filthy he had indeed gotten on her behalf. “Please, the bathroom is to the left just before you go out the back door.” She pointed through the kitchen. “Help yourself to soap and towels. Whatever you need. I really am grateful for your help, Mr. Paxton.”

“The name is Cain. The only Mr. Paxton in these parts wouldn’t take kindly to hearing you using his name in reference to me.” Cain grimaced at his hands and the soot smeared over his arms and chest. “Do you have a couple of old rags? I don’t want to ruin any frilly lady things. This creosote won’t wash out easily.”

As she wiped at a miniscule streak of soot on her hands, Merritt felt another blush threaten. “I don’t own any frilly things. You use what you need to, and I’ll put on a kettle for tea. You’ll welcome that after being out in the wind again.”

Chapter Two

As he headed for the bathroom, Cain’s mood soured anew. He didn’t want any tea, he wanted a beer … or better yet something stronger. But he doubted Miss Merritt Miller had ever tasted anything more potent than Communion grape juice, let alone allowed anything alcoholic in her house. That was yet another reason to get out of here, he thought, shutting the door behind himself.

It was ironic that he’d arrived in town early this morning with a deep-seated fire in his belly for justice; however, he’d barely begun digesting breakfast, and this scrawny, ghost-pale woman had succeeded in resurrecting the last two or three ounces of human compassion left in him and thrown him off his plan. He’d had no choice but to help her; there was no way she could have managed to repair the stove herself. Hell, he thought, gingerly checking the spots on his inner right arm and abdomen, he’d gotten burned himself a couple of times on the still-hot metal.

No telling what all needed attention around the place, he mused as he turned on the hot water tap and started soaping his hands. He remembered the house being old when he was a kid. Alvie and her first, then second, husband were living there then. And a baby. To the best of his recollection, the child had died in infancy—some influenza that had wreaked havoc on the area.

The Miller girl was keeping things spotless, he would give her that. As he noted the neatly folded, dark blue towel on the rack, which would do nicely for drying off, he figured she would get all puffed if she knew he was thinking of her as a girl—she was probably in her mid-twenties. But she didn’t need him thinking of her as a woman. Having been deprived of female company for over three years—counting the months he’d gone crazy sitting in the county jail while his worthless public defender was bulldozed by Paxton money and influence—his fingers itched to bury themselves in Merritt Miller’s lush brown hair. She wore it in a loose braid down her back, and not once did it sweep saucily across her cute butt. She was that quiet and steady of a mover. Everything moderated and even, despite the hip—maybe because of it.

Her scent was here, which made sense—it was the soap. Simple, clean. On her body it became feminine and delicate. Surrounded by it again, he breathed in deeply and almost groaned with pleasure. To regain his equilibrium, he leaned into the sink and scrubbed his face and hair. The amount of work it took reminded him that he needed a haircut. Badly.