Jake was sitting at the kitchen table when Jane reappeared. He started to rise, but she waved him back. “How is he?”
“Annoyed, frustrated, and on his way to mad.”
“Then he’s doing pretty well.”
“That is what I was thinking, but you are more familiar with his moods.” She put a kettle of water on the stove. “He says that if he stays in bed you won’t let him forget it.”
“He’s probably right, but that’s because we have so few opportunities to take a poke him.”
“Oh. I had not thought of that.”
“Is there somethin’ else I can do for you?”
Jane shook her head. “Supper will be ham sandwiches and apple bake. Will that be enough? I think I underfed you at breakfast. You all work so hard.”
“You fed us fine. And supper’s hours away. Don’t forget, ma’am, we’ve been doin’ all right on our own for a time now. If you don’t want us muckin’ up your kitchen, that’s one thing, but if you need us to do for ourselves and don’t ask, that’s another.”
“Thank you, Jake.”
He stood, tipped his hat. “If there’s nothing else…”
His pause was longer than her hesitation. Jane said, “I have noticed that all of you are calling me ma’am. I thought we settled that at breakfast.”
“True, we did. The boss doesn’t like it. That’s what Jem told us when he got back from Blue Valley. Guess it must have come up.”
“Well, that it explains it. Thank you again.”
“Sure thing.”
When he was gone, Jane put away the dishes from dinner. She realized belatedly that Jake had finished washing everything that Max had left in the sink. Even the cookstove and griddle had been wiped down. That made her smile. He had done that for her.
She made half a pot of coffee after the water boiled, and then gave herself permission to sit at the table and drink it. Perhaps she had been wrong to invite Morgan’s men to call her Jane. It was not what she would have done back in New York, but the mood at the breakfast table had been friendly, informal, and then there was that niggling sense that she was a fraud every time one of them addressed her as Mrs. Longstreet. It was not merely that her husband had not slept in her bed, or at least she hoped that was not the sum total of her discomfort. Becoming Mrs. Longstreet must mean more than sharing a bed.
Jane wanted to believe that it meant sharing a life.
Taking on her husband’s surname was like wearing a new corset on the outside of her dress. It so obviously did not belong that it was easy to imagine that everyone was staring.
Not liking the direction of her thoughts, Jane held her cup in both hands and watched the ripples in her coffee as she tightened her fingertips. She was a dedicated worrier. She knew that about herself, and it gave her no satisfaction to own something she had been unable to change. She supposed it was only a matter of time before Morgan realized it as well. Uncovering those things about her character that she wished might remain hidden was the unfortunate consequence of sharing a life.
Jane finished her coffee, set the cup in the sink, and then headed back to the bedroom. She suspected he heard her coming because when she opened the door, his posture was a shade too upright and the books on the table were stacked differently than she had left them. She pretended to notice neither of these things. If he wanted her to believe he had not taken her advice, she could allow him that much latitude.
“You’re late,” he said. “You said thirty minutes.”
“If you mean to quote me, I said ‘half an hour.’ If you mean to hold me to my word, then your point is well taken. I am indeed late. Bearding the lion does give one pause.”
“I don’t believe it. You are fearless.”
Jane was careful not to show her surprise. Fearless? “All right,” she said. “I was drinking a cup of coffee. Time got away from me.”
He made a sound between a grunt and snort that sounded like umeh.
“I have no idea what that rumbling at the back of your throat means. I understand Morse code better and my knowledge of that is merely rudimentary.”
“That so?”
“Is what so?”
“No, I was trying to explain what I meant.” He repeated the sound. “It means: Is that so?”
