He chuckled, a warm sound so contrary to his rough and callous character that it surprised her. “Let no man daresay you’re daft, Mistress Stewart.”
Bethie stood, untied Dorcas so the cow could wander back to her new calf, which lay nearby curled up in the straw, watching its mother with soft, brown eyes. Then she lifted the pail of fresh milk by its handle and let herself out of the stall.
He was still brushing his stallion’s chestnut coat, his back to her.
“If you’ve the strength to feed and water the horses and loose them in the paddock, you can give your stallion a portion of my oats and hay. I’ll have porridge ready by the time you’re done.”
***
She had his weapons, and she wasn’t going to give them back.
If she’d been a man, Nicholas would have settled the issue with his fists. On the frontier, the only law all men acknowledged was the right of each man to arm himself. Any man stupid enough to trifle with another man’s firearms could expect to wind up as fodder for wolves and ravens.
But she wasn’t a man. She was a young woman heavy with child—alone and desperately vulnerable. And she was doing her best to stay alive.
She should not be here. What a fool her husband had been to drag her out here, to put her in harm’s way and then leave her defenseless! She should be in the care of her family in some safe little town back east with older women to fuss over her, not left to fend for herself in a land without pity.
He released the second of her two gray mares into the paddock with a slap on the rump, turned back for Zeus, fighting dizziness.
It would not be hard to take the pistol from her by force. He could easily overpower her without hurting her, take it back, end this whole damned game. Once he had it, she would almost certainly tell him where she’d hidden the rest of his belongings.
But she would probably view any such action as a breach of his vow. And that bothered him. He had not yet slipped so far as to break his word to anyone.
Damn it to hell!
Did she not realize that he would be better able to defend both of them if he were armed? Did she truly believe she could keep him at bay with one stupid pistol? If he were the kind of man she feared he was, she would have already suffered whatever fate he had chosen for her.
Zeus was restless, no doubt attracted to the mares, though neither appeared to be in season. The stallion stamped, snorted, dropped his phallus, his sleek body rippling with tension. He was unfamiliar with confined spaces, unused to the company of mares, though clearly eager for it.
Nicholas led the stallion from its stall, knew it would not be long before Zeus covered both mares and mingled his more noble Arabian bloodlines with theirs. “Behave yourself, boy. Mistress Stewart probably wouldn’t approve of what you’ve got in mind.”
By the time he had fed and watered the three horses, what little strength he’d had was gone. He walked slowly back to the cabin, cursing his weakness with each painful step. Only once in his life had he been so weak.
No, then it had been far worse.
As soon as he opened the cabin door, the rich smell of fried pork made his mouth water and his stomach growl. How long had it been since he’d had a meal?
She placed a wooden bowl on the table beside a spoon and a wooden tray of fried pork. “It’s no’ much, but I thought it might help to build up your blood.”
Revived by a sudden onslaught of appetite, he sat, dug into the porridge, which was in truth but ordinary cornmeal mush. It was hot, almost too hot, but he was ravenous. Never had such simple fare seemed so delicious.
He was aware of her gaze upon him as he ate. She watched him guardedly, stood well beyond his reach, as if she expected him to lunge for her at any moment. After what he’d done earlier today, he could not blame her. What had he been thinking? What had induced him to touch her?
He emptied his bowl and ate several slices of pork before fatigue again began to overwhelm him. He swallowed his last gulp of tea, fought to stand. Then some part of him remembered his long-forsaken table manners. “Thank you for breakfast, Mistress Stewart.”
He had just enough strength to spread his bedroll on the floor in the far corner before exhaustion claimed him.
***
Bethie stopped to catch her breath, rubbed the ache in her back. The sky was clear blue, and the air held the first whispered promise of spring. In the forest, the beeches and maples had begun to bud. Soon cardinals, bluebirds, and mockingbirds would return to nest in their branches and the forest floor would burst into flower. The long, cold winter was almost past.
She looked down at the small pile of chopped firewood. She would need much more than this to see her through the night. She lifted another piece of wood onto the tree stump and swung the ax, let her mind wander.
A stew of rabbit and winter vegetables cooked over the fire, the work of preparing dinner largely behind her. Master Kenleigh had caught the rabbit in one of his snares this morning, had dressed it, and surprised her with it, handing it to her without a word.
Almost two weeks had passed since he’d arrived near death on her doorstep. He was getting stronger each day and would soon leave—and the sooner the better. Though he had not touched her again, his gaze followed her everywhere. She could feel his eyes upon her when she drew water from the well, cooked dinner, sat at her spinning wheel.
Bethie did not like to be noticed by men. Nothing good ever came of it.
