Mail-Order Christmas Baby. Sherri ShackelfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
no one had ever asked her how she was doing or feeling. What she’d experienced with Dillon was a reflection of her first taste of freedom and of gentlemanly courtesy. Back then, she was a captive only recently freed from a cage, spreading her wings and embracing new experiences. She’d never expected, all these years later, to be standing in the Blackwell house as his brother’s bride. In truth, she’d never expected to see the inside of the Blackwell house at all.
She shook off the past and studied her new surroundings. The Blackwell family home was legendary around Valentine. Though not overly large by gold rush standards, the house featured every expensive plumbing detail available. According to town lore, Mr. Blackwell’s wife had come from wealth. Her family fortune had been amassed through plumbing fixtures, and she’d insisted on an indoor bathtub, running water and eventually a water closet. Folks were still suspicious of a backhouse in the bathroom, and near as Heather could tell, the Blackwells owned the only water closet in Montana.
One of her school lessons featured the mechanics of indoor plumbing. The lessons were especially fascinating for the farm children who mostly made do with water pumps powered by windmills. She’d taught from books without the benefit of a working example, so the water closet drew her attention. Since Sterling was gone, she pulled the chain. There was a clanging sound and water rushed down the brass pipe from the water tank into the porcelain bowl, filling it up, and then suddenly the water in the bowl disappeared. Enthralled, she pulled the chain again.
There was a sink with a spigot and an enormous bathtub with claw feet. The only concession to frontier life was the potbellied stove in the corner for heating. Intrigued by the luxury, she started the coal and set a pail beneath the spigot. A short time later she had the bath prepared, and Gracie was splashing in the shallow, warm water.
By the time they descended the kitchen stairs, they were both as clean and shiny as new pennies. To her delight, the kitchen was extravagantly appointed with wall lamps, a kitchen range, a wall-mounted coffee mill, a box churn with a crank and cast aluminum pots and pans. There were other gadgets whose purposes were a mystery.
Her aunt and uncle had never splurged on anything deemed unnecessary, and their kitchen had been stocked with only the bare minimum. Heather stifled a giggle. Her aunt would be appalled by the apparatus upstairs. A water closet was most definitely a luxury.
The only thing lacking was a full pantry. The shelves were bare save for a bag of coffee beans and a few assorted cans. Sterling obviously didn’t eat in the house.
As though drawn by her thoughts, his shadow appeared before the window set in the back door. He knocked and she pulled on the handle. He held a pail of milk in each hand, which he set inside the door.
“You’ll want to cover those with a damp cloth.” He crossed the kitchen toward the sink. “I’ll fetch some ice for the icebox this afternoon.”
Heather hadn’t even noticed the sturdy piece of furniture. It was an oak cabinet icebox with fancy brass hardware and latches. Sterling opened the door, revealing the zinc lined interior.
He pointed. “The ice block goes there. We cut blocks from the pond in the winter, and keep it stored in hay in a cutout on the side of the hill. I haven’t kept anything in the icebox since I’ve been back. Now that you’re here, I’ll make certain you have a fresh block whenever you need one.”
“Thank you.”
“If I’m not here, fetch one of the boys to help. Don’t try to carry them alone,” he admonished. “They’re too heavy.”
She figured she was plenty strong enough to carry a block of ice, but she dutifully replied, “I won’t.”
“If you give me a list, I’ll fetch what you need from the bunkhouse. That’s where we keep most of the stores these days. The rest can be purchased from town.”
Her stomach rumbled. “All right.”
Gracie tugged on Sterling’s pant leg. “Up. Up.”
He scooped her into his arms and she squealed in delight. “How is she doing this morning?”
“Settling in nicely,” Heather said proudly. “She slept well and had a bath. I was searching for some breakfast when you arrived.”
“I’ll have Woodley send up fixings with the supplies.” He set Gracie on her feet once more. “Is there anything else you need?”
She tapped her chin with one finger and considered their circumstances. “Not right now.”
This was far better than trying to maneuver around in her tiny room attached to the schoolhouse. She’d had to cook dinner on the potbellied stove while nudging Gracie away from the heat with her foot. The Blackwell house was a wonder.
A memory from her childhood home flashed like a picture in her brain: an oriental rug with red and navy knotting. The rest of her memories were from Pittsburgh. That home had been three stories high and narrow. Having an icebox and a stove with more than two burners was a luxury beyond her wildest imaginings.
Sterling snapped his fingers. “The crib. Let me check the hayloft in the barn. That’s where most of the old furniture winds up.”
His tantalizing masculine scent teased her senses. A shock of awareness coursed through her. She recognized the store-bought soap she’d used this morning, but there was something else, as well. There was hay and barn and a decidedly male musk.
She backed toward the stove. “Does Woodley do the cooking?”
“Yes. Such as it is.”
He winked, and a shiver went down her spine. He left her feeling reckless and out of breath. Steeling her wayward emotions, she glanced away. He flashed that same impish wink when he asked for extra potatoes at the café. Whenever she felt herself weaken at his flirtatious behavior, she’d remember that she was getting the same treatment he gave the waitress when he wanted a second helping of a side dish.
This wasn’t exactly a promising beginning to her vow of indifference. She had to work harder at keeping a separation between them, at being cordial—but distant.
“I could take over the job of cooking,” she said. “If you want.”
“That’s Woodley’s job.” Sterling’s mouth quirked up at the corner in a half smile. “He’s been hired to do the cooking. Though I don’t suppose the boys would be opposed to a pie or a loaf of bread now and again to break up the monotony.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
Standing this close to him, she felt something akin to fear. Years ago she’d climbed a tree and slipped from one of the taller limbs. She recalled the feeling of falling, of being out of control and crashing to the ground. The air had whooshed from her lungs as she lay there stunned. She loathed that feeling—the feeling of tumbling out of control. When she gazed at Sterling, she felt as though she was climbing that tree again, inching across a branch that was bound to break at any moment.
Her decision had seemed so simple when she was sitting alone in the schoolhouse. Everything had been neat and orderly in her mind. Logical. And then when he was near, all thoughts of logic and order fled. She didn’t appreciate the confusing jumble of thoughts and feelings, because she hadn’t planned for them.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You looked worried.”
He was gazing at her with an intensity that left her knees shaky. She must remember that he was only asking those things to be polite. Like complimenting her on her bonnet or lacing his fingers around hers for a step when she took a seat in the wagon. Those were polite, impersonal gestures, meant only for show. He treated the waitress at the café the same as he treated the mayor’s wife. She wasn’t special.
Heather forced a smile. “I was thinking about what a beautiful house you have.”
“My ma designed the house,” he said, his voice