already?”
He gazed at her a while longer, trying, it seemed, to make some sense of her question. Or was it something else? The way he looked at her made her stomach flutter.
Finally, he shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “They don’t eat in here.”
“Oh.” When he said nothing further, Annie asked, “Where do they eat?”
He looked lost again, as if he’d forgotten the question as quickly as she’d asked it. “They, ah, they eat in the cookhouse.”
“The cookhouse?”
He shifted in his chair, forcing a frown. “I’m not certain how satisfactory a nanny you’ll be, Miss Martin, if you can’t even find the children.”
A wisp of anger twirled through Annie, and she was certain it showed in her face. She forced it away. “Very well.”
The cookhouse was attached to the main house by a short, enclosed passageway, which Annie located by following her nose. Delicious smells drew her to the rear of the house and down three steps to the stone walk.
Inside the cookhouse a massive open hearth covered the far wall. A cookstove sat near it along with two worktables, rows of cupboards, and hanging pots and pans. A white-haired woman in an apron—most likely the cook—and two young girls—her assistants, probably—busied themselves chopping vegetables at one of the worktables. They glanced up only briefly when Annie walked in, then went back to their chores.
Near the entrance, the three older Ingalls children sat by themselves at a round table in the corner. Only Cassie ate. As if she were starving, she held her plate to her mouth, raking in the food. Drew sat with his feet tucked under him on his chair, waving his fork around as if it were a bird. Ginny’s elbow was firmly planted on the table, her cheek resting on her palm, and she was dragging her spoon listlessly through her potatoes and peas. Annie had no idea where the baby was or who was minding it.
She drew in a breath. Well, this certainly wasn’t the picture of family closeness she’d expected.
“Hello, children,” she said.
They all looked at her, then at each other.
“What are you doing here?” Drew asked.
“Didn’t your father tell you?” Annie asked, annoyed that Josh hadn’t informed the children she’d been hired. “I’m your new nanny.”
Drew sprang to his knees in the chair. “We don’t need no nanny.”
“We can take care of ourselves just fine,” Ginny informed her.
“Yeah,” Drew said. “Go away!”
“Yeah!” Ginny echoed.
“We don’t want you here!” Drew said.
“Now, just a minute,” Annie said calmly. “I’m sure that if you’ll—”
Drew turned his plate over in the center of the table. Cassie screamed.
“Stop that!” Annie reached across the table to grab Drew as he snatched Cassie’s plate away. She screamed again. He dumped the food on the table.
“I said stop that!” Annie insisted.
Ginny poured her cup of milk in the mess and started screaming, too. Cassie stood straight up in her chair, stomping her feet, wailing at the top of her lungs.
“I said, don’t—” A gob of food hit Annie’s cheek. “Stop it! All of you! This instant!”
Drew dived for Cassie’s milk. Annie swooped across the table and grabbed it first.
“No!” she shouted, and jerked it out of his grasp.
“What the devil is going on in here?” Josh’s voice boomed.
Annie whirled, flinging milk up his shirt and across his face.
Everyone froze. Dead silence fell. Annie gasped and covered her mouth. The children stilled like little stone statues.
Josh just stood there for a moment, milk dripping from his chin, soaking into his shirt, trickling down his trousers. Then calmly—too calmly—he turned to Annie.
“May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Martin?”
Not waiting for an answer, he stomped up the stairs, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve. Annie gulped, wiped the food from her cheek with a napkin and hurried after him, following him through the house and into his study.
“What the hell was that all about?” Josh demanded, flinging his arm in the direction of the cookhouse. “Is that your idea of taking care of those children? I hired you to make sure things like that don’t happen. What the devil were you thinking?”
“Stop shouting at me!” Annie clenched her fists at her sides.
His nostrils flared. “I don’t need a nanny who will not see to it that—”
“You’re right, you don’t need me! I suggest you send for Reverend Simon, because you don’t need a nanny for those children, Mr. Ingalls. You need a miracle!”
Josh’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, then snapped shut. Heat arced from him, coiling deeply inside Annie. He leaned forward. She did the same. Her breathing stopped. Her breasts ached to brush his wide chest. The expression in his eyes deepened, and a peculiar longing covered Annie like a hot, woolen blanket.
She froze. Good gracious, was he going to kiss her?
Good gracious, did she want him to?
Caught in the web they’d somehow spun, they stood like that for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, heat bouncing back and forth between them.
Josh came to his senses first. He turned away suddenly. Annie gulped and backed up a few steps, trying to will her heart to stop its hammering.
“Perhaps…” Josh said, his back to her. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Perhaps I didn’t explain things clearly, Miss Martin. About the children. About how I want things done.”
He walked to the bookcase, searched up and down, then pulled a volume from the shelf. “This should clarify things.”
Annie took the book, grateful for something to focus on besides him and the beating of her heart. She read the cover aloud. “How to Raise a Productive Child by Dr. Solomon Matthews. A book on child rearing?”
“My…wife…sent for it.” Josh glanced out the window, as if that somehow gave him strength. He pulled in a big breath, pushing ahead. “The finest minds in the world have laid down exact instructions on how children should be raised. All their wisdom has been carefully committed to this volume.”
Annie opened the book and flipped through the pages, scanning several.
She frowned up at him. “You want your children to march about the house? While I keep time by clapping my hands?” It took all her
