John heard the grandfather clock chime twelve times. Shivering in his bed, he didn’t know whether to welcome a few more hours of night or dread the dreams that would come if he slept. Three days had passed since he’d fought with Ed, and the fever had come at last. His bones ached, and every beat of his heart sent nails into his head. This morning the wound had been pink and hard to the touch. Now it throbbed with a burning itch that made him want to claw at the stitches.
If Abbie knew, she’d say, “I told you so.”
Doc Randall had been tending John’s wound, but he hadn’t come by this afternoon. Abbie had offered to change the bandage, but John said no. He liked the idea of her fingers touching his skin a little too much.
Blowing out a breath, he draped his arm over his forehead. What had he been thinking when he’d given Mrs. Cunningham some time off? The older woman had wanted to visit her daughter. Seeing a chance to do some good, Abbie had volunteered to run the household in her absence. With Beth and Robbie in the house, he didn’t need to worry about appearances, so he’d agreed. Though if he’d known that Abbie and Beth were going to be baking apple pies, he would have said no. As things stood, he spent half the day with his mouth watering and the other half remembering Kansas.
It’s not smart for a pretty girl like you to be alone out here.
I can handle myself.
But Abbie hadn’t been able to handle him. He’d taken full advantage of her twisted ankle. A gentleman would have taken an injured girl to town, but John had been road-weary and ready to hole up for a while. When she’d explained that her grandmother had died and she was going to her farm to sort through the old woman’s things, John had offered to lend a hand.
Resting up on an apple farm had appealed to him, and so did the prospect of flirting with a pretty girl. She had charmed him the minute she threatened to shoot him. He’d always gone for women with spirit, and Abbie had more heart than anyone he’d ever known. John sighed in the dark as he remembered cleaning out her grandmother’s attic.
Dust had covered them both, but Abbie hadn’t minded as she sorted through the trunks. From the last one she had lifted a satin gown that shimmered in the sun pressing through a high window. She had rubbed it against her cheek and he’d imagined her in it—and then out of it. He had fingered the silk and grinned.
How about putting it on for me tonight?
How about if you mind your manners?
She should have slapped him, but instead she had teased him with a smile and finished going through the clothes. She had kept a few things for herself, and he’d wondered why she would want such rags.
Lying in his bed, John closed his eyes and tried not to think about buying Abbie pretty dresses. Instead he dwelled on his own misery and realized he was thirsty. He reached for the pitcher of water only to discover it was empty. He’d have to pull on his pants and pump some in the kitchen.
Groaning, he swung his legs off the mattress, reached for the trousers he’d tossed on a chair and pulled them up, leaving the top button undone so the waistband wouldn’t chafe the wound. Because he had houseguests, he put on the white shirt he’d worn yesterday and buttoned it halfway. Walking down the hall gave him a new sympathy for Doc Randall and his bad knees. Every step sent an ache through John’s bones, but he made it to the kitchen where moonlight was pouring through the window.
After blowing out a breath to steady himself, he took a drink straight from the spigot and then moved the pitcher into place. As the stream of water hit the pewter, he heard a match strike. A lamp flared in the darkness.
“John? Are you all right?”
Abbie’s voice sounded as soft as the silk nightgown he’d just been remembering. It had taken a week of talk, but she’d put it on for him. It had clung to her curves and been warm to his touch. He didn’t dare look at her now. If she was dressed for bed, he didn’t want to know.
“I’m all right,” he answered, still filling the pitcher. “I just needed some water.”
“Let me do that.”
She came up next to him and reached for the handle. As she worked the pump, her loose hair brushed her shoulders. Backlit by the lamp, it made him think of the embers left by a dying fire. He couldn’t stop his gaze from dipping downward. Mercifully, she was covered from head to toe with a robe. It had once been pink, but time had leached away the color and worn the garment to bare threads.
Why was a congressman’s wife wearing rags? Even in private, it didn’t make sense. He wanted to ask her if she needed money, but it wasn’t any of his business. He also wanted to buy her the fancy wrapper he’d seen in the dressmaker’s window last week. It was emerald silk and embroidered with lotus flowers. It would match her eyes and shimmer on her skin. Hellfire! How did a man stop thinking such thoughts? Irritated, he focused on the stream of water filling the pitcher. When it was full, she set it on the counter.
“That should do it,” she said. “Can you carry it?”
Of course he could, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. This kitchen had always reminded him of the one in Kansas where she’d cracked eggs into a pan for his breakfast. He remembered watching her wipe down the counter with a dish towel, just as she was doing now. He hadn’t grown up with those feminine touches, and he’d been fascinated by her womanly ways. One thing had led to another, and he’d taken her to bed both in spite of her innocence and because of it.
Knowing that some confessions were best made at night, John sought her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Looking up, she said, “Is it about Susanna?”
“No, it’s about us.” He put his hand on hers to stop her from wiping the counter. He wanted her full attention because he had no desire to repeat the conversation. “I want you to know I’m sorry for what happened in Kansas. I had no business taking advantage of you.”
He waited for her an answer, but the silence thickened until it felt like humid air, almost visible and too heavy to breathe. If she had nothing more to say, neither did he, so he released her hand. “I won’t bring it up again. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. Good, he thought. He deserved a cold shoulder, but instead of calling him a cad, she gripped his elbow. “I’m not the least bit sorry. Do you want to know why?”
The question sent a blast of fever through John’s veins. He knew the answer—he’d known since he’d read Abbie’s telegram. “She’s mine, isn’t she?”
Abbie nodded slowly. “Very much so.”
“Why did you imply otherwise at the train station?” he asked.
“I needed to think things through. Besides, you’d made it clear that being a father wasn’t something you wanted.”
He couldn’t deny the truth of her words. “Does Robbie know?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell him everything after things are settled with Susanna. You’re going to love her, John. She’s smart and funny and full of mischief. She’s so much like you—”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.”
