climbed the single step to the back porch and glanced back to where he stood, one foot on the riser, the other still on the ground. “And you, Miss Jenny? Do you trust me?”
Did she? Could she cope with his masculine presence in her home? In the room almost directly over her own?
Did she trust him? Probably, she decided. Maybe even more than she trusted her own tangled emotions.
Her jaw firmed as she pondered his query, and with a shrug she turned away. Then she opened the screen door and entered the kitchen. Isabelle sat at the table, only a candle on the buffet casting a circle of light. “You can go on home to Noah,” Jenny said, walking to the sink to wash her hands beneath the pump.
“I don’t like leavin’ you alone in the house,” Isabelle said stubbornly. “I know you said you’d be just fine, but that man looks at you like he’s been without water for six months and you’ve got the only water bucket for miles around.”
Jenny laughed softly at Isabelle’s words. “You have a big imagination, my friend. Shay is here to help Carl’s wife and Carl’s child. He’ll stay long enough to be sure we’re in good shape for the winter, and then he’ll be gone, like a breeze blowing through the place.” And I’ll be left alone…again.
The cotton was planted, a task lasting almost two weeks, sandwiched in among the everyday chores. Between cooking and carrying meals to the field, Jenny found herself left out of the process, and wondered if that was Shay’s intent. The sun was hot, early May bringing summer heat, and she toted quart jars of water several times a day to the laboring men. They left the jars in the shade, beneath tall trees at the edge of the fields, and it was near there that she waited at high noon, with thick slabs of buttered bread and slices of leftover ham from the night before.
The smokehouse was almost empty, last year’s butchered hog having been rationed over the months when game was not plentiful. Noah and his sons brought down a deer several times through the colder weather and she’d managed to catch decent-size catfish in the river beyond the last of their tilled fields.
Cleaning fish was a simple matter these days, and she cringed when she remembered the reaction of her weak stomach the first time she’d peeled the tough skin from an ugly catfish. Jenny Pennington had done a heap of growing up over the past years, she decided. Swinging the bucket she’d carried from the house, she waited until the working men reached the end of the row they’d just planted, and then waved her free hand. The tallest of the four looked up, his gaze penetrating even from this distance.
Shay pushed back his hat and used his kerchief to wipe his forehead. She’d walked across the pasture, then down the hedgerow to the far end of the field where they toiled in the sun. His eyes had swerved in her direction between each hole he pushed into the soil. Her hair caught the sunlight, shimmering and drawing his gaze like a magnet. Even from a distance, he knew the exact shade of her eyes, knew the shape of her mouth, the tender slope of her bosom.
He cleared his throat as she deliberately caught his eye and waved, pleased at the small smile she made no effort to conceal. “Noah?” The man looked up and motioned toward Jenny, his sons following his lead. Their steps were eager as all four of them turned in her direction. Jenny settled her pail on the ground, spreading the small tablecloth she’d brought from the house. “Come and eat,” she invited them, placing the platter she’d prepared in the center.
“Isabelle made cake.” She lifted, lifting the lid from a tin box with a flourish. Inside, squares of golden pound cake awaited, a thin glaze coating each piece. “She said it was especially for you, Noah,” she told him as he stood beside the food she’d arranged. “Sit down, won’t you? I’ll go and get your water.”
Shay watched her walk away, to where they’d left the last of the water. Two jars remained of the four she’d brought earlier, and she carried them back, one in the fold of each arm. Her skirts brushed the grass and swayed with each step she took. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and the summer sun had left its signature behind, toasting her skin to a golden brown. He imagined the pale flesh above the rolled sleeves, and below the V of honeyed flesh at her throat. She was fair, if he was any judge, with that copper-colored hair. Where the sun had touched her face, she wore freckles, just a smattering across her nose and cheeks, and more of the same blended with the tan on her forearms.
Blue eyes found his and a rosy flush painted her cheeks. He’d warrant that the skin beneath her bodice held the same hue, and that thought released a rush of energy within him that stood no chance of being expelled. Not today, or tonight, or anytime soon.
She was a woman ripe for the taking, and he’d give his eye teeth and then some if he had any chance of snatching her for himself. Instead he could only watch, and try his level best to contain the desire she inspired.
She bent to the men, handing them the jars of water, and Noah gave the first to Shay. “Drink what you want,” he said politely. “I’ll share with you.”
And not until I’ve had my fill, Shay thought, with a rueful nod of his head. Too many restrictions remained, even in the world where no man was a slave to another. Noah would not presume to take first place, and his easy acknowledgment of that fact of life as he knew it, made Shay cringe. He drank, long and deeply of the cool water, then handed it to the other man.
“Here you go,” he said, “I’m fine.” And then turned to his food.
“Are you sure, Mr. Shay? Take all you want,” Noah offered, obviously unwilling that he should offend by drinking more than his share.
“There’s plenty more, Noah,” Jenny said quickly. “I have another jar in the basket.” Obviously used to the traditions that would take long to die out after the years of rigid separation, she had come prepared, and Shay lifted his brow as she glanced at him.
The extra jar of water was nestled against the trunk of the tree and she settled herself in the grass beside it, watching the men devour the food she’d brought. Then as they stretched out on the grass, hats over their eyes, she piled the scant remains in her basket. Shay watched from beneath his hat brim, and his gaze traced the lines of her slender form, noting the shabby dress with a twinge of anger.
She deserved more, and yet, should he attempt to replace her worn clothing with new, she would be offended. Of that fact, he was certain. Jenny was used to making do; she was a magician at creating clothing for her child from Carl’s castoffs, left in the attic. He’d found her sewing by candlelight one evening and scolded her for not using a lantern.
“It wastes kerosene,” she’d told him, bending to stitch carefully at the small pair of trousers she was creating.
It wasn’t his place to argue with her and so he’d pleased himself by moving the candle closer. Its light had shone in the tendrils of hair that fell against her jaw, glistened in the depths of her eyes as she glanced up at him, and he’d clenched his broad hands into fists lest he reach to brush the wayward lock from the fine line of her cheek.
Now she stood and lifted the basket, waving a hand at the four men, three of whom were dozing, obviously having learned at an early age to take cat naps where they could. Shay, on the other hand, found it difficult to close his eyes without the presence of walls around him, or at least a rocky ledge at his back. He watched through his lashes as her gaze lingered on him, noted the touch of her tongue against her upper lip and suppressed a shiver that threatened to translate into full-blown desire.
She turned away, and he sat up abruptly, jamming his hat atop his head. Less than two months here and he spent half his time teetering on the verge of snatching at her like a randy cowhand. He stood, gaining
