up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.
Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”
His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.
“Did I hurt you?” Jenny’s voice was troubled, and she blew softly against his hand. “There’s lint stuck to your blisters from the gloves I gave you.”
Her breath was fresh, her skin dewed with perspiration, and the scent of woman rose to his nostrils. He’d endured much at the hands of the prison guards, had watched as flesh peeled from his feet in layers, been kicked and abused without cause. All of that faded into oblivion as he sank into the sweet torture of Jenny’s gentle touch.
A soft cloth wiped carefully, cleansing his palm, then washing his hand both back and front. She dried the skin and then her fingers applied salve to the damaged flesh with feathered strokes. She murmured words beneath her breath, some of them scolding, more of them grateful, as she recounted the hours he’d spent in the hayfield. At last, the soft cloth was pressed tenderly against his oozing blisters and a wide strip of bandaging was wrapped around his hand.
He inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Her smile was teasing, her lips parted and, wonder of wonders, the woman was totally oblivious to his problem.
“You’re almost as bad as Marshall,” she said smugly. “I think all male creatures must be alike. They can cope with a broken nose easier than a blister.”
He gained his breath. “And how would you know about broken noses, Miss Jenny?” he asked. Then watched as she stripped his other glove off with care.
“Carl had a shovel fall from the barn wall once. It caught him right across the bridge of his nose, and he bled like a stuck pig.” Her hands repeated the cleaning process and he focused his thoughts on Carl’s bleeding nose.
“What did you do for him?” The salve covered his palm now and his gaze swept her profile, noting the freckles across her nose, the sweep of eyelashes against her cheek.
“It was a cold winter that year, and I made an ice pack from the horse trough.” Her hands stilled as she thought of that time, and a sad smile touched her full lips. “He wouldn’t let me pamper him.” Her eyes were bright as she blinked twice, then looked up at him.
I’d let you pamper me any day of the week. The woman was about as tempting as any female he’d ever met. No. More so, Shay decided as she rolled the remainder of her bandage, then pinned it carefully so that it would be tidy in the small box she held. Twists of paper, their contents marked with neatly printed labels filled one side. A cloth bag held an aromatic scent he could not place, though it seemed familiar. Probably herbs of one kind or another, he decided. A large tin of carbolic salve, a bottle of thick, creamy liquid and smaller bottles of camphorated oil and witch hazel made up the neat contents of her medical supplies.
“My mother used to have witch hazel,” he said. “She used it for all our bruises and cuts.” His mouth tightened, aware of Jenny’s interest, her eyes lighting at his words. Her hands paused, holding the roll of bandage suspended.
“Where did you live?”
It was a simple question, one he should have answered readily, and yet some need for anonymity clutched at his throat and he shook his head. “It’s not important.”
Her eyes dimmed, the light vanquished by his terse reply, and she bent to her task, swiftly tidying the box, then rising to replace it in the pantry. He watched, aware of the hurt he’d inflicted, and his jaw tightened. It was just as well. He was becoming too attracted to her. Attracted. What a pale word to describe the desire that even now continued to find expression beneath the covering of the oilcloth that draped across his lap.
“We’ll be eating in just a few minutes,” Jenny said brightly. “You’d might as well sit there. Isabelle is ready to dish up, I think.”
Murmuring agreeably, he glanced up to find Isabelle’s eyes fixed on his face. Her hands busy with the kettle she held, she glanced away, but not before he’d gotten the message her gimlet gaze sent flying in his direction. She was only too aware of his reaction to Jenny Pennington. And if looks could kill, Shay would be stretched out on the floor, waiting for burial.
Isabelle saw too much, Shay decided. Her next move would no doubt be to warn her friend against him. For all that she was a woman full grown, there was an air of innocence about Jenny that inspired a protective instinct in those surrounding her. Even the men in the field had watched him closely today when she’d offered the gloves for his use. Hell, he was halfway to being her champion already and he’d only known her for a couple of days. He’d protect her gladly, against any and all comers.
He’d work for her, plow his hard cash into her farm, and help her survive through another growing season. He’d stick it out until he was sure she was on her feet, safe and secure. And then what? Leave and not look back?
Not very damn likely. He’d probably be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Might as well add Jenny to the list of those he’d left behind. He had a notion she’d be haunting his dreams anyway. And then he realized something that caught him up short.
He hadn’t dreamed of the prison camp in Elmira, or of Carl’s death for the past two nights.
He’d worked, and worked hard, Jenny thought. There was no faulting the man’s ambition. And she’d gotten used to his presence here over the past weeks.
The barn was filled with the scent of hay, bits of it floating to the floor as two men worked in the loft above. Jenny covered the pail of milk she’d just coaxed from the cow and rose from the three-legged stool. Shay said there was enough hay in the loft to feed for the better part of the year. Part of the second cutting, come August, would be sold to neighbors who needed more than they raised for themselves.
For the first time in months, she felt rich. Rich with the knowledge that her animals had good pasture to feed on, that there was an abundance of hay in the loft, and there was a field of corn ready to hoe. Shay was talking about a second crop. A late planting would take them through the winter, he said, and she’d agreed, after noting Noah’s slight nod. In the meantime, the chickens were turned out to forage for themselves every morning. The pullets and young roosters were growing rapidly, and there were more hens wanting to nest, one of them determined to settle herself in the bushes near the house.
The sound of hammering caught her attention and she put the milking stool aside in haste. The man was up to something again, and it was barely past breakfast time. Sure as the world, he’d found another project to lay his hand to, and she hastened from the barn, following the noise of his labor. The remains of two old trellises lay on the back porch, Shay kneeling amid the fan-shaped designs, adding a strip of new wood. He caught sight of her and rose, watching
