he had to admire the boardinghouse cook and housekeeper, but when he was hot and tired they didn’t come to mind. He knew Mrs. Schneiderman kept Marianne plenty busy; the stern German woman kept her housekeeper peeling pounds of potatoes and shelling dishpans full of green pea pods and baking endless pans of gingerbread and layer cakes and oatmeal cookies all day long and most of the night, too. He figured Marianne was as overworked and as tired as he was.
But she could squeeze out a few seconds for at least one please or thank-you, couldn’t she?
Nah, not Marianne. She ordered him to fix the henhouse, muck out the barn, curry the horses, lug baskets of wet laundry into the backyard, wash acres of rain-splattered windows, weed the vegetable garden, tie up the sprangly red roses that covered the porch trellis...the list went on and on. But send a thank-you his way? Nothing doing. Most days, Marianne Collingwood was the wicked witch in the fairy tales his momma used to read to him at night.
He gazed around the well-kept backyard with its plum trees and neat vegetable patch and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Even if it did come with an endless list of chores, Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse here on a peaceful street in the middle of St. Louis was a safe place to hide out. Every day he gobbled down three of Marianne’s delicious meals, and each night he slept in a nice quiet barn and nobody cared where he came from or what he’d done before. And he wasn’t about to tell them, either. Secrets were best kept to oneself.
The back door slapped open, and Marianne leaned out to shake a crumb-covered tablecloth over the steps. At least he thought it was crumb-covered; sometimes he figured she shook out perfectly clean tablecloths just to be shaking the life out of something.
Watching her, he suppressed a groan. There were two problems with Marianne. Two big problems. First, she never stopped snapping out orders at him. And second, she was so darn pretty his heart stopped beating every time he looked at her. Whenever she stopped working long enough to stand still for sixty seconds, he feasted his eyes on a body that curved in and out in places that made his hands itch, hair so shiny it looked like molasses-colored satin, and eyes the color of spring grass.
He’d hate her if she wasn’t so beautiful.
He levered himself off the back step and angled across to the woodpile to decide how much more wood Marianne would want in the next hour, then stood with one foot propped on the chopping block. He had just started to sharpen his axe when her voice cut into his consciousness.
“Lance!”
He jerked at the sound. Jumping Jupiter, she did nothing all day long but order him around. But, when she wasn’t yelling at him, he had to admit he liked her voice, low and throaty and kinda murmury. Made him think of a breeze rustling through a dry cornfield. He heard that voice whispering in his dreams at night, and he woke up every single morning highly aroused.
“Lance! Where are you?”
“Hiding,” he said under his breath. This wasn’t the nighttime voice he heard in his dreams. This was the voice that sent a chill up his backbone.
“Lance, I need you! Right now!”
“Coming, ma’am.” He stepped around the corner of the house to see her flapping her ruffly blue apron at the red hen pecking at insects in the garden. The feisty bird fluffed up its feathers, and Marianne edged away until her back was against the fence.
“Shoo! Shoo! Lance, come and get Lucinda back in the henhouse.”
Please, he muttered inside his head. He advanced on the offending chicken. “How’d she get out?”
Marianne shot him an exasperated look. “How should I know?” she retorted.
He studied the rickety chicken coop in the far corner of the yard. A section of lath had slipped sideways off the front of the structure, and the chickens were venturing through the opening. He cornered the hen, pounced on her and grabbed the scaly yellow legs. While the hen flapped and squawked he flipped her upside down, kicked the lath back in place and tossed the hen inside.
He waited for a thank-you, which didn’t come. He sighed. “Anything else, ma’am?”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Yes. Repair the henhouse.”
“Right now?”
“Of course right now!”
“Uh...couldn’t it wait until after I’ve had my breakfast?”
“Don’t argue. I’ll save you some scrambled eggs.”
“Couldn’t I eat first?” he said through gritted teeth. “Lucinda won’t care.”
Marianne drew herself up so stiff the buttons on her blue shirtwaist threatened to pop off. “If you value your job here, Mr. Burnside, you will fix the henhouse. Now.”
He gritted his teeth. “Are you sayin’ you’ll fire me if I don’t?”
“Well, not me, exactly. But if I speak to Mrs. Schneiderman, you won’t last five more minutes here.”
Lance cleared his throat. “Miss Collingwood, you order me around almost twenty-four hours a day, and I do every darn thing you ask, even when it doesn’t make much sense. Sometimes I wonder if you really want me around here.”
“Well, yes, I do.” She swallowed. “Actually, the boardinghouse couldn’t function without you. I... That is, Mrs. Schneiderman and I, would be lost without your services.”
“Sure am glad to hear that, ma’am. And just in time, too.”
She shot him an apprehensive look. “Surely you were not thinking of leaving?”
He clenched his jaw. He would if he could. He’d thought about it often enough. But he couldn’t. The boardinghouse was a safe refuge for a man on the run.
* * *
Marianne closed the back door with a sigh. She really, really hated working at the boardinghouse. But when both her parents died of cholera when she was thirteen she’d found herself alone and penniless with no other choice. An orphan girl in a city like St. Louis was lucky to be respectably employed at all.
She was frightened at first, frightened of being hungry and cold and alone. And then she realized if she didn’t want to be hungry and cold, she would have to do something about it. She, and she alone. And so she had set out to look for work.
Mrs. Schneiderman had taken her in, and for the last eleven years she had dealt with the elderly woman’s crotchets, her short temper and her constant criticism. Every morning she dragged herself out of bed to slice bacon and scramble eggs and brew gallons of coffee for the boarders, and the rest of the day she spent scrubbing floors, beating the dirt out of the parlor carpets, scouring dirty kettles and polishing the silverware.
She had felt driven by the fear of being hungry, of not making it. In all these years she’d never had time to attend a church social or read any of the books she kept in her trunk or sit on the veranda on a warm summer evening and think about her life.
She bit her lip and walked back into the kitchen. She would be twenty-four years old on her next birthday. A spinster. On the shelf, her mother would have said. The life she saw stretching before her was totally without joy. Worse, it was without hope.
She
