Saturday's Child (12 page)

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Katie woke to a clear morning. The clouds that had been building against the mountains had drifted away, leaving nearly two inches of snow behind. Turning over in the soft feather mattress, she stretched, feeling deeply rested for the first time in weeks.

She reached out one hand, studying her wedding ring in the clear morning light. She was a married woman now, with a husband and a home.

She frowned as she sat up, pushing her hair back off her forehead. She wasn't entirely married, not yet. There was more to marriage than putting two names on a piece of paper. Quentin had said he would give her time, but she couldn't expect him to wait forever.

Her eyes darkened as she remembered the feel of Joseph's hands on her body, the look in his eyes. Quentin had said that what had happened had nothing to do with what was meant to happen between a man and a woman. She wanted to believe him.

She shook her head. There was no sense in looking to the past or in looking too far into the future. Right now her biggest concern was to prove—to herself and to Quentin—that he hadn't made a mistake in marrying her. She had to show that she could adapt to this new land, this new life.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed, curling her toes against the chill air. Her trunks sat just inside the doorway. There was a big wardrobe in one corner of the room and a chest of drawers between the pair of windows that looked out onto the mountains, so much closer than she'd expected them to be. The floor was plain wooden planks, smooth and unadorned. There were no curtains at the windows, no rugs on the floor.

Katie felt her spirits rise. She could make a place for herself here. She could learn to cook and to clean. Didn't she remember the old rhyme: Saturday's child works for a living? Well, she'd worked most of her life, first in the theater and then with a needle. Now she had a chance to work at something truly worthwhile.

Sliding off the bed and looking about her, she felt a proprietary interest in everything she saw but most especially in the cobwebs that adorned the corners of the room and the dust that lay on every surface.

She opened her trunk, finding her warmest wool dress. The house was silent and she assumed that Quentin and the mysterious "hands" must be out working. It was after nine o'clock. What time would they want lunch and was she expected to have it ready?

Hurrying into the dress, she pulled on a pair of warm stockings and laced up her shoes. Her hair was given a brisk brushing and pinned back in a simple knot. As ready as she was ever likely to be, she left the safety of the bedroom to explore her new domain.

The house was small, just as Quentin had said. It consisted of the kitchen, a large room that served as parlor, the bedroom she'd awakened in and a small utility room off the kitchen.

The house was solidly built of logs that must have been dragged from the mountains. Rough bark was exposed on the outside but the inside of the house had been covered with smooth planks of pine. The windows were generous, probably more so than was practical when the winter winds howled outside.

There was a wide stone fireplace in the front room as well as a cast-iron stove in the kitchen. Quentin had started fires in both before he left, taking the chill off the air. Katie eyed the kitchen stove warily. She'd have to master its use if she was to learn to cook.

Slipping on her cloak, Katie hurried down the graveled path to the facilities. The air carried an icy bite that threatened more snow, though the sky remained cloudless. Yesterday's snowfall lay in a pristine white blanket over the ground, deceptively cozy in appearance. It was as if winter, faced with the inevitable approach of spring, was reminding the world that it might have a few tricks left up its aging sleeve.

Katie longed to explore her new domain, but she resisted the urge. If she was to have any hope of putting a meal on the table come noontime, she was going to need every minute of the hours till then.

Back in the house, she dug one of her most prized possessions out of her trunk. If Miss Fannie Merritt Farmer couldn't help her, then surely no one could. Carrying the book back into the kitchen, she set it on the big table that dominated one end of the room. There was an enameled pot of coffee on the stove and Katie poured some into a thick mug, grimacing at the blackness of it. Obviously, her new husband liked his coffee very dark.

She was poring over a recipe for a simple dish of beef and vegetables when the back door opened, letting in a wave of chill air. She jumped up, turning around so quickly that she almost tipped over her chair.

"How do, ma'am. I didn't mean to give you a fright." The man who'd entered was about her age, though days in the sun had added years to his face. He removed his hat, running his fingers through a shock of black hair that promptly sprang back into rebellious waves.

"How do you do," Katie said, guessing that this must be one of the men who worked for Quentin.

"Just fine, ma'am. But I'd be doing a sight better if my horse hadn't taken a notion to toss me into a fence."

It was only then that Katie noticed the heavy bandage that wrapped one leg up to the knee.

"Oh, you poor thing. Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but it ain't like it hurts much. Itches like crazy but it don't hurt no more. Broke it pretty good. Lucky for me that old Tate knows how to set a bone, else I'd have been in trouble for sure. Nearest doctor is near a day's ride away."

"Tate?" Katie questioned as he limped heavily over to the table.

"The foreman, ma'am. He was ramrodding the outfit while the boss was away. Fierce old man but a da—I mean a darn good hand and a fair to middlin' sawbones."

He flushed suddenly, giving away his youth. "I'm Joe, ma'am. Reckon I forgot to introduce myself. It's just that we don't see any womenfolk out here, less it's at a dance. The boss said he was going to find himself a wife but nobody really expected him to do it.

'Specially not one so pretty, if you don't mind my saying so."

Katie smiled as she got another mug down and poured him a cup of the tarlike substance in the pot.
Quentin had said he was going to find a wife?
Had he actually gone home to San Francisco looking to bring back a bride? And if so, how had he come to settle on her? But now was not the time to ponder the question.

"The boss said I was to make myself useful to you, ma'am, seeing as how I'm more or less housebound." Joe looked at her, his dark eyes hopeful. "Is there anything you need doin'?"

Katie's first instinct was to shake her head but then her eyes fell on the huge black-stove. If Joe knew the secret to operating it...

"Actually, I was thinking I should start some supper and I've never used a stove quite like this one. If you could show me how to use it?" She gave him her warmest smile, the one she'd seen Maude Adams use in The Little Minister on Broadway nearly eight years ago. Though she'd been only a child, she'd recognized the power of that smile. It had brought an audience to its knees and made Miss Adams a star.

It worked its magic on Joe. He blinked at her, his jaw slightly slack. In that moment, if Katie had suggested that he might like to jump off the roof of the barn, he'd have done it without question. The boss had sure enough married himself the closest thing to an angel Joe had ever seen in all his years, few though they were.

"Yes, ma'am," he finally breathed. He stood up, clumping over to the stove, Katie on his heels. "This here is a right fine stove. My ma would'a been proud to have a stove like this back home in Iowa. The boss ordered it from Sears and Roebuck, cost most of thirty dollars."

Katie listened attentively as he showed her how to add wood to the firebox and how to use the damper to control the temperature. If he thought it odd that she seemed to know so little about operating a wood stove, he didn't mention it.

By noon, Katie was more than half convinced that Joe was a gift straight from the Lord. Not only was he companionable, but he was an endless fount of information. He'd been the youngest child of eight, he told her and a sickly boy so he'd spent plenty of time watching his mother work about the kitchen, rather than working outside on the family farm.

If it hadn't been for Joe's knowledge and Miss Farmer's help, Katie didn't think she'd ever have learned how to prepare a meal. The meal she set before Quentin and the other hands was simple but it was edible. The only real failure was the biscuits, which came out rather hard and brittle instead of light and fluffy. Miss Farmer had said to mix them with a light hand but perhaps she hadn't been light enough. Still, the men ate them without complaint, softening them in the juices from the stew she'd made.

There were six hands and by the end of the meal, Katie thought she'd managed to put the right names with the right faces. They all praised her cooking, more than it deserved, she suspected. Quentin lingered after the meal, watching as she carried the dishes to the sink.

"Are you settling in all right?"

"Yes. Joe has been a great help."

"If there's anything you need, just let me know. I can always send one of the men into town."

"Truth to tell, I don't know what I'll need yet." Katie smiled at him shyly. "I've not much experience at keeping a home by myself."

She didn't have much experience at keeping a home with someone else, either, but there was no reason to tell him that.

Watching her as she moved about the kitchen, Quentin told himself that he had work to do—too much to be lingering here. But there was something very pleasant about watching Katie as she stacked the dishes. Her skirts rustled softly on the floor and he found himself watching the"gentle movement of her hips beneath the fabric.

Tendrils of fiery hair had drifted loose over the morning to lie in caressing curls against the back of her neck. He still held the memory of the first time he'd seen her with her hair lying over her shoulders. He'd wanted to bury his fingers in its warmth then and the urge hadn't left him.

He'd had a hard time concentrating on the work this morning. His thoughts had tended to drift back to the house, wondering what Katie was doing, wondering if he should have stayed nearby on this, her first morning.

He'd crept into the bedroom as dawn was slipping over the eastern horizon, finding his clothes as silently as possible. She'd been sleeping as peacefully as a babe, her hair spread across the pillow—his pillow. It had taken considerable willpower to leave the room without giving in to the temptation to wake her with a kiss.

He'd been glad of the cold morning air, thankful when his horse demonstrated his objection to the saddle by trying to throw his master out of it. When he'd married Katie, he hadn't expected her to become so much a part of his thoughts. He'd needed a wife, she'd needed a new beginning. He'd told himself it was a cool, logical decision.

He'd told her that he'd give her all the time she wanted, not thinking that it might be a strain to give her that time. He hadn't expected to want her with such intensity. The sight of her in his bed had sparked images that had lingered in his mind all morning long.

She was his wife. The thought seemed so natural. There'd been a time when he hadn't been able to imagine anyone but Alice in that position, had thought that another woman would seem a usurper. But time changed things.

If Alice had lived, he'd never have ended up on this ranch. They'd have stayed in San Francisco and he'd probably have joined his father's business. They'd have lived a more conventional life. With her death, those plans, that life had also died. And though he'd not have thought it possible at the time, he'd found a full life without her.

"I think we should talk." Katie interrupted his thoughts hesitantly. Quentin shook himself out of his thoughts and looked at her.

"What about? If there's anything you want to change in the house, don't feel you have to ask me first. I suspect the place needs some fixing up."

"The house is lovely," she said, wiping a cloth over the table absently. "I've wanted a real home for so long and this is more than I'd ever hoped for."

"Well." He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the gratitude in her voice. The women he'd known would have thought this the most primitive of surroundings. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"It's about the bedroom."

"What about it?"

"You said last night that we'd discuss our...our sleeping arrangements later."

"It doesn't have to be now, Katie," he said gently, seeing the flush in her cheeks.

"It seems to me that it's not right that you sleep on the floor. After all, you are .the master of the house and... my husband."

"I told you I'd give you all the time you need. We're not going to rush into anything. I've slept in worse places than the floor, believe me. You'll have the bedroom to yourself until the time comes that you feel ready to change things."

"Maybe that time is now," she got out in a low voice, her eyes on the towel she was restlessly twisting between her hands. "A marriage should start out as it means to go on."

"Should it, Katie?" He reached out, catching one of her hands and tugging her toward him. "Why don't we see? Come here."

Her eyes flew to his, startled and uneasy. Quentin felt a twinge of amusement. Did she think he meant to consummate their marriage right here and now? But the amusement faded when he felt her hand tremble in his. She moved closer, stopping when she stood in front of him, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. He reached out, catching her about the waist and pulling her down into his lap.