Reclaiming His Past. Karen Kirst
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up on theirs.
Jessica didn’t need another complication. She had enough to deal with without adding an aggravating male to the mix. Chopping the mound of raisins into tiny slivers, she tried to rein in her frustration.
Why did You lead him here, Lord? Why did You choose us to be his caretakers?
Of course, there wasn’t an answer. There never was. She’d been asking God why for a long time. She’d come to despise the silence.
Laying down the knife, she turned to check the almonds bubbling atop the stove. The heat from the firebox wrapped around her, and she was considering opening the rear door to let in fresh air when she heard the slide of stocking feet across the floorboards.
“What are you doing out of bed?” she exclaimed.
“The walls were closing in.” His lips contorted into a half grin, half grimace.
Looking scary-pale and about a second from collapsing, their patient—Grant, she must remember—reached for the closest sturdy object, which happened to be a ladder-back chair at the table. She rushed to his side. Without thinking, she wrapped an arm about his waist and took some of his weight as he slumped into the seat. Hovering there for a moment, she waited to make sure he wasn’t going to lose consciousness.
“You could’ve ripped the stitches open.” Her fingers digging into her waist, she felt the sting of temper flare in her cheeks. “And Ma said you weren’t supposed to walk on that ankle.”
“It’s sweet how concerned you are for my well-being,” he panted, an outrageous twinkle in his eye.
“You keep mistaking my intentions,” she said through gritted teeth. “The fact of the matter is, the faster you heal, the sooner you leave.”
“Ah. Well, I promise to be a good boy and return to my room before Miss Alice comes back.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. She refused to give in to his charm.
Satisfied he wasn’t going to slide to the floor, she retrieved the kettle and set about fixing him tea, uncomfortably aware of his steady regard. It had been ages since she’d spent one-on-one time with any man outside her family. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so bothered by his presence if he were older and had warts on his nose.
“Smells like Christmas in here. What are you making?”
“A cake.”
“What’s the special occasion?”
Crossing to the hutch, she removed a delicate blue-and-white teacup and saucer. “Mrs. Ledbetter is turning fifty on Sunday. She commissioned me to make her birthday cake.”
“You must be a talented baker.”
She shrugged. “I know my way around a kitchen.”
For years now, she and Jane had earned income by providing desserts to the Plum Café. Every day save for Sunday, they’d baked pies, cakes and assorted treats for delivery before the evening meal. When the café switched owners in August, the sisters hadn’t anticipated the new one wouldn’t require their services. The canceled agreement had come as a shock, and the extra money she’d grown accustomed to had all but dried up.
These personal orders helped but weren’t consistent.
Grant sat with one arm tucked against his ribs, his busted hand resting protectively over his wound. “Have you ever thought about opening your own shop?”
Jessica inhaled sharply. Lee had asked that exact question right there on their front porch. At the time, she and Jane had been comfortable with their arrangement with Mrs. Greene, the former owner. The notion had struck them as far-fetched. In recent weeks, dogged by a restlessness she couldn’t pin down, she’d revisited the idea.
“I mean, I haven’t sampled your food,” he went on, “so I couldn’t say if folks would pay money for it. For all I know, this Mrs. Ledbetter hired you because she feels sorry for you.”
She set the cup carelessly on the work surface, and it rattled in its saucer. “I’ll have you know, folks around here clamor for my baked goods. My sister and I have a reputation as the finest bakers this side of the Tennessee River.”
Soft laughter rumbled through his chest. Jessica stood immobile, affected by his grin, the flash of straight, white teeth, the way his entire face lit up like a vivid autumn day. Between those sparkling bright eyes and the boyish smile, this man was downright lethal to a woman’s good sense.
“You are infuriating, you know that?”
“And you, Jessica O’Malley, are easy to rile.”
Attempting to stifle her growing irritation, she proceeded to ignore him as she readied his tea. She didn’t say a word when she placed the cup and honey jar in front of him.
She gasped the instant his fingers encircled her wrist and prevented her from moving away. His skin was hot, rough in places, the bones underneath strong. Working man’s hands.
His face tilted up in appeal. Up close, in this sunny, cheerful kitchen, she could see the large bruise on his cheekbone, the split in the middle of his lower lip, threads of navy interwoven with cerulean blue in his irises. There was a jagged scratch on his neck she hadn’t noticed before.
Despite the fact his presence was like a splinter beneath her skin, this man had endured a lot of pain. Nothing in his current situation was familiar. Her heart thawed another degree, and it frightened her.
“Apparently I’m a tease.” His soft voice cloaked her. “Maybe I grew up with a passel of sisters.”
“It’s also possible you have a fiancée or wife somewhere out there who’s willing to put up with you.”
Dismay creased his brow, and he released her. “Maybe.”
Feeling as if she’d kicked an injured dog, she went and removed the almonds from the stove and transferred the heavy sack of flour to the counter. How would she feel if her entire life had been wiped clean like a slate? Her loved ones, her home, forgotten?
It hurt to imagine.
Measuring out the flour, she risked a glance at Grant, who was quietly sipping his tea, lost in thought.
“Would you like for me to wash your hair? After I finish with this?”
At his startled reaction, she bit the inside of her cheek. Where had that come from? Her guilty conscience?
He lowered his cup, touched a hand to his nape. “That would be wonderful. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“You wouldn’t make it to the stream in your condition,” she quipped, striving for an offhanded tone. “This is the next best option.”
He lumbered to his feet. “And I’m sure you’d appreciate it if I didn’t smell like yesterday’s hog slop.”
Jessica almost admitted that was not the case. She’d been in close contact with him twice now and hadn’t been offended. He smelled of earth and leaves, leather and spruce. He smelled like the forest.
“That’s right,” she replied instead. “I’d much rather you smell like my favorite rose-scented soap.”
“Roses. Now, that’s masculine.” His attempt at lightheartedness was unsuccessful. “Thanks for the tea.” There was a stiffness to his manner that hadn’t been there before. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Returning her spoon to the bowl, she wiped her hands on her apron and trailed him to the dining space that housed a larger, more formal table. Between the busted ankle and tender side, his progress was incredibly slow.
He stopped her with an upheld hand. “No need to follow me. I can make it on my own steam. May take a while, but I’ll get there.”
She started to argue—her wish to be rid of him not the only reason for her concern—before thinking better of it. She