Western Christmas Brides. Carol Arens
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as she was the front. Her blond hair was tied at the nape of her neck and the long curls hung down her back almost to her apron ties.
“Of course, but he doesn’t plan on cleaning it, does he?” Fiona asked while she added a log to the firebox of the cookstove.
“We figured you two were busy enough,” Teddy answered. “Thought we’d go ahead and clean it.”
“Nonsense.” Fiona crossed the room and grabbed a shawl hanging by the door. “He’s the one who has to work today. I’ll be right back.”
Hannah turned around as the door closed. When their eyes met, he said, “I think we’ll leave them alone for a moment.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” she replied.
The smile on her face made his heart thud. Drawn forward, he paused when she took a step sideways—away from him. Flustered because he shouldn’t be drawn to her, he searched for an excuse as to why he’d moved. Eyeing a kettle on the counter, he said, “I’ll fill this with water and put it on the stove.” He then quickly asked, “How’s your hand?”
She shook her head slightly. “Fine. I’ll get another kettle. If the bird is as large as you say, we’ll need plenty of hot water.”
“It’s as big as I say,” he assured. “One of the biggest turkeys I’ve ever seen.” Setting the pot on the stove, he asked, “Do you like turkey?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t like turkey?”
“I certainly do.” He crossed the room to collect one of the buckets filled with water. “But then there’s not a whole lot I don’t like. How about you?”
“Nothing that I can think of.” She set the second kettle on the stove. “However, I have made some things that weren’t very tasty.”
He laughed while filling both pots with water. “I have, too.”
She frowned. “You cook?”
“Every day.” He set the empty bucket on the table. “Except for the meals I eat at the hotel.”
“What about Abigail? Doesn’t she cook?”
“As little as possible, luckily.” He turned about and smiled. “Her cooking is worse than mine.”
“It is?”
“Abigail’s usually so busy writing, she burns everything.” Noting her frown, he changed the subject while nodding toward the counter. “Are you making pumpkin pies?”
“Yes.” Her smile was as soft as her voice. “Do you like pumpkin pie?”
“It just happens to be my favorite.”
“I’m using my grandmother’s recipe.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Silence encircled around them as they stood there, Hannah near the stove, him next to the table, their gazes locked. He wanted to say something, but the heart in his chest hammered against his rib cage, stealing his ability to form a single rational thought. Other than ones about how blue her eyes were, and how they kept moving slightly, as if she wanted to look away but couldn’t.
The lines of her face were soft and graceful, and the lashes around her eyes long and dark. Her lips were pale pink and glistening. This time he counteracted the pull inside him that had him wanting to step closer to her by resting a hand on the back of a chair.
Like every other time he laid eyes on her, a deep sense of wisdom or logic, or some other sensation he couldn’t quite explain, overcame him. Perhaps it wasn’t her he was drawn to as much as it was her condition. It reminded him of Becky and the baby he’d already looked forward to before she’d told him the wedding was off. That she was marrying the baby’s father. He’d been hurt and disappointed, but never let it show. Abigail had. She’d been furious, and when she had taken out her anger in her newspaper articles, he’d sought out a new town looking for a newspaper. Within a month, he and Abigail had moved. Two years later, they’d moved again, to Oak Grove. When they’d arrived, he’d promised himself, and warned Abigail, this was their last move. He wasn’t hauling that press another mile ever again.
Frustrated that he was remembering all that, and that Hannah was the reason, he glanced away. The best thing that could happen would be for her to marry one of the men on that list she’d written out.
The list was in his pocket, and at the moment seemed to be singeing his thigh. He’d carried it with him every day and thought nonstop about giving it back to her, but—“Who else will be here tomorrow?” he asked.
“No one that I know of,” she answered. “Angus stopped by yesterday, to let us know that he’ll be taking his meal with Maggie and Jackson.”
Angus O’Leary was an eccentric old Irish bachelor who had more money than he had brains. That wasn’t true. Angus was smarter than men half his age, which had to be pushing three-quarters of a century, and he knew how to charm the ladies. Perhaps it was his tall top hat, or his three-piece suits, but women adored the old codger.
Including Hannah.
Every Sunday, and whenever there was a community event, Angus was the one to escort Hannah. Old or not, Angus took his role of keeping others at bay when it came to Hannah seriously, and did a fine job of it.
Up until this moment, Teddy hadn’t considered that. How well Angus kept others at bay, including those on her list.
“Why?” she asked.
“Just making sure there will be plenty of pie for me.” That wasn’t the reason, but he wasn’t exactly sure what his reasons were. Or why it mattered to him at all.
A shy smile formed as she shook her head slightly. “You certainly must like pumpkin pie, Mr. White.”
“I do,” he admitted, “and do you think you could call me Teddy? I assure you it wouldn’t be improper. Most everyone in town does, even Rhett and Wyatt, and you do call Angus by his first name.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “Because he insists upon it.”
Suddenly it meant a lot to him to have her call him by his first name, too. “Will it help if I insist, too? Because I will.”
She shook her head, but the smile that grew on her lips gave him hope.
A clatter on the back steps and the opening of the door stopped her from answering. Teddy had to swallow a growl of frustration at the interruption as Brett and Fiona walked in. He should be happy about the interruption. Actually, he should just leave.
“My wife and I have come to a compromise,” Brett said, grinning down at Fiona. “She and Hannah will finish making us breakfast while we clean the turkey you shot. How’s that sound, Ted?”
“Sounds like a fair deal to me,” Teddy answered while he gaze once again settled on Hannah. “How does that sound to you, Hannah?”
Her cheeks took on a pink tinge as she nodded. “I believe that is a very fair deal, Teddy.”
Teddy shut the door of the cupboard he’d thoroughly searched and crossed the room to yell up the stairway. “Abigail, where’s that jar of pickles I bought from Rollie?” Their print shop took up the front two rooms of the building, but the back three rooms as well as the three bedrooms upstairs were their living quarters.
“Why?” Abigail asked as she appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Because I need to take them to Brett’s,” Teddy replied.
Tying the bow of her flowered hat beneath her chin, she started down the stairs. “I ate them.”
“You ate them?”
“Yes.