Deeply Devoted (8 page)

After finding what looked like a side of roast beef from the smokehouse, she’d sprinkled it with salt and a dash of pepper and shoved it into the oven. The potatoes and carrots she’d found in the cellar simmered on the stove. A lump resembling a loaf of bread sat on the counter, ready to be baked after the roast was done. She’d seen their cook back home knead dough before but wasn’t sure of the ingredients except for flour and eggs. Was she supposed to sift the flour? Hopefully the bread would rise up in time to bake for supper.

She was feeling pretty good about what she’d thrown together after shooing her sisters out of the kitchen. They were only making matters worse, especially Greta. She could be doggedly stubborn sometimes.

Am I really going to have to do this every day? How in the world can I manage it all—especially if we have children?
There’d never be time to read or sew, not with vegetables to can, the wash to do, and the house to care for. One would have to get up at dawn and drop like the sun on the horizon just to get it all finished. She was ready to drop now. But oh, how she wanted to make Peter proud.

Catharine glanced over at the dough and decided that it certainly hadn’t risen much. Maybe that happened after it went in the hot oven. She looked around with a critical eye. The table was set and even had a vase of yellow bearded irises that Anna had picked earlier, which added a nice touch. She wished her mother’s Blue Willow china graced their table. If it hadn’t been for the unfortunate storm at sea, it would have. No use crying about it now. She wondered if she should be using the dining room but thought maybe that was only for company or special holidays.

The apples had been sliced and soaked and were now waiting off to the side for a pie. Catharine moved the rolling pin back and forth across the leftover dough to make a piecrust, as she’d seen Cook do when she was a child, and flour flew every which way. She wanted to see if she could flute the sides like Cook always did, but when she tried to lift the crust up, it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck to the countertop! She tried peeling it up with her fingertips, but it only continued to tear and was gooey, sticking to her fingers like syrup. The more she handled the crust, the more frustrated she became. She was getting nowhere with the wad of dough, and it seemed to laugh at her attempts.

After the third try, she jammed the dough into a wad, then threw the entire thing on the floor and stomped on it.
There! Now you’re flat and of no use to me
, she thought, clamping her jaw. Heaving a big sigh, she bent down and began to clean up the mess she’d made, then lifted her shoe to wipe the goo off the bottom.

Her nose twitched as the smell of the roast beef filled the kitchen. Good, it was cooking nicely. She added more wood to keep the fire hot, and suddenly the foam from the potatoes rose up and boiled over, making a complete mess all over the stove. Quickly she grabbed a dishcloth, and as she moved the pot of potatoes off to the side, she saw that the cloth was scorched from the flame. There was smoke coming from the oven, so she bent down and yanked the oven door open to discover a thoroughly burned roast stuck to the pan. She let out a cry of anguish and covered her face with her hands, sinking to the floor with tears of defeat. Her dinner was ruined!

It was at that very moment that Peter strode in through the back door to find his discouraged bride in a heap on the floor, sobbing in front of the stove. Her hair had come loose from its pins and now fell across her face, and splats of flour covered her chin and one cheek where she swiped her hair back with her hands. It was quite a different look for her in her homespun dress, apron, and brogans. One quick look around revealed a burnt pan of meat teetering on the edge of the oven door and something resembling vegetables still bubbling in a nearby pot. A somewhat strange-looking concoction sat in a bowl next to a pie pan.

Peter’s laughter reverberated through the farmhouse, and he clapped his thigh in amazement. Catharine shot him a glance, and he immediately clamped his mouth shut and dropped to the floor next to her. Lifting her sticky hands in his, he whispered, “Don’t cry, Catharine. I’ll help you clean this up and we’ll have something simple.” Touching her chin, he lifted her head until she met his gaze through tear-filled eyes, but she quickly glanced away.

“Oh, Peter, I’ve made a mess of everything and I still haven’t even baked the bread. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, it’ll be all right.” Peter pulled her to his chest until she was in his lap, and she nuzzled her face in his neck. The sweet scent of her made him groan. With her body snuggled close to his, he was of a mind to sweep her off the floor and take her to their bedroom. But instead he said, “I had forgotten that you were used to having servants wait on you. Perhaps Angelina could spend an afternoon teaching you to cook and clean.”

She drew back, pushing her palms against his chest. She struggled to her feet, but the flour on the floor made her slip, and she fell hard against the table. He tried to grab her from his seated position but missed, and she winced in pain, then turned to glare at him. “I’m all right. Just leave me alone while I clean this up. Servants or not, I
will
learn to make do!” she snapped, then muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

What had he done now? “I’ll help you. I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did.”

“Really?” She swung around, her green eyes ablaze. “You expect me to take care of the house, cook, and tend the garden, all in the first day of our marriage?” Her voice was starting to screech, and her freckles stood out pink and bright on her white skin. “How can that be?” She wiped her hands on her apron, picked up the roasting pan, and stuck it in the sink.

Peter wasn’t sure what to say. After a long moment of silence, he walked over to her where she stood with her back to him, shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry if this isn’t what you thought married life would be.” She turned around to face him. She blinked, but he couldn’t read what she must be thinking. “Where are your sisters? Couldn’t they help?”

“I didn’t want their help. I’m your wife.” With a catch in her voice, she said, “I just wanted . . . to please you, Peter, not make you laugh at me as if I were an incompetent child.” Catharine stared down at her feet with a pout.

Peter surely didn’t understand how a woman could be sweet and sassy all in the space of a split second. He had a lot to learn about the opposite sex. He reached out and stroked the side of her cheek with his thumb, wiping the flour away. “I said I was sorry. I don’t know what else to say, except I’m here to help you. Let’s clean this up, then you can put the bread in to bake while the oven’s hot, and I’ll go fetch more wood. I’ll show you how to whip up stew with what we can salvage from the roast. Deal? Besides, you look mighty cute in that apron and flour in your hair.” He smiled and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

Her face softened, and he could tell he’d struck a chord with her. “Okay. But do you think we can do all this before Greta and Anna come in? I’m embarrassed enough for one day, I think.”

Peter leaned over and kissed her brow. “If we hurry, they’ll be none the wiser.” He took the dishcloth from her hand as she gave him a weak smile. He briefly touched her mouth with his, and though she quivered, she didn’t push him away.
Mmm . . . maybe I’m making some headway, Mario.

After supper, Peter left, saying he had a few things to attend to in the tack room. Catharine was grateful for a little time alone while Greta and Anna cleaned up the kitchen. Greta had told her at supper that she wanted to do some of the cooking, and Catharine was only too happy to share the chore with her sister. Between the two of them and the cookbook, it wouldn’t be too bad. Peter had given her a few tips and was eager to help her learn.

In the parlor, she picked up her Bible, settling in Peter’s chair to read. Noting that it smelled like him, she snuggled in, tucking her legs under her skirt. Holding her mother’s Bible in her lap reminded her of all the times she and her sisters would gather around her mother’s chair as she read the Christmas story. Someday Catharine hoped to have children so she could share the greatest gift of all with them.

She could hear the pleasant chatter of her sisters, and she was beginning to feel a rhythm to the Andersen household. The feeling made her content, so she took a moment to thank God for all that she had. When she finished her reading, Catharine moved to the desk, pulled out the chair, and looked for a fresh sheet of stationery.

Catharine was already in bed by the time Peter was ready for bed after tending to the cow and feeding the horses. What a pretty picture she made as she lay against the white linen sheets, her red hair fanned out against the pillow top. His gaze slid to his pillow, where a folded piece of paper was propped. He picked it up, then glanced over at Catharine.

“What’s this?” Peter asked quietly, but receiving no answer from her, he opened the folded paper and saw Catharine’s feminine handwriting.

Peter,

My greatest desire is to be your helpmeet and make a home for us. I’m sorry if I disappoint you with my skills in the kitchen particularly. Thank you for your help. I will get better at this, I promise. I want you to know how grateful I am that you accepted my sisters into our home. Your patience with me is what I most need now. I forgot to tell you how much your letter the day of our wedding meant to me. I’ll treasure it always.

Proud to be your wife,
Catharine

Peter climbed into bed, still holding the letter, and reached for Catharine, who he knew feigned sleep. Pulling her against his chest, he whispered against her brow, “My sweet one, ahh . . .”

Catharine lifted her head and her lips met his.

Clara glanced at her reflection through the clear glass front of the door labeled
Private Investigator
in bold black lettering. Satisfied with how her new hat looked perched to one side, she swung open the door. She knew if she wanted to uncover personal information about her daughter-in-law, it wouldn’t come from Peter. What if this woman was a gold digger? Why Peter hadn’t asked Dorothy Miller to marry him was simply beyond her. Dorothy’s family was respected, and her father was their beloved family attorney. It made no sense at all. Dorothy, a schoolteacher, was kindhearted and comely. She and Peter would have made a nice match with her blonde hair and blue eyes, and their children would have reflected their good looks. Not like that brazen redheaded Catharine, with the strange accent and brooding eyes.

Clara squared her shoulders and smiled at the man hunched over a sheaf of papers at a battered wooden desk. He stood as she walked toward him. Stretching out her gloved hand, she greeted him with a smile. “I’m Clara Andersen.” She took a step back and let go of his hand.

“I’m Mac Foster. Nice to meet you.” He pushed his coat back, his hands on his hips, and looked intently at her. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Andersen?”

She leveled a steady look at him, but inside she was trembling. She’d never done anything like this in her life. “I need to have a background check done . . . er . . . on a certain individual.” She paused nervously, fingering the collar of her jabot blouse. “It needs to be done with utmost haste. Can you help me with that?”

“I can most certainly.” He paused and pushed back a lock of dark hair touched with gray that fell over his eyes. “But it’ll cost you, since I usually handle, shall we say . . . delicate situations.” His mouth smiled, but his dark eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down. “Please, have a seat.” He picked up a box of files from a chair next to his desk and gestured with his hand.

Clara’s heart fluttered in her chest. Mac seemed a take-charge man with a direct approach. Good. It’d take a man like him to dig around to uncover any shred of evidence that she could use against her daughter-in-law. And boy, when she did have something—and she knew she would—Peter would thank his mother for saving him.

“I’ll pour us a cup of coffee while we talk.” Mac moved toward the coffeepot that sat simmering on the potbellied stove. Ignoring his offer of coffee, Clara squirmed in her chair, took a deep breath, and began.

“My son, whom I love very much, has hastily married a woman of unknown means and questionable character who came from Holland looking for a husband.
And
brought along her two sisters! I know nothing about her at all. My son lives on a wheat farm that my husband and I gave him. I believe her to be more interested in the land and becoming a citizen of our country than caring about my son. I want you to find out more about her.” She looked him directly in the eyes to show that she was telling the truth.

Mac’s eyes narrowed as he rubbed his chin with his thumb. “Let me get this straight—the son that you say you love so much is newly married, and you want to destroy that?” He cocked his head and waited for her reply.

Clara puffed out her chest. “I most certainly do not! I’m looking out for his own best interests.”

Mac rolled his chair around to her side of the desk. “When was the last time someone looked out for
your
best interests, Mrs. Andersen?” Mac said with mischief in his twinkling eyes.

“That is none of your concern, Mr. Foster. Are you going to help me, or should I just leave now?” How dare he make a pass at her! Or was it that? It had been too many years since anyone had been directly concerned about her personally. Maybe too long for her to care . . .

Mac straddled his chair. “If you have the cash, then I can assure you I have the time, madam. But for starters, call me Mac.” He sipped his coffee as he eyed her.

Clara wasn’t sure if she should run for the door and drop the entire plan or continue. She was treading on shaky ground with this impertinent detective. Sweet-talking to his clients was definitely not in his repertoire. But she must know more about Catharine. She opened her handbag and gave him an envelope filled with bills. “Will this be enough, Mac?”

Mac peeked inside the envelope, quickly counted the bills, and gave her a steady gaze. “It’s a start. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ll need you to answer some questions before I get started with my contacts abroad.” He took the pencil from behind his ear, then strode over to his desk for a tablet.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief as he started taking notes.

Catharine rolled over to the edge of the bed and groaned. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the slit in the curtains on the window. Even with the slightest movement, her back ached, her feet were sore, and she was sure she had just dropped into bed only moments before. She stretched her arm behind her and felt the mattress next to her. It was cool to her palm. The last several evenings, she’d been in bed before Peter but he’d been up before her the next morning. He had tilled a flower bed for her, and she spent her time between the kitchen and the garden, pulling out the grass and roots. By autumn she’d plant the tulips that she brought with her from Holland, and hopefully there’d be a dazzling array to brighten the yard and remind her of her homeland.

Might as well get up and start the fire for coffee.
She moved slowly to stretch her aching back when the bedroom door opened a crack and Peter peeked in.

“I wasn’t sure if you had awakened,” he said, color staining his cheeks. “I made some of your favorite tea.” He pushed the door open further with one elbow, balancing a tray complete with her Blue Willow tea set.

Catharine made a move to get out of bed, but he stayed her. “No, no. Don’t get up. Sit right there and have your tea. You’ve been working from sunup to sundown every day for the last few weeks. But not today. I was hoping we could all go to church in town, now that you’re finally settled in. You can meet some of the people of Cheyenne.” He hesitated as he poured her tea. “If that’s okay with you?”

Catharine scooted back against the giant headboard, touched by his simple act of kindness. He set the tray across her lap and whipped out a muslin napkin that was delicately embroidered with the initial
A
. “I’d like to go to church. I’ve missed it. Now if I can get the girls up . . .” she said, taking a sip of her tea.

Peter took a seat on the edge of the mattress, and the springs squeaked in protest. “Not to worry. I’ve already woken them up and they’re getting dressed. I can’t wait to show off my bride.”

He smiled at her, his half-lidded eyes sliding down to gaze at her nightgown, and her heart lurched. Her fingers flitted at the ribbons of the gown’s neckline as though he could see right through it, but she lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect he had on her. She liked the way his eyes flirted with her, and the blue shirt he was wearing set off his disarming eyes.

“I’m afraid I’ve been so busy taking care of the wheat crop that I haven’t spent nearly as much time with you as I’d have liked since you arrived. But I intend to change some of that.” He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb back and forth over it. Her hand felt small in his large one, but his felt tender when he touched her this way. She remembered their first night together when he’d cuddled with her and given himself to her with total abandon. But she’d held back a part of herself because deep down inside she didn’t feel worthy of his love.

“Thank you for the tea, but you didn’t have to do this.”

“But I wanted to do this for my sweet bride.” Longing was reflected in his husky voice.

She picked at the nubby threads on the heavy quilt. “That was very sweet of you, Peter, really.”

Giving her a tender smile, he stood, and with a sweep of his hand and a mock bow, he said, “Then I’ll let you finish your tea and get dressed.” Straightening, he beamed at her and she giggled. “I’ll throw some bread in the oven to toast and scramble some eggs. Sound good?”

She smiled at him, enjoying his playfulness, and was amazed that she might have caused the zip in his step. “Sounds wonderful. I’ll hurry and get dressed as soon as I finish my tea.”

Peter gave her a wink. “Take your time . . . there’s no rush.” He backed out, shutting the door behind him.

Catharine slid down against her fluffy pillow and savored her second cup of tea. It was brewed to perfection. Though she liked coffee, Peter knew she enjoyed hot tea and had watched her make it. Knowing he was trying to please her filled her heart with joy. Maybe she was truly special to someone at last.

But even as she delighted in being his wife, her mind filled with darker thoughts
. If he really knew me, he would reject me. Totally—completely.

Clara hurried down the boardwalk Sunday morning, missing her usual church service to meet Mac Foster, and as it was, she would be late. She’d spent more time on her toilette than usual, telling herself that it merely took longer at her age. Then she chided herself. It wasn’t as if Mac Foster would notice her new dress . . . or would he?

Mac was leaning against the porch railing in front of the Prairie Café, his arms folded across his chest, and he smiled broadly as she walked up. “Good day, Miss Clara,” he said, tipping his hat. “You’re looking very well. That shade of blue suits you.”

Clara felt her face go pink. “Thank you . . . I’ll take that as a compliment.” She gave a quick glance around to see if anyone she knew was there. A small pang of guilt pricked her conscience, but she pushed the nagging feeling aside. She shouldn’t feel guilty for gathering information, should she?

“Shall we go in and have a seat?” Mac offered his arm, and she noticed that he had impeccable taste in clothing. She nodded, and he led her inside the cool restaurant and asked the waiter for a table in the back, apart from the crowded lunchgoers.

After the waiter had taken their order, Mac leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes staring admiringly at Clara until she squirmed in her chair. She felt unnerved by him and was trying to guess his age. She thought it to be close to hers, but it was hard to judge. Why hadn’t she noticed him around town before?

“I thought it’d be nice to grab a little lunch before I tell you what facts I’ve uncovered.”

“Mr. Foster, I’d rather you just skip all the formalities and get right to the heart of the matter. I really don’t have time for frivolities.” Clara gave him a level gaze, and his eyes held hers.

“Frivolities? I’d hardly call discussing business over lunch a frivolity. However, I may be able to set another time where you and I could have a taste of fun and frivolity.” He gazed at her with hooded eyes.