C
HAPTER
T
WO
H
annah Foley hated doing dishes. There was no worse chore, in her opinion, than scrubbing greasy food off plates and forks. She hated the feel of it, the way her fingers pruned up, and especially the way her back ached after standing at the sink for an hour. There were more dishes to wash at a boardinghouse than a regular household, which made it even worse.
She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and tried to focus on one dish at a time, rather than the mound still waiting for her attention. It would be nice if there was someone to help her, but with Granny’s arthritis, and no money to pay any help, it was up to Hannah alone.
Sometimes while she washed dishes, she imagined being somewhere and someone else. It was a little game of “what if” she played with herself. Of course she never told Granny about it—she didn’t want her to think she wasn’t grateful for the place to live and food to eat. Orphans couldn’t exactly be choosy.
She had one particular daydream that recurred each time she allowed her mind to drift. She was at a picnic by the river in town, and she was dressed in a lovely new blue dress and pretty new shoes. Her hair was braided and the sun shone on its hidden red and gold strands. Her large family surrounded her, but she was also with a beau, a handsome man with a big smile and a booming laugh. Around them she heard the sounds of the water gurgling in a nearby stream, her family laughing and chatting, but most of all, she heard the beating of her heart. And she felt peace and happiness.
A silly daydream of course. At twenty-three, she wasn’t the youngest or even remotely the prettiest girl in town. There weren’t likely going to be any beaus, since there hadn’t been any yet. No, she would live at the boardinghouse with Granny and that would be that.
Her silly heart, however, could not help but keep bringing the daydream back at every opportunity. Some days she didn’t like being a woman at all. Truthfully, she knew she wasn’t very attractive. Hannah was what her granny called “sturdy.” The word made her wince, but she couldn’t deny it described her.
She had thick brown hair that she could barely wrangle into a braid, mud brown eyes, big breasts, and a plumpness to her behind she was unsuccessful at wishing away. Plain as toast for sure. There were many other pretty girls in town worthy of a beau or even multiple beaus, but not Hannah.
She wasn’t bitter about it, just wishful. That darned heart of hers had a mind of its own. Perhaps one day she could ignore those daydreams about a family, a man, a future other than chapped hands and serving strangers.
A realization hit her with the force of a mule kick. Hannah stopped so suddenly, she splashed water all over her chest. She had been wallowing in self-pity, like some crazy old spinster. That was not what she wanted, ever.
She had a good life, and she was grateful for it. This silly behavior had to stop. There were things she could change and things she couldn’t. Her looks and her family were set in stone; her attitude was not.
Hannah knew she’d given herself a brain slap and was glad for it. Somebody had to, might as well be her.
After tamping down on her mental meanderings, she finished the dishes and moved on to the task of making a stew for dinner.
“Hannah?” her grandmother called from the parlor.
“Yes, Granny?” Hannah’s hands were covered with the flour she was currently rolling the stew meat in. She hoped her grandmother didn’t need anything immediately.
“I need you.”
Hannah blew out a breath so hard her hair moved off her forehead. “Can it wait about ten minutes? I’m fixing the stew.”
There was a brief pause. “I s’pose.”
Hannah’s chin fell to her chest and she counted to ten. Twice. “I’ll be right there.”
She cleaned her hands as best she could on the rag and headed into the parlor. Granny had bad pain in her joints and sometimes needed help getting up from bed and chairs. She was a tough old bird though, insisted on making the beds and tidying every day. Hannah worried Granny was doing too much, but there was no one else to do it, and there was only so much Hannah could do with the time she had.
Within a year, Granny might not be able to do anything, which would leave all the work to Hannah. They’d have to close off half of the eight rooms they rented to folks in the huge house her great-grandfather had built. It would mean their income would be cut in half, and they barely made ends meet as it was. Hannah dismissed the thought for now. There was nothing she could do and fussing about it would do her no good.
Hannah walked into the parlor and found Granny on her knees beside the settee. Panic coursed through her as she raced toward her grandmother.
“What happened? Are you all right?” She crouched down and peered at Granny’s face. “Did you break anything? How did you fall?”
“For pity’s sake, child, stop your caterwauling.” Granny flapped her hand in the air as if Hannah were a pesky fly. “I dropped my needle while I was doing some darning. I picked it up but couldn’t quite make it back onto my seat. Now you can help me.”
Granny wasn’t a small woman, but she was smaller than Hannah. In fact, when she lifted her grandmother up by the armpits, she was shocked to find just how light the older woman had become. It was as if old age was stealing her body inch by inch, turning her into a shell of the robust woman she had been.
“Have you been eating?”
“Not as much as I should.” Granny let out a sigh of relief when her behind connected with the settee cushion. “My stomach’s been feeling poorly for a while now. I eat enough to get by and it ain’t like I’m gonna starve to death. We Foleys are bred to survive and built to have babies.” She turned a frown on Hannah. “Speaking of which ...”
“Do we have to talk about this again?” Hannah wanted to run from the house, heck from the entire town, rather than talk about her lack of a husband
again.
It had become a nearly daily conversation with Granny, and she was tired of it. Bad enough her own heart kept returning again and again to a fantasy it could never have.
“Don’t sass me, child. I raised you better than that.” Sometimes Granny still treated her as a seven-year-old orphan.
“I’m not a child, Granny. I am a grown woman and if I don’t want to talk about my obvious lack of a husband, then I damn well won’t.” Hannah almost slapped her hand across her mouth for not only backtalking but cussing, too. Yet she didn’t. It was time she stopped hiding behind a sink full of dirty dishes.
Granny smiled at her and wagged her finger. “Now you sound like me.”
They both broke out laughing and Hannah sat down beside her, pulling her grandmother into a hug.
A surge of love and concern for Granny flooded through Hannah. Her grandmother was getting old—heck, she
was
old at sixty-two, which meant she would be getting sick more often. They couldn’t afford a doctor and that meant Granny wouldn’t even tell Hannah if she felt sick.
Shaking off her disturbing thoughts, Hannah got to her feet. “Everything okay now?”
“Pshaw. On with you now, young’un. You’d better get to making that stew or we won’t eat dinner until supper.”
Hannah went back to the kitchen, shaking her head and hoping she was that much of a curmudgeon at sixty-two.
Making the stew brought some order back into her scattered thoughts. She cut up the carrots and onions, then pulled out the sack of turnips from the pantry.
“Damn.” The curse was under her breath so she wouldn’t have to endure any reprimand.
There were only three turnips to feed twelve people. Hannah vaguely remembered telling herself to get more at the store, but she had forgotten to add it to her list. And now she didn’t have enough to make dinner for everyone. She had a little bit of time, perhaps a half hour, to get to the store and then get back.
Hannah dried her hands quickly, then took off her apron. “I’m going to the store, Granny. Be right back.” Luckily she had a dollar in her reticule, which she grabbed from beneath the sink.
As she headed out the door, she tripped and fell down the two steps, landing squarely on her knees in a mud puddle. She cursed again, this time a bit more loudly, then got to her feet and looked down at her mud-spattered skirt.
It wasn’t her best garment, but it had been clean. Until now. She would change later. For now she’d just have to endure people staring and possibly pointing at her. It wasn’t the ideal situation but there was no help for it.
She hurried down the street, nodding at folks who glanced her way. Who cared if she had flour on her blouse, mud on her skirt, and a grimace on her face? It had already been a bit of an unlucky day for her. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Matthew stared at the collection of rifles for sale. He had his father’s to use, and had given his old one to Nicholas, but Caleb needed a gun. They were so doggone expensive though. He didn’t want to choose between food and a weapon, although with a rifle he could get food.
It was Saturday again, and he’d had three days to mull over the pickle he was in. So far, he hadn’t come up with any solution other than finding a wife named Hannah in the next twenty-seven days. Easier said than done. Most of the women in town were married, and the ones who weren’t were either too young or too old. And he didn’t know of one named Hannah who wasn’t married.
The bell over the door to the store tinkled and he heard a muffled curse, then a slam. Matthew peered around the display to see Caleb sprawled on the floor while a woman bent over with her hand outstretched to help him up.
“I don’t need no help,” his little brother snapped.
“I’m sorry about that, mister. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Her voice was like whiskey, husky and rich. The sound of it intrigued him.
He must have made a noise because she straightened up and his gaze locked with hers. His first thought was that she was plain as prairie wheat; brown hair, brown mud on her skirt, with a round bosom to match her round behind.
Yet she had that voice. He still felt a tingle from it.
With a nod, she stepped around Caleb, who was just getting to his feet. “Stupid cow.”
“Caleb. Apologize to the lady.”
“I don’t see no lady.” Caleb stuck out his lip like a five-year-old.
“What you will see is my fist when you get knocked on your ass again.” Matt towered over him. “Now apologize.”
“Sorry.” The word was flung without grace or sincerity.
Matt met the woman’s gaze again. She shrugged and turned away, but not before he saw a glimmer of pain in the depths of her eyes.
He should just go about his business and not worry about a woman he didn’t know. Yet something told him to make peace with her. It was what his mother would have wanted. That thought alone made his feet move.
Matt found her by the turnips, empty sack in hand.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” He was surprised to see her start. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t. I’m just, well, never mind. It’s been a bad day.” She didn’t even look up from examining the vegetables.
It gave him the opportunity to study her. She smelled of flour and fresh bread, with just a hint of onions. Her hands were long-fingered and although she obviously worked with them, they were elegant. Her skirt had mud on it and was as plain as the potato sack in her hand.
Her hair, which looked like light brown from far away, had bits of gold and red in it. Curls were stuffed into a fat braid that swung with each movement. He wondered what that hair would feel like in his hands.
Matt almost choked on his own spit. First her voice woke up his body into imaginings, and now his imagination was getting into the act. What he needed to do was stop thinking about this stranger and focus on his more immediate problem with the land grant.
“I just wanted to apologize for my brother.”
“Don’t fuss over it. He’s a boy.” She had the sack half full by then, picking turnips faster with each word out of his mouth.
Matt reached out and took her wrist to stop her, wanting to explain why Caleb acted so foolish. He never got the chance. A jolt of something like lightning raced through him, hitting him square in the stomach. He dropped her arm and jumped back a foot, much to his embarrassment.
She stared at him, her brown gaze wide. “What was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why did you touch me?” She clutched the potato sack to her chest and inched her way toward the counter.
“I don’t know. I was trying to apologize.”
“You already did that.” She bumped into the counter, never taking her gaze off him.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He was tripping over his own tongue, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.
She put a dollar on the counter. “I only got half a sack, Frank. I’ll be back tomorrow for the other half.”
With that, she almost flew out the window, like a muddy brown bird running from an eagle who had threatened her.