MB02 - A Noble Groom (10 page)

The tapping of horse’s hooves came from the path leading to the cabin. In the stillness of dawn, the clomping grew steadily louder against the muddy slush that had frozen during the night.

Carl didn’t have a horse, at least one that she’d seen.

Annalisa glanced past the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling to the old rifle mounted on wooden pegs above the door.

What if Ward had decided to visit her again in the early morning while she was still alone?

She understood what drew him to her particular piece of property. She’d overheard Hans talk about it with Vater many
times—about how the island in Mill Creek formed a small falls that would be a valuable source of power for a sawmill. The creek was wide there and ideal for constructing a millpond to hold the logs that lumber companies farther inland would soon be floating downriver.

Ward already had a sawmill in Forestville at the mouth of Mill Creek, which competed with Jacob Buel’s mill. Hans and Vater had speculated that by building another sawmill four miles upstream, Ward was hoping to get the larger share of the logging business. And with all the immigrants who had recently moved to the area, the shrewd businessman was probably hoping to sell lumber to them.

Most of the immigrants couldn’t yet afford to move out of their log cabins and build bigger farmhouses made of the boards produced by sawmills. But once they paid off their loans—
if
they paid them off—they would be able to start saving for better homes and barns. When that happened, Ward seemed determined to have his mill well-established and so be the first in line to make a profit.

And apparently he was willing to resort to devious means to get her land.

Annalisa couldn’t keep from picturing Hans’s head when she’d discovered him. He’d had a deep bloody wedge near his hairline, almost as if someone had hit him with the edge of a farm tool or ax.

If Ward had done the deed—as Vater claimed—then what would stop the greedy man from doing the same to her?

She started toward the gun above the door.

If Ward wanted to kill her, he’d have to make sure he did it someplace where Gretchen couldn’t witness the deed.

The horse came to a halt outside the door.

“Stay here,” she warned Gretchen. Snowdrop was chewing a
long bone he’d found while rummaging in the woods. His ears pricked, and he lifted his tiny ebony face. “Keep Snowdrop safe and out of the way.”

Without waiting to see if Gretchen obeyed, Annalisa yanked the gun from the rack. Then in one swooping movement she kicked the door open and pointed the rifle at the intruder. “Go away!” she called into the dawn. The gun trembled, and she willed herself to hold it steady.

Dim light poured out of the cabin and cast a pale shadow on the horse and then on a man as he rounded the beast.

“Good morning to you too.” Carl’s arms shot into the air. “Whatever you think I did, I probably did do it but didn’t mean to.” He stared wide-eyed at the barrel of the gun aimed at his heart.

She glanced behind him, searching for any sign of Ward, but the farm was as still as when she’d gone to the barn earlier.

Worry raised Carl’s brows and gave her a wide glimpse of every handsome line in his face. “I thought you were Ward,” she said.

“Ah, Ward again.” He braved a smile, but didn’t lower his arms. “If you mistook me for Ward, he must be a very dashing fellow.”

“Dashing?” A sudden smile tugged at her lips. “Hardly.”

“Devastatingly handsome?”

“Nein.” Her smile almost broke free at the thought of Ward’s yellow, pockmarked face.

“Then I don’t know how in the world you could have mistaken me for Ward.” His grin crept wider.

“I didn’t expect you to be riding a horse.” But upon a closer look at the horse, she could see it belonged to Vater.

“Your father insisted I bring the cranky old beast along. He said something about needing an extra horse for the plowing today.”

“Ja. It’s a good day for the plowing.”

“Then you won’t need to shoot me after all?” He nodded toward the gun still pointed at him. “At least not today?”

She dropped the barrel and swung the gun behind her back. “I suppose I can hold myself back this time.”

He laughed—a laugh that contained his pleasure at her jest.

She smiled, and warmth spread through her belly.

He lowered his hands, and through the faint light his gaze collided with hers again as it had the night before.

The depth of his eyes held her captive with their charm. And the warmth in her belly spread into her limbs like sweet hot syrup soaking into pancakes.

This man was strange, her reaction to him even stranger. She ought to run inside and avoid any connection with him—no matter how slight. He was a man, and experience had taught her not to trust men.

She took a step back into the open doorway. She couldn’t let her guard down.

“You can tie up Bets”—she nodded toward one of the clothesline poles—“and then come in for your breakfast.”

When he ducked inside a few minutes later, she was surprised when he greeted Gretchen and the puppy, as if he was truly glad to see them.

She retrieved the pan from the hearth and scooped the rubbery pancakes and mushy potatoes onto his plate, attempting to calm the quaking inside. She frowned at the mess on his plate and tried to console herself by blaming him. If only he’d been on time . . .

Her stomach gurgled with the increasing hunger pangs of her body that was working to feed her unborn baby on a limited supply. If Carl didn’t want the meal, Gretchen would gladly eat her fill. And whatever her daughter couldn’t finish, Annalisa would gratefully relish.

“Won’t you join me?” Carl asked as he sat down in the only chair at the wobbly table Hans had hewn.

Carl’s gaze swept the cabin. She caught the glimpse of pity in his eyes as he took in her home, starting with the bedstead that had only one post since three of the corners were attached to the wall by pegs bored into the logs. He glanced at the mantel above the hearth, where she stored her few baking supplies, and then to the blackened pots and pans hanging from pegs next to the clay and stick chimney that had begun to crumble in places.

Except for a small crate under the bed where she kept a few clothing items, along with some thread and her knitting, the room was as barren as the day she’d moved in with Hans.

Yet she couldn’t complain about her home. It was as big as the thatched hut she’d lived in while growing up in Saxony. There they’d had nine family members living together in the small quarters. Now with only her and Gretchen, the cabin was spacious enough.

Carl’s gaze traveled back to the breakfast placed before him. “You’re welcome to join me,” he offered again.

“Nein. We’ll eat later.” She’d already given Gretchen a mug of cream before churning. And later she’d boil a couple of eggs, even though it would mean less to sell in town the next time she went.

Annalisa poured coffee into his mug, hoping he wouldn’t notice the liquid was weak. She’d had to use crust coffee from browned wheat to add to the scant coffee she had left.

He didn’t waste any time plunging his fork into the mound of food.

For a long moment, the rhythmic crunching of Snowdrop gnawing on his bone and the scrape of Carl’s fork across his plate were the only sounds in the one-room cabin. From her
spot on the floor, Gretchen had stopped her morning chore to watch Carl.

Annalisa knew she ought to reprimand Gretchen for staring at their guest while he ate. But she couldn’t keep herself from watching him and how he took his time with each bite, tasting it, as if savoring its full flavor.

“I really wish you would sit down and eat with me,” he said between bites. “Maybe tomorrow?”

His eyes beckoned her with a kindness that was unfamiliar.

Why was he so kind? What did he want from her?

She pivoted to face the hearth and added another stick from the woodbox. How could she explain to him that even if she wanted to join him for a meal, she couldn’t? That they only had one chair, and that she didn’t want him to witness the scant fare she’d been reduced to eating?

“These pancakes with this delicious maple syrup are good enough to be on the menu for a heavenly feast.”

The compliment reached out and caressed her battered heart. “The syrup is good, isn’t it?”

“Um-hmm,” he said despite having a mouthful.

She smiled. And then stopped in wonder.

Everything in her urged her to turn back around and study this strange man in her home.

In her three years of marriage, Hans had never asked her to join him for a meal. He’d certainly never complimented her cooking. And he’d never, ever—not even during their brief courtship—been the source of her smile.

She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to wake up and remember she didn’t want any more heartache. She had to stay focused on what was most important—Gretchen and the new baby coming in just a few months’ time.

Nothing else mattered. Particularly fairy-tale feelings.

She’d already learned once that fairy tales weren’t true. And she didn’t need to learn that lesson again.

Carl stumbled over a boulder-sized clod of dirt. Then with the next step his boots squelched into the mud, causing him to slip. The reins slid painfully against his blistered hands, but he held tight, lest he embarrass himself even further by falling face-first into the thick muddy soil. With a groan he regained his footing, then stopped and wiped his sleeve across his dirty, sweaty forehead.

He swayed from exhaustion and loosened the reins he’d twisted around his arms and shoulders the way Uri had instructed him earlier that morning. The boy had bridled the horse—something Carl had never done. Uri had raised his brow in disbelief when he’d admitted his ineptitude regarding all manner of animals. But thankfully the boy hadn’t asked him how he’d made it so far in life without bridling a horse. Carl wasn’t sure he could have answered without lying.

The team halted, none too disappointed that he was resting again. He was sure Old Red and Bets had seen better days. They weren’t exactly the kind of strong horses he’d expected farmers to use for plowing.

But what did he know about plowing?

He turned around and perched his backside on the crossbar of the plow. Another groan slipped from his lips. He was glad to be alone in the middle of the big field so that Annalisa and Gretchen by the cabin couldn’t hear his moaning.

His back and his legs and his arms ached like someone had seared his muscles with hot coals. He didn’t know how he could possibly keep going.

He glanced overhead to the position of the sun.

It wasn’t even noon.

Not only was he exhausted, he was hungry and thirsty. In spite of the cold spring breeze, he was hot. And his head itched.

“You certainly have a sense of humor, Lord.” He removed his hat and gave his scalp a good scratching. His sweat-drenched hair was likely causing the lice to rise up in protest. “You saved my head only to give it as a gift to the lice.”

After the days of running and hiding and trying to evade the duke’s men, the cramped hold of the ship among the peasants had been a welcome relief at first, even if it did reek of vomit. At least he’d been able to rest without fear of seizure.

But as the days in the stifling quarters turned into weeks, he realized he’d traded one dungeon for another—except lice the size of sheep roamed the ship. And no amount of protest had kept them from grazing on the fine pastures of his head.

“My vater would take a switch to my backside if he caught me loafing as much as you.”

Carl jumped at the voice of Uri behind him. He shoved his hat back over his unbearably itchy head and turned to face the boy.

Uri crossed the choppy ground through clumps of newly turned loam, a rich black that contrasted with the hard-packed brown of the earth still awaiting the plow and still snow-covered in places. A rifle was perched over one of the boy’s shoulders, and two squirrels dangled by their tails from his other.

Carl guessed him to be around twelve years old, though he had the air of a full-grown man. “Then it’s a good thing your father isn’t here to see how much loafing you’re doing this morning while spying on me.”

Uri drew closer so that Carl could see the anger flash across his young face. “And here I was thinking I might actually like you.”

“Don’t give up on me yet.” Carl wiped at the trail of sweat making its way down his cheek and turned his face to the west,
letting the cold wind soothe his overheated skin. “I’ve been told, particularly by the women, that I’m quite likable.”

At that, Uri stumbled, and his eyes widened.

Carl winked. The boy needed to stop taking everything so seriously.

“I thought you wanted to help Annalisa.” Uri paused in front of Old Red and lifted a hand to rub the horse’s muzzle. “But you’ve made a mess of this field.”

Carl turned and surveyed the field—the patches of unplowed land mixed with uneven rows where he’d tried to lead the team. Uri was right. A blind and lame laborer could have done a better job.

Carl then looked toward the vegetable garden near the cabin, where Annalisa and Gretchen had been hoeing, getting the soil ready for planting just as he was doing. Annalisa straightened, arched her back, and her hand went instinctively toward her rounded abdomen.