“Maybe,” he said slowly, “because I want to. Because it would give me pleasure to buy you something to show off your pretty face and form a bit more than that dress you’re wearing is capable of doing. And because I feel more than a little guilty that you haven’t had anything new, while I have a closetful of suits in Boston.”
“You want to show off my—” She halted, pressing her lips together. “I don’t need fancy things here,” she said. He’d never been so forthright in his assessment of her charms before, and the thought of how much more delicate and fragile she’d been in those early years made her smile.
“I’m not nearly as attractive as I once was,” she told him. “Or else your vision has deteriorated in your old age.”
At that he winced, then grinned. “Ah, you’ve no idea how lovely you are, Faith. You’re a mature woman now, whereas you were only a girl when I married you. I find myself leaning toward maturity, I think.”
“Well, that’s nice,” she said, at a loss for words. She sought his dark eyes, trying without success to fathom their depths. And then she shrugged. “I expect you can spend your money on me if you like. My wardrobe is sparse enough that it could use a few additions.”
His smile was immediate, and she thought he looked more than a little triumphant as he swallowed a good bit of his coffee. “Would you like to go today?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied. “I need to carry a load of eggs to the general store, anyway. Yesterday was my usual day to deliver them and pick up my mail.”
“Half an hour?” he asked, rising and heading for the room he’d slept in. “I just need to wash up and change my clothes.” His fingers scrubbed at his jaw. “And shave, too, I suspect.”
“Half an hour,” she agreed.
The eggs were secured in a burlap sack, each wrapped in a bit of newspaper and layered between inches of straw. It was a good method of transporting them, she’d found through trial and error. The same way she’d discovered other ways of surviving.
Faith saved all her newspapers for this purpose, after reading and rereading the printed pages. It was her one luxury, the mailing of a weekly edition from the nearest large city. As she fetched them and began wrapping her precious eggs, Max watched for a moment, then started to tear the newsprint into pieces appropriate for her use. “One sack full?” he asked as she tied the first burlap bag in a loose knot.
“No, I only fill the bags halfway, so the eggs on the bottom don’t break from the weight,” she said, reaching for a second bag from the pantry shelf. “One on each side of my saddle, behind me. I could use the wagon and team, I suppose. In fact, I do, when I’m in need of bulkier supplies.”
She looked up at him. “The truth is, I enjoy riding my mare. I don’t usually have much of a schedule to keep. I’ve learned to appreciate the view, Max.”
“As I’m doing, even now,” he said, sliding a quick glance her way.
She laughed, deciding to appreciate his humor and the dry wit she’d almost forgotten he was capable of. “You were fun to be with,” she said, her thoughts making themselves known before her better sense prevailed.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I enjoyed your company, too. In fact, I was probably one of the proudest men in Boston when I escorted you from home.”
“Were you?” She heard the note of surprise she could not conceal.
“You didn’t realize how much of an asset you were to me?”
She thought about that for a moment, her hands slowing in the methodical task of egg wrapping and securing. A layer of straw came next, and she lifted it from the supply she’d sent him for, a washtub filled with the yellow, rough, scratchy residue from thrashing the wheat, donated for her use by the neighbor to the east.
“I don’t suppose I ever considered myself an asset to you, just a decoration for your arm, and a partner when you chose to dance with me.” And then she thought of the nights when their return from an evening in company usually ended with him visiting her bedroom. “Did I seem more appealing to you when I was dressed in my finest?”
“You’ve never been more appealing to me than you are at this very moment,” he said, his hands touching hers as they spread straw in the confined depths of the burlap sack. The straw fell to the bottom, covering the layer of eggs, and their fingers entwined, his gripping hers with a gentle strength she did not attempt to escape.
She was speechless, feeling pursued by a man intent on seduction, and yet willing to allow it. There was an inner sense of satisfaction that permitted him this moment of intimacy, as small as it might be.
For just this moment, she felt exceedingly feminine, wonderfully desirable and just a bit breathless as she knew the warmth of a man’s hands clasping hers, and recognized the desire gleaming in his eyes.
Chapter Four
“Didn’t know Miss Faith had a husband,” Mr. Metcalf said, lifting an eyebrow as Max introduced himself upon arrival at the general store.
“I’ve been back East,” Max told him. “Business has made it impossible for me to be a part of my wife’s life for the past little while,” he added casually, slanting a glance in Faith’s direction as he answered the storekeeper’s pointed remark.
Mr. Metcalf nodded, apparently swallowing the ambiguous theory for Max’s sudden appearance at Faith’s side this morning. She’d liked to have kicked Max in the shins for his arrogance, and then smacked Mr. Metcalf a good one for his gullible acceptance of the explanation.
Instead, she bit her tongue and decided to hustle Max from the place before he caused any more speculation among the townsfolk. It would be hard enough to explain away his disappearance once he gave up on her and headed back to Boston. There was no point in folks thinking he was going to be a permanent fixture in her life.
Tucking her precious newspaper beneath her arm, she approached the counter where Max waited. Her mail was generally pretty scanty, and today was no different, only the delivery of the Sunday issue of the Dallas paper. Subscribing was a luxury she could barely afford, but the news it offered fed her need to keep up with the world outside of Benning, Texas.
Max looked impatient now, and well he might, since Mr. Metcalf, apparently accepting his presence, was bending his ear with a tale about a customer who had refused to pay his long-standing bill. “Yessir, that fella just about fried my gizzard,” the storekeeper cackled. “I told him, in no uncertain terms, what he could do with—”
Max cut him off with an uplifted hand and an apologetic smile. “Here’s my wife now, sir. I’m sure she’s in a hurry to get back home, aren’t you, dear?”
Faith glanced at him, his term of endearment causing her to grit her teeth. She vacillated between rescuing him from the storekeeper and leaving him to stew. Rescue won, hands down, as she recalled other days when she’d been the victim of Mr. Metcalf’s droning monotone.
“Here’s my list,” she said quickly. “I left eight dozen eggs on the counter, Mr. Metcalf, in the crock where I usually put them.”
He glanced up at her and nodded, then took her list with a resigned sigh, turning to the shelves to search for the items she needed.
Max shot her a grin and leaned against the counter. “How do we go about choosing clothes for you?” he asked in an undertone.
“I look for Mrs. Metcalf,” Faith said quietly. “I think she must be in the back.” And as she spoke, that lady appeared through the curtain that divided the store from the stockroom.
“Good morning,” she