As if he could see within her, his gaze narrowed and his dark eyes glowed. She felt a twinge of uneasiness, wondering at his thoughts. And then he answered her unspoken question before it could be asked.
“We’ll work it out, you and me,” he said softly, his eyes warm on her face.
“I told you, Mr. McAllister, I don’t know if I’m ready for what you want.”
“Well, the first thing you might do to prepare yourself is forget the Mr. McAllister thing and remember that my name is Cade. After all, I’m the lucky man you’re going to be living with, one way or another.”
She looked up at him and her smile was quick, deepening the dimples that dented her cheeks. “You’ve got a slick way of putting things, McAllister, quite a line of blarney. It sounds to me like you’ve got things all arranged in your mind.”
He chuckled at her words. “Blarney, is it? You’re sounding like a colleen from the old country, Glory.”
She cast him a flirting glance. “I suspect I come by it honestly, Cade. My father came over on a boat from Ireland, met my mother in New York, who was fresh from England herself, and married her. I suppose I picked up a bit of his way of talking. I catch myself once in a while thinking in my mind, using his words.”
“I thought as much. There’s just a hint of Irish in your speech, not a lot, but enough to tease me as I listen. And your eyes are like the black Irish. They go with your dark hair.”
“My father was dark haired and blue eyed. I suppose I take after him, for my mother was fair.”
He hesitated for a moment and then pursued the point. “Would I be out of line if I asked about your parents? Are they still alive or have you lost them?”
“I know where they are, for all the good it does me. I helped bury them both along the trail near Wichita when a good many on the wagon train sickened with diptheria. So many died in those few days. When my mother sickened, she sent me to a neighboring wagon and I wasn’t allowed near my parents again. After they died, the wagon was burned and everything in it, and my parents were buried, along with a dozen or so others who didn’t make it.”
She spoke in a low voice, the words almost cold, as if she’d placed them so far back in her memory they were in a box named the past.
“You’re all alone in the world, then,” he asked quietly. “No brothers or sisters?”
“No, there was only ever me. Mama didn’t have any more babies. But I’m not alone in the world. I have Buddy and Essie. They’re my family. Harvey Clark gave them to me the day I moved into his house. They’re mine like a small sister and brother would be, almost my own kin.”
“You’ve done a fine job raising them, Glory. Buddy is a strong boy, seems honest and upright. And Essie is a real sweetheart.”
“She’s a good girl, is what she is. And Buddy will own this place when he’s grown and he’ll farm it like his daddy. And Essie will learn to wash clothes and tend to women’s work. Like scrubbing out a load of clothes before breakfast.”
She left the kitchen then, stepping off the porch, bypassing the farm wagon parked near the house, to where a wash basket sat beneath clotheslines.
She reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a pair of denim pants. Glory snapped them in the air and hung them by the back of the waist, leaving the wind room to blow the legs dry. Three more pair of trousers followed, two of Buddy’s and another worn pair, probably left from the children’s father. Several shirts followed them onto the line and then Glory lifted the empty basket and placed it on the porch.
She bent to pick up the long pole that would prop the line high, catching the rope between the two nails on top, then standing it upright to allow the breeze access to the clothes that began to billow at the wind’s bidding.
She looked up at the line, satisfied with her early morning’s work. Tomorrow she would strip the sheets from the beds. Or perhaps the next day, depending on the weather. If it should rain, she would bake bread and churn butter, sweep the parlor and tidy up the bedrooms a bit.
Being settled in a place she could call home was a fine thing, she’d decided three years ago when she’d first come here to live. No one kept an eye on what she did, so she’d done what she pleased, and Harvey Clark had kept his peace, satisfied with the clean house and well-cooked food on his table.
This Cade McAllister looked to be a different kettle of fish. And yet, she felt a bit warmed by his wanting to look out for her. She prided herself on her ability to tend to things on her own, but maybe it would be nice to have someone around who might seek her comfort once in a while. Harvey had been a good man, but they’d lived in two separate worlds, him in the fields and the outbuildings, her in the house and garden. He’d expected her to hold up her end of the bargain they’d struck that first day, and she had done her best.
Cade spoke then. “I was thinking, if there were a fence around the pasture, it would eliminate a lot of hassle, what with staking the animals,” he suggested.
“Harvey said he wanted to put up a fence, but he was saving up for it,” Glory answered, looking up from the table where she sat, writing sums, a schoolbook in hand.
“Maybe we could do it now, get the fencing from the lumberyard and enough posts to do the job.”
“I haven’t the money for it,” Glory said defensively.
“I have. And I don’t mind doing the work. It’ll be better in the long run if the animals are free to graze the whole pasture.”
“I’d rather you didn’t put a lot of money into the place until we decide …” Her voice trailed off as Glory looked beseechingly at Cade.
He smiled, a look of understanding etching his features. “We’ll talk later, then. And in the meantime, I’ll take a look at what’s out there.” She nodded her agreement.
Cade left the kitchen, stepping down from the porch, ducking to avoid the clothesline as he headed for the barn. In mere moments he’d gone out the back door and come back into view, walking along the fence line of the corral, a hammer hanging from his belt, a sack of what looked to be nails in his hand. He was checking out the wire to see if it was loosened anywhere, she suspected. One look at Cade McAllister and she’d have sworn he wasn’t a farmer, yet there he was out walking the fence line and tending to the stock.
And she was lollygagging around paying mind to him instead of the work that awaited her in the house. She put away the schoolwork she was planning for Essie later on, folding the paper neatly and setting it aside.
She carried her empty basket to the clothesline, her mind busy with thinking of the dinner she was expected to have on the table at noontime. Taking the clothes from the line, she folded them loosely as she went, shaking out wrinkles and smoothing the fabric as she bent over the basket. A bit of care now made the ironing easier, she’d found. And the overalls would do as they were, only the shirts needing the touch of an iron.
The children were waiting for her, their chairs pulled up to the kitchen table, their books and papers neatly sorted. Essie was busy writing on her chalkboard. Buddy’s nose was in a book, for he craved reading.
“I wrote a page of numbers for you to work on, Essie,” she told the girl.
Essie grinned up at her. “I’m about done with them already,” the child answered, finishing up a number nine with a flourish. “I added those you wrote down and did a whole line of take-aways on the bottom, just like you said I should yesterday.”
Glory had a habit of writing out Essie’s numbers to be added and subtracted every day right after breakfast and left them for Essie to