The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.
Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”
Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.
His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.
What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”
“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”
“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”
“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.
It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll just have time to take a look at your hands before we eat.”
Snatching up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.
Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”
His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.
“Did I hurt you?” Jenny’s voice was troubled, and she blew softly against his hand. “There’s lint stuck to your blisters from the gloves I gave you.”
Her breath was fresh, her skin dewed with perspiration, and the scent of woman rose to his nostrils. He’d endured much at the hands of the prison guards, had watched as flesh peeled from his feet in layers, been kicked and abused without cause. All of that faded into oblivion as he sank into the sweet torture of Jenny’s gentle touch.
A soft cloth wiped carefully, cleansing his palm, then washing his hand both back and front. She dried the skin and then her fingers applied salve to the damaged flesh with feathered strokes. She murmured words beneath her breath, some of them scolding, more of them grateful, as she recounted the hours he’d spent in the hayfield. At last, the soft cloth was pressed tenderly against his oozing blisters and a wide strip of bandaging was wrapped around his hand.
He inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Her smile was teasing, her lips parted and, wonder of wonders, the woman was totally oblivious to his problem.
“You’re almost as bad as Marshall,” she said smugly. “I think all male creatures must be alike. They can cope with a broken nose easier than a blister.”
He gained his breath. “And how would you know about broken noses, Miss Jenny?” he asked. Then watched as she stripped his other glove off with care.
“Carl had a shovel fall from the barn wall once. It caught him right across the bridge of his nose, and he bled like a stuck pig.” Her hands repeated the cleaning process and he focused his thoughts on Carl’s bleeding nose.
“What did you do for him?” The salve covered his palm now and his gaze swept her profile, noting the freckles across her nose, the sweep of eyelashes against her cheek.
“It was a cold winter that year, and I made an ice pack from the horse trough.” Her hands stilled as she thought of that time, and a sad smile touched her full lips. “He wouldn’t let me pamper him.” Her eyes were bright as she blinked twice, then looked up at him.
I’d let you pamper me any day of the week. The woman was about as tempting as any female he’d ever met. No. More so, Shay decided as she rolled the remainder of her bandage, then pinned it carefully so that it would be tidy in the small box she held. Twists of paper, their contents marked with neatly printed labels filled one side. A cloth bag held an aromatic scent he could not place, though it seemed familiar. Probably herbs of one kind or another, he decided. A large tin of carbolic salve, a bottle of thick, creamy liquid and smaller bottles of camphorated oil and witch hazel made up the neat contents of her medical supplies.
“My mother used to have witch hazel,” he said. “She used it for all our bruises and cuts.” His mouth tightened, aware of Jenny’s interest, her eyes lighting at his words. Her hands paused, holding the roll of bandage suspended.
“Where did you live?”
It was a simple question, one he should have answered readily, and yet some need for anonymity clutched at his throat and he shook his head. “It’s not important.”
Her eyes dimmed, the light vanquished by his terse reply, and she bent to her task, swiftly tidying the box, then rising to replace it in the pantry. He watched, aware of the hurt he’d inflicted, and his jaw tightened. It was just as well. He was becoming too attracted to her. Attracted. What a pale word to describe the desire that even now continued to find expression beneath the covering of the oilcloth that draped across his lap.
“We’ll be eating in just a few minutes,” Jenny said brightly. “You’d might as well sit there. Isabelle is ready to dish up, I think.”
Murmuring agreeably, he glanced up to find Isabelle’s eyes fixed on his face. Her hands busy with the kettle she held, she glanced away, but not before he’d gotten the message her gimlet gaze sent flying in his direction. She was only too aware of his reaction to Jenny Pennington. And if looks could kill, Shay would be stretched out on the floor, waiting for burial.
Isabelle saw too much, Shay decided. Her next move would no doubt be to warn her friend against him. For all that she was a woman full grown, there was an air of innocence about Jenny that inspired a protective instinct in those surrounding her. Even the men in the field had watched him closely today when she’d offered the gloves for his use. Hell, he was halfway