Free A Tailor-Made Bride by Karen Witemeyer

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    “Offered to pay my boy a dollar a week to keep her woodbox full. Said she didn’t need much, cookin’ for just herself, and she’ll gather her own kindlin’ during her daily constitutional , whatever that is.” Louisa crossed her arms over her chest and braced her legs as if preparing for a fight. “I know I ought to’ve checked with you first, seeing as how you’re the one that chops it all, but I accepted her terms, and I don’t aim to go back on the agreement.”
    J.T. reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a toothpick. He took his time moving it to his mouth, and only after it was clamped securely between his molars did he address the widow James, hoping she’d relaxed a bit in the interim.
    “I reckon you can do whatever you want with it, Louisa. It’s your wood, bought and paid for every time Daniel mucks out a stall at the livery. I pay Tom a wage for the same work.”
    “The boy’s only ten. He works twice as long to do half the work Tom does, and you know it.”
    “Maybe. But he does the work I ask him to. I don’t hold with slavery, ma’am, so if you don’t consider my chopping wood for you once a month true payment, I guess I can leave off the wood and start paying the boy in cash money. Which do you prefer?” He switched the toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth and angled a hard look at her.
    “You know I ain’t got time to chop the wood myself, and the last thing I need is for Danny to try to take over the job and chop his foot off.” He watched pride battle with practicality as she gazed at young Daniel dragging large logs over to the chopping stump. J.T. had only asked Daniel to work at the livery so he’d have an excuse to keep her in wood, and Louisa was too smart not to know that. But with all the water she heated for washing and the stove that had to be kept hot all day for the ironing, she ran through her fuel supply faster than she could replenish it.
    Practicality won out, but pride put in a fair showing.
    “Well, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t offended or nothing. I knew we owned the wood all right and proper.” She sniffed and, with a twirl of her faded skirts, returned to her work inside the house.
    Lord, save me from proud, stubborn women . They seemed to be swarming him lately.
    Thankful to be left alone with the only male in the general vicinity, J.T. ducked under a row of clothes still drying on the line and joined Daniel. The kid was a quiet one, which suited J.T. just fine. After tousling the boy’s hair and thumping him on the back, he picked up the ax and started swinging. The two worked side by side—J.T. split the logs; Daniel arranged them on the pile. Simple. No ruffled feathers, no pecking accusations, just a couple of men working together without a lot of gab.
    Unfortunately, all he managed to think about while he worked were the ruffled feathers and pecking accusations from one hen in particular. Miss Hannah Richards.
    J.T. slammed the ax blade into the log below him with a crack that failed to banish the picture of her from his mind.
    He swung again, and the log spit unevenly. J.T. scowled.
    Now that he’d had time to think on the matter, he realized her protests didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t been hinting for him to come help her. She probably just didn’t want to admit it. After all, most women didn’t know one end of a screwdriver from the other, and she looked pretty beat from her day of cleaning. She’d be too tired to lift those boards high enough to place shelves. He still needed to take care of some business at the bank, but afterward he could stop by her shop to save himself from having to deal with her on the morrow.
    An hour and a half later, after he’d split all the logs in the yard, J.T. washed up at the pump, shook hands with the little man who had helped him, and headed for the bank. Louisa might not willingly accept charity, but J.T. had a plan to get around that. She couldn’t refuse his help if