Free Big Sky Rancher by Carolyn Davidson

bread.
    â€œNo,” she said. “I can do it.” And then she closed her eyes and lowered her head, whispering a quick word of blessing on the food, feeling more thankful today than she had yesterday.
    â€œDid you bless mine, too?” he asked, and she thought she detected more than a smidgen of mockery in his words.
    â€œYes, much as I was hoping you’d choke on it, I still asked for it to be consecrated on its way down your gullet.”
    He laughed, a genuine, rich, rolling sound that pleased her. She’d given him a moment of pleasure, and found that fact to be more palatable than the meal facing her.
    â€œYou’re a real piece of work, Jennifer,” he said as he settled back in his chair and gave her a thorough, unsettling glimpse of his interest in her person. His gaze skimmed her robe, seeming to peel away the fabric from her body, and she felt the heat of her own response.
    Then he picked up his fork and set to with gusto, cleaning his plate in moments, wiping up the remnants of egg yolk with his bread. He’d done a credible job of slicing it, she noted, much better than she’d done yesterday.
    He stood, gathered up his plate and utensils and placed them in the dishpan. “Don’t bother trying to wash these,” he told her. “I’m going to hitch the team. I’ll be back in no time and maybe you’ll have some help.” He halted by the door. “If I can’t talk Ida Bronson into coming back with me, I’ll do the dishes myself.”
    â€œMrs. Bronson?” she parroted. “The lady who served as witness?”
    â€œYeah,” he said, stuffing his hat atop his head. “She’s a widow lady who hires out to help sometimes when one of the ladies has a baby or needs a hand around the house.”
    And if anyone ever needed a hand around the house, it was the newly wed Mrs. Lucas O’Reilly. At least that was the message his eyes telegraphed in her direction before he headed out the back door.
    Â 
    C ONTRARY TO HIS DOUBTS , he’d been successful in his quest. Mrs. Bronson was pleased, it seemed, to earn a bit of money for her efforts. She seemed shaken when Lucas told her of Jennifer’s burns and without a moment’s hesitation packed a small bag, tucking in a jar of some sort of salve, before she put herself at his disposal.
    Now the lady stood in the middle of his kitchen and took a quick survey. “I’d say your poor little missus needs more than just a hand at this,” she said, directing a dark look at Lucas. “I doubt those windows have been washed in a month of Sundays, nor the floor, either, come to think of it.” She went to the sink, where Jennifer had obviously done her best to wash up the breakfast dishes and had left them to dry on the sink board.
    â€œYou’ve even made the poor girl do dishes, burned hand and all.”
    â€œI told her not to touch them,” he said, his defenses up.
    Her reply was a loud humph and Lucas was tempted to laugh out loud at the sound. The lady obviously didn’t believe a word he said, but so long as she pitched in and gave Jennifer a hand, he didn’t care one lick about her opinion of him. He’d thought on occasion that being the mayor of this town didn’t guarantee a whole lot of respect from some of the folk here, and Ida Bronson seemed not to be any exception.
    â€œWhere’s that little girl?” Mrs. Bronson asked, eyeing the pantry door as if he might have hidden his bride in the depths of that narrow space.
    â€œProbably gone back upstairs,” Lucas ventured. “I’ll go take a look.”
    He left the widow lady in his kitchen and climbed the stairs. Jennifer was, indeed, in their bedroom, half-clothed, intent on donning her petticoat. Somehow she’d managed to put her vest and drawers in place, and even a blind man could make out the assortment of curves beneath those two pieces of apparel.
    Lucas was