Free B000XUBEHA EBOK by Maggie Osborne

on the ear of her milk cow.
    It hadn’t rained since the night he arrived, so he filled the stock tanks from the creek. Decided he’d carry a couple of buckets up to her garden.
    That’s when he noticed the laundry flapping on the line. Halting, he narrowed his gaze on three of his muslin shirts, two pairs of trousers, and two sets of long johns. She’d even washed his socks.
    Angry, he set down the buckets and went to the house, entering the open door without rapping first. She was standing near the stove, whistling an old lullaby and ironing another of his shirts.
    “I didn’t give permission to wash and iron my things, and I don’t want you doing it.”
    Her lips had curved when she saw him, but the tentative smile faded quickly. “Why on earth not?”
    “It’s not right.”
    “It’s no trouble. I was doing wash anyway. Truly, I don’t mind.”
    “I mind.”
    She set down the iron and tilted her head, studying him with a puzzled expression. “It seems the least I can do is include your wash. Washing and ironing a few pieces doesn’t begin to balance out the work you’ve done, but it makes me feel like I’m giving something back.”
    God almighty. Turning, he stood in the doorway, scowling at the road. He understood what she was saying, and in a different situation he would have been pleased and grateful.
    Tell her, he ordered himself. Tell her right now that she’s standing in a hot kitchen ironing the shirts of the man who killed her husband.
    “Mr. Cameron?”
    “You weren’t reared to iron.” Her life had collapsed that day when Clarence Ward had rolled down the embankment. If it were true that Mr. Ward had protected his fortune, then Clarence would have come home to a changed life, but one of comfort. Della Ward sure as hell wouldn’t have been putting up a wash and sweating over an iron on a hot August day.
    “Is that what’s bothering you?” She made a sound midway between dismissal and a laugh. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Cameron.” He heard her place the iron on the stove top and pick up another that was hot. “I wasn’t reared to do much of anything useful. But I’ve learned there’s satisfaction in doing for myself. I like knowing how to cook and put up a wash. Most of the time, I like tending my garden and caring for my animals. It feels good to put my hands in a dishpan full of warm, sudsy water. At the end of the day, I like knowing that I kept body and soul together, and I did it myself.”
    When he turned around she wore a peculiar expression, as if she’d said things she hadn’t considered before.
    “I have to tell you something.”
    “I figured as much. It has to do with that unfinished business of yours, doesn’t it?” She arched an eyebrow, certain that she’d guessed correctly.
    Right now she was as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. The collar of her work dress was open and her skin was dewy from the heat, her throat and face were flushed. A few tendrils of rich brown hair floated around her cheeks. Her mouth was slightly open and he could see the tips of her teeth.
    He wished he could walk over to her, take the iron out of her hand, then pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. The image was so vivid that he could picture himself removing her faded dress and her shimmy and drawers. He could see her standing before him in a light sheen of summer sweat, her magnificent body trembling in anticipation of his touch.
    He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. Is this how he respected the man he’d killed? By lusting after the man’s wife? Cursing beneath his breath, he ran a hand across his eyes and down his face.
    He shouldn’t have come here. He should have posted the packet to Two Creeks. He could have told her the story of Clarence’s death in a letter.
    Could’ves and should’ves were a waste of time. Honor demanded that he face her, and here he was. So why in the hell couldn’t he speak the words? What difference did it make if