Free Love's Haven by Catherine Palmer Page B

know anybody who ever got in there but his best friend.”
    “Y’all, Pierre’s pitching a fit!” Ermaline Criddle called from the door. “He’s banging pots and flinging flour everywhere. He says he sent Rosa Maria down here half an hour ago to find out where the madame wants to eat her dinner.”
    Rosa Maria set her hands on her hips. “Ermaline, you tell that cook I said—”
    “Hey, now!” Ermaline cut in. “He needs to know. Mrs. B., where would you like your supper?”
    “It’s Mara, and I’ll…” She debated for a moment. The lounge would be closer to the baby, but she didn’t like the idea of eating in a pool hall. On the other hand, she didn’t want to encounter Brock more often than necessary. At the same time, she couldn’t deny she was curious about this man with the hidden heart.
    “Oh, eat in the dining room,” Rosa Maria said. “You can hear the baby on the intercom. Look, I’ll turn it on for you.”
    “Intercom?” Mara asked.
    “Go on, Ermaline. Tell the old buzzard to set his precious supper in the main dining room.”
    “But I’m not sure I—”
    It was too late. Ermaline had fled, and Rosa Maria was right behind her.
    “Just pray Pierre hasn’t cooked those snails,” she sang out as she vanished down the hall.
    Mara stared at the empty doorway. All of a sudden she felt tired. Todd was gone, and she was married to a man who had built himself a house with a bar. A man who rarely smiled, who constantly drove himself toward perfection, and who made even his closest companions nervous. She could hardly wait for dinner.
     
    Brock was checking his watch when Mara walked into the dining-room, her doughnut cushion in hand.
    “Supper’s at seven,” he informed her. “Unless we have an emergency, that’s when we eat.”
    He liked to keep things running like clockwork on the ranch. That way he knew what to expect, and when. After arriving from the hospital, he had spent time with his foreman and household staff making sure all was well. As expected, the place was shipshape.
    Brock had sent Rosa Maria down to the west wing to explain the dining routine to Mara. Neither woman had returned in time for dinner. Finally—with Pierre getting distraught—Brock had sent Ermaline to check on them.
    “Newborn babies don’t have schedules,” Mara reminded him as she set the cushion in the chair and eased onto it as if every part of her had been in pain. “I was feeding Abby.”
    “You nurse her whenever she cries?”
    “It’s called feeding on demand.” As she picked up her napkin, Mara’s face revealed such discomfort and exhaustion that Brock’s irritation faded immediately. But hers seemed to be in full swing.
    “You might recall I don’t have Todd or a mother of my own to help out,” she said in a flinty voice. “Babies aren’t into efficiency, Brock. They follow their instincts.”
    Brock studied his bowl as Ermaline poured a ladleful of soup into it. He hadn’t thought about Mara being lonely or needing help. Nor had he considered how often a baby might need to eat. In the hospital, the nurses had brought Abby into Mara’s room, but he had tried not to pay too much attention to the details. In fact, the process usually made him so uncomfortable he left.
    “Suppose she gets hungry in the middle of the night?” he asked.
    “I hear they usually do.” Mara unfolded her napkin into her lap as Ermaline approached with the soup. “Let me do that, Ermaline. You don’t need to wait on me.”
    “Oh, Mrs. B—”
    “It’s Mara.”
    “But we always serve—”
    “No, let me—”
    “It’s okay, Ermaline,” Brock said. “Set the tureen on the table.”
    With an anxious glance at Mara, the maid placed the soup dish beside the arrangement of fresh flowers. As Ermaline hurried toward the kitchen, Mara let out a breath.
    “I’m sorry,” she said to Brock. “I shouldn’t have snapped at her. I’m just not used to this.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “It’s all so