A Bride in the Bargain by Deeanne Gist Page A

be able to bed out here with the animals.
    He didn’t dare, though. It was going to be bad enough when the boys found out Anna had refused him and the only other alternative was to pledge himself to a woman in her sixties. The last thing he wanted was to add more fuel to the fire by hiding out in his own barn.
    Anna’s bag caught his attention. He’d dropped it by the barn door when he’d put the wagon away. Something inside had rattled. It didn’t sound like coins and, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be. The tapestry-covered bag was faded, worn, and light as a feather.
    He wanted to look inside. The woman was a stranger, after all. He knew nothing about her and the contents of the bag would tell him a lot.
    Lifting it again, he tested its weight, listened to the clinking, and ran his hand over the wide buckle. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That would be like her going into his bedroom and looking through his chest of drawers.
    He glanced up. If she did, she’d find half of them had been emptied for her—or his bride, that is. He quickly raised the latch on the barn door, slipped out, and jogged to the house.

C HAPTER
T EN
    Several things struck Joe at once. The kitchen abounded with light and warmth. Something smelled really, really good. And Anna was wearing one of his flannel shirts with his table linen wrapped around her body in an Indianlike fashion.
    She stood facing him, her back to the fire, her hands clasped in front of her. The dress she’d worn earlier along with her boots lay on the hearth drying.
    He glanced at the hem of her makeshift garment. Was she barefoot?
    “Where’d you get that shirt?” he asked.
    She fingered the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. “I . . . it . . .”
    His jaw slackened. “Did you go through my things?”
    Glancing in the direction of his room, she moistened her lips. “I was soaked to the skin and needed to rinse out my gown and my bag was still in the wagon and you were gone such a long time and I’d be of no use to you sick, so I . . .” She gave a little shrug.
    “And so you went through my drawers?”
    “Only two of them.”
    He felt his face begin to heat. There were only four drawers in all. Two were empty and two held all his belongings—including his personals.
    Avoiding his gaze, she scurried to the stove, her sarong thing restricting her stride. “I found some boiled beef in the milk room and made you some bubble and squeak, without the cabbage, of course.”
    Bubble and squeak?
    “Go ahead and wash up.” Grasping the towel he’d dried her face with earlier, she lifted a frying pan off the warming plate and brought it over to the table. The flowers had been moved aside and a place set for one. One. Not two.
    She shuffled around in her linen cloth, sliding some fat potato-cake sort of things onto his plate, then added fritters without sauce. She placed three pieces of toast she’d kept on the fender onto another plate, then disappeared into the milk room.
    She hesitated upon her return, a glass of milk in one hand and a bowl of some concoction in the other. “Go ahead.” She pointed toward the basin stand with her head. “Wash up. I’ve already poured the water for you.”
    “Lumberjacks do not eat bubble and squawk, whatever that is.”
    She frowned. “Squeak. And don’t be ridiculous. It’s all I could manage in such a short amount of time.” Lifting a brow, she injected a hint of challenge into her voice. “And if you’re a good boy and clean your plate, I’ll make you some pancakes.”
    He took a second look at the bowl in her hand. “You have pancake batter in there?”
    “I do. But only those who finish their bubble and squeak get some.”
    He tossed his hat onto a hook and strode to the basin. Reaching for his buttons, he froze. Normally he shucked his shirt and washed all over. But he couldn’t do that now. Not with her in the room. By the same token, he couldn’t go to the table