in a sopping wet shirt that now smelled like the barnyard.
He glanced over his shoulder. She faced the stove, her back to him, her entire body swaying as she whipped up the batter.
If she was making pancakes, there’d be no reason for her to turn around. Besides, they were going to be sharing the same kitchen for several months. He wasn’t about to haul water to his room every time they had a meal.
Taking one last look to ensure she was occupied, he made quick work of his buttons, peeled off his suspenders, yanked off his shirt, and tossed it by the stairs.
With a block of soap, he swished his hands in the water, then rubbed them on his arms, his chest, his armpits, and his neck. He lathered up again and scrubbed his face. Eyes closed, he splashed water everywhere he’d soaped, then reached blindly for the towel he knew was hanging on the rail of the stand.
Burying his face in the cloth, he hesitated a moment, enjoying its soft texture and the pure pleasure of being clean after the long journey home.
He sighed, finished drying, slung the towel over the rim of the bowl, and turned around.
Anna stood with mouth agape, a wooden spoon suspended in her hand. A fat drop of batter slid from the spoon onto the floor and landed with a soft plop . Her gaze moved from his face to his neck, to his shoulders, to his chest.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
His lungs quit working, making it impossible to draw a breath.
“You’re so . . . I’ve never . . .” She looked at him, her expression completely befuddled.
He jumped, as if he’d just heard the roaring crackle of wood fiber and the faller call “Timber-r-r-r!”
Crossing the room in several quick strides, he grabbed his shirt and a lantern, turned the corner, and jogged up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he propped his hands against the chest of drawers and hung his head, calling himself ten kinds of a fool.
I’ve never . . .
Never what? Seen a man wash up? Didn’t she say she had a brother? A brother old enough to fight in the war? He and his older brothers had washed up in front of their sisters all the time growing up. But Anna Ivey was not his sister.
He lifted his head and looked in the mirror attached to the dresser. Same thing he saw every day reflected back at him. Same thick neck. Same blond hair dotting his chest. Same flat stomach.
But when he tried to see himself through her eyes, he realized how huge he was compared to her. His arm alone was almost as big as her tiny little waist. What had he been thinking?
Shucking out of his wet trousers, he replaced them with another pair, then pulled on a fresh shirt. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t get the blasted buttons through the buttonholes.
He stopped and plopped down onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to live like a stranger in his own house. Hiding in his room when he wanted to wash up. Getting completely dressed just to visit the privy in the mornings. He’d probably even have to keep his sleeves rolled down while in her presence.
He took his time with his buttons, shoved the tail of his shirt into his trousers, then snapped his suspenders in place. All covered up again, every button buttoned. Civilized and proper—while she strolled around his kitchen wearing a tablecloth.
He took a deep breath. A whiff of pancakes reached his nose. At least he’d be eating good. But she’d best learn loggers wouldn’t—couldn’t—subsist on dishes called things like bubble and squeal.
He was huge. Huge . And he wore no undershirt. What kind of man went around without an undershirt?
Still, she could not dispel the image of him washing with such, such gusto. The byplay of muscles on his back as he scrubbed his arms was a work of art in motion. The way he chafed his chest as if it were a washboard so fascinated her, she could only stare. And the dark blond hair at the pits of his arms . . .
She bit her lip and slid a spatula under a pancake,
He glanced over his shoulder. She faced the stove, her back to him, her entire body swaying as she whipped up the batter.
If she was making pancakes, there’d be no reason for her to turn around. Besides, they were going to be sharing the same kitchen for several months. He wasn’t about to haul water to his room every time they had a meal.
Taking one last look to ensure she was occupied, he made quick work of his buttons, peeled off his suspenders, yanked off his shirt, and tossed it by the stairs.
With a block of soap, he swished his hands in the water, then rubbed them on his arms, his chest, his armpits, and his neck. He lathered up again and scrubbed his face. Eyes closed, he splashed water everywhere he’d soaped, then reached blindly for the towel he knew was hanging on the rail of the stand.
Burying his face in the cloth, he hesitated a moment, enjoying its soft texture and the pure pleasure of being clean after the long journey home.
He sighed, finished drying, slung the towel over the rim of the bowl, and turned around.
Anna stood with mouth agape, a wooden spoon suspended in her hand. A fat drop of batter slid from the spoon onto the floor and landed with a soft plop . Her gaze moved from his face to his neck, to his shoulders, to his chest.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
His lungs quit working, making it impossible to draw a breath.
“You’re so . . . I’ve never . . .” She looked at him, her expression completely befuddled.
He jumped, as if he’d just heard the roaring crackle of wood fiber and the faller call “Timber-r-r-r!”
Crossing the room in several quick strides, he grabbed his shirt and a lantern, turned the corner, and jogged up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he propped his hands against the chest of drawers and hung his head, calling himself ten kinds of a fool.
I’ve never . . .
Never what? Seen a man wash up? Didn’t she say she had a brother? A brother old enough to fight in the war? He and his older brothers had washed up in front of their sisters all the time growing up. But Anna Ivey was not his sister.
He lifted his head and looked in the mirror attached to the dresser. Same thing he saw every day reflected back at him. Same thick neck. Same blond hair dotting his chest. Same flat stomach.
But when he tried to see himself through her eyes, he realized how huge he was compared to her. His arm alone was almost as big as her tiny little waist. What had he been thinking?
Shucking out of his wet trousers, he replaced them with another pair, then pulled on a fresh shirt. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t get the blasted buttons through the buttonholes.
He stopped and plopped down onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to live like a stranger in his own house. Hiding in his room when he wanted to wash up. Getting completely dressed just to visit the privy in the mornings. He’d probably even have to keep his sleeves rolled down while in her presence.
He took his time with his buttons, shoved the tail of his shirt into his trousers, then snapped his suspenders in place. All covered up again, every button buttoned. Civilized and proper—while she strolled around his kitchen wearing a tablecloth.
He took a deep breath. A whiff of pancakes reached his nose. At least he’d be eating good. But she’d best learn loggers wouldn’t—couldn’t—subsist on dishes called things like bubble and squeal.
He was huge. Huge . And he wore no undershirt. What kind of man went around without an undershirt?
Still, she could not dispel the image of him washing with such, such gusto. The byplay of muscles on his back as he scrubbed his arms was a work of art in motion. The way he chafed his chest as if it were a washboard so fascinated her, she could only stare. And the dark blond hair at the pits of his arms . . .
She bit her lip and slid a spatula under a pancake,
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