his own ears. No, his little waif was a woman and an amazingly well-made one at that. The fact that she slept next door to him each night took on a completely new significance now as he forced himself to slink back to Polvo.
Chapter Five
When he went to the kitchen for a bite of food and a cool drink, Jim overheard Weevils grousing about his diminishing woodpile. He immediately seized the ax and set to chopping wood with a vengeance. Weevils stood agape, watching the boss, who had not performed such a boy's chore in years. For Godsake, what had come over him?
By the dinner hour, the boss was soaking his exhausted muscles in a tub of rapidly cooling water, wondering what he would do when he saw Charlee later. He could not banish the image of her diving into the water. What would he say to her? By the time he had finished bathing he was no nearer to an answer than before.
The bureau drawer stuck. Slamming his palm against the side of it, Slade was rewarded with the cracking of wood and splinters. The broken drawer opened and he extracted a shirt. By the time he had tweezed the oak fragments from his aching hand—already blistered from chopping wood without benefit of gloves—he was in a superb humor. Tripping over Hellfire at the bottom of the stairs was the last straw. The spiteful feline gave a yowl that would have softened Weevils’ biscuits and stalked off toward the kitchen. Slade swore virulently, pounded his sore fist against the newel post, and swore once more. It was shaping up to be a terrific evening.
Jim could not have said exactly how he expected Charlee to look at supper that night—changed in some indefinable way, although he was not certain how. When she entered the dining room, carrying a tray laden with fried squirrel, biscuits, and gravy, she looked the way she always had, right down to the patched breeches and Lee's voluminous old shirt. Her hair was back in its grotesque braided bun, with only a few damp tendrils escaping around her temple to evoke the water nymph she had been that afternoon. The same old Charlee. But to Slade she was now paradoxically different. The scrawny urchin's clothes hid a most disturbingly feminine physique. No one but Jim was aware of it, and that made him even more uncomfortable.
All through dinner Charlee could sense his brooding perusal. Damblasted moody sucker , she thought. At first, she supposed it had to do with the screech from Hellfire and Jim's resultant oaths of pain, but when Lee made a jesting reference to the enormous pile of firewood Jim had chopped that afternoon, Charlee knew something more than a collision with a tomcat had provoked Slade's black humor.
She was relieved when she could finally clear the table and leave the men to their tobacco and brandy. As she filled a big granite dishpan with warm water and lathered up the rough bar of wash soap, Charlee could still feel the heat of Slade's burning golden gaze. She felt flushed, and swore as she dropped a dish. With clumsy fingers she picked up the broken pieces and assured herself, “It's just the damblasted heat, that's all. Wish I could go for another swim right now. That'd cool me off.”
But the next few days cooled neither the tension between Charlee and Jim nor the weather. Both were blisteringly uncomfortable. One morning when she had asked Weevils if he'd miss her for an hour while she took a quick swim, Slade inexplicably caught his thumb in the mechanism of the rifle he was cleaning and nearly smashed the expensive piece extricating himself. If he was short with Weevils, Lee, and Asa, he was downright hostile to Charlee. One minute he would upbraid her for her use of profanity, the next he would cuss a blue streak himself. He would make a derogatory remark about her lack of personal hygiene, then yell at her for wasting time when she went to the pond for a swim.
Even
Chapter Five
When he went to the kitchen for a bite of food and a cool drink, Jim overheard Weevils grousing about his diminishing woodpile. He immediately seized the ax and set to chopping wood with a vengeance. Weevils stood agape, watching the boss, who had not performed such a boy's chore in years. For Godsake, what had come over him?
By the dinner hour, the boss was soaking his exhausted muscles in a tub of rapidly cooling water, wondering what he would do when he saw Charlee later. He could not banish the image of her diving into the water. What would he say to her? By the time he had finished bathing he was no nearer to an answer than before.
The bureau drawer stuck. Slamming his palm against the side of it, Slade was rewarded with the cracking of wood and splinters. The broken drawer opened and he extracted a shirt. By the time he had tweezed the oak fragments from his aching hand—already blistered from chopping wood without benefit of gloves—he was in a superb humor. Tripping over Hellfire at the bottom of the stairs was the last straw. The spiteful feline gave a yowl that would have softened Weevils’ biscuits and stalked off toward the kitchen. Slade swore virulently, pounded his sore fist against the newel post, and swore once more. It was shaping up to be a terrific evening.
Jim could not have said exactly how he expected Charlee to look at supper that night—changed in some indefinable way, although he was not certain how. When she entered the dining room, carrying a tray laden with fried squirrel, biscuits, and gravy, she looked the way she always had, right down to the patched breeches and Lee's voluminous old shirt. Her hair was back in its grotesque braided bun, with only a few damp tendrils escaping around her temple to evoke the water nymph she had been that afternoon. The same old Charlee. But to Slade she was now paradoxically different. The scrawny urchin's clothes hid a most disturbingly feminine physique. No one but Jim was aware of it, and that made him even more uncomfortable.
All through dinner Charlee could sense his brooding perusal. Damblasted moody sucker , she thought. At first, she supposed it had to do with the screech from Hellfire and Jim's resultant oaths of pain, but when Lee made a jesting reference to the enormous pile of firewood Jim had chopped that afternoon, Charlee knew something more than a collision with a tomcat had provoked Slade's black humor.
She was relieved when she could finally clear the table and leave the men to their tobacco and brandy. As she filled a big granite dishpan with warm water and lathered up the rough bar of wash soap, Charlee could still feel the heat of Slade's burning golden gaze. She felt flushed, and swore as she dropped a dish. With clumsy fingers she picked up the broken pieces and assured herself, “It's just the damblasted heat, that's all. Wish I could go for another swim right now. That'd cool me off.”
But the next few days cooled neither the tension between Charlee and Jim nor the weather. Both were blisteringly uncomfortable. One morning when she had asked Weevils if he'd miss her for an hour while she took a quick swim, Slade inexplicably caught his thumb in the mechanism of the rifle he was cleaning and nearly smashed the expensive piece extricating himself. If he was short with Weevils, Lee, and Asa, he was downright hostile to Charlee. One minute he would upbraid her for her use of profanity, the next he would cuss a blue streak himself. He would make a derogatory remark about her lack of personal hygiene, then yell at her for wasting time when she went to the pond for a swim.
Even
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