Short Straw Bride by Dallas Schulze Page B

and Daniel had stirred themselves to clear out the worst of the mess, but he was suddenly conscious of the thick layers of dust on every surface, of floors that had seen neither broom nor scrub brush since the departure of the last housekeeper months before.
    “Daniel and I aren’t much for housework,” he muttered, using the edge of his boot to brush cigar ash under the sofa while Eleanor was looking around the parlor.
    “That’s all right. I know a great deal about cleaning house, including how to get ash out of a carpet.”
    She glanced at the place where the ash had been before lifting her eyes to his face. Luke thought he’d never seen anything half so appealing as the teasing smile in those big brown eyes. He grinned back, and some of the nervous tension seemed to leave her face.
    Luke showed her through the rest of the house but her impressions were sketchy at best. The place needed a thorough cleaning. It was obvious that it had been some time since it had known a woman’s care. She knew she should be paying more attention to the things he was showing her. After all, this was to be her home from now on. But her thoughts kept jumping to the night that lay ahead. Her wedding night.
    “Daniel has moved his gear out to the bunkhouse,” Luke said as he opened the door to one of the three bedrooms upstairs. “He figured we ought to have the house to ourselves for a while.”
    “He didn’t have to do that,” she protested, thinking that the last thing she wanted was to have the house—or her new husband—to herself. “This is his home.”
    “I think he’s figuring to move back in a few weeks. Since we didn’t take time for a trip or anything, maybe he figured this was the next best thing.”
    “Well, it’s very nice of him but not necessary,” Eleanor said briskly. For one wild moment she considered suggesting that they should drive back to town and tell Daniel as much, maybe bring him home with them.
    “This will be our room,” Luke said, pushing open the door at the end of the hall.
    Our room. Eleanor swallowed a lump in her throat the size of a melon and forced herself to the threshold of the room. Luke had carried her portmanteau upstairs with them, and he set it on the bed. One bed. One not terribly large bed. She swallowed again and dragged her eyes from that terrifying piece of furniture.
    This room, like all the others, showed signs of neglect. Dust covered every surface, the floor was in desperate need of a good coat of wax and the curtains needed washing. Certainly, there was more than enough work here to keep her busy.
    Her eyes drifted back to the bed and she couldn’t repress a nervous shiver. For a moment she wished quite desperately that Luke had hired her as a housekeeper rather than married her. Never mind that her uncle would have seen her tarred and feathered rather than let her become housekeeper to two bachelors. Never mind that Luke’s gray eyes had haunted her dreams from the moment they’dmet. And most especially never mind that she’d thought of little else but his kiss for the past two weeks. A kiss on her uncle’s front porch was one thing, sharing a bed was something else entirely.
    If Luke noticed that she didn’t allow more than the toe of her slipper to enter the room they were to share, he didn’t comment on it. Leaving the portmanteau on the bed, he came toward her, and Eleanor quickly backed out of the doorway, anxious to avoid accidentally touching him. Her knees were still a little wobbly from the feel of him carrying her across the threshold.
    Letty had thought to provide a light supper for the bridal couple, packing it in a wicker basket that had sat next to Eleanor’s feet on the way to Luke’s house—her house, she reminded herself as she picked at a plate of cold chicken and cold boiled potatoes dressed with Letty’s special dressing. She’d been too nervous to eat at breakfast, too stunned at finding herself actually married to eat at the wedding