stood at the table in the kitchen Delaney had built for her, fists planted on either side of two flat rounds of sticky dough, struggling to swallow the tears clogging her throat.
“Stupid bread.” The dough had risen just fine the first time, but once she’d kneaded it down again and shaped it into loaves, nothing had happened. The dough lay there, sad and pathetic and absolutely un -risen, and now she was going to cry.
Swiping furiously at the wetness that had sneaked past her lashes, Moira glared down at the dough. She made bread all the time, delicious, soft, undemanding. The task of baking usually soothed her, the process of mixing the ingredients first thing in the morning allowing her mind to slowly come awake as the sun rose over the mountaintops. As she worked the dough into a ball and covered it with a cloth to let it rise, Delaney would come in from doing the chores—tending the cow, the horses, the chickens—and kiss the notch he’d put in her ear last autumn.
It was how this very morning had started, as a matter of fact, but today, the bread made her chest hurt.
The persistent ache in her chest and the wet tears causing her lashes to clump couldn’t be blamed on the bread. No, it was her fault she felt this way, and her fault she was failing her husband.
Or, more accurately, her body was.
Thinking of Delaney merely compounded her frustration, and she punched the recalcitrant dough with one flour-covered hand. He loved her, so deep and so hard that she felt that love wracking her chest every minute of every day, the essence of him embedded in her heartbeat. Her pulse thudded with him, a constant reminder that would never leave her be.
She wanted it that way, wanted to live with him inside her, but it was killing her. His love was wrecking her.
He didn’t know of her newest concern, of course. She had worked hard to keep her fears to herself, and he’d never once brought it up. Why would he? Men didn’t think about such things. Telling him she was unhappy would only hurt him, and she worried she’d already hurt her husband enough, even if he didn’t know it yet.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the back porch, approaching the kitchen door she’d propped open to keep the hot summer air from growing stagnant. Where once she would have tensed at the approach of a man, now she felt safe, secure within her home, her pistol—as always—hanging loaded on a hook near the door. After more than a year in Red Creek, these people had become her people, trusted far more than before the…the incident with Jacob Matthews. She often found townspeople on her porch, either to see the sheriff or the schoolteacher, and sometimes just to see Del and Moira themselves.
But she knew the cadence of these footfalls and looked up to see her husband—covered in sweat and grime—halted in the doorway. He removed his hat with a small, lopsided smile that made her heart stutter, beating away the ache nurtured by her failed baking. “Hey there, pretty lady.”
There was flour on her cheeks, her hands, her apron. Strands of hair stuck damply to her neck and temples, and she knew her face was flushed, splotchy pink beneath the abundance of freckles. Not to mention the eyes red-rimmed from thwarted tears. Pretty was pushing it.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she answered with a smile of her own. The dirty man in her doorway reminded her of the gunslinger she’d first met, and she felt a blush creep up her throat and burn the tips of her ears as she remembered their week of intense courtship. “Except in my kitchen, looking like that.” Brushing her hands on her apron, she sauntered over to stand in front of him, taking in his appearance. “Did you roll in the ashes after you finished evacuating Tucker’s farm?” She plucked at his shirtsleeve and made a tsk -ing sound.
“Are you saying I’m too dirty for you?”
That rough-and-tumble Southern drawl had an immediate effect, sensual
“Stupid bread.” The dough had risen just fine the first time, but once she’d kneaded it down again and shaped it into loaves, nothing had happened. The dough lay there, sad and pathetic and absolutely un -risen, and now she was going to cry.
Swiping furiously at the wetness that had sneaked past her lashes, Moira glared down at the dough. She made bread all the time, delicious, soft, undemanding. The task of baking usually soothed her, the process of mixing the ingredients first thing in the morning allowing her mind to slowly come awake as the sun rose over the mountaintops. As she worked the dough into a ball and covered it with a cloth to let it rise, Delaney would come in from doing the chores—tending the cow, the horses, the chickens—and kiss the notch he’d put in her ear last autumn.
It was how this very morning had started, as a matter of fact, but today, the bread made her chest hurt.
The persistent ache in her chest and the wet tears causing her lashes to clump couldn’t be blamed on the bread. No, it was her fault she felt this way, and her fault she was failing her husband.
Or, more accurately, her body was.
Thinking of Delaney merely compounded her frustration, and she punched the recalcitrant dough with one flour-covered hand. He loved her, so deep and so hard that she felt that love wracking her chest every minute of every day, the essence of him embedded in her heartbeat. Her pulse thudded with him, a constant reminder that would never leave her be.
She wanted it that way, wanted to live with him inside her, but it was killing her. His love was wrecking her.
He didn’t know of her newest concern, of course. She had worked hard to keep her fears to herself, and he’d never once brought it up. Why would he? Men didn’t think about such things. Telling him she was unhappy would only hurt him, and she worried she’d already hurt her husband enough, even if he didn’t know it yet.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the back porch, approaching the kitchen door she’d propped open to keep the hot summer air from growing stagnant. Where once she would have tensed at the approach of a man, now she felt safe, secure within her home, her pistol—as always—hanging loaded on a hook near the door. After more than a year in Red Creek, these people had become her people, trusted far more than before the…the incident with Jacob Matthews. She often found townspeople on her porch, either to see the sheriff or the schoolteacher, and sometimes just to see Del and Moira themselves.
But she knew the cadence of these footfalls and looked up to see her husband—covered in sweat and grime—halted in the doorway. He removed his hat with a small, lopsided smile that made her heart stutter, beating away the ache nurtured by her failed baking. “Hey there, pretty lady.”
There was flour on her cheeks, her hands, her apron. Strands of hair stuck damply to her neck and temples, and she knew her face was flushed, splotchy pink beneath the abundance of freckles. Not to mention the eyes red-rimmed from thwarted tears. Pretty was pushing it.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she answered with a smile of her own. The dirty man in her doorway reminded her of the gunslinger she’d first met, and she felt a blush creep up her throat and burn the tips of her ears as she remembered their week of intense courtship. “Except in my kitchen, looking like that.” Brushing her hands on her apron, she sauntered over to stand in front of him, taking in his appearance. “Did you roll in the ashes after you finished evacuating Tucker’s farm?” She plucked at his shirtsleeve and made a tsk -ing sound.
“Are you saying I’m too dirty for you?”
That rough-and-tumble Southern drawl had an immediate effect, sensual
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