Reluctant Montana Husband Page 4

  He spun, watching her as she moved into the house, and then following her, as she poured water into the glasses on the table. “You didn’t sound like a frog.”

  She made a scoffing noise but otherwise ignored his comment. “I’m still trying to learn to cook.” She bit her lip and looked up at him. “I worry what we’ll eat tomorrow.”

  “All will be well,” he said, although he wondered the same. He’d thought having a wife would make his life easier, but now it was even more complicated. He didn’t want to ask his sister—who already felt antagonistic toward Beatrice—to cook for them. Besides, Leena had her own family to care for. “Perhaps we will venture into town for supplies and have supper at the café.”

  She brightened at the idea, and he felt like a genius for having thought of it. As they sat for supper, he said a quick prayer, and then they passed the food around the table.

  “What did you do all day?” he asked, then looked confused, as she flushed and ducked her head.

  “I … I spent time here and saw your sister.” She shook her head as though there was little more to say about that. “And then I thought I’d sew a little.”

  “You like to sew?” He felt like a fool for knowing so little about her.

  “I’m proficient at it,” she said. “I had many chores, but I’m most known for sewing a straight and even line.” She tilted her head up with pride.

  “What was life for you like in New York City?” He frowned at the notion of her living in such a huge place. He’d passed through it on his journey here and had been thankful to spend little time there. He was a man meant to live in the country, away from too many people.

  He watched her intently and saw her sit up straight, with her shoulders back and her face pinched. He missed the open, happy joy she’d expressed on the back porch and wondered if he would only ever glimpse those moments, where she exposed her true self but only when she didn’t know he was watching. He hoped not. He hoped she would become more comfortable with him and would learn to relax in his presence.

  “Busy,” she finally said. “There was always much to do and not enough time in New York.” Meeting his inquisitive gaze, she smiled at him. “As I’m sure you understand. You run a business.”

  “Ja.” He chuckled and returned her smile, although he wished she’d trusted him with more than a one-word answer, like busy. “This reminds me of my life in Norway. We always had supper together as a family.”

  “I hope you are not disappointed with only me as company.”

  Reaching for her hand, he clasped it and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, Beatrice.” He paused. “I know it will take time for us to accustom ourselves, but I hope you will like your life with me.” He paused, feeling like a fool. He wanted her to so much more than like her life with him.

  “Of course.”

  Unwilling to continue a conversation neither were ready for, he cleared his throat, releasing her hand. He picked up his fork and played with his food. “Karl and I will be away later in the month, as we travel to the nearby mines to deliver wood.”

  “For how long?”

  He fought delight that she appeared dismayed, although he knew she couldn’t have more than a very mild affection for him. “A few days.” He shrugged.

  She frowned. “Is it far?”

  He shook his head. “No, just past town. It’s the last big order, before the winter storms will hit, and we are thankful for it.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Of course. I want us to always be open and honest with each other, Bee.” He sighed. “I wish you could come with us, but the camp is a little … wild, and I wouldn’t want to expose you to it.” He watched her stare at him, with a mixture of dread and understanding, and his hope that she was starting to care for him bloomed. Forcing a smile, he rose and carried his dish to the sink. “Come. Let me read to you.”

  She rose, mimicking his actions with her plate, and putting the leftover food in the icebox. “What will you read?”

  “Do you like mysteries?” he asked, with a wry smile. At her curious look, he held up his book. “I just received a novel about a detective in England, called Sherlock Holmes. Want me to read it aloud and see if we can figure it out?”

  She seemed unable to hide the fact that she was charmed by him, as a delighted smile emerged, and she nodded. Settling in the rocking chair, she pressed a hand over her skirts and picked up her knitting needles. At their gentle clacking, he flipped the pages back to the very beginning and began to read.

  Although he spent most nights reading to himself, or writing letters home, this was the first time he’d read aloud. He found it surprisingly relaxing, and he read slower than he thought he would, as he was constantly looking up to see her reaction. He loved how expressive her face was—showing delight, confusion, and a touch of annoyance, as the chapters progressed. She was the perfect audience.

  Finally he pulled out his bookmark and shut the novel. “I think that is enough for tonight.”

  “No!” she protested. “You must continue. We have to know what happens!” She flushed and ducked her head.

  “Bee,” he whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on her knee. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Bee.” At her quick shake of her head, he continued. “Please stop hiding from me.”

  “Hiding?” She made a face, like he was being foolish, but he stared at her implacably, and she flushed.

  “Yes, hiding. I enjoy seeing your true reactions. I like seeing you smile or scowl at the story. I’d hate to think I read aloud merely for my own amusement, ja?”

  She curled into herself and then nodded. “I know. I’m not used to being seen.” She took a deep breath and met his gaze, as though gathering all her courage. “Of wanting to be seen.”

  He leaned forward even more, his piercing blue eyes intent on her. “Who hurt you, Bee?”

  She let out a mirthless laugh. “Life hurt me, Nathanial.” She stared into his mesmerizing eyes, canting forward.

  For a moment, he had the wild idea of hauling her into his arms and kissing her, but he saw the trepidation in her gaze and knew he needed to earn her trust before attempting anything more. He needed to truly woo her. Smiling, he raised a hand and traced a finger down one cheek. “I promise I won’t hurt you, Bee.”

  When she smiled, and the happiness filled her beautiful whiskey-colored eyes with joy, he felt his chest constrict with an emotion he’d never felt before. All he knew was that he hoped he felt it every day with her.

  “Thank you, Nathanial.” She rose, slipping away from him and scurried up the stairs.

  For long minutes, Nathanial sat in his chair, listening to her soft movements in her bedroom, until everything in the house went silent again. Thinking about this evening, he realized she had been right to insist on time for them to learn about each other, before they deepened their relationship.

  With a pleased smiled, he relaxed into his chair and closed his eyes, as contentment filled him. Tonight had been perfect, and he couldn’t wait for more time with her.

  Chapter 4

  A few days later Nathanial worked at the sawmill, trying to ignore his fetching, complicated wife. She was a mystery to him, and he didn’t know if he’d ever understand her. One minute she wanted to talk with him and challenged him, as they discussed politics or the most recent novel he’d read her. Then the next minute she was demure and wouldn’t look him in the eye. He hated how she changed. He wanted the vibrant woman, not the woman who looked afraid of her own shadow.

  He set down his pencil, giving up tallying a row of numbers. He hated that she came back to herself, as though remembering he would hurt her for her opinions or for her passion for life.

  What had happened to her before she came to Bear Grass Springs? Why had she negotiated for three months before she’d be his wife in anything other than name only?

  Groaning, he leaned forward and held his head in his hands. Didn’t she feel this mad desire to be together too?

  Lifting his head, he rose and stretched, moving to the window. Although a cool day, he yanked open the window for a breath of fresh air, freezing when he smelled smoke.

  This wasn’t woodsmoke. This was different.

  “Bee,” he rasped, dashing from the sawmill office toward his home. He burst inside, gasping at the smoke filling his house. Leaving the door open, he wrenched open another window, his gaze frantically searching for his wife.

  “Bee!” he hollered, just as he saw her in front of the stove, waving her hand. “Bee,” he wheezed, lurching to a stop in front of her, battling a coughing fit.

  Tears streamed from her cheeks, and he raised his hands to swipe them away. “All is well. You’re well,” he murmured, tugging her to him, as a pan clattered at their feet. “Please tell me you’re well.”

  “I scorched our supper,” she wailed, her fists pounding into his back, before she attempted to push away from him.

  Instead of releasing her—as he would have done before this harrowing moment—he held on tight, wrapping his arms around her and burying his head in her loosened chignon. “No, let me hold you,” he whispered. “Let me reassure myself that you’re well.”

  He ran his hands up and down her back, feeling her shiver and shake in his arms. He breathed in her elusive scent, something floral mixed with soap, and resisted the urge to never let her go. The feel of her against him was like an aphrodisiac, and he wished he could hold her forever.

  “You’re heaven in my arms,” he whispered, his hold on her loosening, so his hands stroked over her back and the subtle curve of her upper hip with reverence.

  When she pushed against him, he released her but continued to gaze at her with desire and devotion. His knew his cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright with everything he felt, although he didn’t understand all the emotions roiling through him. All he understood was that the thought of her harmed had scared him to death. “Thank God you’re well.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, with a disgusted sigh, as her shoulders drooped. “Which is more than can be said about that chicken.” She looked at their feet and the charred remains of the chicken that was supposed to be their supper. “I must have had the stove too hot.”

  He fought laughing but lost the battle. “I’d say you did, darling.” His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, as he grabbed a cloth and picked up the still-warm pan. “Come. We can eat bread and cheese again.”

  “You need more than bread and cheese for your supper. You need a wife who can cook. Not a pathetic excuse—”

  Nathanial placed a finger over her lips, breaking off what she would have said. He shook his head, a severe look in his eyes. “No more of that, Bee.” He shook his head again, his stare even more severe when it looked like she would argue with him. “No. You are not pathetic. You are not lacking in any way as my wife.”

  Her eyes filled with tears when she saw the sincerity in his gaze. “How can you say that? I can’t do the most basic things a wife does.” When he swiped away one of her tears, she instinctively moved into his touch and closed her eyes at the gentleness of his caress.

  “One day,” he said in a soft voice, as he bent forward to rest his forehead against hers. “One day, you will understand you are all I desire. You have made my house a home, and I will be forever thankful for that.”

  He eased away and met her shocked gaze. “I have no doubt you will learn to cook. You will learn to do what you deem a wife should do. But I will never wish you to be anything other than you are, Beatrice.” He nodded when she gaped at him, as though he were speaking in another tongue. “All I ask is that you are always truthful, loyal, and kind.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. “Always.”

  He smiled, his fingers caressing her cheek again. “And I promise you the same.” He stared into her eyes, lost in the ever-changing shades of brown, mesmerized by all he saw and all she didn’t say.

  When she stood on her toes, pressing her lips against his in a fleeting, chaste kiss, he groaned, wrapping his arms around her waist again. When she backed away, as though shocked at her impetuous actions, he groaned. “No,” shaking his head, and chased her mouth, pressing his mouth against hers. The kiss was slow, soft, reverent, and everything he’d dreamed it would be.

  One hand stroked her back, while the other dug into her hair, dislodging pins. Neither heard them ping onto the floor, as they were lost in the deepening kiss. Finally he broke the kiss, his breath heaving, and nibbled his way down her long, elegant throat.

  “That was …” She gasped, as he nipped at her pulse point.

  “Heaven,” he murmured. When she wiggled, he opened his arms and backed up a step, letting her go with a great reluctance. “The best way to reassure me that you were well,” he teased, his blue eyes lit with a tender mischief. When she flushed and ducked her head, he sighed.

  He’d hoped to ease her of her shyness and her concerns, and now he feared he’d only multiplied it. Turning toward the blackened chicken, he tossed it in the garbage pail and set the pan to soak. He needed to do something to take his mind off what had just occurred and the fact all he wanted to do was kiss her senseless again. To hold her in his arms again. He released a deep sigh and focused on the reason he’d come running to the house. “The stove is on. Let’s have fried bread with our cheese.”

  When she grinned at him and seemed at ease, he felt like he’d slayed a dragon. In that moment, he knew there was little he wouldn’t do to see her smile.

  Their life followed a similar pattern for the next few weeks. Beatrice attempted to learn how to use the stove but had more failures than successes. Nathanial never showed his frustration, although Beatrice knew he must be annoyed with her inability to perform such a basic task.

  She was frustrated with herself, but she didn’t know what to do. Leena continued to avoid her, yet Beatrice knew Nathanial visited his sister a few evenings a week, before coming home from the sawmill. Beatrice never begrudged him his time with his sister, but Beatrice wished she could find a way to forge a relationship with her sister-in-law. However, the next overture would have to come from Leena.

  Beatrice sat on the back step, thinking about Nathanial. He was kind, funny, and charming. His patience astonished her, and he never made her feel like he was upset because she hadn’t made any further moves to change their relationship.

  Her mind frequently returned to the afternoon he’d burst inside, when she had charred the chicken. Too often she realized she was tracing her lips, imagining kissing him again. She’d never realized a kiss could be so … sweet.

  Pushing aside her memory of the other kisses she’d had in her life—hard, demeaning—she focused on Nathanial’s. He had held her with a reverence she’d never dreamed of. As though she were truly precious to him. Closing her eyes, she remembered being in his arms after he burst into the house, when he was scared for her safety, and how he’d shook with the aftereffects of fear.

  Never had anyone cared for her in such a way.

  With a sigh, Beatrice set her sewing on her lap, and she contemplated a life with Nathanial. It would be a life filled with joy, laughter, and stories. Every evening, along with reading to her, he never failed to tell her a different tale about growing up in Norway in his tight-knit family. Or about an adventure he’d had with Karl or another friend as a boy. She knew he yearned for her to share similar tales with him, but she had no desire to sully their time together by talking about life in the tenements of New York City.

  Looking at the hills in the distance, Beatrice took a deep breath of the fresh air, reminding herself that she had escaped that life. That she was safe here.

  Unclenching her fingers, she acknowledged her fear that Nathanial wouldn’t truly want her if he knew about her past. He wanted a woman with strong family ties. A woman who understood family and the bonds that linked generations together. What would he do when he realized she was not that woman?

  Chapter 5

  Toward the end of September, Nathanial waved at the wagon heading toward the ranch, as Ewan and Jessamine trundled by the sawmill. Ewan slowed the wagon, grinning at Nathanial. “Won’t you stop for coffee?” Nathanial asked, as he raised a hand to his brow to block out the bright afternoon sun.

  “Nae. We had a late-enough start with this wee one,” Ewan said, as he tickled Aileana’s feet. “She did no’ want to cooperate this mornin’.” He smiled at his daughter as she giggled. “Perhaps on the way back.”

  Nathanial saw him share a look with his wife and wondered what it would be like to communicate with Beatrice without speaking. Nathanial hoped they would have the chance to do that someday.

  “Why do ye no’ come to the ranch for a few days? Ye ken it’s big enough an’ ’twould be good for your wife to meet Sorcha, Davina, and Charlotte.” Ewan smiled affably, after making that offer.

  “Ewan’s right,” Jessamine added. “Sorcha’s written me a few times about how upset she is that she missed your wedding—”

  “She loves a weddin’,” Ewan muttered.

  “—and I know she’d be overjoyed if you visited. Please say you’ll come. We’ll have another celebration for you there. For your almost one-month anniversary.” Jessamine’s eyes glowed with delight at the plan.

  Nathanial considered the offer and then nodded. “Ja, that would be nice. I just got back from delivering the wood to the mining camp, and we deserve a little time together.” He grinned at his friends, who smiled knowingly at him. “Tomorrow we’ll come.” He grinned at Jessamine. “Don’t pressure my wife for a story.”

  Jessamine gave a feigned look of affront, before bursting into laughter.

  Ewan whooped with delight, before easing the horses into motion. “I’ll make sure the small cabin is ready for ye!” he called out over his shoulder, as they drove off.

  Nathanial waved at his friends, excited to go to the Tompkins ranch, but also wondering what Beatrice would say, especially when she realized they would be sharing one room. He had no desire to divulge anything about the agreement they’d signed before their marriage, so he knew they’d only have the one room.