LITMIR.BIZ

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Chapter Four

      Rachel caught her breath with a shuddering gasp, her words barely a whisper. “My name is Rachel Sinclair.” She swayed where she sat, expecting to be shunted from her perch momentarily.

      The rolling chair backed a few inches and thumped again against the padded seat, jarring her. Her hand grasped for purchase and she caught her balance, her long, slender fingers clutching at the arm of the chair.

      Horror-stricken, her eyes fastened on the man before her and she flinched as he plucked her fingers from his chair, dropping them from his grasp with contempt. He brushed his palm against his patchwork lap robe and her gaze was drawn to the gesture.

      Long, elegant fingers, pale with winter’s flesh, wiped her warmth from his skin. It was an insult she could not ignore.

      “I beg your pardon. I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing anyone with my playing, sir.” Pleased at the even tenor of her words, she lifted her chin to face the disheveled intruder.

      Beneath lowered brows, his gaze was fierce, his voice rasping. “Who gave you leave to be in here? This piano is not to be touched. Not by anyone.”

      Rachel lowered her leg to the floor and slid from the bench, easing beyond the end of the keyboard. Retreat seemed to be in order. “Mr. McPherson didn’t say…I’m afraid I’ve overstepped, sir.”

      The doorway looming over his shoulder was wide and inviting. Rachel eyed it, wondering if he would attempt to stop her should she scamper past him. His agility in the chair he’d maneuvered so easily gave her pause as she considered.

      “What are you doing in this house?” His query was forced between taut lips, his flaring nostrils adding to an air of fury that was punctuated by the spacing of his words.

      “I’m the new cook,” she managed. “Mr. McPherson hired me to do the laundry and fix meals.”

      And if Cord McPherson knew what was good for him, he’d have a dandy explanation for this little episode.

      The intruder’s snort of derision was accompanied by the spinning of wheels as he turned his chair about and headed for the double doors of the parlor. “Out of my way, Sam,” he directed, rolling past the bewhiskered man who watched from the hall. “Cord’s brought home a play toy.” His glance back in her direction was mocking. “Take a gander.”

      Rachel’s cheeks burned at the slur as she lifted one hand to cover her mouth, lest she let loose the response that burned to be spoken. How dare he? To insinuate such a thing was reprehensible, a grievous smear against her honor.

      “Sorry, ma’am.” Sam Bostwick’s head bobbed as he tendered his apologies. “Jake’s been out of sorts for a couple of days now.”

      “That’s Mr. McPherson’s brother?” Her eyes widened at Sam’s nod. “I thought…” She shook her head. What had she thought? Perhaps that the elusive brother was an invalid?

      And apparently he was. But a more hateful man she’d never met. Her back stiffened as she considered the words he had flung at her.

      He’d called her Cord’s play toy. She, who’d been a churchgoing woman all of her life, who had been above reproach in all things, had today been referred to as a man’s…Her mind could not even form the thought

      Surely she could no longer stay in this house, not when her reputation was in danger of being dragged through the mud of scandal.

      “Ma’am, I’m sure sorry Jake took on thataway,” Sam said quietly, his sad eyes fastened on Rachel’s countenance. “I knew Cord shoulda told you about him last night at the supper table. But, honest to God, Mr. Jake’s not usually so downright mean.”

      Rachel brushed her hand against Sam’s sleeve. “He just wasn’t what I expected, Mr. Bostwick.” She edged past him, heading for the kitchen.

      “Damnation! Just when we got ourselves a decent cook, things gotta blow around here.” Disgust was in Sam’s voice as he watched the young woman’s hurried escape. Behind him doors slammed, and the sound of breaking glass caused him to wince as he turned to trudge reluctantly back to the rear of the house.

      

      Rachel was primed to blow. Her eyes met Cord’s as he walked through the kitchen door, and a sense of dread slowed his steps. Quickly, he scanned the kitchen, breathing easier when he caught the aroma ascending from the steaming kettle on the stove and noted the platter of biscuits in the center of the table.

      A crock of butter and a bowl of jam nudged the plate, and he set his jaw as he considered the young woman who was noisily scattering silverware and plates down the length of the bare table.

      “Smells good, Rachel. Want me to call the men in for dinner?” That they were already washing up at the pump was obvious, their raucous joking audible through the kitchen window. Rachel ignored his offer, turning to the stove to fill thick crockery bowls with beef stew.

      “Heard tell you had a fuss in the parlor this morning.” Cord was beside her as he spoke, his big hands taking the bowls as she filled them, setting them in place on the table.

      She cast him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t tell me your brother was a madman, Mr. McPherson.”

      His face reddened at her choice of words, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. “I don’t know as I’d call him mad, Rachel. That’s a pretty strong statement.”

      She handed him the last bowl. Her look was direct, her face flushed with remembered embarrassment. “You weren’t there.”

      He cleared his throat. “Sam told me what happened. Seems Jake took offense at you playing the piano.”

      “Your brother insinuated you had brought me here for your—”

      “I heard about that,” Cord cut in quickly. “I’ll set him straight.”

      “You could have told me about him. You could have warned me not to infringe on his territory. And you could have let me know about his vile temper.”

      Cord’s shrug acknowledged her accusations, his nod accepting blame. “I wanted you to see the house and give you a chance to look things over first. I thought knowing about Jake would put you off. Putting up with his moods is enough to discourage a saint.”

      “And I ain’t anywheres near a saint,” grumbled Sam Bostwick from the kitchen doorway. “I’ve about had it with that brother of yours, Cord. If I hadn’t known the man before the war, I swear I’d never spend another minute takin’ his guff.”

      “He calmed down yet, Sam?” Cord asked.

      “Yeah. But he sure was a sight to behold, goin’ after this young’un. It’s a wonder she didn’t hightail it outta here.”

      “Would you like to take him some dinner?” Her innate sense of courtesy nudged Rachel into making the offer as she filled another bowl with stew.

      “Thank you, ma’am,” Sam said, taking a wooden tray from atop the cabinet near the stove. Scooping up silverware from the table, he piled several biscuits on a plate, dolloping jam and butter on the side.

      “I’ll be back out here to eat with y’all presently,” he said, carrying his laden tray from the kitchen.

      “Doesn’t your brother ever eat at the table?” Rachel asked.

      “Once in a while. Not often.”

      She glanced at Cord, her ear attuned to the bleak response. “Is he always so fierce?”

      His grunt of laughter was without humor. “That’s a good word for him. Fierce. Maybe bitter would describe him more accurately. He hasn’t found much to laugh about in the past years.”

      Not like this bunch coming in the door, Rachel thought, an unbidden smile twisting her lips

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