on a chicken house, of all things. On the privy, too, he noted. He’d save a gallon or so of water for that one as well.
Rinsing was easier. And cooler. He pumped fresh water into the tub, and after he’d kicked dirt over his coals and wrung out all the rinsed garments, he scouted for a clothesline hook. On his circuit around the yard he glimpsed a blur of blue through the kitchen window.
She wore another one of her husband’s shirts, a plain blue chambray. Most women would look dowdy in such a getup, but even though the shoulder seams drooped off her slim form and she’d rolled the sleeves up to her elbows, the oversize garment made her look female as hell. He’d bet she didn’t know that. Or maybe she didn’t care what she looked like.
Jess halted. He’d never met a woman who didn’t care about her appearance. Was saving this farm for her scoundrel of a husband more important to her than how she felt as a woman?
The thought nagged at the back of his brain until he found the clothesline loop at the side of the house and ran a rope to the pepper tree some yards away. He lugged over the tub of clean, wet clothes and began to drape the garments over the line.
First her lace-trimmed underdrawers. Carefully he shook the wrinkles from the garment and then, unable to suppress the urge, he stood looking at it. The warm breeze caught the underside and belled the drawers out. The leg he’d had to slit flapped in the current of air; maybe she could mend it on the treadle sewing machine he’d seen in her parlor.
He ran one finger down the seam. It was all that lacy edging that fascinated him. She sure as hell cared what she wore underneath her sturdy work skirt and Dan’s old shirt. On impulse, he brought the soft white fabric to his nose and inhaled. Beneath the clean smell of laundry soap floated a faint flowery scent. He breathed in again, deeper, and almost choked at the sound of her voice.
“Clothespins,” she said. She thrust a striped denim drawstring sack at him and shook it once so it rattled. The sound reminded him of the collection of chicken wishbones he’d treasured as a boy. Funny thing to treasure, maybe, but knowing he had a chance for even one of his wishes to come true had kept him going. Jess wished he had one of those wishbones now, just for luck.
With an effort he jerked his thoughts back to the laundry. “Thanks.”
She stood looking at him, dropped her gaze to the underdrawers in his hand and then perused the line he’d rigged.
“I should be thanking you, Mr. Flint. I don’t believe I could manage hanging out clothes balancing on my crutch.”
“Don’t even try,” he ordered. “If you fall, I’ll have another load of washing to do.”
A glimmer of a smile touched her mouth. “I try never to take on more than I can manage.”
“Seems to me running this farm might be more than you can manage. And don’t ‘Mr. Flint’ me. Name’s Jess. Short for Jason.”
Her eyes widened and he could have bit his tongue off. Hell, she must have heard of Jason Flint. Half the sheriffs west of the Mississippi had his picture plastered all over their walls.
“Very well, then. Jess.” She looked at him curiously and Jess’s gut tightened. If she did recognize him, she could go for the sheriff.
But she couldn’t ride. She couldn’t even walk very far. Besides, maybe she hadn’t flinched because of his name; might be something else that made those unnerving, clear blue eyes look so big. Maybe his photograph wasn’t on the sheriff’s wall in Willow Flat.
“You going to wave my smalls around until they’re dry?” she inquired, a bite in her tone.
“Uh…guess not, ma’am.”
“Then stop staring at them and hang ’em up. There are other chores to do.”
Jess obeyed, pinning the lace-edged garment to the line, then shaking out her wet petticoat.
“Hang that upside down,” she instructed. “Stretch the hem out so it’ll dry faster.”
Without a word, he did as she asked. While he secured seven clothespins along the bottom of edge of her petticoat, she leaned on her crutch and fidgeted. When he turned back to the tub of wet clothes, he caught her looking at him. Goddam if her eyes seemed to get more penetrating every time they met his.
Jess swallowed. “What other work do you need done today?”
“Tiny needs fresh hay in his stall, and that means shoveling out the manure.”
“Easy enough. Then what?”
“You won’t like it.” She said it with a half smile on her lips.
“Okay, I won’t like it.” He watched her eyes turn sparkly as she studied him.
“You hired me, Miz O’Brian. I do what you say, even if I don’t like it.” When she opened her mouth, he braced himself.
“There’s a town social on Sunday. I want you to help me bake a cake.”
He’d forgotten he’d promised Svensen he’d remind her of the social. Ah, hell, what difference did it make if it had slipped his mind? It hadn’t slipped hers.
“A cake,” he said, his voice flat.
“A spice cake, flavored with anise. I’ve made it for the social every year since I was tall enough to reach the oven door.” Every year since Mama had died.
“What’s so difficult about it that you need help?”
She sent him such a withering look he felt his throat go dry. “I can’t beat cake batter five hundred strokes and hold on to this crutch at the same time.”
She inspected the last garment remaining in the washtub—his blue shirt—and raised her eyes as far as the clothesline. “Let’s muck out the barn first while your shirt dries. I am not sure I want a half-naked man in my kitchen.”
Her cheeks, he noted, were tinged a soft rosy pink. “Who’s going to know?” he retorted. “Seems to me what you do in the privacy of your own house is…private.”
Ellen pursed her lips and tipped her head to one side. “I will know.”
Jess grinned. “Some folks are proper only when other folks are looking. Then there are some, maybe like you, with a moral code they carry on the inside.”
“I should hope so, Mr. Flint. Otherwise people can get confused sorting out what is right from what is wrong. Don’t you agree?”
Her words sounded mighty sensible. In a way he envied her clarity. He’d never found it that easy. Even now he was deliberating on how far he would go before his conscience stopped him.
“Mr. Flint?” She gestured with her head. “The barn?”
He didn’t expect her to plod laboriously after him all the way to Tiny’s stall, but she did. The blast of heavy heat inside the barn made him feel as if he were walking into an oven. Jess left the door propped open for fresh air, then grabbed a pitchfork and started in.
While he worked, Ellen unlatched the gate and walked the big plow horse out of his stall. Between scrapes of the shovel and the sound of manure thunking into the wheelbarrow, Jess could hear her talking to the animal.
“Come on, you sweet old thing.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched her teeter on the crutch as she stroked the animal’s nose. “It’s only for a little while, and then you’ll have nice, clean straw to roll in.”
“Roll in!” Jess bit off a snort of disbelief. “Stall’s not big enough for him to turn around in, let alone roll.”
“But he doesn’t know that,” Ellen cooed at the animal. “He has no idea what I’m saying, he just likes the sound of my voice.” She leaned her cheek against the horse’s huge shoulder. “Some things don’t need any words, do they, Tiny?”
“Some animals are smarter