“There’d better be steak in the freezer, or Garry gets fired.”
“Garry?”
“Garry. Mrs. Garrison. You don’t think a bachelor keeps a house looking like this, do you? As far as I know,” he said, clipping me about the waist and pulling me toward the stairs, “Garry doesn’t eat brides.”
“I guess you ought to know by now.”
“That’s a snide remark,” he said, with no rancor, and turned me to the right at the bottom step.
It was a grand kitchen, and, as I suspected, had probably been the center of the house’s daily life in other eras. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but the kitchen fittings had been moved from the hearth to the east wall. A harvest table with rush-bottomed chairs was set in front of the fireplace now, with an electrified big-welled kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling, its shade a rose color. Separated from the breakfasting area and the kitchen were closets and cupboards and obviously a freezer unit as well as a washing machine and a clothes dryer. “What a marvelous kitchen!”
“Efficient, too. Had it redone to Garry’s specifications- she drove the builder nuts-when I took the house over. She’s not as young as she used to be… hey,” and he hugged me, sensing my sudden anxiety about measuring up to someone he obviously cared for. “God, she’s been after me to marry some ‘nice girl.’ She’ll take care of you, too, and put flesh on your bones, so you’ll be up to circuit riding.”
“Rafe, do you think there’s any chance of Orfeo showing…”
“With any luck,” Rafe assured me smoothly, peering into the freezer. He came up with a freezer-wrapped square package. “Hey, how about meatloaf! With baked potatoes, the cheap kind. If you can find salad makings… you do know how to cook, don’t you?”
“Of course I know how to cook!” I was indignant. “None of my other wives could,” he replied imperturbably.
I found silence the best reproof, and began to fix a salad. There were fresh strawberries, all hulled and washed, under a Saran sheet. They’d be marvelous for dessert.
“But if that hoof doesn’t heal…”
“That hoof’ll heal,” Rafe assured me again, his eyes suddenly focused beyond me in a determined stare.
Almost as if Orfeo had to jump for a purpose beyond mine. Then Rafe told me where to find condiments and bowls as he started the oven, and we were pleasantly busy.
Sometime during the night, I heard dogs barking. At least, I was sure I heard the dogs, but Rafe’s reassuring murmur, his hands clasping mine warmly, made the incident scant concern of mine.
6
When I woke up, I was lying on my stomach, my head at the edge of the bed, so the first thing I saw were the dappled splotches of sunlight on the wide-planked floor. Along my left side was the comfortable warmth of a… husband. Rafe. I wanted to turn and look at him, catch him unawares, and satisfy a nagging uncertainty within me. And I also wanted to remain so comfortably content.
Unfortunately, I’ve got this habit, and once awake, I can’t stay still. My back muscles were crying to be stretched. At my first tentative move, I felt Rafe stir.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I turned, penitent, to find him watching me, the slightest smile on his lips, and a dark, odd warmth in his eyes.
He slid one arm under my body, as if to pull me to him; in fact, I could feel myself leaning compliantly. Instead he stroked my face with his fingertips (lovingly, I told myself), as the smile deepened. “I’ve been awake awhile.”
Neither of us had a watch on, but I could tell from the slant of the sunlight that it must be early hours.
“And, no, Nialla, you haven’t kept me abed with your sloth,” he went on teasingly, still stroking my face. Then his fingers trailed down my neck, tracing the outline of my shoulder before transferring, ever so delicately, to my breast. As he did finally pull me against him, my head on his chest, he sighed. “I was enjoying the sight of you, curled up in my bed like a trusting Eurydice.” And his chuckle echoed rustily in his rib cage under my ears. (I had the fleeting notion that Rafe, for all his self-assurance, didn’t quite trust me: surprising under the circumstances. I wondered how I compared to his other wives in bed. If they couldn’t cook and didn’t like his way of living, why had he married them?)
I felt his lips on my forehead.
“A daunting sight, I assure you,” he added in an in consequential tone.
I was desperate to stretch, but I could scarcely offend him by breaking his affectionate embrace.
“Do you wake up fast or slow, Nialla?”
“I’m one of those awful ones, up with the sun, and usually to bed with it.” I’d better be candid and get us both off the hook.
“Thank God.” And he released me, swinging himself off the other side of the bed, to stand and stretch until every muscle in his back was fully extended and his joints began to pop. I’d the incredible urge to run my hands freely over his body, for the touch of his skin on mine, to test the firmness of that musculature.
“Shower or bath? Milady has first choice.” And he made a courtly bow toward the bathroom, destroying the image by a boyish smirk. “I’ll use the John down the hall.”‘
The speed with which I untangled myself from the sheet made him burst out laughing, head back, fists rammed against his narrow waist.
“You’re no slugabed, I see, not with your background,” and he was definitely pleased. But as he snagged a seersucker bathrobe from a hook of the dressing-room door, again I was reminded of Bess Tomlinson’s flippant remark. Had he really married me for the horses? And because I was a horsewoman?
Well, if that were the case, I thought as I closed the stall-shower door, there would be many compensations, and I could make the most of them, while I could. For if he’d divorced two women already for cause unknown, I might not last long either. After all, he could marry someone better than a horse trainer’s daughter. I turned the water on full force; the shower head, for once, was the right height for me, fringe benefit number one. I soaped myself thoroughly, aware that my breasts were sore-fringe benefits numbers two, three, four, five, ad infinitum.
Rafe had included a pair of Levis in his purchases for me, and a thin cotton sleeveless shirt. The day promised to be fair, and probably hot. The new Levis were stiff, but the slight flair in the leg kept pressure off my healing burns.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Rafe was just fastening the belt of his Levis-they must have been tailored for him, they fit so well-and his torso showed to advantage in the cotton knit pullover. He was a fast dresser, for he’d also shaved in the time it had taken me just to shower, dress, and stare at my reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror.
He grinned at me and took my hand, tucking it under his arm as we went downstairs.
“Levis aren’t too tight on those leg burns, are they?” I shook my head, because somehow he was too much for me. He was my husband, yes. He’d married despite my objections, my past, the knowledge that I was in trouble; he’d made passionate love to me, given me jewelry and clothes, shown me favor and approval in many small ways: if he had married me for my two horses-and he did have money enough to buy any beast he fancied without necessarily marrying its owner-then I should be glad I’d a dowry to bestow on him.
If Rafe noticed my withdrawal, my watery eyes, he paid no attention, cheerfully outlining his plans for our morning.
“I’d like to show you the place and my string after breakfast. I’ll put in a call for MacNeil, the vet, to check Orfeo over. Then we can get to the shops and see what the local places might have for you to wear.” He pushed open the door between dining-room ell and the kitchen, “Hi, Garry,” he greeted the woman in a neat non-uniform cotton dress and apron who was standing by the table, coffee pot poised over the cup of the single place setting, “This is my wife, Nialla Donnelly Clery. Nialla, this is Mrs. Barbara Garrison.”