Montana Rose Page 12

  “Okay, Rose,” she said aloud, giving herself a mental shake. “That’s plenty enough daydreaming. When you start wondering about Jesse River’s favorite kind of cookies, it’s time to direct your thoughts elsewhere. Favorite kind, ha,” she snorted, and slid back the pocket doors opening into the front room.

  Rose took two steps into the dim room and stopped. A musty, unused odor greeted her, making her nose wrinkle. She wrapped her arms around her waist and ventured further. Unfriendly, unwelcoming, cold, austere. The words jumped into her mind. The furniture did nothing to allay the impression. It was large and looked uncomfortable. There was more wood trimming the pieces than cushions. The box-shaped sofa was made up of dark wood curved around a thin, stiff cushion. A stone fireplace took up one wall, long-dead ashes reposing in the hearth.

  She stood stock-still on an oval-shaped rug strategically placed in the middle of the room and surrounded by the sofa and chairs. Its once-rich colors now subdued by an accumulation of dust.

  Rose made herself take a deep breath and look deeper. The room had possibilities. It could be made beautiful and welcoming. All it would take is a good cleaning, drawing back those heavy ugly drapes to let some sunshine in, doing something with that disagreeable sofa and those horrible chairs, and a cheery fire crackling in the fireplace.

  She walked over to the sofa and hesitantly sat down only to get quickly back on her feet. The satin-covered horsehair seat was hard and unyielding. The chairs were of the same material. Not furniture for a tired man to relax on after a hard day’s work. It was furniture suitable for . . . Words failed Rose. Then her lips twitched in a mischievous smile. It was furniture fit for a Mr. Whimpstutter or a Mrs. Chinney. She laughed aloud, her voice bouncing back, a hollow, empty sound.

  Leaving the room, Rose vowed to herself this would be the first room she’d tackle. “By this time tomorrow night, there will be a fire in that fireplace, comfortable chairs facing it, and a clean welcoming smell in the air. It will be a room in which to spend cold winter evenings and, who knows, maybe even Christmas morning.”

  That she would be spending Christmas morning in Jesse River’s house would never have entered her mind as being anywhere in the realm of possibility.

  Chapter 24

  Sleep had eluded Rose for long, dark hours into the night. The bed was comfortable, it wasn’t that. The room, while needing cleaning, was large and roomy. The view out her window was balm to her rancher’s soul, a field that stretched as far as she could see. It was dotted with the reddish brown backs of cattle busily pulling at the grass stubble, their breaths frosty steam in the winter air. If Jesse had sold off the majority of his herd in the fall, there was still a sizeable amount wintering here. Even so, feeding them during the heavy snows Montana was known for could be a challenge.

  “I would have given anything to have had a herd even half this size,” Rose said quietly, shoving the poor-me thoughts away as she hurried down the stairs.

  The house was hushed. All the other inhabitants still sleeping. Say the name, Rose.

  Jesse. Jesse Rivers.

  Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?

  Hurrying into the kitchen, she shook the grates on the cook stove and the banked embers glowed. Adding wood and opening the damper, she replaced the stove lid and slid forward the coffee pot she’d prepared last night. Shivering in the early morning chill, Rose drew the heavy sweater tighter and blessed the trousers she’d taken to wearing when on her own homestead. Dresses were for afternoon wear when the cold-morning draft didn’t whistle up her skirt. Still, she smiled. Jesse’s kitchen was sturdy, and even with the stove barely putting out heat, warmer than any she’d been used to. It was a lovely kitchen, made to be the heart of the home, Rose mused as she went to stand in front of the window. Another woman must have loved this room. I could love this room. Then she caught herself. Nonsense. It’s not mine to love. But it is mine to enjoy as long as I’m around, doing my job.

  After opening several cupboard doors, Rose found what she was looking for. Standing on tiptoes while stretching above her head, she took down a heavy bowl and began preparing breakfast. Biscuits and gravy. Jesse had said there were sausage links hanging in the smokehouse. She begrudged the time already spent this morning hunting for what she needed and vowed the first order of business would be to familiarize herself with the ranch and arrange the kitchen to her liking. A determined smile flickered across her face as she hurried out to the smokehouse.

  By the time she’d finished musing over the front room, it had been too dark outside to look at anymore of the ranch. But, sunshine entered her soul and chased away any doubts. Today was a new day. She’d explore to her heart’s content. And, she vowed, she’d pin that elusive Jesse Rivers down and make him tell her what he expected from his new housekeeper. He’d stayed out in the barn long after she’d given up and went upstairs to bed. Tory said Jesse had asked him to tell her he’d catch up with her today and they’d talk. You bet they would!

  “Is that coffee I smell?”

  Rose had just finished pouring her cup and was busily stirring the sausage gravy when Jesse entered the room. What was there about the man that made the air go still and the room immediately fill with his presence?

  Rose nodded. “It is. Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup. I’m assuming you don’t take cream in your coffee since we don’t have any. Now if we—”

  “Had a cow. I know, I know,” he cut her off with a grumble and just a trace of a smile in his voice.

  “Mmm, hmm. And if we had chickens,” she said, turning her back to him, “you would have eggs to go with your biscuits and gravy. And fried potatoes,” she added. “But since we don’t have chickens . . .”

  “Miss Bush, starting my morning with coffee I didn’t have to make, a warm kitchen that I didn’t have to shiver in while I waited for the stove to heat, makes not having cream or eggs a very minor thing. Did I mention the smell of biscuits?” he asked impishly.

  Rose ignored the question. “You avoided me last night, Mr. Rivers.”

  “Huh?”

  “We”—she emphasized the word—“agreed that we’d discuss my duties after supper.” She placed a heaping plate in front of Jesse, then refilling her cup, sat across from him.

  Jesse bent over the plate and took a deep breath. “You getting fired from the school, Miss Bush,” he said reverently, “was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I didn’t get fired,” she said waspishly, “I quit.”

  “Hmm,” he mumbled around a forkful of fried potatoes. “You always leap before you look?”

  “What? Of course I don’t. I knew exactly what I was doing. Just what do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said then swallowed, “seems like you let that temper of yours goad you into quitting without thought as to where you’d live or how you’d manage.”

  Rose popped to her feet. “Now you listen here, Mr. Rivers. What I do or how I do it is none of your business. You have hired me as your housekeeper but that sure doesn’t give you the right to judge me. Five minutes. Five minutes in your company, and I regret saying yes to your offer. But I’m staying. Not because of you—definitely not—but because of the wages you are paying me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  “Wait,” Jesse called out after her, but her only reply was the sound of her feet clattering up the stairs.

  “Well, you handled that well.” He frowned, reaching for another biscuit. “I’m sure not making any good grades with the former Teacher Bush. And”—he smiled, taking a large gulp of the best coffee he’d had in ages—“I sure as heck don’t want to lose her. Better figure out a way to make amends or the lovely Miss Bush will make my life miserable.” But somehow that thought didn’t fill him with the worry it should have. Trading words with his new housekeeper was downright pleasant. />
  Rose slammed the door to her room, taking childish delight in knowing Jesse could hear and feel the reverberations.

  Throwing on a heavy coat, she stormed outside, pausing in front of the large barn. Standing there, eyes closed, head thrown back, she took a deep breath of air redolent with the cold breath of winter and the welcome smells only a ranch offered. A smile crept across her face. This was the essence of life.

  Jesse found her several minutes later, pitchfork in hand, forking hay to the horses milling about in the corral.

  “Hey”—he grabbed the pitchfork—“I didn’t hire you to be the ranch hand.”

  “Let go. Since you haven’t had time to tell me exactly what you hired me for, I’ll help out where I see help needed. You’ve got cattle waiting to be fed. Forking hay to the horses is nothing.” And to prove her point she gave another large forkful a toss.

  “Don’t you have plenty to do in the house?” Jesse grumbled.

  “Mr. Rivers, your house isn’t going anywhere, and from the looks of it, and the accumulation of dust, waiting a few hours more won’t cause any major problems. Did you leave Tory enough for his breakfast or do I need to prepare more?”

  “Huh?” Her jumping from one thought to another caught him in the middle of a comeback.

  “There’s plenty,” he said shortly. “Tell you what Miss Bush, let’s leave me telling you what your duties are alone for a few days and see what happens. You do what you see fit around here, and I’ll try to not interfere.” He started toward the barn. His parting shot, made through clenched teeth, drifted back on the morning air. “Hell, you’ll do it anyway.”

  As the days wore on, Jesse had to bite his tongue so often he was amazed it wasn’t in shreds. He bit it each time he saw Rose taking on one of the heavy or particularly obnoxious ranching chores she seemed to actually enjoy. But darned if it wasn’t nice to come in off the range, tired, cold, and dirty, only to find a job he was dreading already done. No matter how much time she spent outside, there was always a hot meal waiting for him. He felt as if his world had been blown in several directions all by Whirlwind Rose, as he’d come to think of her.

  Take today, for example. He’d spent the day repairing fencing that cows had broken down and trampled stretching out their long necks, reaching for the elusive clump of dried grass. His back was breaking and every muscle in his arms quivered from trying to dig postholes in the semi-frozen ground. He was cold and in a foul humor, cussing every beef on his ranch. He wanted nothing more than to have a cup of hot coffee and collapse in front of a warm fire. Maybe throw in one of Rose’s delicious suppers. He’d been too far out to come back in for the noon meal, and he was hungry as a bear, cranky as one, too. Then he remembered he’d ridden out early this morning, leaving stalls un-mucked, figuring he’d get to them tonight. It was more back-breaking, smelly, dirty work. He’d unsaddled his horse, rubbed him down, and, bent over like an old man, hobbled to the manure filled stalls.

  Whirlwind Rose had struck, and each stall was shoveled clean with fresh straw beds. He wandered from stall to stall as begrudging admiration and gratitude filled him. Without him realizing it, Rose had stopped being a thorn in his side, and instead, become the beautiful rose she was named after. She’d weaseled her way in day-by-day, chore-by-chore.

  “Of course I appreciate her, who wouldn’t?” he muttered, tamping down the growing feelings for his housekeeper. “Appreciation, that’s all it is.”

  “Talking to yourself, Jesse?” Tory asked.

  How much had he heard? Jesse turned to him, a scowl replacing the previous softness on his face.

  “What are you doing here sneaking around?”

  “Sneaking,” Tory scoffed. “If you hadn’t been questioning and answering yourself, you’d of heard me.” Tory shook his head, a sassy grin on his face. “She getting to you?”

  “Who?” He was nothing but innocence.

  “The person you appreciate.”

  “You know, Tory, you’re not too big for me to turn you over my knee and . . .”

  “Oh, yeah? You and what other mule-skinner?” Tory laughed as he danced away from his brother’s grasp.

  Tory’s laughter was a sound Jesse never thought he’d hear again. And he’d been hearing it a lot more lately.

  “You’d better save your strength, old man,” Tory taunted. “Miss Bush visited the attic today and found the furniture Mom brought with her when she married . . .” His voice faltered. “He wouldn’t let her use it. Claimed it wasn’t good enough for his fine house. Anyway”—he brightened—“I do believe we will be spending our evening carrying our present furniture up to the attic and bringing back Mom’s.”

  Jesse groaned and cancelled all thoughts of putting his feet up in front of the fire.

  “You got to admit, Jesse. She makes us earn every darn piece of pie, cake, or cookie she bakes as a bribe.”

  “Yeah, she does.” He shook his head. “But one bite of that chocolate cake and I’m her slave. What’s the bribe tonight?”

  “Gingerbread. ‘Course she’s planning on letting you know there’s no cream to put on top since . . .”

  “Since we don’t have a cow,” Jesse added morosely as he put his arm around Tory’s shoulders. “Okay, partner, let’s go see what the whirlwind has in store for us.”

  Chapter 25

  “There,” Rose said, laying the last piece of wood in anticipation of tonight’s fire. She surveyed the living room, a smile of satisfaction etched on her face. It was everything she’d hoped for and more.

  She’d ordered Jesse and Tory to bed after they’d carried the last chair from the attic. She assured them she was going to bed herself and would finish the room tomorrow. But she didn’t. The beautiful grandfather clock, formerly residing dusty and unappreciated in the hall, had struck the half hour after twelve when she’d finally pulled herself up the stairs. She had coerced Jesse and Tory into moving it into the room where it would become an integral, living, presence. Her first thought this morning, before her coffee, before daybreak, had been to creep down the stairs and gaze lovingly at the changed room.

  Beeswax and highly polished wood greeted her. All musty odors of disuse were banished, chased away by her dust cloth and broom. The carpet’s rich tones reflected on the waxed and polished oak floor. Comfortable sofa and chairs strategically faced the fireplace, calling out a welcome to a weary man, inviting him to let their buttery leather wrap around him. The matching footstool, a beckoning place for feet that had traveled miles since sunup. The flames in the fireplace would lick hungrily at the wood, sending out heat and a rich wood smell.

  Rose was glad she’d shooed Jesse and Tory to bed without seeing the completed project. Tonight, they would see it in all its glory. And in the future, she’d serve cups of hot chocolate and thick slices of chocolate cake right here before the fire. Then she’d pick up the basket of mending sitting beside the smaller chair, put her feet up on the crewel embroidered footstool, lean her head back on the chair’s pillowy softness and send a silent thanks to Tory’s mother for the gift she’d unknowingly given them.

  She caught herself. Daydreaming, that’s what she was doing. Building castles in the air. Painting pictures of a family, a wife, a husband, and a special boy. Well, she wasn’t a wife by any stretch of her imagination. And Jesse Rivers, sure as coffee is black, wasn’t a husband. With thoughts of coffee, she whirled from the room, softly sliding the door shut behind her.

  For heaven’s sake, Rose. You’re getting maudlin as an old maid. You are the housekeeper. The paid help. And you don’t want it any other way.” But a small voice in her head asked, “Don’t you?”

  Hurrying to the kitchen, she began the morning routine of rattling the grates, making coffee, rushing to the smokehouse for ham, and slicing up her last loaf of bread.

  “I’ll have to add ba
king bread to the list today. I never saw two men eat like these two.” She’d found jars of Emma’s jelly in the root cellar and vowed to replenish the jars with jam of her own. “If you are still here, Rose,” she admonished.

  “If you are still here? What do you mean? Leaving already?”

  “Jesse Rivers, I wish you would stop sneaking up on me. It’s a nasty habit.”

  “Not my fault you got caught blabbing to yourself.” He grinned at her discomfort and reached for the coffee pot.

  “It’s not ready yet.”

  “Huh?”

  “I, uh, got a late start.”

  “Slept in? Abusing my good nature, Miss Bush?”

  “I did not sleep in,” Rose denied hotly. “And we won’t discuss your so called good nature. I was busy elsewhere.”

  Jesse’s eyebrows rose in question.

  “It’s none of your concern, Mr. Rivers. The coffee has been delayed only moments.”

  Jesse debated on prodding her more just to see the sparks fly from those blue eyes. The sound of coffee perking against the black lid of the coffee pot stopped him. Wrapping a towel around his hand, he pulled the pot to the back of the stove and wondered if there was any better smell than fresh-brewed coffee on a winter morning, or any morning. Hell, anytime. Then he remembered how good Rose’s chocolate cake smelled, and her warm bread just out of the oven, and— he swallowed hard—how good Rose smelled. She carried with her the scent of lilacs, woman, and more times than not, the fresh outdoors.

  He shook the thoughts from his mind and poured two cups. “Tory still sacked out?”

  Rose nodded. “I think moving all that furniture wore him out.” She cracked three eggs into the frying pan, waited a few minutes, then expertly flipped them over, cooking the yolk to a softness Jesse liked. The fact that she already knew many of this man’s likes and dislikes escaped her.