A Beau For Katie

Chapter Three

There were no complaints from Freeman on the meal Katie cooked the following morning, and if not jovial, he was at least polite to her. Jehu had a third helping of bacon and toast, and Freeman did admit that her meal was an improvement over his grandmother’s oatmeal.

Ivy hadn’t come over to the big house yet; presumably, the older woman was enjoying a respite from the men and eating her preferred breakfast. Still, Katie missed Ivy’s cheerful presence at the table. She liked Ivy’s no-nonsense way of dealing with the men, especially Freeman, and she reminded Katie of her own grossmama, Mary Byler, who’d passed away several winters earlier.

Once everyone had eaten and the dishes were washed and put away, Jehu and the dog went to the mill and Katie turned to the laundry. “When is the last time those sheets of yours were washed?” she asked Freeman.

He scowled at her. “Not long.”

“How long exactly?” she persisted.

“Probably when I came home from the hospital.”

She sniffed in disapproval and pursed her lips. “It won’t do, you know. Lying on dirty linens.”

His dark eyes narrowed. They were still beautiful eyes, but the expression was peevish and resentful, like an adolescent who’d been told he couldn’t go fishing with his friends but had to stay home and clean the chicken coop. “And how do you suggest that I change and wash these sheets?”

“Don’t be surly,” she scolded. “I’ll do the washing, but you’ll have to get out of bed so that I can strip it.”

Freeman rapped on his cast with a fist. “Doctor says that the leg has to remain elevated.”

Katie sighed with impatience. “We’re both intelligent people. I think we can figure out a solution.” The previous day, when she’d first come in, she’d noticed a wheelchair folded up and resting against the wall, the packing strap still wrapped around it. Clearly, Freeman had never used the chair. Resolutely prepared for resistance, she approached the bed. “Are you decent?”

“I should hope so. I try to do the right thing.”

It took all of her willpower not to show her exasperation. He was wearing a light blue shirt, wrinkled but clean, rather than the sleeveless T-shirt he’d worn the day before. She’d wanted to know if he had trousers on under the sheet and blankets. And she had the feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been asking and chose to be difficult. “You know what I mean,” she said briskly. “Are you wearing anything other than your skin below your waist?”

Two spots of color glowed through the dark stubble on his cheeks. “Ya,” he muttered. “Grossmama cut a leg off a pair of my pants so I could pull them on over the cast. The traveling nurse was coming to the house when I first got home from the hospital so—” He scowled at her, his blush becoming even more evident. “Why would you need to know what I have on under my sheet?”

Katie pursed her lips and regarded him with the same expression she used with her brothers when they were being impossible. “Because I need to change those sheets, and I can’t get you out of the bed and into the wheelchair without your cooperation.” She folded her arms resolutely. “You’re certainly too heavy for me to carry, but if you’re a miller, I’d guess that you have a lot of strength in your upper body. If I bring that wheelchair up beside the bed, can you use your arms to maneuver into it?”

“Didn’t say yet that I want to get out of bed,” he protested.

She could tell it wasn’t much of an argument, more for show than anything else. “Of course you want to get up. You’d have to be thick-headed to want to stay there like a lump of coal.” She tilted her head, softening her voice. “And, Freeman, you’re anything but slow-witted if I’m any judge.”

“I suppose I could manage to heave myself into the thing,” he said grudgingly. “I hadn’t decided if I was keeping it, though. Wheelchairs are expensive. I’ll be back on my feet soon enough and—”

“It’s going to be weeks before you’re back on your feet,” she interrupted. “Too long for you to lie in that bed.” She stared down at him and he stared up at her and it occurred to her that they could possibly be there all day just waiting to see who would bend first.

He did.

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “But, I warn you, there aren’t any more sheets in the house to fit this size bed. Am I supposed to sit in that contraption all day while you do the laundry and hang it out to dry?”

She tried not to show how amused she was. Stubborn, the man was as stubborn as a broody hen refusing to budge off a clutch of wooden eggs. She suspected he wanted to be out of that bed more than she wanted him to do it, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “You must have other sheets. In a linen closet?”

He nodded. “But I just told you. They won’t fit. They’re for larger beds than this.”

“That’s women’s matters. No need for you to worry yourself over it.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it will be painful...moving from the bed to the chair. If it really is too much, just say so.”

Again, the scowl. “I’m not afraid of a little pain.”

She went to the wheelchair, cut the plastic shipping strap with scissors and began to unfold it. “While you’re out of bed, maybe you could find your razor. You’re badly in need of a shave.”

Being unmarried, Freeman should have been clean-shaven. Either he or someone had shaved him in the last week, but he had at least a five-day growth of reddish-brown beard. His hair was too long. Getting him shaven and onto clean sheets would be a small victory. And she’d found with her father and brothers that small steps worked best with men. You had to make them think ideas were their own. Otherwise, they tended to balk and turn mulish. She hesitated, and then suggested, “I could do it for you, if you like. My brother, Little Joe, broke two fingers on his right hand once and I—”

“I can shave myself. It’s my leg that’s broken, not my hand.”

When she glanced back to the bed, Freeman was looking at the wheelchair with obvious apprehension. She understood his hesitation, but she truly did think his upper body was strong enough to move himself safely into the wheelchair. “If you did get in the chair, you could go out on the porch easy enough,” she said with genuine kindness. “It’s a beautiful day. You must be going mad as May butter staring at these kitchen walls.”

“I am,” he admitted.

Her irritation was fading fast. Freeman was a challenge. He might be prickly, but he was interesting. Being with him kept her on her toes and anything but bored. It must take a lot of energy for him to pretend to be so grumpy. And she suspected it wasn’t his true nature. “What was that?” she teased.

His high brow furrowed. “I said I am. I’m tired of staring at this room. A house is no place for a man in midmorning.”

“Which is our best reason for getting you out of that bed. An easy mind makes for quicker healing.” She brought the wheelchair to the side of the bed. “Careful,” she warned. “Let me help you.”

“Ne. You steady the chair so it doesn’t roll.”

“It won’t. I’ve put the brakes on.”

“Stand aside, then, and let me do it by myself.” Slowly, pale and with sweat breaking out on his forehead, Freeman managed the gap from the bed to the chair. Katie knew that it must have hurt him, but he didn’t make a sound, and finished sitting upright with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

“Wonderful,” she said, squeezing her hands together. She raised the leg rest and carefully propped his cast on it. Then she released the brake and pushed him out of the kitchen and down the short hall to the bathroom. He told her where to find his razor and shaving cream. “You won’t be able to see into the mirror,” she said, handing him a washcloth and draping a towel around his neck. This mirror was small and fixed to the wall over the sink. “Is there another mirror I could bring in here?”

“I don’t need your help. Just hand me my razor and soap and brush from over there,” he said, pointing to a pretty old oak dresser that she suspected held towels and the like. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. I can manage without the mirror.”

“If you’ll tell me where to find scissors, I could trim the back of your hair. That’s not something you can do yourself,” she offered, putting his things on the edge of the sink.

“My hair is fine. Now go change those sheets you’ve been fussing about.”

She made no argument but went and located a linen closet at the top of the stairs. As Freeman had said, it had sheets for double beds, but she could easily tuck the excess under the mattress. The important thing was that the sheets were clean. They would do for now. Next time, she would have freshly washed and line-dried linen to go on his bed, provided he didn’t fire her first.

When she finished the task and returned to the bathroom, she found him still sitting at the sink, shaving cream on his face and a razor in his hand. There were uneven patches of beard on his cheeks and a trickle of blood down his chin. Wordlessly, he handed the razor to her, grimaced, and clenched his eyes shut. She ran hot water on the washcloth, twisted it until the excess water ran out, and pressed it over his face.

She’d said that shaving Freeman would be no different that shaving her brothers, but as she stood there looking at him, she realized it was. It was very different. She had to steady her hands as she removed the washcloth and began with more shaving cream. Her pulse quickened, and she felt a warm flush beneath her skin.

Shaving Freeman was more intimate than she’d supposed it would be and she was thankful that his dark eyes were closed. The act bordered on inappropriate behavior between an unmarried man and woman, but neither of them intended it to be anything other than what it was. She’d offered with the best of intentions and backing down now would be worse than going through with it, wouldn’t it?

But what if her hands trembled and she cut him? How would she explain that?

She took a deep breath and plunged forward, silently praying, Don’t let my hand slip. Please, don’t let him see how nervous I am. The small curling hairs at the nape of her neck grew damp and her knees felt weak, but she kept sliding the razor down the smooth plane of his cheek. The blade was sharp, and Freeman held perfectly still. If he’d moved, even a fraction of an inch, she knew that the blade would break his skin, but he didn’t, and she managed to finish without disgracing herself.

“All done.” Heady with success, she handed him the wet washcloth. “See, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Thank you.” He wiped his face and opened his eyes.

“I could still do something with your hair,” she offered.

He wiped a last bit of shaving cream from his chin and tossed the washcloth in the sink. “Quit while you’re ahead, woman.”

She laughed. “You do look a lot better.” And he did, more than better. Shaggy hair brushing his shirt collar or not, he had the kind of good looks that cautious mothers warned their daughters against. And with good reason, she thought, as she locked her shaking hands behind her back.

“I’m not a vain man.”

She couldn’t hide a mischievous grin. “Ne?” She thought that he wasn’t telling the exact truth. In her mind, most men were as vain as any woman. They just hid it better. And Freeman had more reason than most to take pride in his looks.

“I’m a Plain man. I have more on my mind than my appearance.”

“I can see that,” she agreed. “But no one said that a clean and tidy man was an offense to the church.”

He fixed her with those lingering brown eyes, eyes that were not as full of disapproval as they had been. “Do you have an answer for everything?” he asked. But she sensed that he was making an effort at humor rather than being sarcastic.

“I try.” She nodded. “Now I’ll leave you to finish washing up. Call when you need me to bring you back out to the kitchen.”

“I think I can push myself,” he grumbled.

Smiling, she left him to go throw the sheets in the wash.

She’d just started mixing a batch of cornbread when Freeman came rolling slowly down the hall. He looked pale, as if he’d run a long distance. She could tell he was in pain, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Do you think you could peel potatoes for me?”

“I suppose I could,” he said. “Isn’t it too early to be starting the midday meal?”

“Too early for cooking. Not too early for starting the preparation. I’ve lots to do this morning, and you have to be organized to get meals on the table on time and still get the rest of your work done.”

“Organization is a good thing,” he agreed. “Not many people understand that. They waste hours that could go to good purpose.”

“Mmm.” She brought him a large stainless steel bowl, a paring knife, and the potatoes. “If you peel these, I’ll cut them up and put them in salted water, ready to cook when it gets closer to mealtime.”

“My mother was a good cook,” he said.

“Mine, too. Better than me.”

“She’s still with you, isn’t she?”

“Ya, thanks be to God. We lost my father a few years ago, but we were fortunate to have him as long as we did. Dat had five heart surgeries, starting when he was a baby. He was never strong, but he lived a full life, and he and my mother were happy together.”

“It’s important, having parents who cared for each other. Mine did, too. They died too soon. An accident.” He shook his head, and she saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Then why did he bring it up, she wondered. But she was glad that he had, felt that it was a positive step in their relationship. If she was going to work here, for the next two weeks, it would be better if they weren’t always butting heads.

“Do you fish?” he asked.

“What?” She’d been thinking about what he’d said about his parents and hadn’t been giving him her full attention. “Do I like fish? To eat?”

“Ya, to eat. But I meant to catch. I like fishing. It’s what I usually do on summer evenings. We have big bass in the millpond, catfish, perch, as well as sunnies.”

“I do like fishing,” she said. “And crabbing. My dat used to take us to Leipsic. We’d crab off the bridge there. And fish, too, but we never caught many.”

“It takes patience and know-how. Bass, especially, are clever. But very tasty. I use artificial lures for them.”

Jehu strolled in, sniffing the air. “Making corn fritters?”

“Cornbread,” Katie said.

“I love cornbread.” He went to the table and sat down near Freeman. “Laundry going, I hear. You’ve been busy, Katie.” He pulled his cat’s cradle string out of his pocket. “Learned a new one this morning. From Shad, of all people. Shad is Freeman’s apprentice. Good boy, hard worker.”

“I wouldn’t say apprentice,” Freeman corrected. “Shad’s got a long way to go before he can call himself a miller. Thinks too much of himself, that boy. Headstrong.”

“Sounds likes somebody else I know,” Jehu said. He turned his head in Freeman’s direction. “Sounds like you got him up and out of that bed. And shaved, too, if I’m not mistaken. I smell your shaving cream.” He turned toward the sink where Katie was grating a cabbage she’d brought from Sara’s garden. “You’re a good influence on him, Katie. Best thing in the world for him. Get out of bed, cleaned up, and stop feeling sorry for himself.”

The screen door squeaked and Ivy joined them. The terrier ran across the kitchen and leaped up on the newly-made bed. “What are you up to, Katie? Don’t tell me you’re already starting dinner?” She smiled warmly. “Freeman, look at you. Up and shaved. I think I know who to give credit to for this.”

Freeman grimaced, picking up another potato to peel. “Morning, Grossmama. I’m feeling better, thank you.”

“I can see that for myself,” she answered crisply. “And she’s put you to work.”

“I couldn’t find a vegetable peeler,” Katie said. “Just a paring knife.”

“You won’t, not in this house. I’ve got one if you need to borrow it. Help yourself.” She picked up one of the potatoes Freeman had peeled. “Not bad,” she said, “not good, but not bad. Be more careful. Waste not.” She turned back to Katie. “I just made a fresh pot of tea, and I was hoping that you’d come to my house and have some with me.”

“I don’t know,” Katie hemmed. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“It’ll wait,” Ivy told her, giving a wave. “Come on. We can get to know each other.” She looked up at Katie. “You know you want to.”

“You should go, Katie,” Jehu encouraged. “I’ll keep an eye on Trouble, here.” He tipped his head in Freeman’s direction.

Katie was torn. She did have a lot to do, but it seemed important to Ivy that they share a pot of tea. And God didn’t put them on the earth just to sweep and wash, did He? In the end, people mattered more than chores. It was something her mother, though a hard worker, had instilled in her young. “Oh...why not?” she conceded.

“I’d like some tea,” Freeman said. “But I like mine cold. The doctor said I should drink lots of fluids.” He frowned. “Katie’s busy. We didn’t hire her to sit and drink tea. She has chores to do, and we were having a serious conversation about—”

“Fishing,” his uncle supplied with a grin. “Which means that she’s certainly earned a break. Go along with Ivy, Katie. Enjoy your tea. I’ll make Grumpy his iced tea. Just as soon as he finishes peeling the potatoes.”

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