Rose(38)

“You can’t put it on the table in that pan,” Rose cried when he turned toward the table. “Set it on the stove. I’ve got to put it on a serving platter.”

George helped her lift the turkey and set it on the platter. They stood shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. It was all he could do to keep from dropping the bird and taking Rose into his arms. Never in his life had he experienced anything so powerful, so overwhelming, so completely beyond his control. It was like a physical force, one much stronger than he, forcing him to do what it willed. He was only just able to control himself long enough to take the second turkey out and transfer it to a platter.

His eyes scanned Rose’s face and he knew immediately she had felt the force of their nearness just as strongly as he. She looked stunned, maybe even slightly scared. She stood still, seemingly unable to move.

Like a man hypnotized, George reached out and touched her cheek. It felt soft and warm, just as he knew it would. He wanted to touch more of her, to absorb her through his fingertips, but his hand wouldn’t move. It just stayed there, cupping her cheek like something precious.

“I think I hear the boys riding up,” Rose said, her voice more breath than tone. But she didn’t move. Her gaze remained locked with George’s.

The sound of hooves brought George out of his trance as quickly as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers.

“You’d better get ready. Monty can unsaddle a horse quicker than you can shuck an ear of corn.”

“He still has to wash and change his clothes,” Rose said, struggling to pull herself out of her dazed state.

But George had hardly set the second turkey on the table before Monty burst into the kitchen. He had neither washed nor changed. Considering his haste, George was surprised he hadn’t ridden his horse right into the kitchen.

“I swear I could smell those turkeys a mile down the trail,” he said, going straight to the closest platter.

“Wash up, and you can have all you can eat.” It seemed odd to Rose to be saying words that had nothing to do with the feelings that engulfed her body or with the thoughts that whirled about in her mind with the speed of a hurricane.

“You expect me to walk back out that door with the smell of turkey pulling at me harder than a rope on a calf?”

“I expect you to wash and change before you put a leg under this table.” How could George have recovered so rapidly? She still felt numb.

“And I imagine your horse would like you to unsaddle him and put him in the corral,” George added.

“Just this once?”

“No.”

Maybe she was the only one genuinely affected. Maybe he did this every time he found himself alone with a woman. She couldn’t imagine too many of them objecting.

“But I can’t move.”

“I told your brother a lie when I said Zac had the charm of a dozen cats,” Rose said. “You’re twice as bad.”

I told you not to place any reliance in that foolish dream of yours. It meant nothing to him. The moment was just that to him, a moment.

She tried not to let her disappointment show as she took a large, sharp knife and cut a slice from the golden brown breast. The juices dripped down her fingers.

“Here,” she said, handing the steaming meat to Monty. “But you don’t get another bite until you wash and change.”

Monty had barely strode away with his prize when Zac burst in the kitchen.

“You gave Monty a piece of turkey. That’s not fair.”

She couldn’t remain mired in her own cheerless thoughts, not with this dynamic, vividly alive family about to wash her away on the tide of its exuberant energy.

“Probably not,” Rose confessed, a smile announcing the return of her self-control and her good humor, “but it’s Monty’s turkey. He shot it.”

“But I found the eggs for the dressing,” Zac insisted.

“So you did. And you shall have the first serving. Here, I’ll set the bowl in front of your place.”

Zac plopped down in his chair.

“Are you washed?”

“Yep. Hen said he hardly recognized me this clean.”

“How about pouring the milk?”

Zac groaned and got up. “A little kid has to do everything. I sure ain’t doing it when I get to New Orleans.”

“Am not,” George said, “and you won’t be going to New Orleans for some time yet.”

“George can pour the milk,” Zac said. “He knows what everybody wants.”

“George has to carve the turkey before Monty tears it apart,” Rose replied sternly. “The milk.”

Zac made a face, but he poured the milk double speed so he could be back in his chair before anybody else entered the room.