Angie had the laundry down to a routine. First she put a large pot of ham and beans on the back of the stove, enough for two suppers, which would carry her through wash-day and ironing day. Then she began washing, rinsing, bluing, starching, and hanging clothes in the sun to dry. If not for the guilt, wash-day would have gone smoothly.
Standing in the sunlight near the clothesline, wiping her hands in her apron, she narrowed her eyes on the flap of Sam’s tent. All right, she could admit that he was doing everything he could to help Daisy. He worked ten hours on the Dryfus site, then several more hours at his claim, and every third night he stood watch from midnight until morning. Why, she didn’t yet know, but he did it. Circles of fatigue had appeared beneath his eyes and lately he’d seemed distracted. It didn’t seem right that she was adding to his problems by refusing to do his laundry. Plus, sending out his laundry cost money they could put into Daisy’s jar.
Muttering, she entered his tent, sighed, then collected his work clothes and, yes, his damned underwear, socks, and hankies. Deliberately she made her mind go blank while she washed his intimate items and then hung them out so the neighbors could see that she’d changed her mind. They would also see a mistake that would cause them laughter and Sam grief. Sighing again, she returned to the kitchen to scrub his work clothing.
She saved his denim jacket for last because the front was covered with black spots and would require heavy scrubbing on the washboard. But when she got to it, she discovered the spots were holes. Taking the jacket to the window, she examined the holes in stronger light. Charred at the edges. Large scorched areas. Most of the holes were too large and ragged to be mended.
Frowning, she tried to imagine what circumstances could account for the ruin of Sam’s jacket. A fire, obviously. But the ladies talked town gossip in the churchyard after services, and no one had mentioned a fire. Sam hadn’t said anything either.
After thinking a minute, she untied her apron, tidied her hair, then donned her hat, gloves, and everyday cape. She had planned to run a few errands if she finished the laundry before the girls got home from school. If she hurried through paying the creditors and didn’t linger to visit, she could pay the weekly bills, post her letter to Peter, pick up the girl’s new shoes, and still have twenty minutes to stop by the Dryfus site.
Golden Avenue was a steep climb from Bennet and she was slightly winded when she arrived at the site. Stopping to catch her breath, Angie shaded her eyes and examined the reverend’s new two-story parsonage.
Her first impression was that the reverend’s wife would be delighted with the intricate fretwork along the eaves and with the wide veranda shaded by a stand of cottonwoods. Her second sobering impression was that Sam was a gifted builder. The house was elegant, snug, and tight, every detail a lesson in perfection.
One of the men painting the exterior climbed down a ladder and crossed the street. “Angie? What are you doing here?” Sam smiled, pleased and surprised.
“I brought you some ham and beans,” she said, pulling the jar out of her cloth shopping bag. “For tonight. When you go up to your claims,” she added when he looked puzzled. “Oh. I almost forgot to give you the spoon. Here.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” He accepted his supper, but his gaze narrowed warily.
“I just thought . . . Well, by the time you get home, I’ve put away the supper things.” She spread her hands, feeling her face blaze crimson. “I know you must get hungry. It’s a long time between dinner and supper.”
A sparkle of amusement chased the suspicion. “You don’t have to explain doing something thoughtful.”
“You had an odd look on your face. Like maybe you thought the beans were tainted or something.”
“I was surprised, that’s all.”
Surely there was something wrong with a woman who felt a weakness for a man wearing a work shirt rolled to the elbows, Angie thought helplessly, fighting an urge to fan her face. She glanced at the light goldtipped hair on his arms and the thick muscle turning brown in the sun. Then she lifted her gaze to a strand of long dark hair that had pulled out of the twine tying the curl on the back of his neck. When the strand of hair lying against his cheek began to seem bafflingly disturbing, she lowered her gaze to the hammer hanging from a loop on his denims near his thighs.
Oh Lord. What was happening to her? Images she’d seen only in secretly obtained medical tomes teased her mind and left her feeling light-headed.
“Angie? Are you all right?” Catching her elbow, he steadied her.
But his strong fingers on her arm only made things worse. A hot electric jolt ran toward her shoulder and made her twitch.