But was Katie Brenneman the answer? Part of him thought she could be. Katie had a sunny nature which encouraged him to smile. He liked the way she treated others and how she was just bossy enough so as he wouldn’t be tempted to run roughshod over her.
She also had a winsome way he found as beguiling as anything he’d ever come in contact with. It made him want to protect her and keep her safe.
Though he was not anxious to admit it, he liked how she did not always bend to his will. She stood up to him, but not in that brash way Sarah used to. No, it was more Katie’s way to listen to him, then state her reasons for wanting things differently.
She was a surprisingly good negotiator, that Katie.
In spite of himself, he smiled. As every day passed, Jonathan found himself becoming more eager to see her. Every morning when she made him breakfast, it was becoming harder and harder not to admire the way she moved about the kitchen so competently.
Not to notice how pretty her skin was when the morning light shined on her just so. How her clothes smelled of lemons and her eyes were bluer than a fresh spring iris.
But in spite of his awareness of her, he still found himself to be at a loss for words around her. Part of him wanted to encourage her attentions, to show her that he welcomed them. But old hurts from his past would curb his tongue.
Now he worried that his distant manner had wiped out any feelings she’d previously had for him. Would she now even want such a man as himself? Someone so much older than she? Katie was twenty, while he was twenty-eight. Eight years was a fair difference. Perhaps she would notice his age over time.
He’d also noticed how she had tried to please him. She’d taken to making applesauce bread when he’d commented how much he liked it. But, had he even attempted to praise her cooking skills? He doubted he had—sometimes when he looked at her, all thoughts would run from his head and it would take all he had just to remain in the same room with her.
Fact was, from the time he could remember, people had commented on Katie’s fair beauty, both in looks and in spirit. While it was true rumors had circulated about her running-around years and how she’d been a bit too wild, Jonathan had long since pushed those stories off. Gossip seemed to be inevitable in their small community. No, Katie Brenneman was a fair faultless woman, and therefore, most certainly not the type of woman for him.
The only remedy he could think of for his preoccupation was to keep away from her. He decided to do just that, and began edging backward out the doorway. Perhaps he could read through The Budget again. There might be some article or bit of news he’d overlooked the first time he’d read it through.
Or he could work some in the barn. He’d neglected the tack room something awful lately. Blacky’s bridles could use a good oiling.
“Jonathan, please don’t go.”
Caught, he froze. “Hello, Katie. Gut-n-owed.”
“Good evening to you, too.”
Something in her voice was different. High strung. Concerned, he stepped forward in spite of himself. “Are you needing something?”
“No, it’s not that.” She treated him to a ghost of a smile. “I just—well, I was alone all day and now the girls are asleep. Want to come in here and sit for a bit?”
He did not. What would he have to say to her that she would find interesting? What would she do if she caught him staring at her, like a young boy?
She nibbled on her lower lip. “I won’t keep you too long. I promise.”
He couldn’t refuse such an offer. “All right.”
Katie was a near wonder—he’d feel bad if he didn’t try to nod to her wishes at least a little bit. He moved forward and hesitantly sat in the large rocking chair across from her. “Are you warm enough?”
The fire was roaring, and she’d even thoughtfully laid a crocheted afghan along the back of his chair. “I’m comfortable. This room has become mighty cozy, don’tcha think?”
The room had never looked so inviting. But if he admitted that, it would shame Sarah’s memory. Wouldn’t it? “The fire is warm.”
Something faded in her expression. Raising her chin, she tried again. “That rocking chair there is a fine piece of furniture. Have you had it long?”
He paused to rub the soft, buttery wood under his arm. “Jah. My daadi—my grandfather—made this chair soon after he and my mammi Leonna married.”
“What kind of wood is it? Oak?”
“Oak, jah. But it’s stained a fair shade.” Remembering Sarah’s criticisms of it, he mumbled, “Some think it’s a bit too dark.”
“It’s beautiful. I’ve taken to rocking in it when the girls come home and want to read with me.”