A Beau For Katie. Emma Miller

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