Thanksgiving Groom. Brenda Minton

fine with that.” She looked up, blue eyes dark in the shadowy room. “What about you?”

      “I’m a big boy and I’m not afraid.”

      “I mean, where do you sleep?”

      “Upstairs.”

      “Oh.” She let out a breath and looked pretty relieved.

      “There you go. It’s still early. I’ll light another lantern, and if you’d like, I can bring you a book.”

      “I’d love a shower.” She glowed rosy pink and looked down, at the cup of tea she still held.

      He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. He’d traumatized her enough for one day. Instead he did his best “hoping to make you feel better about your situation” voice. “I’m afraid a shower is out.”

      “Out?” She looked up. He imagined that most people would have built a shower for her if she’d looked at them like that.

      “No electricity, no hot water. No running water, actually.”

      “Oh.”

      “I take it you hadn’t meant to rough it quite this much.”

      She shrugged, “I hadn’t thought about it. But actually, I did want to rough it, Mr. Lawson. I came here to prove…”

      She didn’t finish. That had him more than a little curious. It had been a long time since he’d been curious. He sat back down, ready to hear what she wanted to prove.

      “Prove what?”

      “Nothing.” She lifted her cup and sipped, ignoring his questioning looks. But he wasn’t about to give up.

      “Oh come on, Penelope, we’re both here for reasons that the rest of the world can’t understand.”

      She lowered the cup. Teeth bit into her bottom lip and she studied his face. Her eyes overflowed again. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

      He drew in a breath, amazed that five words could change everything. He’d been playing with her, teasing. And she had laid him low with a soft look and words of compassion.

      What did he say? Did he tell her she couldn’t begin to imagine how this felt? He didn’t know her well enough. He thought he might get up and walk out. But he couldn’t leave her sitting on the sofa in this lonely room.

      “Thank you,” he finally answered, the only words that he could say. He could no longer question why she was here. He thought maybe she had good reasons.

      Maybe she was escaping a father who thought he could control her life. From what he knew of Mr. Lear, that was more than plausible.

      “I can’t get you a shower, but tomorrow Mrs. Johnson can help you heat water for a bath.” He stood and really wished that Wilma would reappear. He wasn’t a nursemaid or a nanny. “I can get you a book to read.”

      “A book would be good.”

      He would bring her a book, and then he would escape to his room. Not what he normally did at six in the evening, but tonight he wouldn’t mind being alone. More than anything, he wanted to be as far from Penelope Lear as possible, because she had brought his old life into this safe place. She had reminded him of everything he’d been running from. And she was exactly the kind of woman he didn’t want to deal with.

      “Tucker, thank you.”

      He nodded as he walked out the door.

      Chapter Three

      Penelope woke to a steady chopping sound. She sat up, brushing hair back from her face and blinking a few times to clear her vision. The room was in shadows. That didn’t mean it was early, it meant it was winter.

      She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Her second day lost in the wilderness. Her second day in these clothes. Not much she could do about that. She left her one change of clothes in the ravine with her backpack.

      The most pressing matter was to find a cup of coffee. If they had coffee. She stood, flinching a little when weight hit her foot. But it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. She took a few careful steps. And then she saw it: sitting on the chair by the door was her backpack.

      Tucker had gone back for it. She picked it up, opened it and sorted through the one change of clothes, her cell phone—worthless that it was—and the bottle of water.

      The door opened and Wilma peeked in. “Well, you’re up and around. Would you like coffee and breakfast?”

      “I’d love coffee and breakfast.” She’d love a shower, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

      “Come on down. Can you make it okay?” Wilma looked at her foot, shaking her head. She was a sweet lady, with dark hair and eyes that were so kind, Penelope wanted to know her better and maybe keep her in her life for a long time.

      “I think so. It doesn’t feel that bad today.”

      “Good. And later you can change clothes and we’ll wash the ones you have on.”

      “Without running water?”

      Wilma smiled and laughed a little. “We’ll heat water and wash them in a tub. And you can take a bath, too.”

      “That would be wonderful.” She set her pack back on the chair. “How did it get here?”

      “Tucker went out early, hunting, and he brought it back.”

      “Hunting?”

      “Yes, hunting. He didn’t get anything, though. I think sometimes he uses hunting as an excuse to walk.”

      Penelope peeked through the opening in the curtains. The chopping sound again echoing in the quiet morning. She saw Tucker swinging an axe at a log. Of course, they would need firewood. He swung again, connecting, splitting the log. As if he knew she was watching, he glanced toward the house. He couldn’t see her though. He swiped his arm across his brow and continued to chop.

      Wilma smiled and started down the wood-paneled hall, in what must have been the direction of the kitchen and the most wonderful aromas.

      “How do you cook?” Penelope followed her.

      “Wood burning stove in the kitchen.”

      Of course, that explained the smokey smell. They walked into the kitchen. A lantern hung from the ceiling, and dim light came in through the windows. No curtains. The room was walled with pine paneling and the floors were stone. It was warm, and the sweet smell of something wonderful and baked scented the air.

      “I made muffins. It isn’t easy in that old stove, but they turned out decent.” Wilma placed two muffins on a plate. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee and have a seat.”

      The coffee pot was on the stove, an old blue pot like the ones she’d seen in antique stores. Penelope took the cup that Wilma handed her and poured the dark liquid into it.

      “Would you like me to pour you a cup?” She turned to Wilma, who had set their plates on the table.

      “Oh, no, I’ve had plenty. My heart races if I drink too much coffee.”

      Penelope carried her cup back to the table and sat down, wincing a little. Her ankle throbbed from the short walk down the hall. Wilma watched her, brown eyes warm, full of compassion.

      “Not better today, is it?”

      “I thought it might be. I was hoping. Thinking if it was, I could head toward Treasure Creek.”

      “You can’t do that.” Wilma shook her head. “It’s too far.”

      “But they’ll be worried. My family will be worried.”

      “They’ll search for you. Maybe they’ll find you here. If not, you’re going to have to wait until you can walk. It isn’t a short