A Mistaken Match. Whitney Bailey

house. The soles of his boots left gray ghosts of dust on the floor as he walked. Odd. They’d never done that before.

      Ann stood at the stove. He was thankful to note that her hair was pinned up. He grunted a hello, poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

      “Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.

      He nodded into his cup.

      “Will your uncle be joining us?”

      “Uncle Mac takes most meals in his room. If he doesn’t come down shortly, you can take some up to him.”

      Ann cracked two eggs into the skillet from the basketful he’d collected early that morning and left in the kitchen long before Ann awoke. They sent up a sizzle and added a homey scent to the new and pleasant odor in the room. When had he smelled it before? Something was definitely different. The white of the baseboards gleamed whiter. The red-checked curtain over the window hung crisp and vibrant. And the floor had been scrubbed! He realized that his boots always left prints, only now he could see them as they contrasted against the gleaming wood.

      She set breakfast before him. Two eggs and a thick slice of leftover bread she must have found in the pantry. His stomach rumbled and he shoveled in several bites. Raw egg white mingled with burned yolk. A large shard of eggshell crunched between his teeth. James stifled a gag and sipped his coffee. Coffee grounds mixed with the mess of egg in his mouth and he swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Thank You, Lord. He needed a reminder of why he’d requested a plain bride.

      “You said you used to be a maid?”

      “That’s right.”

      “You’ve never been a cook.”

      “No, the house always had its own cook. I worked only as a maid.”

      James sighed. “Come here.”

      She stepped closer.

      “Did you use lard?” She shook her head no. “Had you ever cracked an egg before?” Her cheeks colored and she shook her blond head again. “Why did you scramble them?”

      “The yolks broke.”

      He sighed again and pushed away from the table. Ann stood stock-still until he grasped her by the elbow, and guided her to the stove. James retrieved an egg from the basket on the sideboard and cradled it in his palm.

      “Think of this egg as money. If you hadn’t gone and ruined those—” he cocked his head toward the table “—I could have sold them for almost two cents apiece. You wouldn’t throw two cents out into the field would you?”

      As the words came out, he was vaguely aware he was speaking to her as though she were a child. She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “No, I would not throw two cents out into the field,” she replied coolly.

      “What you do is this. Make sure the skillet is nice and hot and drop in some lard. Roll it around until it sizzles. If it smokes, move it off the fire.” He could make eggs in his sleep. Once the lard had melted into a shimmering puddle, he deftly cracked the egg with one hand. It hit the pan with a hiss and bubbled along its edges.

      “I don’t like my eggs scrambled. I like them over easy. It takes some practice and a soft touch.” He took her hand and placed it on the handle of the spatula and covered her hand with his own. Together they turned over the egg. It sizzled again.

      “The yolk didn’t break,” she half whispered.

      James chuckled. “Not if you do it right. Fetch that plate,” he directed.

      She retrieved his dish from the table and scraped the offending eggs into the slop bucket. He took the plate and held it near the skillet.

      “Can you do this yourself? You still need to be gentle.”

      “I think so.” She slid the spatula under the egg and James held his breath as it crossed the short distance from skillet to plate. They smiled at each other as it came to rest.

      “Perfect,” he breathed. James raised the plate to his nose and inhaled. “Now, do the next one by yourself.”

      Ann yelped and jumped back from the stove. She’d grasped the blisteringly hot handle of the cast-iron skillet.

      James’s heart jumped to this throat and he snatched up her hand. The flesh on her thumb and first three fingers pulsed red and angry. Several white blisters appeared before his eyes. He plunged her hand into a pitcher of water on the kitchen table. “You must always cover the handle of the skillet with a towel,” he gently scolded. He withdrew her hand and blew a cool stream of air on it. “Does it still hurt?” he murmured between breaths.

      She bit her lip. “Yes,” she gasped.

      Without a word he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out the back door. The water pump stood a few yards away. He pumped the handle with one hand and plunged her fingers beneath the icy stream that bubbled forth with the other. Every few moments he removed her hand from the water, examined it and blew a new stream of air across the wet skin to ease the pain.

      Each time he drew a breath he also took in the scent of her. Lavender soap and rose petals. Focus! He had to focus on her hand. If he broke the blisters, she risked infection. A curl of her golden hair escaped its pins and brushed his cheek. She turned her face to him and smiled weakly. He shivered.

      The shudder of movement cleared his head. He’d let her entrance him again. “We need to get some salve on this,” he said gruffly.

      “Do you have butter?”

      “Butter’s no good. I have something better.” He grasped her uninjured hand and drew her back into the house. He left her in the kitchen and returned with a tiny silver tin and strips of clean cloth. She wrinkled her nose as he slathered the foul-smelling paste on the burn, but he smiled at the sulfuric, acrid scent. It always reminded him of Mother.

      “This smells awful.” She drew up her mouth and pinched her nose.

      He mimicked her grimace and laughed.

      “What’s so funny?” She tried to jerk her injured hand away but he held on tighter.

      “Just trust old Doctor McCann.” He slowly wound the strips of cloth around her slim fingers as he scrutinized the calluses dotting her palm. He still couldn’t imagine a beauty like her assigned to more than the lightest of household tasks. Maybe she was simply thin-skinned?

      She picked up the tin of salve with her free hand and eyed the contents. “What’s in this?” she asked warily.

      “Beeswax, honey and a few local herbs, among other things.”

      “What kind of herbs?”

      “Guess.”

      Before he could stop her, she placed the tin under her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyes watered and her rosy cheeks turned beet red. She coughed daintily into the sleeve of her free arm but the cough turned into a choke. Soon tears streamed down her cheeks as she barked in ladylike fits. James laughed.

      “What is so funny?” she demanded as she wiped at her streaming cheeks.

      “I’m sorry, Ann. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so adorable.”

      His stomach turned to ice and his heart raced. He dropped her hand.

      “I looked so what?” Her deep blue eyes narrowed.

      Had she really not heard? “I have a lot of work to do outside,” he mumbled. He had to get away from her. “I’ll take my breakfast with me.”

      James snatched up his plate and stepped onto the back porch. The cool morning air washed over him like a sobering bucket of cold water.

      The emotional ups and downs that came just from being around Ann were making him dizzy—and angry. He’d had such a simple plan: marry for practicality to a plain, decent woman who’d never leave him so twisted up inside. And then Ann walked into his life and ruined everything,