Emma Miller - A Beau For Katie

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 him a washcloth and draping a towel around his neck. This mirror was small and fixed to the wall over the sink. “Is there another mirror I could bring in here?”

“I don’t need your help. Just hand me my razor and soap and brush from over there,” he said, pointing to a pretty old oak dresser that she suspected held towels and the like. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. I can manage without the mirror.”

“If you’ll tell me where to find scissors, I could trim the back of your hair. That’s not something you can do yourself,” she offered, putting his things on the edge of the sink.

“My hair is fine. Now go change those sheets you’ve been fussing about.”

She made no argument but went and located a linen closet at the top of the stairs. As Freeman had said, it had sheets for double beds, but she could easily tuck the excess under the mattress. The important thing was that the sheets were clean. They would do for now. Next time, she would have freshly washed and line-dried linen to go on his bed, provided he didn’t fire her first.

When she finished the task and returned to the bathroom, she found him still sitting at the sink, shaving cream on his face and a razor in his hand. There were uneven patches of beard on his cheeks and a trickle of blood down his chin. Wordlessly, he handed the razor to her, grimaced, and clenched his eyes shut. She ran hot water on the washcloth, twisted it until the excess water ran out, and pressed it over his face.

She’d said that shaving Freeman would be no different that shaving her brothers, but as she stood there looking at him, she realized it was. It was very different. She had to steady her hands as she removed the washcloth and began with more shaving cream. Her pulse quickened, and she felt a warm flush beneath her skin.

Shaving Freeman was more intimate than she’d supposed it would be and she was thankful that his dark eyes were closed. The act bordered on inappropriate behavior between an unmarried man and woman, but neither of them intended it to be anything other than what it was. She’d offered with the best of intentions and backing down now would be worse than going through with it, wouldn’t it?

But what if her hands trembled and she cut him? How would she explain that?

She took a deep breath and plunged forward, silently praying, Don’t let my hand slip. Please, don’t let him see how nervous I am. The small curling hairs at the nape of her neck grew damp and her knees felt weak, but she kept sliding the razor down the smooth plane of his cheek. The blade was sharp, and Freeman held perfectly still. If he’d moved, even a fraction of an inch, she knew that the blade would break his skin, but he didn’t, and she managed to finish without disgracing herself.

“All done.” Heady with success, she handed him the wet washcloth. “See, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Thank you.” He wiped his face and opened his eyes.

“I could still do something with your hair,” she offered.

He wiped a last bit of shaving cream from his chin and tossed the washcloth in the sink. “Quit while you’re ahead, woman.”

She laughed. “You do look a lot better.” And he did, more than better. Shaggy hair brushing his shirt collar or not, he had the kind of good looks that cautious mothers warned their daughters against. And with good reason, she thought, as she locked her shaking hands behind her back.

“I’m not a vain man.”

She couldn’t hide a mischievous grin. “Ne?” She thought that he wasn’t telling the exact truth. In her mind, most men were as vain as any woman. They just hid it better. And Freeman had more reason than most to take pride in his looks.

“I’m a Plain man. I have more on my mind than my appearance.”

“I can see that,” she agreed. “But no one said that a clean and tidy man was an offense to the church.”

He fixed her with those lingering brown eyes, eyes that were not as full of disapproval as they had been. “Do you have an answer for everything?” he asked. But she sensed that he was making an effort at humor rather than being sarcastic.

“I try.” She nodded. “Now I’ll leave you to finish washing up. Call when you need me to bring you back out to the kitchen.”

“I think I can push myself,” he grumbled.

Smiling, she left him to go throw the sheets in the wash.

She’d just started mixing a batch of cornbread when Freeman came rolling slowly down the hall. He looked pale, as if he’d run a long distance. She could tell he was in pain, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Do you think you could peel potatoes for me?”

“I suppose I could,” he said. “Isn’t it too early to be starting the midday meal?”

“Too early for cooking. Not too early for starting the preparation. I’ve lots to do this morning, and you have to be organized to get meals on the table on time and still get the rest of your work done.”

“Organization is a good thing,” he agreed. “Not many people understand that. They waste hours that could go to good purpose.”

“Mmm.” She brought him a large stainless steel bowl, a paring knife, and the potatoes. “If you peel these, I’ll cut them up and put them in salted water, ready to cook when it gets closer to mealtime.”

“My mother was a good cook,” he said.

“Mine, too. Better than me.”

“She’s still with you, isn’t she?”

“Ya, thanks be to God. We lost my father a few years ago, but we were fortunate to have him as long as we did. Dat had five heart surgeries, starting when he was a baby. He was never strong, but he lived a full life, and he and my mother were happy together.”

“It’s important, having parents who cared for each other. Mine did, too. They died too soon. An accident.” He shook his head, and she saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Then why did he bring it up, she wondered. But she was glad that he had, felt that it was a positive step in their relationship. If she was going to work here, for the next two weeks, it would be better if they weren’t always butting heads.

“Do you fish?” he asked.

“What?” She’d been thinking about what he’d said about his parents and hadn’t been giving him her full attention. “Do I like fish? To eat?”

“Ya, to eat. But I meant to catch. I like fishing. It’s what I usually do on summer evenings. We have big bass in the millpond, catfish, perch, as well as sunnies.”

“I do like fishing,” she said. “And crabbing. My dat used to take us to Leipsic. We’d crab off the bridge there. And fish, too, but we never caught many.”

“It takes patience and know-how. Bass, especially, are clever. But very tasty. I use artificial lures for them.”