Carolyn Davidson - The Wedding Promise

Already, she had rearranged the pantry shelves to her liking, adding her own meager stores to the bountiful supply of tins and sacks gracing the shelves. That any one household should be so blessed by an abundance of foodstuffs was almost beyond belief.

A thrill of anticipation brightened her eyes and lightened her steps as she gathered the ingredients for the beef stew she planned for the noon meal. The meat was cut up and browned right after breakfast, with several onions adding a tangy scent. She’d found a sack of sprouting potatoes and upended them in the sink, sorting and scraping at the lot.

Somewhere outdoors, she decided, there must be a cellar where the garden produce had been stored for the winter.

The pantry held cans of peaches and she determined to make a cobbler, with sweet biscuits crusting it. Then she’d discovered the jars of home-canned applesauce and her eyes had widened at the sight of such luxury. Traveling from Pennsylvania had inured her to the prospect of dried and unpalatable fruit, not to mention the absence of fresh meat, except for the rabbits her father had managed to shoot along the way.

Her heart sang with the pleasure of putting roses in the cheeks of Jay and Henry once more, too long fed with oatmeal and cornbread, a handful of greens and an occasional fish. Henry had brought down a few rabbits, but she’d had a hard time cleaning the small specimens he’d managed to bring home.

Her mind wandered as she peeled potatoes, setting them aside in a pan of water to wait for the stew to be ready, her mouth shaping the words of a song as she sang beneath her breath.

The memory of a piano she’d spied in the front parlor yesterday afternoon entered her mind, and she thought with longing of the music hidden in those black and white keys.

Cord McPherson had walked her past those open double doors guarding the formal room at one side of the house, affording her but a glimpse of the beautiful instrument. Perhaps she could just take another look, maybe even open the other doors on that long hallway.

A house of this size was a wonderment. That Cord McPherson was a man of means had been a given. After all, he owned the ranch. That his home should be so fine was a pleasure beyond her imagining.

Wiping her hands on the dish towel she’d tucked into her apron, Rachel looked around the kitchen. Midmorning sunshine splashed across the pine floor, too strong to be stopped by the streaked windows.

She’d do well to get out a keg of vinegar and wash them, instead of considering poking her nose into the nooks and crannies of Cord McPherson’s home, she thought virtuously. And then with a twirl of skirts and a girlish laugh stifled with her open palm, she left her apron behind and set off down the hallway.

The parlor was magnificent, with a plush sofa much like the one that had graced their own parlor in Pennsylvania. The library desk beneath the window held an assortment of pictures and small ornaments that beckoned her invitingly.

She paused beside the mantelpiece, admiring the brass figures and marble pieces gathered there for display, then hesitated in the middle of the room to turn in a full circle. Coming to a halt, Rachel faced the piano, her mouth opening, a soft, yearning sound passing her lips.

Her feet moved soundlessly across the carpet in the center of the wooden floor, her soft-soled shoes a whisper. With reverent fingers, she lifted the lid that covered the keys and eased it to its open position. One finger touched white ivory, and she tilted her head as she heard the clear tone of hammer striking string within the instrument.

“Ohhhh…!” It was more than a whispered exclamation of delight From the depths of her soul, the yearning of her hungry heart expressed itself.

Music. The gift that eased the longings of her spirit, that fed her, nourishing her with beauty beyond bearing.

The temptation was more than she could resist. Rachel slid onto the bench, yielding to the attraction of the sounds held captive within the depths of the instrument before her. Lifting her hands, she placed them on the keys.

A melody flowed with liquid beauty from beneath her right hand, the fingers of the left adding a counterpoint of chords and running trills. Her eyes closed with the sheer ecstasy of it and she bent her head, her ear attuned to each note.

From the hallway a roar of disbelief sounded, a bellow of rage that halted her hands in their melodious pursuit. She spun on the bench, one leg half-bent beneath her as she looked over her shoulder.

Framed in the wide doorway was a man, sitting in an invalid’s chair. Empty pant legs hung lankly to the foot rest, only one knee curved over the seat. His hair hung to his shoulders in dark disarray. Bearded and hunched, looking like a beast set on ravishing the cause of his anger, he leaned in Rachel’s direction.

“I’m so sorry I disturbed you.” It was barely more than a whisper, spoken from between trembling lips. Her hands were clenched between her breasts, her heart beating a rapid cadence beneath her fists.

But he paid her apology no attention, his whole being seemingly bound by the furious rage that impelled him. His hands gripped the wheels and he spun them, sending his vehicle surging in her direction. Dark eyes, narrowed and blazing with an unholy anger, stopped her breath in her throat as she met his gaze with dismay.

And then he halted, midway across the room, and snarled a curse that fell on her ears and caused her to draw an unbelieving breath. He spun the wheels once more and the chair bumped against the piano bench, jarring her from her frozen pose of horror.

One hand reached toward him, as if to fend off his attack, and he cast the trembling fingers a look of such scorn as to cause them to fall back in her lap.

“I beg your pardon, sir…” The words were stronger this time as her mind raced, seeking an answer to the appearance of this creature before her.

And then he spoke, the words spaced as if uttered in the presence of an idiot, to whom he must make himself clearly understood.

“Who the hell are you?”

Rachel caught her breath with a shuddering gasp, her words barely a whisper. “My name is Rachel Sinclair.” She swayed where she sat, expecting to be shunted from her perch momentarily.

The rolling chair backed a few inches and thumped again against the padded seat, jarring her. Her hand grasped for purchase and she caught her balance, her long, slender fingers clutching at the arm of the chair.

Horror-stricken, her eyes fastened on the man before her and she flinched as he plucked her fingers from his chair, dropping them from his grasp with contempt. He brushed his palm against his patchwork lap robe and her gaze was drawn to the gesture.

Long, elegant fingers, pale with winter’s flesh, wiped her warmth from his skin. It was an insult she could not ignore.

“I beg your pardon. I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing anyone with my playing, sir.” Pleased at the even tenor of her words, she lifted her chin to face the disheveled intruder.

Beneath lowered brows, his gaze was fierce, his voice rasping. “Who gave you leave to be in here? This piano is not to be touched. Not by anyone.”

Rachel lowered her leg to the floor and slid from the bench, easing beyond the end of the keyboard. Retreat seemed to be in order. “Mr. McPherson didn’t say…I’m afraid I’ve overstepped, sir.”

The doorway looming over his shoulder was wide and inviting. Rachel eyed it, wondering if he would attempt to stop her should she scamper past him. His agility in the chair he’d maneuvered so easily gave her pause as she considered.

“What are you doing in this house?” His query was forced between taut lips, his flaring nostrils adding to an air of fury that was punctuated by the spacing of his words.