Page 68 of Silver Lining
"A little grit won't hurt." Leaving her rooted to the floor, Max bent to pick up the biscuits, putting them in a bowl. He turned his head sideways. "You're wearing a pair of my trousers under that apron."
"Well, you didn't think I was going out there to feed cows wearing a skirt, did you?" For no reason at all she was suddenly angry enough to bash him over the head with the skillet. Gripping the handle, she stared down at him, wanting to smack him one.
What was this darlin' business, anyway? She did not want to moon around over his unshaved whiskers, and she did not want him calling her darlin'. No sir. When it was time to walk away from here, she wanted to do it without a pang. Without regret, without a single backward glance. And without hearing the wind whistle through a hole in her heart.
Releasing the skillet, she slammed the oven door, then forked up ham slices and slapped them on the plates. Grits slopped over the pan when she ladled out a couple of scoops and smothered the grits and ham beneath a river of red-eye gravy. Not a single egg yoke survived an assault with the spatula.
"Louise?" Max leaned back when she banged his plate down in front of him. "What happened here?
Why do you suddenly have a burr in your blanket?"
"Just eat your breakfast. And don't go calling me darlin' anymore. I mean it."
He blinked. "I called you darling?"
"Damned straight you did, and I don't like it!"
He sat down and snapped a napkin across his lap. "Exactly when did this terrible offense occur? Last night?"
A rush of color heated her cheeks. The last two nights had been, well, spectacular. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, either. It troubled her that she'd done a complete about-face and was starting to enjoy poking so much. And kissing. Kissing was more thrilling than she had ever dreamed it could be.
"Not last night. You said it just now." She'd been right, he didn't even know he'd called her darlin'. On the one hand, that lessened the offense. On the other hand, that he didn't even know he'd said something nice was pretty insulting.
"Now, I'm not saying you're wrong to be angry and offended. But it seems to me there are a lot worse things one person could call another person than darlin'."
When she looked up, his eyes were sparkling and his lips twitched at the corners.
"In fact, if you wanted to call me darlin', I think I could stand it. I imagine I'd shudder the first time, maybe take offense. Then I think I'd settle down and decide that darlin' was a lot nicer than, oh, something like 'you bastard.'"
She narrowed her eyes and stared at him suspiciously. "You're joshing me, right?"
His eyes twinkled and danced above those twitching lips. "Now would I tease an angry woman?"
Good Lord. That's exactly what he was doing. Louise leaned back in her chair. She didn't think anyone had ever teased her before.
"Darlin'," he said, drawing out the word, "finish your breakfast. Time's wasting. We need to get out there in the storm and find out if we've made a mistake or if we're going to be able to feed those beeves all winter."
"Of course we are," she snapped, staring at him. Her mind had turned mushy. She didn't know if she was still pissy that he'd called her darlin', or if she was flattered and pleased that he'd teased her. Well, damn. Here she went, mooning around again. "How are we going to do it?"
"Have you pitched hay before?"
"I've seen it done. You want more coffee?"
"Watching it and doing it are two different things. Yes, thank you, I'd like more coffee."
"Well, get it yourself and I'd like some, too." The way she was mooning around and falling into wifely service was enough to gag a cat. Most of the time she didn't even notice the bad habits she was developing. If she didn't nip this in the bud, pretty soon she'd be polishing his boots and saddles. "How much hay pitching are we going to be doing?"
He blinked and ran his fingers over the pox marks on his chin, then he got up and poured them both more coffee. "We have to fork the hay out of the stack and onto the sled. Then you drive the team and I'll pitch hay off the back. When the first load is distributed, we'll drive back to the haystack and load up again. We'll know more after this morning, but I figure we'll need at least five or six loads."
Louise smiled and relaxed in her chair. "That doesn't sound too hard."
*
She was dead wrong.
By the time she finished washing the breakfast dishes, bundled up, and trudged out behind the barn, Max had hitched the team and was already pitching hay onto the flat bed of the sled. Like her, he wore a bandanna tied over his hat and knotted under his chin to hold his hat in place. But he'd thrown off his duster. After a few minutes Louise threw off her duster, too. Pitching hay was hard labor, and within minutes she'd worked up a sweat. Long before the sled was loaded she thought her arms were going to fall off her body. Only pride and willpower kept her wielding the pitchfork.
Once the sled was mounded, they stopped to wipe their foreheads and catch their breath. In less than a minute, Louise felt the cold seep through her shirt and trousers and settle in her sweat-damp long johns.
