His Mail-Order Bride

“Let me do it.” She nudged him aside with her elbow.

Obediently, he eased back, but instead of sitting down at the table, he settled a hip against the edge of the tabletop and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. Watching her. As if to inspect her household skills and pass judgment on them.

Charlotte glanced down at the pile of firewood and pursed her lips. The front of the stove had three hatches, one big, two small. She bent down, opened the biggest hatch and threw a few bits of firewood inside.

“That’s the oven,” Thomas said. “The wood goes into the smaller compartment on the left.”

Charlotte swallowed hard, nodded, removed the bits of firewood and placed them in the smaller compartment on the left, just as he had told her. She could see a round pit in the metal bottom of the compartment and guessed that the firewood, as it burned, would collapse into the third compartment beneath. That must be where a low fire burned for baking and where the ashes gathered for removal.

“How are you going to get the fire started?” Thomas asked.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He pointed at the small pieces of bark gathered in a metal bucket beside the firewood. “Kindling.”

Charlotte nodded, rebuilt her pile of firewood with kindling at the bottom and glanced once more over her shoulder, her eyebrows arched in question.

“You need to stack the wood loosely, to allow air to circulate in between. Wood stacked in a tight pile won’t catch flame.”

She nodded, did it all over again.

Thomas pointed. “Matches are on the shelf.”

Rising on her toes, Charlotte searched the shelf, found the small metal tin and clipped it open. Her eyes narrowed in victory. Something familiar. Papa had used matches to light his pipe, and she’d used them for candles. She snapped a match free from the row, looked around for a piece of sandpaper to strike it against but saw none.

Any abrasive surface would do. Her eyes darted from object to object, settled on a heavy cast iron frying pan sitting on the counter. Eager to demonstrate her competence, Charlotte shot one arm out and drew the match across the belly of the frying pan.

“No,” Thomas shouted, but it was too late.

The flame sparked, and blew up from the frying pan like a dragon’s breath. Charlotte screamed and jumped back. Strong arms closed around her, lifting her off her feet. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, Thomas inspected her hands.

“Did you burn your fingers? Show me! Show me!”

Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but they were tears of misery and frustration and helplessness, not tears of pain. Charlotte clenched her hands into fists to keep away his probing fingers. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

It took a moment before the intimacy of their position registered in her mind. She was dangling in the air, anchored against his chest. A thick forearm cut like a band of steel across her waist. Thomas was looking down over her shoulder, his head bent next to hers. She could feel the rough stubble on his jaw rubbing against her cheek.

And yet, despite the hold that emphasized his superior strength, his touch was gentle. It was clear that he could subdue her without effort, but something in his manner told her he would never hurt a woman. She need not fear that he might take her by force. The realization eased her terror, but a new kind of tension crept in its place.

Slowly, Thomas released her, settling her on her feet.

“I never wash the frying pan,” he explained. “I just wipe it with a cloth, which leaves a layer of grease on the bottom. It keeps food from sticking to the metal.” He took another match from the tin, squatted in front of the stove, rearranged the wood, struck the match against his thumbnail and lit the fire. He spoke with his back to her, his eyes on the catching flames. “The coffee is on the shelf.”

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