The coffee's warmth hardly registered, but the touch of her hand burned his flesh. The woman treated him with the same careless handling she must treat the rag dolls she made. Any moment, he half-expected her to be sewing new button eyes onto his head.
He caught the tea towel she dabbed with and pulled it from her. “I can clean up myself.” He knew his voice was harsh, but she seemed to have a complete disregard for his modesty. “Watch where you're patting. And, while we're on the subject, I can bathe myself from now on. There's no need for you to do it.”
He knew she was still in the room. He could hear her breathing. She must be standing next to the bed like a statue.
“But…”
“But what, Mrs. McLain?”
“But, last night…”
“There was no last night.” He knew he was being harsh, but she'd better understand once and for all that there could never be anything between them. They might be married for the rest of their lives, but he didn't want her harboring any hope that he'd love her. He'd loved once and that was enough for a lifetime. “And in the future, I'd like to drink my coffee, not bathe in it.”
He heard a tiny little sound that seemed to come from deep in her throat. Words so jumbled they blocked all speech.
Then, without warning, hot coffee splashed across his chest.
Daniel yelped and lunged forward, reaching for her, almost toppling off the bed in his haste. Growling like a wounded bear, he wiped the brew from his face with one bandaged hand. The other swung wide, trying to catch her in his net.
It didn't matter that he had no idea what he'd do with her if he caught her. No one had ever dared do what she'd done.
He might not have heard her enter, but he heard her stomp out of the room. No apology, no explanation.
“Unpredictable,” he mumbled. “Temperamental old maid!” He dragged his injured leg to the edge of the bed. The pain fought its way through his anger. If he tried to follow her, he'd only hurt the wound more. She wasn't worth it. He didn't even like the woman. She was one level worse than the plagues of Job.
“Morning, Danny boy. Wearing your coffee these days?” Wolf chuckled. “The politeness of the honeymoon doesn't last as long as it used to.”
A dry towel hit Daniel's chest as he heard the chair beside him groan under Wolf's weight. The huge man seemed to think every chair in the house was a rocker.
“I wanted to allow you two newlyweds some time alone before the house wakes up, but Karlee just stormed into the kitchen and told me she'd guard the savage while she fixed breakfast. From the look in her fiery green eyes, I'd feel sorry for the boy if he picked her watch to try and break free.”
Daniel wiped off his chest, feeling the coffee grounds against his skin. “She still hasn't learned to make a decent cup of coffee,” he mumbled. “And the woman has no gentle spirit, I can testify to that. She also has no patience or understanding about a man getting up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Maybe you'd better learn which side is the right side, Danny, if you plan on waking up at all. Trust me, next time the cup could be a frying pan.”
Daniel didn't get Wolf's humor. “Why couldn't I have found a kind soul to marry, with soft ways and a sweet heart? Why'd I have to pick the one woman I've ever met who might truly be insane? She's cursed, double-odd, from a family too imbalanced to notice. She's more than twenty and can't make coffee. There's something seriously wrong with a woman who can't cook. It's not natural.”
Wolf seemed to have gone deaf.
“I'm an even-tempered man.” Daniel tossed the towel so hard it hit the opposite wall with a thud. He'd resigned himself to coffee grounds in his chest hair. “I never do a thing or say words to anger anyone. Why would the woman throw a cup at me?”
“Maybe you'd better ask her. If you've calmed down enough,” Wolf reasoned.
“I'm calm enough. I'm always calm enough.” He heard movement on the other side of the bed. “She's back, isn't she?”
“I'm here,” Karlee answered, “with your breakfast. And I'll thank you to address me directly.”
“I would if you'd make enough noise when you enter. I can hear everyone in this house walking from room to room, but you manage to sneak up on me again and again.”
The front two feet of Wolf's chair bumped to the floor. “I need to be getting back to the kitchen.” He scrambled away.
Daniel sat very still, his muscles tight, anticipating another blow. “If you're expecting me to say I'm sorry, you'll have a long wait.” He wasn't in the habit of apologizing when he couldn't see he'd done anything wrong.
“So will you,” she answered.
“Then I suspect, Mrs. McLain, we will have very little to say to one another in the future.”
“I suspect so,” she snapped. “Would you like to eat your breakfast or wear it?”
A smile fought its way through Daniel's anger, despite his efforts to keep it down. “I'll eat it. And I'll have another cup of coffee. My cup's around here somewhere, or at least the dent of it is still here.”
He sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet around him. “I've night shirts in a trunk in my study, if you don't mind bringing me one. I might look more presentable dressed in it than bare-chested.”
She sat a tray beside him. “I don't mind.”
Unsure how she meant the words, he heard her cross to his little study and open the old trunk he used for a footstool when reading. Her step was so light he couldn't help but wonder if she'd practiced it since childhood. If so, he imagined she surprised a great many people in private conversations. That might explain why she was passed from place to place so often.
But of late, he could think of a few other reasons as well. The idea of shoving her in a trunk and shipping her back crossed his mind.
She returned before he managed to swallow the first bite of a flour-crusted biscuit. The half left in his fingers crumbled. He could smell the eggs and wondered if they were encased in a crispy layer, burned beyond taste as usual.
“Would you like me to help you put on the shirt?” Her voice could have frozen the Mississippi.
“No, thank you. If you'll just lay it on the bed, I can manage from here on.” The coffee actually tasted good as it softened the biscuit in his throat. “If you'll close the door, I think I can bathe without help.”
“All right.”
That was it then. They'd settle into the politeness of strangers.
The moment he heard the door click, he set the tray aside and stood, letting the sheet fall away from his bare body. Careful not to put any weight on his leg, he hopped the few steps to where he'd heard her get water. As he'd expected, a bucket stood beside the washstand.
He felt for the washcloth and soap. The scissors, he guessed, might be near, for he'd heard her lay them again and again on the night stand while she sewed. His fingers patted the corner of the table. Her scissors were exactly where he'd thought she left them.
Carefully, he cut the bandages from his hands. The burns felt healed enough to take the air. It was time to let his skin breathe.
Ignoring the pain, he dipped the rag into the cold water and began to wash. Jefferson was warm enough to swim in the river most of the year. He'd give a great deal to float in the water now, for hard as he scrubbed, he couldn't feel clean with cold water and hard soap. The smell of the fire still lingered on his skin.
The cool morning breeze dried his flesh as he worked down his body, rubbing away coffee grounds.
When he finished, he hopped back to the bed and felt for his nightshirt. He'd never liked the things, but since the twins needed him in the middle of the night, he'd taken to wearing one. That way he didn't have to search the darkness for clothes while one or both of them cried upstairs.
The sheets were twisted and damp with cold coffee, but he couldn't locate the shirt. His large hands spread out, searching.