A Beau for Katie (9 page)

Now she was angry with him.

* * *

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Katie hurried to Sara's clothesline. When she'd left Freeman's house, barefoot and without her basket, the sun had been shining. By the time she turned the horse into Sara's lane half an hour later, dark clouds were scudding overhead and the sky in the west was fast darkening.

Katie jerked a bath towel from the line so hard that two clothespins catapulted into the air. Mumbling under her breath, she shook out the towel, folded it quickly and tossed it into a laundry basket in the grass. Try as she might, she couldn't get Freeman's advice out of her head. She was annoyed... and his know-it-all attitude had ruined what had been a lovely day for her.

And to think... Saturday she'd actually thought she might be falling for him. She felt as if steam might come out of her ears.

What made Freeman Kemp think that he had the right to criticize her? she fumed. And not only her. He'd insinuated that Sara didn't know what she was doing. Not to mention the unkind things he'd hinted at about Uriah, a man he'd never met. What had ever caused her to have such a high opinion of Freeman, she didn't know. No wonder he was well on his way to being an old bachelor. She yanked a dishtowel off the clothesline, sending another pin flying.

“Whoa. What has the laundry done to you today?” Sara began to gather the fallen clothespins. “A bad day?”

“Ach.”
Katie shook her head. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...” She sighed and let her thought go unexpressed.

Sara dropped the clothespins into their bag and reached for the top corner of a sheet. “I don't know who got on your bad side but I wouldn't want to be that person.”

Together, Katie and Sara removed and folded the sheet neatly.

“Forgive me.” Katie exhaled. “I'm just in a sour mood.”

Sara moved along the clothesline with efficiency. “What went wrong at Freeman's?”

Katie felt the steam rising again. “That man.”

“What?” Sara asked. “You came home Saturday all smiles and talk of him. I thought you liked him.”

“I did.” Then Katie quickly corrected herself. “I mean, I
do
like him—as an employer. But...”

Sara's dark eyes twinkled as she reached for a white pillowcase snapping in the wind. “But...he said something to set you off.”

“Yes. No. He's just...” She searched for the right words, ones that might not sound judgmental. “So sure of himself.”

“About?”

“You name it.”

“Anything in particular?” Sara pressed.

Katie leaned over the clothesline. “He took it upon himself to give me advice about finding a husband.”

“Oh, my.” Sara's bonnet strings fluttered in the breeze.

“It's none of his affair,” Katie said.

“I'd heard that Freeman was outspoken,” Sara replied. She tucked several clothespins in her mouth and began to snatch washcloths off the line.

The first drops of rain spattered on Katie's cheeks. “Oh, no!” she cried, and she hurried to get the clothes down before rain drenched them. Grabbing the last towels, Katie added them to the laundry basket, picked it up and ran for the open carriage shed with Sara two steps behind.

Laughing, they ducked into the shelter seconds before the first wave of rain hit the roof of the outbuilding. “That was a close one,” Sara said.

Katie nodded. It was a three-bay shed containing Sara's buggy and small pony cart, her own buggy, and racks for holding the harnesses and cleaning supplies. The space smelled of leather and the peeled cedar crossbeams that formed the structure of the roof. Katie had always been fond of carriage sheds. For Amish children, they were a favorite spot to play in all seasons, cool and shady in summer and out of the wind and weather in winter.

“I'm sorry for being so contrary,” Katie said after a moment.

“
Ne
. I have always believed in heeding your feelings. Keep them bottled up inside and eventually they explode.”

“But I didn't need to take my temper out on the wash,” Katie allowed.

Sara shrugged. “Why not? You can't hurt a towel's feelings. And clothespins are made of wood. What can they expect but to end up as kindling?” She sat on a wagon seat that her hired help, Hiram, used when he cleaned and oiled the harness. She motioned for Katie to sit beside her.

Lightning struck a dead tree across the pasture and Katie blinked at the flash and loud crack. Rain sheeted down the roof and formed a curtain at the front of the shed. “I think we got the wash in just in time,” she mused.

“You think?” Sara laughed. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them as a child might do. She was barefoot, her skin tanned to a honey-brown, her small, sturdy feet high-arched. “You're not afraid of storms, are you?”

Katie shook her head.

“Me, neither.” Sara stared out the open doorway. “In fact, I've always liked them. Of course, I don't care to be outside when there's lightning nearby. I'm not so foolish. But this is nice, hearing the rain on the roof, and knowing how much the garden and the farmers' crops will love the water.”

“It is a good sound,” Katie agreed. With the arrival of the storm, her anxiety had passed. Freeman's words no longer had as much power to affect her as they had. Maybe because now that she'd calmed down a little, she knew in her heart of hearts that he hadn't meant to be unkind to her. It was just his way. Maybe a little bit like her own way, sometimes.

“Rain always eases the heat.” Katie glanced sideways at Sara, thinking how wise and calm the older woman seemed. Without realizing that she was going to share what had happened with Sara, she found herself repeating the conversation between her and Freeman that had upset her so.

“It sounds as though he meant well,” Sara offered. Mischief gleamed in her expression. “But men rarely understand very much about women and the way they will accept well-meaning, if poorly expressed, advice.”

“He's a fine one to tell me how to find a husband when he's obviously had no luck finding a wife,” Katie declared.

“But do you think he was trying to be unpleasant in saying those things?” Sara asked.

“
Ne
, but—”

“Then he said them either as a friend or as an interested party.”

Katie looked at Sara and blinked. “What do you mean,
interested party
?”

Sara shrugged. “Maybe that's not right. It's probably that he is genuinely concerned. You've been a big help to him and his family. I'm sure that he means well.”

Katie didn't say anything.

“And maybe...” Sara fixed her with a compelling gaze. “There's some merit in what the man said.”

Katie was taken aback. “You're not taking Freeman's side?”

Sara laced her fingers together. “Personally, I like outspoken women. I've often been accused of speaking my mind, as well. But I'm not in the market for a husband. It might be that once you stop smarting from the supposed insult, you'll give some thought about the good sense of what he said.”

“So I should simper and stare at the ground and say, ‘
Ya
, Freeman. Whatever you think, Freeman'?”

“Only if you want him to take you for a very silly girl,” Sara told her, laughing. She stood. “The rain is letting up. You can bring the clothes in with you when you come.” She smiled at her. “Just think about it, Katie. And ask yourself why a man like Freeman would take such an interest in a female friend's affairs.” Sara removed her apron and pulled it over her head and dashed out of the shed, walking swiftly toward the house.

Katie followed a few steps until she stood at the edge of the shed. Drops of water were still sliding off the roof and they splashed cool and clean across her face. What had Sara meant by that, she wondered. Could it be that Freeman was right and she was wrong? Or was it more than that? Why did Freeman care about her finding a husband?

Chapter Eight

K
atie squeezed the sponge, letting the excess soapy water fall back into the pail before turning again to the dirty windowsill, which she attacked with glee. She couldn't guess when Freeman's parlor woodwork had last been scrubbed, and it gave her a fierce satisfaction to clean away every trace of dust and cobwebs so that the room would be fit to host church Sundays once he'd fully recovered from his accident. It was a lovely front room, or it would be when she finished with it.

There were two windows on the front and a fireplace and another window on the west wall. The fireplace had been closed up and a cast-iron stove added for heating, but the original mantel still remained, as well as the original hardwood floor. The dwelling had been built in the early nineteenth century as a simple farmhouse and it retained much of the original plastered walls and handcrafted wainscoting. Once the windows were washed, the room would be clean and bright and perfect for prayer and contemplating the glory of God.

Thunderstorms had passed in the night, leaving the morning cool and refreshing; it would be a nice day to work outside. If she got all the woodwork in here scrubbed before it was time to begin the noon meal, she might have time to start painting the porch outside this afternoon. Ivy had assured her that there was unopened white paint in the cellar that had been purchased for the front and back porch. As with weeding the flowerbeds, Freeman had had good intentions, but hadn't gotten to the actual painting.

The thought of him made her smile.

Freeman had been unusually pleasant at breakfast, praising the crispiness of her scrapple and taking a second helping of her
pfannkuchen
served with Sara's homemade blueberry syrup. She'd half expected him to be cross after their exchange the previous afternoon and her leaving early in a huff, but he made no mention of it, and she was content to let ruffled feathers lie.

She eyed the smudgy windowpanes that were six over six. They would be next, both inside and out. She'd seen ammonia under the kitchen sink, and used copies of the
Budget
would do to shine the glass to a fare-thee-well. She'd scrub this room from top to bottom and bring in flowers from Ivy's garden so that the spacious chamber would glow with welcome. It was a fine old house that Freeman had inherited from his parents, and if he ever found a bride to please him, she'd not have cause to complain that a careless housekeeper had left it untidy.

She dipped her sponge again into the soapy water and, hearing a sound behind her, turned to see Freeman in the doorway. He was in his wheelchair, attempting to maneuver his outstretched leg through the opening.

“I can't find the scissors. The large ones with the black handles,” he said. “Do you know where they are?”

“In the big drawer below the window, just to the left of the sink,” she answered as she squeezed the excess water from the sponge. “Where they belong, and where you should be sure to put them when you're done with them.”

His eyebrows went up. “You think I need to be told to put away my own scissors?”

She nodded. “If you put them back in the same place every time, you'll always know where to find them. Can't find them if one day they're left here, the next there.” She gestured with the sponge.

He gave her a rueful look. “They are
my
scissors. I think I'm free to put them where I like.”

She shrugged. “
Ya
, but of no use to you if you can't find them.”

“I'll have you know that I organize all my tools and know exactly where they are.”

She beamed at him. “An excellent practice.” She hesitated. “Can you think of somewhere you'd rather keep the kitchen scissors than the kitchen drawer? On the porch, maybe?”

“
Ne
. They'd soon rust out there. The big drawer is fine.”

“Good. We agree.” She shook the damp sponge at him to emphasize her instruction. “All I'm saying is, remember to put them back. I found them under your hospital bed yesterday, and last week they were on the porch.” She turned back to the windowsill and began to scrub it again. It was time that they moved the bed out of the kitchen. If he could get himself in and out of the wheelchair, there was no reason his bed couldn't go in the empty downstairs bedroom. The kitchen would be easier to maintain without his bed taking up a large portion of it.

There was no sound indicating the departure of the wheelchair. Katie glanced over her shoulder. “Something else you need?”

Freeman straightened his shoulders and an odd, almost embarrassed expression flickered over his handsome face. “Katie?”

“Ya?”
She lowered her sponge and gave him her full attention.

He took a deep breath. “I hope...that is... I...” His forehead creased and he stopped and then started again. “I wanted to ask you. Did I hurt your feelings yesterday, saying what I did about you being outspoken?”

“
Ne
. What would make you think that?” She didn't meet his gaze, but she could feel her cheeks flush.

“You seemed...well...you left in a rush. Early. And you left your shoes.”

Now she felt a little silly. “I did finish early. I needed to get home ahead of the storm,” she said quickly, which was true, after a fashion, and not exactly a fabrication. She decided to ignore the subject of her shoes. “And a good thing that I did. Lightning struck a tree—”

“On the road when you were driving back to Sara's?” He rolled the wheelchair a little farther into the room.

She shook her head, feeling foolish that she'd made something of nothing in an effort to cover her own discomfort. “
Ne
. After I got home. It was just a dead tree in the neighbor's field.”

“Lightning can be dangerous. I knew it to strike a man's horse once, while he was driving. The animal was never the same. Never safe to trust in harness again.”

She dropped her sponge in the bucket and took a few steps toward Freeman. “I was in no danger,” she admitted. “And my horse was already safe in Sara's barn.”

“Good.” He struck the armrest of the chair with the flat of his hand to emphasize his words. “I'd feel responsible if you came to harm on the way home from the mill.”

She smiled, touched by his genuine concern for her welfare. “It would hardly be your fault,” she said lightly. “You have no control over the weather.”

“I guess not, but I'd feel responsible just the same.”

“But I'm clearly not hurt.”

He chuckled. “Or the horse.”

She smiled again and nodded agreement. “Or the horse, thanks be to God.”

“Amen to that.”

He smiled back at her, and before she could think better of it, she asked, “What kind of things? Specifically.”

“I'm sorry?” he answered.

She wondered if it was mistake, going down this path, but it was too late. And maybe she really did care what he thought. “Yesterday. When you said I was too outspoken. What did you mean? What sort of things do I say that make me outspoken?”

Freeman pressed his lips together in a thin line and tugged at the lobe of one ear. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It's just my opinion.”

She nodded. “
Ya
, I want to know.” She shrugged. “Being myself doesn't seem to be working. Maybe a man's perspective could be...” Not just any man's, she thought. Freeman's perspective, because increasingly, what he thought mattered to her. “Maybe you could tell me,” she suggested. “Point out what I say or do that's offensive, when I do it.”

He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't wearing a hat, and it struck her how nice his hair looked now that she'd cut it and he'd washed it. There were little highlights of auburn that shimmered when he moved his head. His hair had felt soft and smelled good. She could remember the smooth texture as it had slipped through her fingers. Cutting Freeman's hair had been nothing like cutting her brothers' hair and she wondered if it had been immodest of her to initiate such an intimate task.

“I didn't say you were offensive.”

She just stood there looking at him.

“I don't want to hurt your feelings,” he said huskily.

She crossed her arms, waiting.

He exhaled, knowing he wasn't going to get out of this. “It's not always
what
you say,” he told her slowly. “So much as
the way
you say it.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. “I don't understand. Give me an example.”

He hesitated. “It's...well...like you just did. About the scissors.”

She stiffened, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “You were offended because I asked you to put them back when you were finished with them? If you already knew to do it, you wouldn't have had to come to me asking where they were.”

“And there's that, too. That's what I mean.” He pointed at her. “I'll tell you what raises a man's hackles. It's not about right or wrong. It's your tone. It comes out sounding as if you're giving orders to a child.”

“But that wasn't my intention.” Now she was upset that he had taken her words all wrong. “Truly, all I was doing was stating the truth. I certainly don't consider you a child. It's just that in my experience, men...most men never remember to put household items back where they belong. They simply leave them lying where they've last used them.”

“But I don't do that,” he defended. “At least I don't think I do.”

“Someone did,” she reminded him. “Twice the scissors were left out this week.”

He looked down, exhaled and looked up at her again. “Point taken. But when you brought up the scissors, you didn't politely ask me to put them back where I'd found them. You
told
me where I should put them when I was done. And you were quick to point out the previous error of my ways.”

Katie thought for a moment and then grimaced. “When you put it like that, I can see what you mean. It didn't come out as I intended. I was joking.” She met his gaze. “Sort of.”

“Then you should have made it clear that you were teasing. A smile would have helped. A softer tone, maybe.” He exhaled as if considering his next words. “Katie, the truth is that...you can be intimidating.”

“Me?” She touched her collarbone, in genuine surprise. “Intimidating? To a man?”

“
Particularly
to a man.”

“Okay.” She gritted her teeth. “Maybe I am a little overbearing at times. I'll give you that. But if you knew my brothers and how they—”

“Sorry, Katie. No excuse. I'm not your brother, and neither is any young man you might want to walk out with. And I...or
he
would rather not be chastised by a pretty girl he's interested in. The minute a man hears a woman talking like that, he begins to imagine what it will sound like in twenty years. Truth be told, it scares us.”

What registered first was that he'd referred to her as a pretty girl again, and the second was that when she'd told Sara what had happened, Sara had said nearly the same thing.

She felt herself smiling again. She couldn't help it.
Freeman thought she was pretty
. She met his gaze again and realized he was waiting for her to say something. “So...you think it something so simple that's keeping me from finding a beau?” she ventured, her voice sounding low and husky.
He thought she was pretty
. “I never supposed that speaking directly was such an affront to men.”

He settled back in his chair and folded his arms over his freshly ironed blue shirt. It was short-sleeved and looked ever so much better since she'd mended the tear on the left shoulder seam and sewn the loose button back on. In her mind he looked more like a successful mill owner and not so much like the hired hand.

And he thought she was pretty.

“Some men are more easily offended than others,” he explained. “And some are drawn to mealy-mouthed women who have no opinions. I think you can find a happy medium between being yourself, Katie, and being a shrew.”

She arched one eyebrow. “A shrew?”

He made a comical grimace. “Very near. Sometimes.”

“I never meant that.” She nibbled on her lower lip. Did she really come off sounding like a
shrew
? “I need to work on this, don't I?”

“Afraid so.” He held her gaze for a moment and then lifted his shoulder and let it fall. “If you want, I could give you some pointers. If I hear you say something that's...could be said differently, I'll tell you.”

She considered his offer. She
did
want to marry; she wanted children and a home of her own. And for an instant she imagined herself mistress of not just any house but
this
one. After all, he did think she was pretty. And even though they had a rough start, they did seem to get along well, now that they knew each other a little better. “So you'll tell me if I step over the line?”

He nodded. “As gently as I can.”

He smiled at her and she smiled back. And they both just kept smiling at each other. It should have been an awkward moment, but it wasn't. She liked the feeling it gave her, him looking at her that way.

Finally, she glanced back at her bucket. “I suppose I should finish up this window.”

“Ya,”
he agreed. “There's a stack of paperwork waiting for me over at the mill. Computer stuff. Billing. Tax records. My head is clearer now that the pain has eased off my leg. I was thinking I could do a little work. I've fallen behind since the accident.”

Katie tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Couldn't it wait until afternoon? I could take you then.”

“I don't need you to take me.” Freeman started to roll himself backward, out of the room. “I'll be fine on my own.”