Mail Order Mistletoe (Brides of Beckham Book 17) (4 page)

"You'll find we live far from everyone.  The closest farm is a twenty minute drive."

"Oh."  Somehow she'd imagined there would be someone close enough that she could walk to their home and talk to them.  Apparently not. 

"Are you disappointed?" he asked.  "I said in the letter that I was isolated."

"I guess I didn't realize just how isolated you were.  It's going to feel like we're the only two people on earth.  Do you go into town on Sundays for church?" she asked.

He shook his head.  "I can't drive four hours just to sit in a church building for two hours.  It doesn't make sense."

"No, I guess it doesn't.  I will miss church, though."

He frowned.  "I wish it were some other way.  Maybe more people will settle, and we can start a church out here."

"Maybe."  She looked at him, considering.  "I have never eaten Norwegian food, so if you are wanting me to cook that way, I'll need a cookbook or something.  Otherwise I will cook what I know."

"Anything you cook will be better than anything I've tried to cook over the years.  I'll be very happy with anything you make for me."  He glanced at her with a slight smile.  "Thank you for thinking of my heritage. I do appreciate it."

"I thought about buying a Norwegian cookbook and learning some dishes before I came, but I didn't know how to do that."  She shrugged.  "How did you come to be in North Dakota?"

He briefly told her of how he'd been a farmer in Norway, and how hard it was.  He'd been trying to farm wheat, just as his father had tried to farm wheat.  There just wasn't enough farmland in all of Norway.  "So when I saw an advertisement offering land and an inexpensive trip to North Dakota, I jumped at it.  It was a wise decision."  And he still felt it was wise, even after what had happened to Olga and their son.  He knew someday he would need to tell her about Olga, but he didn't feel like their wedding day was the right time. 

"It's already getting very cold here," she said, snuggling into her coat.  She was glad she'd worn it.  "I was hoping it would be a bit warmer than Massachusetts, but I didn't expect it to be."

He laughed.  "Any land with the word north as part of the name cannot be expected to be warm."

She shook her head.  "North Carolina is quite warm!  I had a student from there, and she talked often about how cold Massachusetts was in comparison."

"Tell me about your time teaching," he said, looking for a way to keep her talking.  He found he enjoyed listening to her, but he had no desire to tell her about his own life.  She might be able to stay distracted that way.

She told him a series of stories that had him laughing harder than he remembered laughing for a long time.  Maybe since he left Norway.  "And people really call these children the demon horde?"

"Yes!  There's no other way to describe them!  And for me the funniest part is their older sister, Elizabeth, is the one who sent me here to marry you!  She is a lovely woman and a matchmaker.  She's truly made something of herself. She told me that the oldest four children in the family were actually well behaved, and it was the youngest ten who made up the demon horde.  All of the ones who are grown have become good people.  They're married and work hard.  I cannot imagine any of those children I taught doing anything but causing problems.  They were bad.  I was almost afraid to walk into my classroom, because I never knew what was going to happen when I did."

"I have a hard time believing that children who behaved so badly could grow up to be anything but disrespectful, rude adults.  It seems odd to me.  And yes, it's strange that Elizabeth is their older sister.  Who would have thought?  Does she have children?"

Meg smiled.  "She had a son a couple of weeks ago.  It's their first."

"Oh, that's nice."  He didn't look at her, afraid she'd see the intense longing for a son to take over his land in his eyes.  He'd already told her he'd married her primarily to get a son, so she shouldn't have a problem with it.

Chapter Four

When he was close enough for her to see the house, he stopped the wagon, and took her arm, pointing into the distance.  "Do you see a small house over there?  The chimney is visible.  The house is made of wood, and it is painted white."  He never would have painted the house white, but he knew it's what Olga wanted, and he did everything he could to keep her happy.  He wouldn't pander to the whims of his new wife the way he had his first. 

"Oh, I see it!"  It was little more than a speck off to the distance, but she could see it.  Her new home.  She couldn't remember the last house she'd seen, so they would truly be as isolated as he'd said.  She'd hoped he was exaggerating a bit, but apparently not. 

"How much longer before we get there?" she asked.

"About fifteen minutes.  You can see far on the prairie without trees to block the way."

"I'm going to miss having trees all around me.  Massachusetts has trees everywhere."

"You'll get used to it.  It's a nice place to live."  He shrugged.  "The farmland is so much better here than it ever was back home in Norway.  I'm glad I made the long journey."

She sighed, wondering how long it would take her to be able to say she was glad she'd moved west, if ever.  He seemed like a kind enough man, but there didn't seem to be any warmth or emotion about him.  It made her sad to know he was the only person she'd see every single day for years to come.  Yes, they'd occasionally go into town, but that was a long journey.  She wanted to have a friend close by.

She kept her eyes peeled on the house, looking at it carefully, wanting to know everything about it.  It was beautiful from here, and it was bigger than she'd imagined it would be.  Was it two stories?  She couldn't tell from there. 

When he finally stopped in front of it, she wanted to jump down on her own, but she sensed he wouldn't like that.  She was used to getting in and out of wagons on her own, but she wasn't used to being married as she did it.  "Your house is lovely."

He smiled, thankful for the comment.  When she got inside, she wouldn't feel the same, he was sure.  He wasn't good at keeping the house tidy like Olga had, and he hadn't done dishes in a very long time.  He hoped she didn't get as angry as she probably should.

"You go in.  I'll follow with your bags," he told her.  He didn't want to see the disappointment on her face when she saw how filthy the house was.

Meg hurried ahead, throwing the door open, and taking a deep breath.  There were dishes piled all over the kitchen, and there was dirt all over the floors.  It had obviously once been loved by someone, because there were curtains at the windows.  They were dirty curtains, but they were curtains. 

She wandered through the house, seeing that there was not only an upstairs, but there was a proper staircase.  It wasn't a ladder leading up there.  She told herself to be thankful for the good things, and not fuss over the mess. 

There was one bedroom at the foot of the stairs and she looked into it.  It was obviously his.  The sheets were quite dirty and there were clothes all over the floor.  The first things she would need to do were laundry and dishes.  Before those two tasks were handled, she wouldn't even be able to really get started on anything else.

There was another room there on the bottom floor, and she looked into it.  It was relatively clean, except for the dust on everything.  It was a parlor, and she could imagine spending happy evenings there, crocheting or sewing while he did whatever men like to do in the evenings.

Her days would be full for a while at least.  That was good.  It had to be.

She climbed the stairs to find two bedrooms at the top.  One looked like it was meant to be a spare bedroom, complete with an unmade bed and a dresser.  The other room was a nursery.  She frowned.  That nursery had a great deal of dust on it.  Why would a single man build a nursery as soon as he built the house?  Surely he'd wait until he had a wife.

And then it all clicked in Meg's mind.  He'd been married before.  That's why the house had once been loved by someone.  That's why there was a nursery.  And more importantly, that's why he said he would never love again.  It all made sense to her now, even though she didn't want it to.

She climbed back down the stairs slowly, not sure how to broach the subject with him, so she didn't.  He'd gone into his bedroom and closed the door, so she removed her coat, pulled her apron over her dress, and rolled up her sleeves.  If she could do even a portion of the dishes tonight, she would be able to get more done tomorrow.

Lars came out of his room wearing work clothes.  "I'm going to go out and milk the cow and gather the eggs.  I will be back."

She was pleased to hear she'd have fresh eggs and milk every day for her cooking and baking.  She watched him go, a sad look on her face.  How long would he wait before he told her about his lost wife?

She stood at the sink, thankful for the water pump.  She wouldn't have to make trips out to the well to do dishes and laundry, and that would make her life much easier than it would have been.

By the time he was back from milking the cows and gathering eggs, she'd made serious strides in the work at hand.  She had many of the dishes washed, and all the pots that had food caked on them, which was all the pots in the house, were soaking.  She wiped off the table and scrubbed out a skillet.  They'd had a late lunch, so he didn't know if he'd want to eat again that night.  If he did she could make some bacon and eggs or some pancakes.

"Are you hungry?" she asked as he set the milk on the table and put a basket of eggs beside the pail.  "I could make something simple tonight like bacon and eggs or pancakes."

His eyes lit up. "Pancakes?  It's been a really long time since I had pancakes."  He went to the boxes he'd carried in from the mercantile and found some flour and some maple syrup.  "George knows I love maple syrup."  He had gotten a new bottle every month when he picked up supplies while Olga was still alive.

She smiled and nodded.  "Pancakes it is."  Looking around she found the other ingredients she'd need.  She took a mixing bowl she had just put away and quickly mixed the batter, spooning four circles onto the large skillet. 

He looked around the room.  It was already looking much better than it had in two years.  She'd done a good portion of the dishes and cleaned off the table.  He'd gotten into the habit of moving the dishes around on the table and eating in smaller and smaller spaces until he was forced to do dishes or eat from pots. 

When she set the first plate of pancakes in front of him, he wished she'd had time to make butter in the churn, but because she hadn't, he picked up the syrup and covered them.  Then he leaned in and just smelled them.  It was going to be a treat not to eat his own cooking.  Apparently she knew how to cook some of his favorites as well.

She made pancakes until the batter was gone, refilling his plate twice.  Finally she sat down with the last two pancakes and a glass of milk for herself.  "Do you like French toast as well?" she asked.

"What's that?"

She shrugged. "It's just a way of using up older bread.  You dip the bread in a mixture of milk and eggs and then you fry it like you would a pancake.  You serve it with butter and syrup."

"If it has syrup, I will eat it." He didn't know why he had such a love for all sweet foods, but he did.

"Then I'll make those when I need to use up bread."

"That won't happen."

She frowned at him.  "Why not?"

"Because I haven't had fresh baked bread in so long, I don't think I'll be able to stop eating it once I start.  It sounds delicious, though."

She laughed.  "I'll make a bit of extra and hide it, just so I can make you some French toast.  How would that be?"

"It sounds lovely.  I should have married a long time ago, just so I could eat good food again."

"I'll do my best to keep you happy."  She hadn't taken the time to dig through all the supplies from the store yet, because she didn't want to put them into a dirty kitchen.  She'd clean out the pantry and make sure everything was spotless before she started to put the food in there.

When he'd finished eating, he leaned back and patted his belly.  "That was delicious.  Thank you."

She smiled, getting up and taking both of their plates to the sink, and immediately started another round of dishwashing. 

He watched her, wondering when she'd start berating him for the mess he'd left, but she never did.  She did every dirty dish he had left out, drying them and putting them away.  Then she took all the pots she had soaking and she washed the ones she could easily wash.  She set the others onto the stove.  "I'll have to boil those to get the food off, and that can wait until tomorrow.  For now, I'm tired."

He got to his feet.  "If you still want to sleep alone, there's a bedroom upstairs you can use.  You're welcome to share my bed, of course, but I can't promise I won't touch you."

"I'll use the bed upstairs for tonight, thank you."  She smiled at him, wondering how she was supposed to say goodnight to the husband she'd met only a few hours earlier.  Really, it was out of her realm of experience.

Lars caught her hand, pulling her toward him.  At her wary look, he shook his head.  "I just want to kiss you goodnight.  You did say I could kiss you whenever the mood struck me."

She nodded, raising her face to his, expecting the same slight brush of the lips he'd given her in church.

He cupped her face in his hands, leaning down and touching his lips to hers.  When he'd kissed her in the church, there'd been no real spark between them, and as much as he didn't want to love the woman, he did want the passion she could show him.

He lifted his head after a very brief kiss, rubbing his thumb over her lower lip as he looked into her eyes.  "Have you ever been kissed before?"

She nodded.  "You kissed me at the church, remember?"

He chuckled softly. "That wasn't a real kiss.  That was just a touch of my lips on yours.  Have you ever had a real kiss?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."  Why wasn't that a real kiss?

"Let me show you."  His head lowered again, and this time his lips played with hers.  His tongue stroked her bottom lip, seeking entrance into her mouth.

Meg was unsure what he wanted, but when she parted her lips to ask, his tongue swooped in, showing her in a way that was much more effective than any explanation ever could be.

Lars let out a groan, his hands moving from where they still cupped her cheeks to her tiny waist as he pulled her flush against him.  There was the spark he needed.  He wanted her badly.  He wanted to drag her into his bedroom and demand his rights as a husband, but that was no way to get her to acquiesce.

No, he'd take things slowly, and when he did make it into bed with her, she would want it as much as he did.

Finally he lifted his head, his forehead resting against hers.  "Now do you understand the difference?"

Meg nodded, slightly out of breath.  "I—had no idea people kissed that way."  She was embarrassed to admit it, but at least he would understand how inexperienced she was.  "Goodnight, Lars."

"Goodnight, Meg."  He touched his lips to hers briefly.  "I will see you in the morning."

He walked off toward his room, wondering how he was going to keep his heart from being taken by her.  He'd thought he had buried it with Olga, but his lust and his love were too closely knit.  He shut the door softly behind him, trying to force his heart to stop its erratic beating.

He would have to quit thinking of her as anything more than a housekeeper and cook, a vessel for his seed.  She would bear his son, but she would get no affection. 

Outside his room, Meg stood frozen.  She had felt more from that kiss than she'd ever imagined was possible.  He'd touched her lips, her heart, and her soul.  How on earth could a man make her feel so much in such a short time?

She slowly climbed the stairs to her empty room.  She couldn't find any clean sheets, so she put a quilt over the mattress, and folded it in half, lying on half and covering with the other half.  She didn't bother changing into her nightgown, knowing she wouldn't be warm enough.  It was warmer downstairs near the fire. 

She lay for a while with her eyes wide open staring at the wall.  What would life be like when she allowed him more than a kiss?  He was hiding so much from her, denying his first wife and a child, she was certain.  She understood why his heart was off-limits to her, but she wanted him to voice the words to her.  Telling her would be the right thing to do, and he seemed like such a good, honest man who always did the right thing.

When she closed her eyes, she saw nothing but his face.  His eyes as they looked down into hers.  Her lips still tingled from his touch.  She could feel on her sides where he'd gripped her waist.  Never had she thought she would be attracted to a man like him.  A good little Irish girl was never interested in a man who wasn't from the Emerald Isle. 

While her family may be disappointed in her for marrying, and especially for marrying a Norwegian man she'd never met, she didn't care.  Something about the sad, lonely man touched her heart.  Sure, she had a lot to do to take care of him, and to get his house in order, and he was so brooding he could easily make her crazy, but one touch and she melted like sugar in his arms.