Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller Page A

couldn't bring himself to extinguish the eager light in his daughter's eyes. “Do we have any poles around here?” he asked.
    She bounced on the balls of her feet in her excitement, and Brigham thought of all the times he'd told himself it was enough to provide well for his daughters. Foolishly, he thought, he'd expected Charlotte and Millie to realize he loved them because he gave them food and shelter. “Yes!” she cried. “They're out in the shed, and I know where to dig for worms, too!”
    Brigham kissed the child lightly on the forehead and rose to his feet. “You go and find what we need, and I'll clean up a little. Then we'll catch a mess of trout for dinner.”
    With a whoop, Millie shot off toward the rear of the house, a streak of blue calico crossing the lawn, and Brigham followed at a slower meter. He had never guessed that so little notice from him would please the child so greatly.
    Reaching the back porch, he entered the empty kitchen, filled a large basin from the hot water reservoir attached to the big cookstove, and went back outside. He'd stripped off his shirt and was splashing his upper body industriously when he became aware of her, stiffened, and turned his head.
    Lydia was standing directly behind him, still as a doe scenting danger, her arms full of kindling, her glorious, tousled hair like a honey-colored cloud around her face. Her breasts rose and fell with the rapid course of her breathing, and her cheeks were as pink as if he'd caught her in some scandal.
    He felt his heart thud against his chest, as though trying to break free and somehow bond itself with hers. He shook his head, to clear his mind of the fancy, flung the contents of the basin into the blackberry bushes, and reached for the towel he'd hung over the railing beside the step.
    She approached the porch resolutely, giving him as wide a berth as she possibly could, but in the end the whole effort proved futile because he didn't move and neither did the kitchen door. Lydia hesitated again, glanced from Brigham to the doorway and back again, then started for the steps.
    He waited until she was so close he could have touched her by taking a deep breath, then stepped back to let her pass. He felt her skirts brush against his thigh, even through the thick fabric of his trousers, and the contact sent a subtle heat surging up into his groin. The scents of castile soap and pine pitch lingered behind her, and suddenly Brigham was overwhelmed by a desire so keen that he broke out in a fresh sweat.
    After a few moments of effort, Brigham went inside the house. To his isappointment, as well as his relief, Lydia was nowhere in sight. He climbed the rear stairs, strode along the hallway to his bedroom, and found a clean shirt. When he returned to the back porch, Millie was waiting patiently, a wooden fishing pole in each hand, while Charlotte stood a short distance away, watching.
    Brigham whistled as he led the way toward the pond high on the hillside, beyond the old cabin and the Indian burial ground. “Come along if you want, Charlotte,” he said easily, and she immediately fell into step beside him, although she kept her chin high and offered no comment on the proceedings.
    When they reached the pond's edge, Millie rushed off to dig for worms, and Charlotte and Brigham sat side by side on the grassy bank. Brig was making sure the hooks were secure on the fishing lines, and Charlotte started weaving wild honeysuckle into a chain.
    â€œAre you going to marry Miss McQuire?” she asked presently, without looking at him.
    Brigham smiled to himself, making certain his amusement wasn't audible in his voice. “No, Charlotte, I don't think so.”
    The girl sighed and went on with her weaving, frowning intently as she worked. “She wouldn't be suitable,” she declared. “Miss McQuire was a nurse in the Great Civil War and she's seen naked men.”
    This time Brigham couldn't help chuckling.