Wed by Wednesday (Passion in Paradise #4.5) Page 7

  “You’re absolutely sure, Jethro?” Orla asked him, her sweet voice sounding so solemn in the stillness of the truck. “You need to be because I don’t believe in divorce. If you marry me, you’re stuck with me. I’ll be like a toothache you can’t get rid of no matter how hard you try.”

  Jethro’s lips twitched at her colorful description of herself, but his voice was suitably serious when he answered, “I’m positive, Orla. We’ll take tomorrow and get used to the idea and each other, and then I’ll get the preacher to wed us on Wednesday. We’ll figure out this matrimonial maze together.”

  Jethro watched as the anxious look on Orla’s face faded as his statement sank in for her. Lucky for him and his sanity, in the space of a heartbeat, she offered him a beaming smile. “Yes, I’d like that Jethro. Thank you for taking this chance on me.”

  “Tidbit, you’re taking every bit as big a risk on me,” he felt obligated to mention, praying she wouldn’t read anything into his words and second guess her decision.

  “You’re right. You are a bigger risk for me.”

  Her response surprised him, even though he’d been half-expecting it. Eyebrows raised at her remark, he fought a grin. “That so?”

  “Absolutely. At least I never thought you weren’t good enough or handsome enough to be my husband. And no matter how briefly, you did think along those lines, Farmer Man,” she accused gently, though her eyes reflected the hurt his hasty words had caused.

  Jethro face became remorseful, and he shook his head. “Honey, that wasn’t what I was thinkin’ at all. I know how it sounded to you, but what I was thinking was that I was looking at the prettiest, most delicate looking woman I’d ever seen and I didn’t want the harsh realities of life up here in the mountains to mar that beauty. Won’t lie, Orla. It gets cold in these mountains. Bitterly cold. Weather can change on a dime, darlin’. Warm as rain one day, blizzards the next. It’s true,” he said when he saw her eye him cynically. “The idea of seein’ somebody as gorgeous as you sick from the nasty elements… the thought of losin’ your kind of lovely once I had it in my life… I reacted badly. Said things in a way that they shouldn’t have been said. I’m man enough to admit when I’ve done wrong, and I did do wrong lettin’ you believe that I was talking about your body and your spirit. I wasn’t, Orla,” he shared sincerely.

  “Oh,” Orla uttered weakly, seemingly stumped for words.

  “Yeah, Tidbit. Oh.”

  “I’m not sure of which of us was filled with the bigger revelations today, Jethro,” Orla said as she visibly relaxed.

  “You, darlin’. I promise, you were the bigger surprise. And despite my first reaction, I gotta say, I think you might be the best kind. Unexpected… but definitely far from unwanted,” he whispered, leaning forward to seize her lips for a soft, gentle kiss as Orla shivered against him. Breaking away from her delectable mouth enough to lean his forehead against hers, he gave her a soft look of affection. “Now that we’ve got all that settled, let me get you out of this chilly truck and into your new home. Temperature’s takin’ a nosedive and fallin’ fast,” he remarked, reaching over her shoulder to grab his thick jacket lying on the back of seat. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he chuckled at the way it swallowed her tiny body. “Tidbit, if you don’t have a warm coat of your own, we’re gonna need to make you some important purchases,” he noted as he helped her push her arms through the armholes.”

  “Atlanta doesn’t get too awfully cold even in the dead of winter. I have some sweaters, but that’s about it,” she confessed reluctantly.

  Making a mental note to have his stepmother order some appropriate things for her as soon as possible, Jethro nodded. “It’s fine. Mother McKinnon has some things you can borrow until we can get you your own, and I kinda like seeing you in my clothes,” he added truthfully, leaning back to get a look at her in his heavy sheepskin jacket. It was way too big, but something about seeing her covered in something that bore his scent spoke to something primal in him. He liked it. A lot. “Alright, Orla, let’s shake a leg,” he said as much to focus himself as to get her attention. Pulling his truck keys from the ignition, he shoved his truck door open, bracing as the cold wind washed over him when he stepped outside. Dropping the butt of his cigarette, he ground it beneath his boot heel as he looked around at his surroundings and tried to see it from Orla’s point of view.

  Barns and outbuildings dotted the horizon and the McKinnon family home sat straight ahead of him. Built just twenty years ago in place of the cabin that had stood there before it, he smiled as he looked over the white house with blue shutters on the window. Two stories with several painted majestic pillars supporting the frame of the wraparound porch, he knew his home was a beauty, and he was proud to bring Orla to it. Add that to the gorgeous mountain skyline, and his homestead was as close to heaven as he ever hoped to get without being six feet under. Hearing her make a noise of awed wonder when he moved to her side of the vehicle and helped her out only served to further prove he’d made the right call keeping her here and marrying her. “What do you think, Tidbit? Can you live the rest of your days away from the Big City up here in God’s Country?”

  “I definitely see why they named this town Paradise,” she murmured reverently as he watched her try to take in everything around her. Looking up at him with a look of utter happiness, she nodded. “Oh, yes, Jethro. I can definitely spend the rest of my life in your mountains.”

  He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but, for once, he didn’t care. Her excitement made him happy. Reaching over the side into the bed of the truck, he hoisted her two suitcases out. “This all you got, Orla?” he questioned, shoving one under his arm and gripping the handle of the other.

  “That’s all,” she acknowledged in a reserved tone. “All my memories and earthly possessions can be put into two secondhand suitcases,” she murmured, looking sadly at the bags as he reached for her fingers with his free hand and laced them with hers.

  “It’s just stuff, Tidbit. We’ll fill this house with our own memories. Okay?”

  Smiling bravely, Orla bobbed her head. “You’re exactly right, Jethro. The second act of my life begins right here,” she said with another cheerful look around at her surroundings. “There’s no time for tears or tantrums when I’m as close to the Promised Land as I’ll ever get on Earth.”

  “That’s my girl,” Jethro praised, leading her toward the house only to stop suddenly when Orla abruptly jerked him to a halt.

  “Oh, my Gosh! It’s chicks AND cute little chicklets!” Orla squealed, pointing, as her face transformed as her eyes caught on a momma hen herding three chicklets toward the copse of trees on the south end of the yard. She bounced on her toes, almost tugging Jethro’s arm out of socket.

  Unimpressed and not seeing any cause for her unexpected enthusiasm, he raised an eyebrow and looked over at the woman that fate had deemed as his. “You’ve never seen a chicken, Tidbit?” he asked incredulously when he saw her face light up at the squawking hen and her chirping chicken progeny.

  “Sure, I’ve seen some. Fried and sitting on a plate beside mashed potatoes and gravy at the restaurant where I worked. But I’ve never, ever seen them like this,” she breathed, pointing at the poultry as though she’d seen the second coming of Christ.

  “Well, don’t get excited, City Girl,” he chuckled, enjoying the look of amazement on her face. “Those ain’t pets,” he cautioned her. “We fry ‘em up and serve ‘em here, too. That’s one of the reasons we have ‘em here. Well, that and the fresh eggs the hens make.”

  Eyes going round with dismay, Orla swallowed. Hard. Then she looked up at him with something close to betrayal clouding her eyes. “You murder them?” she whispered, shock and horror coloring every syllable.

  “No, you slaughter them,” he corrected patiently, staring back at her.

  “Me?” she squeaked, taking a huge step back from him as she began to shake her head from side to side.

  “Darlin’, we raise them for food, not
fun, and the farmer’s wife typically takes care of choking and skinnin’ the chickens,” Jethro tried to explain, feeling an inch tall when she kept looking at him with a kind of sickened disgust. “You’ve eaten chicken, right?” he tried to reason with her.

  “Well, yes. But never one I knew personally,” she wailed as she began to shake her head frantically, her eyes panicked.

  Running a hand down his face as his shoulders sagged, Jethro suddenly felt very tired, but his better angels reminded him that he needed to at least try to make an effort to explain things to this woman. It wasn’t as if she had any experience with the uglier side of farming. “Okay, Orla,” he began slowly. “I’ll handle catching and killing the chickens, but remind me not to introduce you to any of the cows other than Buttercup and Tulip.”

  “Tulip? Buttercup?” Orla repeated dumbly, slanting her head and blinking at him with confused eyes.

  “Yeah, Buttercup and Tulip are our farm milking cows. I’ll introduce you to them in the morning,” Jethro informed her with a nod as he nodded toward the house and continued steering her in that direction.

  “We have pet cows?” Orla asked eagerly, her face brightening.

  “They’re not pets, Orla.” Jethro shook his head as he hefted her suitcases again and began to walk toward the house again. “They are working animals as well.”

  “But they have names. Do the other cows have names?” she questioned, her enthusiastic face animated as she followed behind him.

  “No,” he returned flatly. Good Lord, his almost-bride was going to try to domesticate every four-legged creature on his farm. He dreaded when she learned about the litter of kittens the barn cat had out in the barn. With his luck and her determination, he’d have a house full of meowing felines in no time. Especially since he wouldn’t have the heart to deny her, he thought as she continued to jabber behind him.

  “So naming something means you care about them. And if you care for them, they’re pets,” the woman reasoned out as she trailed behind him, chattering. “So if I name the chickens and other cows, you won’t be able to kill them,” she announced as happily as if she’d found the cure for cancer.

  Relieved to reach the porch steps, he quickly climbed to the front door. “Yeah, we’ll just see if you still wanna name all the chicks and cows once you’ve tromped through their shit a few times,” he muttered under his breath. Dropping her suitcases to his feet, he shoved a hand in the pocket of his denims to fish out the key to the door. “Woman, what do you propose we eat if you pull all our animals off the chopping block?” he asked curiously, as his fingers found the cool metal of the key.

  Smiling, Orla shrugged. “Well, we’ll just buy our meat at the supermarket like everybody else.”

  Closing his eyes for a second, Jethro shook his head slightly before opening his eyes again and addressing her. Striving for patience, he focused on unlocking the door and pushing it open as he remarked, “Orla, darlin’, you do realize that meat in the store is from the same kind of animal I’m slaughtering on this farm for half the price as we could buy it.”

  Tilting her head, Orla met his eyes. “Well, that’s true. But I won’t know those animals personally, will I?” she noted with a breezy smile as she moved past him into the foyer of her new home.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s clear as glass that we’re gonna need to ease you into your new role as a farmer’s wife,” Jethro noted quietly with a chuckle as he trailed her shapely ass inside and closed the door behind them.

  Chapter Six

  Orla

  Standing in the middle of the smoke filled kitchen an hour later, Orla had to wonder if she was out of her ever-lovin’ mind! She already knew she was in way over her head.

  And she hated it.

  Because she knew – given the chance – she could be happy here.

  After experiencing her first taste of passion in Jethro McKinnon’s arms and her subsequent heart to heart chat with the man she intended to marry, she knew to the marrow in her bones that she could be happy with this man. Happy, and incredibly satiated if the time she spent with her mouth against his was any indication because sweet Jesus, her man could kiss.

  Yes, she was going to positively thrive up here in his mountains!

  Unless, of course she accidentally managed to kill her future husband by food poisoning when he ate the first meal she ever cooked him, and oh, Lord, she prayed she didn’t send Jethro to his early demise since she truly adored her new beau and his home. It was big and spacious – everything a girl like her never dreamed she’d have. The furniture was practically brand new, but so comfortable. A lovely flowered print divan and matching armchair had graced the living room along with matching oak rocking chairs. And the best part of the living room was the huge decorated fir Christmas tree that stood tall and proud in the corner of the room with brightly wrapped Christmas gifts beneath it.

  That meant home. That meant love. And that meant she wanted to stay here!

  Upstairs, the bedroom furniture in the room that Jethro had shown her when he’d dropped off her bags had been made of a heavy oak, and the bed had been covered by a warm looking handmade quilt, and there had even been a pretty cheval mirror standing in the far corner for her to use when she dressed in the morning. The appliances in the kitchen were new and shiny, and he even had a washing machine! It stood as pretty as it could be, right there on the enclosed back porch. There was indoor plumbing and a large clawfoot tub where she couldn’t wait to soak her tired body in steaming hot water tonight. It was perfect!

  The idea that she might have to give both Jethro and her new home up now that she’d seen it firsthand was enough to turn her blood ice cold.

  Sighing, she realized that maybe she really should have shared a few more pertinent details about herself with her prospective groom before he’d brought her here– like the fact that while she was an expert at serving food to customers, the most she could do in an actual kitchen was pour cold cereal into a bowl – and sometimes that was iffy. Heck, she couldn’t even heat oatmeal without somehow overcooking it or turning it to a soupy mush. Yes, oatmeal for cripes sake! Even toast was apparently beyond her severely limited capabilities since it inevitably came out burnt and black. Thankfully, she and her roommate had worked out a division of labor that had worked for each of them. Orla had been responsible for cleaning the dingy apartment they’d co-habited over a drug store, and her roommate had taken care of all the cooking.

  The arrangement had worked out perfectly for them ... or Orla had thought it had.

  Right up until she’d realized today that she’d be almost solely responsible not only for cleaning their home and a few odd farm chores Jethro said he’d explain tomorrow, but also cooking for the entire family, too!

  And since she and Jethro had been getting along so wonderfully since arriving at the farm and having their intimate discussion in the truck, she’d been afraid to share even one more of her minor secrets with him for fear that it would be the one thing that drove the poor man into retracting his marriage proposal. Then what would happen to her? Homeless and desperate would not be a very good look on her. So, she’d naturally decided that the best plan of attack she had was to fake it until she could make it (literally!), she thought throwing a worried look toward the makeshift meal she was preparing with the thawed pork chops she’d found on the bottom shelf of the icebox.

  Waving a hand in front of her face, she curled her nose and coughed as the terrible aroma of scorched pork chops filled her nostrils. Flipping another pork chop in the sizzling iron skillet of grease on top of the stove, she fervently prayed that she could produce at least one edible chop for Jethro to eat for his supper. Thankfully, she’d only be serving him tonight since they’d found a note on the kitchen table when they arrived from his little brother saying he’d be staying overnight at one of his school friend’s houses. At the time, she hadn’t bothered paying attention to the name; she’d been too busy being alarmed by the fact that it would only be her and Jethro – alo
ne and unchaperoned – in the house for the entire night. Even now, she wasn’t sure if she was excited or anxious about that fact, but she didn’t have time to dwell on that. Jethro would be back from supervising the hands in the barn any time now. He’d told her an hour ago that he wouldn’t be long.

  Glancing out the darkened window above the sink, she bit her lip as her gaze shifted to look around the kitchen, still hazy with thick smoke. Hopefully she could at least offer Jethro a semi-edible meal, she thought with a look at the boiling corn on the cob she had in a pot on the back burner of the stove. She had a meat… or a meat-like hunk of substance, she reminded herself, verifying that fact by taking a fork and flipping the chop in the grease again. She had a veggie, she confirmed with another look at the pot filled with ears of mostly shucked corn (those stringy pieces were incredibly difficult to pull out and after twenty minutes, she’d given up and told herself it was a food/floss combo). Now, all she needed was a bread to finish off the meal. Cursing herself for never learning to make a biscuit at any time in her twenty years of living, Orla dropped the fork on the clean counter beside the stove and hurried over to where the bread box sat beside the large gleaming white refrigerator. Pulling down the breadbox door, she was relieved to find a loaf of white bread. Snatching it up, she quickly searched for a knife and sliced off several pieces, wincing slightly when the tip of the knife sliced the tip of her finger.

  “Ouch,” she hissed, jerking back her finger as a drop of blood dropped to the shiny linoleum floor under her feet. Biting back an unladylike epithet, she looked around for a tea towel as the smoke began to grow thicker in the room. Whipping her head toward the stove, she moaned as she saw the blackening pork chop sizzling away.

  “Oh, for the love of buttered biscuits!” Orla wailed, rushing over to fish out the last almost ruined piece of meat. Relieved to see it was crisp, but not charred, she dropped it onto a plate with the four others she’d previously ruined. Carrying the platter into the dining room to the long, smoothly-hewn farmer’s table, she paused only long enough to raise the window above the sink. If the Almighty was kind, he’d send a little fresh air into the kitchen to displace some of the acrid smoke.