Serendipity by Cathy Marie Hake

of petticoats and catching a whiff of perfume could make him stop dead in his tracks. Some of the littlest things were most potent of all: the flutter of a narrow ribbon, the way sun skipped all over the peaks and valleys in a woman’s hair, or the glint of her jewelry. Even at a distance, he appreciated how women gestured as they spoke.
    Back home the longing for a wife had him praying earnestly for a helpmeet. Privileged city women who dropped lace hankies, swooned, and didn’t know the working end of an animal – they’d make sublimely ridiculous farmers’ wives. Not that it mattered – they’d have tilted up their noses and sailed past him. Miss Rose moved more gracefully than all of them, and he’d bet she raised her nose only so she could appreciate the stars.
    “Have you ever swooned?” The question surprised him; he didn’t realize at first he’d spoken aloud.
    Her eyes twinkled. “I have more sense and better things to do with my time.” She dumped the towels into a wicker basket. “Earlier, you mentioned your farm. What are your crops?”
    Walking back to the kitchen in her wake, he noticed the tiny little straggles of hair that teased away from the rest. They were a bit damp. And starting to curl. Was taking care of Ma putting too much strain on her? She turned around. “Hmm. I see. Cats. You have a cat farm, and one of them got your tongue.”
    Spirited little filly. “I’ve been in Gooding two years. Both years showed yield on the wheat. The second year more, since I cleared more land.” Her smile invited him to tell her more. “Most of the soil’s rich. I have a Dempster windmill. The water is sweet, but we’re suffering drought. Lack of rain for a third year is brutal on the wheat.”
    “Bet that’s hard on your garden, too.”
    “Didn’t do much gardening,” he confessed. “Makes me half wild – you opening that pantry door.” A rainbow of jars filled the pantry – fruits, vegetables, jams, jellies, crocks . . .
    “I’ve gracious plenty. I’ll send home a crate with you.” When she put the lid down on one pot and lifted the lid on another, the aromas mingled. Her kitchen was a feast for the senses. “Everybody’s got their likes and loathes, so don’t tell me you’ll take anything. You may as well take your favorites.”
    “Corn. Beans and tomatoes, please.” Scanning the kitchen, he spied a small oilcan. The back door needed attention, and Todd needed to stay busy.
    “As for your mama, we’ll feed her warm grits gruel. Mashed ’tatoes and gravy. Thick applesauce. Then I’ll steam and mash up vegetables.”
    His mouth went dry. Todd could handle the worst mess in the barn; he’d dealt with the bloodiest wounds on horses. But everything Miss Rose listed was fit for a baby with two teeth. His stomach churned at the memory of church picnics where mothers fed mushy food to their babies. Even if I had the time, I couldn’t spoon that vile stuff into Ma. Immediately on the tail of that thought came, Miss Rose would be good at it. Real smooth and patient.
    “It shows good sense, you thinking about these things.”
    Todd let out a mirthless laugh. She’d think he lost all his good sense if she knew what was twirling like a desperado’s lasso in his head. Marrying Miss Rose would be an answer to every prayer – for a godly wife, a hard worker, a good cook, and now, someone who could tend to Ma. He started formulating a plan.
    “Fair warning: grab yourself gravy straight away tonight, because my uncles hog it.”
    Splurp! Oil shot from the can as he wheeled around. “Uncles? All of them – ”
    “Are like kin to me.” Affection coated her words and glowed in her eyes. “Uncle Bo’s the only real blood relative I have left, but don’t breathe a hint of that around the others. You’d break their hearts. Jesus and my uncles and Jerlund – they’re my world.”
    She’d just summed up a life he’d heard about only once before. “My sister loved a book about a