lucky we’ll have fresh trout for supper tomorrow night. That’s one thing I can cook.”
“You don’t have to,” she hastily assured him. “I can do it.”
“Nope. Family tradition. If you catch them, you have to clean ‘em and cook ‘em.” He took the last bite and blinked as Abby whisked the plate out from under him and carried it to the sink along with her own, returning with a platter piled high with fried pies. She seemed agitated and it suddenly occurred to him why.
Casually, he picked up a pie and took a bite, pausing to chew thoughtfully. “Tell you what. We’ll split the job. I’ll cook the fish and you can fix the stuff to go with it.”
“What kind of stuff?”
At least she appeared calmer now. “The usual. French fries, cole slaw, hushpuppies.”
“Hushpuppies?”
“Can you make corn bread?” He took a bigger bite of the pie, and licked his lips. Damn, it was good.
She nodded.
“That’s the hard part. When it’s mixed, just chop up an onion and put it in the batter. Then you drop spoonfuls into the grease.” He popped the last bite of pie into his mouth.
“Okay.”
It was the first time she’d ever smiled at him and it transformed her. Had he actually thought she was merely pretty? She was beautiful. When she smiled, two dimples appeared on her cheeks and her entire face lit up. Tate cleared his throat and wrenched his gaze away from her.
“Well, I’ve got some paperwork to do. I’ll be in the office if you need me.” Even before he got out the kitchen door he could hear her running water to wash dishes. If he didn’t keep an eye on her, she was going to work herself to death.
Chapter Five
Tate pulled his clothes on quietly, then slipped from his room, carrying his boots in one hand. Daylight was still several hours away, but he didn’t mind. Early mornings, before the world started stirring, were his favorite time. And he’d spent Sunday mornings fishing for so many years now that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break the habit even if he wanted to.
He dropped his boots in the kitchen, ready to make a pot of coffee to take with him, then stopped. There was already a full pot simmering under the coffeemaker. Next to it was a plate containing four cellophane-wrapped biscuits. Homemade ones, with slices of bacon in the middle.
When the hell had she made them? He picked one up in puzzlement. It was still warm. And there wasn’t a single dirty dish in sight. In fact, the kitchen was spotless. More so than at any time since his mother had died. Abby must have stayed up most of the night working. It couldn’t be good for her or the baby.
Putting the biscuit down, he turned and climbed back up the stairs, stopping at Abby’s room and knocking softly. When there was no answer he pushed the door open and moved quietly to the side of the bed. She was sound asleep, the setting moon casting silvery shadows over her. She had kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and was curled up on her side, one knee pulled tightly into her chest, the other leg stretched out straight.
Her dark hair was spread partially on the pillow and partially tangled over her face, but he could still see the long lashes that brushed her cheeks, and the lightly curled fist next to her head. Her left hand lay relaxed, palm up on the sheets. Such a small, delicate hand. For that matter, all of her looked tiny in the big bed. She barely took up a quarter of the space. It made her look young, more like twelve than…what?
All at once it occurred to him that he didn’t know how old she was, that he really didn’t know anything about her at all. Except that she was carrying his baby. A fierce wave of emotion swept over him, staggering in its intensity. It took him a moment to identify it. Why was he suddenly feeling so damn protective? Because she was pregnant, or because she looked so helpless? Maybe it was a little of both.
A light breeze ruffled the curtains from both open windows and washed
“You don’t have to,” she hastily assured him. “I can do it.”
“Nope. Family tradition. If you catch them, you have to clean ‘em and cook ‘em.” He took the last bite and blinked as Abby whisked the plate out from under him and carried it to the sink along with her own, returning with a platter piled high with fried pies. She seemed agitated and it suddenly occurred to him why.
Casually, he picked up a pie and took a bite, pausing to chew thoughtfully. “Tell you what. We’ll split the job. I’ll cook the fish and you can fix the stuff to go with it.”
“What kind of stuff?”
At least she appeared calmer now. “The usual. French fries, cole slaw, hushpuppies.”
“Hushpuppies?”
“Can you make corn bread?” He took a bigger bite of the pie, and licked his lips. Damn, it was good.
She nodded.
“That’s the hard part. When it’s mixed, just chop up an onion and put it in the batter. Then you drop spoonfuls into the grease.” He popped the last bite of pie into his mouth.
“Okay.”
It was the first time she’d ever smiled at him and it transformed her. Had he actually thought she was merely pretty? She was beautiful. When she smiled, two dimples appeared on her cheeks and her entire face lit up. Tate cleared his throat and wrenched his gaze away from her.
“Well, I’ve got some paperwork to do. I’ll be in the office if you need me.” Even before he got out the kitchen door he could hear her running water to wash dishes. If he didn’t keep an eye on her, she was going to work herself to death.
Chapter Five
Tate pulled his clothes on quietly, then slipped from his room, carrying his boots in one hand. Daylight was still several hours away, but he didn’t mind. Early mornings, before the world started stirring, were his favorite time. And he’d spent Sunday mornings fishing for so many years now that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break the habit even if he wanted to.
He dropped his boots in the kitchen, ready to make a pot of coffee to take with him, then stopped. There was already a full pot simmering under the coffeemaker. Next to it was a plate containing four cellophane-wrapped biscuits. Homemade ones, with slices of bacon in the middle.
When the hell had she made them? He picked one up in puzzlement. It was still warm. And there wasn’t a single dirty dish in sight. In fact, the kitchen was spotless. More so than at any time since his mother had died. Abby must have stayed up most of the night working. It couldn’t be good for her or the baby.
Putting the biscuit down, he turned and climbed back up the stairs, stopping at Abby’s room and knocking softly. When there was no answer he pushed the door open and moved quietly to the side of the bed. She was sound asleep, the setting moon casting silvery shadows over her. She had kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and was curled up on her side, one knee pulled tightly into her chest, the other leg stretched out straight.
Her dark hair was spread partially on the pillow and partially tangled over her face, but he could still see the long lashes that brushed her cheeks, and the lightly curled fist next to her head. Her left hand lay relaxed, palm up on the sheets. Such a small, delicate hand. For that matter, all of her looked tiny in the big bed. She barely took up a quarter of the space. It made her look young, more like twelve than…what?
All at once it occurred to him that he didn’t know how old she was, that he really didn’t know anything about her at all. Except that she was carrying his baby. A fierce wave of emotion swept over him, staggering in its intensity. It took him a moment to identify it. Why was he suddenly feeling so damn protective? Because she was pregnant, or because she looked so helpless? Maybe it was a little of both.
A light breeze ruffled the curtains from both open windows and washed
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