Once in Every Life

"Christ," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Jack, I can't just sit all day. I have to do something. But I can't ... remember much about farm work."

He strode into the living room and snatched up a pretty little basket. "Here," he said, shoving it at her.

Tess lifted the lid and saw a bunch of cotton and thread. "Embroidery. How ... stimulating."

He glared at her. "You never wanted to be stimulated before."

An entirely inappropriate twentieth-century retort popped into Tess's head. She grinned.

"What's so goddamn funny?" he hissed.

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Tess tried to rein in her smile, with limited success.

"Nothing. Really."

He eyed her warily. "Amarylis, do whatever you want.

Just stay the hell out of my way."

Chapter Six

Do whatever you want.

Tess thought about it. What did she want to do?

She wanted to turn these four dysfunctional, frightened people into a family. As stupid and Snow White-ish as it sounded, she just wanted everyone to be happy. It was up to her to be the beginning. She had to start being an honest-to-God mother, then maybe they'd become a family around her.

"Okay," she said, taking a sip of coffee, "how?"

What did mothers do? Unfortunately, the question answered itself. Cooking, cleaning, laundering, scrubbing.

"Yuck." No wonder she'd always hated those movies about pioneer wives. While the men were out herdin' do-gies and riding the range, the women were home cleaning floors and making butter.

She set her cup down and stood up. Unpleasant tasks, she knew, were a part of life, and ignoring them didn't make them go away. If Tess wanted to be the center of this family, she had to get started. Somehow she had to figure out how to be the perfect pioneer woman.

Getting dressed was probably a good start, she decided. Donna Reed never spent the day in her nightgown.

She went to the bedroom and checked on Caleb, who was asleep.

Then she opened the armoire and chose a waistless, 67

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scoop-necked gingham nursing gown. Dressing quickly, she tied on a wrinkled white apron, rolled up her sleeves, braided her hair, and went to work.

Four hours later, Tess crawled into the last corner of the kitchen. Dragging the bucket of soapy water behind her, she scrubbed the dirty floor and dried it with her now filthy towel. Then she applied the last bit of the beeswax furniture paste she'd found and polished the boards until they gleamed like bright new pennies.

Sitting back on her heels, she dropped the rag in the water and let out her breath in a deep,

satisfied sigh. The house was clean. She grabbed the chairback and got tiredly to her feet, pressing a fist to her aching back as she surveyed her handiwork.

Beneath her feet, the floor was a panel of richly polished oak. The table, its imperfections concealed by a stark white tablecloth, was a profusion of early spring flowers. On the dresser's long, open shelves, the blue earthenware plates, tin coffeepot, and crockery jugs sparkled like new. Even the stove, now soot- and grease-free, looked as if it belonged in Country Home magazine. A fire burned low behind the iron-barred grate, glowing orange-red and sending off fingers of woodsmoke-scented heat.