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He snorted again, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers, and she held out her hand toward the door and raised her brows, waiting for him to decide.
He glared, his chest heaving while he stood staring at her, probably mulling over various ways in which to kill her. Finally, he slapped his hat against his leg a couple times and then with an exasperated growl, he marched into the house.
Mercy turned to Birdie with an earsplitting grin. “I can’t believe that worked.”
The horse softly whinnied at her in commiseration—because of course, the poor old girl had been dealing with Gray for a while—and went back to eating.
Mercy grinned again. “Now for the second part of the plan.”
She waited a few minutes until the sounds from the kitchen let her know that Gray was in the bath. Then she took a deep breath and marched in.
…
Gray sat in the small tub, his knees almost to his chest, and picked up the bar of soap and scrub brush Mercy had left sitting nearby.
Mercy. He ground his teeth. If ever there was an inappropriately named woman, it was her. Only a mother could think otherwise.
The scent of apples tickled his nose, and he brought the bar closer to give it a good sniff. He sighed, his lips crinkling with distaste. No wonder the blasted woman always smelt like apples. As far as he could tell she used it to scent everything including, apparently, her soap. A more unpleasant smell drifted to him from the direction of his armpit, and he grimaced again. Well, she may have had a point about his need for a bath. Ithadbeen while. Still, he hated to lose an argument.
He got to work scrubbing at his hair and body, not caring how much water he splashed onto the floor. In fact, every drop that hit the floorboards made him grin with satisfaction. She wanted him to bathe so badly? She could clean up the mess. He ignored the guilt that nagged at him at the thought. She’d started it.
He’d just dumped a bucket of water over this head when the sound of footsteps marching in his direction froze him in place. She wouldn’t dare. Would she? He wiped the water from his eyes and tried to shove his dripping hair from his face.
She rounded the corner into the kitchen before the thought of what he’d do if shediddare had fully formed in his mind. A startled shriek left his lips before he could stop it, and he dropped his hands to his lap, blocking his tender bits from view.
“What the hell are you doing, woman?” he asked.
She had stopped at his decidedly outraged, and not a little feminine, shriek and stood looking at him with a grin pulling at her lips.
“Miss Douglas!” he said, sounding much more like a disapproving schoolmarm than he intended.
Mercy seemed to tear her eyes away with difficulty and a burst of male pride scorched through his chest. He might be getting on in years, and his middle might be a bit softer and more abundant than it had been a few years ago, but he could obviously still command the ladies’ attention. He was tempted to drop his hands and let her look her fill.
He changed his mind as she came toward him with a determined smile, and he sank as far under the water as he could. No good could come from that grin.
“Miss Douglas… Mercy… What are you doing?” he asked.
His pounding heart stopped altogether when she stooped over near the edge of the tub. She came up holding his clothing and his jaw dropped. She wouldn’t dare!
She crinkled her nose but gathered the entire bundle in her arms, right down to his socks. And his drawers.
“Where you goin’ with those?”
“They need a washing.” She jerked her head toward a linen towel draped over the chair. “Wrap up in that when you’re finished. It’s a nice sunny day. Your clothes will be dry in no time. And while you wait, I’ve laid out some clothes that you can wear.”
He sputtered a bit and half rose from the tub to pull his clothes from her grip. Her cheeks pinkened, but she didn’t avert her gaze. In fact, it zeroed in on him. He remembered just in time that standing would give her far more of a view than he’d prefer, and he sank back down with a scowl.
She winked at him and then continued out of the kitchen.
Oh. The truce wasover.
He finished rinsing as quickly as he could. Maybe he’d be able to get to her before she soaked all his clothes. He slipped and skidded out of the tub, wrapping the towel around his body as well as he could as he trotted out of the house.
No such luck. Mercy had marched straight to her laundry bucket and shoved the whole mass of clothing into it, pushing them under the water. Then she grabbed his shirt and a bar of soap—apple-scented, unless his nose deceived him—and got to work with the washboard.
He stopped beside her, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She glanced over at him, and her lips immediately started to twitch.
“Your feet are getting muddy,” she said, studiously not meeting his gaze.
