The Rugged Hunter and His Delicate Heiress

Chapter 2: The Lodge Rules

I woke to the sound of a rifle shot.

I came upright so fast I tangled my feet in the quilt. Another shot cracked beyond the window. I shoved the curtains aside and saw Cole crossing the clearing with a long g*n in his hands.

"Cole!"

He looked up. "Stay inside!"

The order scraped at me, and I nearly ignored it. Then a third shot sounded, farther off. I watched Cole vanish between the trees.

I dressed, pinned my hair, and reached the front room just as he came back through the door. Snow clung to his boots.

"What happened?"

"Nothing close to the lodge." He set the rifle on a wall rack. "A hunter fired too near the north trail."

"Do you always run toward gunfire?"

"When it's on my land."

"And if you're hurt?"

"Then I'm hurt."

I folded my arms. "You make a very poor case for marriage."

He looked at me as if he had heard the fear beneath the insult. "It's over. I'm fine."

A gust of wind rattled the windows. I turned toward the kitchen, where a pan sat on the stove.

"Is that the breakfast?"

"Mrs. Bell left it."

"For whom?"

"For us."

I lifted the lid. Cold porridge clung to the bottom. "Did you intend to eat it?"

"I already did."

"Cold?"

"I had a spoon."

"Cole, a spoon is not a meal."

"It was this morning."

I found a pot, then stopped with my hands on the handles. My father had never expected me to cook. I'd been taught how to set a table, how to recognize a proper wine glass, and how to carry on a conversation with someone I wanted to impress. No one had shown me how to salvage burned porridge.

Cole came to stand beside me. "I can make something."

"You don't have to."

"Neither do you."

I added water to the pot. "I'm trying to be useful."

"You don't need to prove anything."

That irritated me more than if he had told me I was useless. "You're very fond of deciding what I need."

"I'm fond of not making you do things you don't want to do."

"Then stop hovering."

He went to the door. "I'll be outside."

I reheated the porridge and added cream. It tasted like warm paste. Cole ate two bowls without complaint.

After breakfast, he showed me the lodge accounts because I had asked what his work involved. There were bookings, supply costs, and names written in a neat hand. I recognized one: Silas Rook. He owned the Rook Sporting Company and had offered to buy Cole's land twice.

"Why is he on your guest list?"

"He's coming next week."

"You said he wanted to buy the land."

"He also has a group of clients who've paid for a hunting trip."

"Then why host him?"

"Because I gave my word."

I looked over the ledger. The margins were tidy, but the numbers weren't. "This entry is wrong."

He leaned over my shoulder. "Which one?"

"You've listed the same payment twice."

Cole's brow furrowed. "No, I haven't."

I showed him the figures. He read them slowly.

"You're right," he said.

"You could have lost two dollars."

"Two dollars is two dollars."

There was no shame in his voice, no defensiveness. I found myself warming to that, then instantly resented it.

"Would you like me to review the rest?"

"If you want to."

I spent the afternoon at the table with the books. At some point Cole set a mug of tea beside me without comment. I checked the purchases against the bookings and found three more errors, all in the lodge's favor. The supplier had charged for barrels that had never arrived.

When Cole returned from the woods, he read my notes and let out a quiet whistle.

"I'll speak to him tomorrow."

"You shouldn't pay for goods you didn't receive."

"I hadn't planned to."

"You could dispute the invoice in writing."

"I know how to dispute a bill."

"I didn't say you didn't."

He studied me. "You sound like you're waiting for me to be insulted."

"I'm waiting for you to be honest."

"I am."

His words sat between us, heavy and inconvenient.

That night, he carried his pillow to the front room again.

"You don't have to," I said from the bedroom.

"I know."

"You could at least use the guest room."

"I sleep better by the stove."

I heard the fabric of his blanket shift as he lay down. I stood in the doorway with my hand on the frame.

"You don't have to make a show of being decent."

"I'm not making a show."

I went back to the bed without answering. For the first time since we married, I wondered if I had mistaken his quietness for indifference.