Chapter 8
The heat pressed down on the McKenna ranch, turning every task into a slog.
Josh stepped into the kitchen, wiping sweat from his brow.
The air was thick with the sweet tang of peaches and cinnamon, steam rising from a pot on the stove where Catherine stood, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, jet-black curls escaping their pins, their corkscrew curls tightening in the humidity.
Her golden skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration as she stirred a batch of preserves, her focus so intense that she did not notice him at first.
Josh paused, taking a moment to admire the young woman as his chest stirred with an unfamiliar warmth.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and a slight smile tugged at his mouth.
“She looks at home here,” he thought to himself.
“Despite her city roots, she’s acclimated well to the ranch.
” The sight of her, so at ease, tugged at something he thought he had buried with Mary.
“Morning, Catherine,” he finally said, his voice low so as not to startle her. “Those peaches smell good enough to eat straight from the jar.”
She glanced over, her hazel eyes bright despite the usual wariness that colored them. A small, shy smile tugged at her lips. “Morning, Josh. I hope they taste as good as they smell. Irene’s recipe is a bit… particular.”
The young man chuckled, leaning against the counter. “Ma’s got a way with preserves. Don’t let her catch you skimping on the sugar.”
Catherine’s laugh was soft, her cheeks warming to a soft pink. “She’s already checked my measurements twice,” she admitted, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m learning fast that it’s best to just do as your mother says.”
Josh watched her as she returned to her task, noting the grace in her movements despite the blistering heat and her unfamiliarity with his mother’s recipe.
With the jar filled and tightly sealed, Catherine moved to place it among the other preserves on a high shelf, balancing on a rickety wooden ladder that wobbled under her weight.
His heart lurched. “Hold on—” he started, but then the ladder tilted onto one leg, and he was moving without a second thought, hands gripping the rungs to steady it.
Their fingers brushed, her skin warm against his calloused palms. Josh looked up, about to ask if she was okay, only to find their faces suddenly inches apart.
Every feature of Carrie’s face was bathed in the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, as if tempting him to admire every tiny detail, from the freckles across her nose to the arch of her brows.
Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the space still between them.
Catherine’s lips parted, her breath hitching.
Her eyes darkened with something that sent Josh’s pulse racing.
In his chest, he felt a spark that he had not felt since Mary’s smile had lit up his world.
The scent of peaches mingled with the faint lavender of her soap as he breathed her in.
It was an intoxicating mixture that soon clouded his thoughts.
Again, his eyes traveled along the tiny freckles scattered across her nose before he raised his gaze to find a vulnerable flicker in her expression that quickly turned to fear.
For a heartbeat, they were frozen, the air crackling with possibility and unspoken words.
But then the spell was broken when Catherine suddenly jerked back.
The ladder swayed again, and in her attempt to catch herself, the glass jar slipped from her hand, crashing to the floor in an explosion of sticky peach syrup and sharp fragments.
She gasped and scrambled down from the ladder, already frantic with apologies.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she stammered, her hands scrabbling at the shards, heedless of the harm she might cause herself.
“Catherine, stop,” Josh said, kneeling beside her, his voice firm yet gentle. He caught her wrists when she did not listen, his thumbs gliding along her skin as he drew her hands up, away from the floor. “You’ll hurt yourself doing that, sweetheart.”
She froze, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with panic.
A small cut on her palm oozed blood. Josh’s heart ached at the sight of it.
“Let me see,” he said, guiding her to her feet and toward the washbasin.
He poured water over the cut, his touch careful as he cleaned it, aware of her rigid posture, her body as taut as a bowstring.
The intimacy of the moment, with his hand on hers and the quiet of the kitchen surrounding them, stirred feelings he thought long dead: protectiveness, tenderness, and something deeper he did not name.
It was this last one that scared him just as much as it sent a thrill through his entire body.
“Hold still,” he murmured, reaching for a clean cloth to bandage her hand.
Their faces neared once more, and he caught the gold flecks in her brown eyes, like stars in a twilight sky.
Something electric passed between them, making his heart race with a longing he swore he would never feel again, yet there it was, throbbing through his veins.
Catherine’s gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes, panic flashing across her face.
She wrenched away, her bandaged hand knocking over a kitchen chair in her haste.
The chair crashed to the floor like a gunshot, shattering the silent spell that had settled over the kitchen as he tended to her wound.
“I-I’m fine,” she said, her voice high-pitched and unsteady. She stepped back until she bumped into the counter. “I need to… I’ll clean this up.”
Josh stood still, hands raised to show he meant no harm.
“I’ve got it,” he said, his voice softer than he’d meant.
“You take a minute.” He yearned to step forward and close the distance she had put between them, but the wild look in her eyes reminded him too much of a cornered animal, and he knew better than to approach.
She shook her head, her curls tumbling loose. “No, I made the mess. I’ll—” She stopped when Josh lowered his hands, her eyes suddenly darting to the door, as if she might bolt.
“Catherine,” he said, keeping his tone calm, as he would with a spooked horse. “It’s just a jar. No harm done.”
Her laugh was brittle. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze as her hands twisted in her apron. “You are too kind, Josh. I don’t… I’m not used to it.” She turned to the sink, grabbing a rag to mop the floor, her movements jerky.
Josh watched her, his thoughts a tangle.
What was he doing, letting his heart stir like this?
Mary’s memory—her laugh, her gentle touch—was sacred, and loving her until the end of his days was a vow he intended to keep.
And yet, here was another woman, making a home for herself in his heart, waking something in him he was not ready to face.
He shook his head, grabbed a broom to sweep up the glass, the clinking of shards sounding like a sharp reminder to keep his distance.
That evening, supper was quiet, the heat still lingering in the air. Catherine avoided Josh’s gaze, her bandaged hand resting in her lap as she pushed food around her plate. “I’m not feeling myself,” she said after a few bites, her voice barely above a whisper. “May I be excused?”
Irene’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Of course, child. Rest up.”
Catherine slipped away, her footsteps soft on the stairs.
Josh felt her absence like a chill that did not leave him for the remainder of the meal.
With his plate still half full, he rose to help his mother with the dishes, the clatter of plates filling the silence.
His mother’s knowing looks made his skin prickle.
He fidgeted, wanting to leave the room before he could be interrogated by her intuition.
Too late. “Something on your mind, Joshua?” Irene asked, handing him a wet plate to dry.
“Nope,” he said, too quickly, he realized. He dropped his gaze to the dish in his hand as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Irene snorted, her blue eyes sharp. “You’ve been as jumpy as a cat on a tin roof all day long, boy. And don’t think I failed to notice the little moment you and Catherine shared in the kitchen this morning.”
Josh’s ears burned. “I was just giving her a hand with the jar,” he muttered, scrubbing at a nonexistent spot. “The ladder wobbled, and I did not want her to fall. That’s all.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Irene said, her tone dripping with skepticism. “And I am the queen. Mind yourself, son. That girl’s carrying a heavy load, and you’ve got your own ghosts to face.”
He sighed, setting the plate down. “I know, Ma. I’m just… trying to do right by Thomas.”
Irene’s expression softened, but her voice held a warning. “Thomas would want you to live, Josh, not merely keep promises. But go slow. For both your sakes.”
Josh nodded, his gaze drifting to the staircase where Catherine had disappeared.
The memory of her eyes, her scent, and the spark that had ignited between them lingered in his chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
He had given up on love the day Mary died.
He had locked away his heart when he nailed the coffin shut.
So why did Catherine Morgan make him want to open it again?