Chapter Ten
LUKE DUMPED ONE LASTkettle of boiling water into the deep brass tub, then reached in and tested the temperature with his hand. Ahh, just right. He smiled, recalling the pleasure on Sarah’s face when he’d mentioned a hot bath.
She’d looked so wilted this evening. She must have worked like a slave all day to accomplish everything she’d done. He’d wanted to do something nice for her, and a bath seemed the perfect solution.
“Is it ready?”
He turned and found Sarah standing behind him in the cramped little room he’d renovated into a bathroom when he’d bought the house. “Yeah, it is. Let me get out of your way.”
Clearing his throat, he moved to step around her, but she laid her hand on his arm, stopping him. “Would you go first, Luke?”
He raised a brow. “Are you sure?” Perhaps she hadn’t been as eager to take a bath as he’d thought.
She flushed, a delicate pink heat creeping up her cheekbones. “I like to take my time. Besides, I want to put rose perfume in the water.”
“Of course, I’ll go first. I’d hate to smell like a rose.” But he loved the scent on her. Just the thought of her, lovely and bare, the fragrance of roses filling the room, was enough to bring him to his knees.
She tossed him a few fluffy towels, fresh from the clothesline, and took the empty kettle. “I’ll heat one more kettle, and I have to go upstairs and gather my things, so don’t hurry.”
He nodded, and she closed the bathroom door with a click. He stripped, tossing aside his fake foot and climbing into the tub.
Women were such a mystery. A simple thing like a bath became some strange ritual, which involved things like rose perfume and scented soap.
He sighed as the heated water enveloped his aching body. He’d worked hard today, too, and it was a rare indulgence to simply relax in the tub.
After a few minutes, he reached for the soap and began to scrub, knowing Sarah was probably getting impatient, despite her words to the contrary.
As he scrubbed his mangled left leg, he paused, really looking at it for the first time in years. From the knee down, what remained of his leg was scarred and wasted; very unattractive. They’d hacked the rest of it off at his ankle, like a piece of meat gone bad.
The Confederate bullet had gone through his boot, shattering his ankle. There had been dozens of times, looking at the mess left behind, when he’d wished the bullet had found its mark somewhere more fatal.
In shock, he realized those days were over.
He was no longer unhappy with what life had dealt him. In fact, he knew he’d been far luckier than most. If his younger brother, Mark, dead at the age of twenty, had been given the choice of merely losing a foot instead of his life, Luke was sure he would have taken it.
Sarah had something to do with his improved attitude, and he wondered what she’d think of his leg if she saw it. Would she be as horrified as Christine had been? Somehow, he doubted it, and the thought was liberating.
