Entering the kitchen, she nearly bumped into the table. He had apparently pushed it aside to make room for the large, metal washtub, standing nearly full in the middle of the floor.

He emptied a steaming kettle into the tub and plunged in a hand. “Nice and hot.”

The cabinets glowed in the light from a single kerosene lamp. A bar of soap and a washrag lay on a stool next to the tub. Two towels draped over a chair.

Back at the stove, he tilted his head toward the tub. “You first.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “A hot bath?”

“Only hot if you hurry.”

Trailing a finger through the water, she caught an herbal scent. “Lemon balm? Fancy.”

He shrugged. “Just smells nice. Is the water warm enough?”

“Heavenly.”

He poured in a final saucepan and headed for the living room. “I’ll be outside.”

“Will you have a bath, too?”

In the doorway, he paused, glancing over one shoulder. “After you.”

She grimaced. “But the water will be dirty.”

Lamplight shadowed the creases bracketing his smile. “I’ve bathed after three boys. Your bathwater will be clean enough to drink. Now go.”

Towel in hand, she scurried into the bathroom, stripped off her soiled work clothes, and wrapped herself before returning to the kitchen. Tossing aside her covering, she slipped into the tub and rested her neck against the rim. A whistled tune drifted in from the porch.

Floating her palms on the surface, she relaxed into a moment of lemon-infused bliss. She could forsake showering for baths like this. Hauling herself upright, she snatched the soap and set about a thorough cleaning. Driving her fingers into her scalp, she lathered her hair, untangling stray bits of straw. Totally soaped, she closed her eyes and slid beneath the water. She hovered, luxuriating in weightlessness, and surfaced again, fresh and new.

She could have soaked for hours, until the water cooled, and she had no choice but to dash, dripping and chilly, into Jonas’s arms. But he deserved a hot bath, too. When she stood and stepped onto the rag rug, her skin puckered with goose bumps. She shivered with the delicious, clean feeling and dried herself quickly. Glancing about, she discovered he left one of his shirts—so much more palatable than Nora’s nightgown. Falling just above her knees, the shirt was huge, but the fabric slid over her skin in a cottony caress. “Okay, Jonas. I’m done.”

The screen door slammed, and quick steps came across the living room floor. In the entry to the kitchen, he stopped short.

Her hair hung in heavy coils, and the shirt clung wetly across her shoulders. “Your turn.” Her voice caught. She smiled and tugged at the hem. “Thanks for the shirt.”

The oil lamp flickered, and shadows glided across the walls like ghosts.

He cleared his throat. “It suits you.”