“No.” Not until she got herself under control.
“No, you don’t mind facing me, or no, you don’t want to answer my question.”
No to both, but she supposed she couldn’t evade either.
The face she presented as she turned around was totally composed. As put together, Asa decided, as her dress and ruthlessly smoothed back hair.
“Are you ordering me to answer your question?” she asked calmly.
Now there was a thought. “You know, darlin’, when a woman’s as trussed up tight as you are, she shouldn’t walk around picking fights.”
The only hint that his comment annoyed her was an almost indiscernible tightening of her lips. “I asked you a relevant question,” she said calmly.
“That wasn’t a question, that was a dare,” he answered just as calmly.
“It was and is a question which you’ve still failed to answer.”
“There you go again, daring me.” He couldn’t resist. The more sweet calm she threw his way, the more he wanted to devil her. This act she had of always being sweet and unruffled was so much bull, it practically reeked manure. She was as mad as all get out. If he needed proof, he’d find it in her chin. If that sweet, stubborn curve got any higher, the woman would be stuck with a permanent crick.
“I fail to see, Mr. MacIntyre, why you’d want to turn an innocent question into a battle.”
He folded his arms across his chest and settled his weight onto his good hip. “It does make a body wonder why anyone would set out to do that, but, sure as shooting, you’re itching for a fight.” When she didn’t rise to the bait, he continued. “Seems all I did was ask what had you slamming pots around and, you went all poker-backed on me.”
“I did not go poker-backed on you, MacIntyre, whatever that means—”
“Poker-backed means you couldn’t pull that spine any tighter unless you wanted to pop it in two.”
“I simply placed the pots in the basin to be washed,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If that doesn’t meet with your approval…” She ended on a shrug.
The way she stood, all sweet and gentle, looking as calm as a daisy sitting in a meadow of sunshine, was irritating as hell, but knowing that she was doing it on purpose to aggravate him took the edge off his bad humor. It was a strange and new thing, not having a woman run from his scowl. Kind of fascinating in an irritating sort of way. “So, I’m supposed to believe you were placing pots in the sink hard enough to crack ‘em because you like the way the sun’s shining this morning?”
“You, Mr. MacIntyre, can believe whatever you want. No doubt you’re eminently capable of handling any testing sent your way.”
“You got that right.” Asa smiled. “Which brings us to the question of why any new wife would want to test her husband?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
And pigs would fly before noon. “You don’t?”
“No.” Her weight shifted slightly, suggesting she might be digging in for another round.
“Seems to me it all started when I didn’t need you to introduce me to the hands.” He shook his head. “But that doesn’t make sense as one of the reasons you married me was to handle the ranch.”
“The men,” she corrected a little too quickly to be polite.
He hid a smile and pretended he didn’t hear. “My part of the deal was that I took over the men so you could get back to your needlework.” He hadn’t seen any needlework around the house, but, from talk he’d heard, needlework was a woman’s passion.
Just maybe not Elizabeth’s, he decided as her face immediately turned beet red.
“I assure you, Mr. MacIntyre, there’s more to a woman than needlework.”
“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. It’s no never mind to me if you can’t make those fancy little pillows.”
“I’m perfectly accomplished at needlework!”
“I didn’t mean any slight,” Asa continued in the face of her anger. “I’m a plain man and plain pillows suit me fine.”
The man was anything but plain, Elizabeth thought, unless she considered him plain aggravating. “If you want a house full of fancy pillows with cute sayings on them, I’ll make them for you.”
“That’d be nice. I always had a hankering for one that said Home Sweet Home.”
“Fine, then that’ll be first on the list.”
“Well, I thank you. Now, do you want to tell me why you’re so angry?”
“No.”
“Then come here.” He pointed to the floor in front of him. He didn’t give her time to budge before he repeated himself. “I said, come here.”
She would have, too, if he hadn’t snapped his fingers. Instead, she planted her feet, arched her chin up, and matched him stare for stare. In a pissing contest, he had an advantage, but, when it came to a battle of wills, she could hold her own. “I’m not a dog, Mr. MacIntyre.”