by Renee Ryan
What was wrong with her this morning? First bitterness. Then anger. Now jealousy of her two friends’ happiness.
She felt like a stranger in her own skin.
Clearly unaware of her troubled thoughts, Emmeline moved her hand across the fabric and stopped it beside Rebecca’s. “I told Will I didn’t need another set of curtains, but he wanted me to make my own mark on the new house. I mean, our new house. He liked this material best, said the color reminded him of the blue in my eyes.”
“He’s right.” Rebecca held on to her sigh. Barely. “This will look lovely in your new home.”
“I hope so,” she whispered. “For Will’s sake. I want to make my husband as happy as he’s made me.”
How Rebecca wanted a love like Will and Emmeline shared. Unfortunately, the one person who’d captured her attention was Pete Benjamin, a man whose devotion still belonged to his deceased wife.
If only Pete hadn’t been so kind to her after the tornado, she might have been able to put her feelings for him into perspective. But each night as she drifted off to sleep, Rebecca remembered every second of their time together after the storm.
He’d refused to abandon her as she’d searched for her brother. With a gentle hand on her arm, he had guided her past dangerous debris until they’d found Edward helping with cleanup on the edge of town. Pete had made sure she was in good hands before he’d joined the efforts himself.
At the memory of his kindness, she sucked in a shaky breath. Why was there such pain in her heart every time she thought of that day?
Clicking her tongue, Emmeline set the material on the table. “You’re not thinking about what Matilda Johnson said, are you?”
“Not at all.” Rebecca wiped her forehead with her fingertips. “Other than my reputation suffering a little, I’ve been very fortunate. I made it through the storm without a single loss or injury.”
Emmeline’s smile faded, and she sighed as she lowered herself into her chair again. “You’re right, of course. We need to focus on what we have, not what we’ve lost.”
In spite of her words, a stormy expression gathered in Emmeline’s gaze. It was the same faraway look Rebecca had seen in Bess’s eyes whenever someone asked her about the unaccounted time she’d gone missing after the tornado. The girl had been the last to see Mikey and Missy. If only Bess would talk.
It was Rebecca’s turn to squeeze Emmeline’s hand in sympathy. “How is your sister? Any developments?”
“None.” Emmeline’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “She hasn’t made a sound, not a single peep.”
“What does Dr. Dempsey say?”
Emmeline lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “That he can’t find anything wrong with her. That in time she’ll recover completely. But it’s been a month and she still isn’t talking. And between you and me, Dr. Dempsey is…rather…” Her gaze darted around the room. “Old.”
Holding her friend’s gaze, Rebecca nodded slowly, unsure if she wanted to admit the sad truth aloud. But the facts were undeniable. Dr. Dempsey had just celebrated his eighty-second birthday. And ever since the tornado, he’d been overwhelmed with a workload a man half his age would find daunting. He’d had neither the time nor the energy to devote to Bess’s treatment.
“If only Bess would make a sound, a sigh…anything,” Emmeline said. “I’d feel more hopeful. But ever since we found her under that bush where she’d been thrown by the tornado, she just goes about her business without speaking. And every so often, I catch her staring into the distance as though she knows things the rest of us don’t. I’m afraid whatever is keeping her silent is too terrifying to contemplate.”
“You think she knows what happened to Mikey and Missy?”
“Yes. And I fear the news is dismal.” She shuddered. “After all, she was the last person to see them after I sent them all off together to find shelter from the storm. Suppose the memory of what happened to the children is too painful for her to face and that’s why she won’t speak? Oh, Rebecca, what if…what if…the twins are dead? Or worse. What if they’ve been kidnapped by Kansa Indians and turned into slaves?”
The hopelessness in Emmeline’s voice had Rebecca squeezing her hand again. “I pray you’re wrong on both counts.” Unfortunately, they both knew either scenario was possible.
“Me, too. But at least if they were kidnapped they’d still be alive.”
“True.”
As silence fell between them, Rebecca eyed her friend a moment, trying to decide if this was a good time to broach an idea she’d been mulling over for a while. “I’ve been thinking about something that might help Bess,” she began cautiously.
Emmeline raised an eyebrow in question. “Oh?”
“Maybe if you found something for her to focus on other than her painful memories she might relax enough to speak again.”
“I’ve thought of that already,” Emmeline said. “She helps me and our mother around the Circle-L ranch without protest, but whenever we start asking her questions about the storm, she either shakes her head or simply walks away.”
“Why don’t you let me try?”
An intrigued expression flitted across Emmeline’s face. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s see if Bess will agree to help me here in the boardinghouse kitchen.” She rose and went to check her pies. They still had a while to go. “I could use another set of hands since the storm displaced so many people, most of whom she knows from the wagon train. Maybe the change of scenery will nudge her recovery along.”
Emmeline tapped a finger against her chin. “Hmm, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe I’ll…”
Her words trailed off, and she tilted her head at a slight angle. “Oh, Pete. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you standing there.”
“Not to worry, Emmeline.” There was an exaggerated pause. “I only just arrived.”
“Well, then, that explains it.” Smiling, Emmeline rose to her feet.
Rebecca followed suit, but she didn’t turn around right away. She needed a moment to swallow back the lump of emotion clogging her throat. Despite what she’d told Emmeline earlier, she’d expected Pete to seek her out once he heard the gossip. Expected it, and dreaded it. But now that he was here, in her kitchen, so soon after her altercation with Matilda Johnson, she had to fight back a wave of hysteria.
He’d heard the gossip; nothing else explained his presence here now.
But, glory, what was she going to say to him? How was she going to say it? Should she talk with him openly about their time together in his cellar? Should she pretend she hadn’t told Matilda Johnson the truth, innocent as her actions had been?
Should she run?
“Rebecca, we need to talk,” Pete said from behind her. His urgent tone could not be ignored. Her options had dwindled to one.
“Please,” he said in a much softer pitch.
A chill navigated along Rebecca’s spine. The sound of that deep, gravelly voice lowered to a mere whisper reminded her of the last time they’d been alone together and how gentle his words had become when she’d been in a state of panic over Edward’s safety.
When she still didn’t move, Emmeline gave her a nudge. “Go on,” she mouthed. “Talk to him.”
Rebecca slowly pivoted around. It took considerable fortitude to hold Pete’s gaze. She’d seen that look on his face before. It was the same intense expression he’d had when he’d practically dragged her into the storm cellar.
He remained silent, unmoving, holding her stare with unwavering concentration. A sure sign he was trying to hide his emotions behind an unreadable mask. But it was a mask. She’d seen glimpses of the real man behind the facade, the one who had put her fears ahead of his own in the storm cellar. Today, however, there was no softness in him, no warmth.
And just like that, she had her confirmation. He’d spoken with Matilda Johnson. Or…
Had something else happened, something far worse?
“Is it Edward?” Her stomach rolle
d inside itself. “Is he—”
“He’s fine.”
In spite of Pete’s quick assurance, something was wrong.
Her heart gave a momentary flutter.
In that instant, Rebecca understood why she’d avoided him ever since the storm. Something deep within her, something vulnerable and unrecognizable, wanted to know this man better.
She would never get the chance, of course. He was still mourning his wife and child. And no matter how noble his intentions were, Rebecca would not be second in anyone’s heart. Even if her suspicions about his reasons for calling on her proved to be correct.
This visit, so close behind her trip to the mercantile, could mean only one thing.
Pete Benjamin had come to do the right thing.
And she would have to tell him no.
Chapter Three
Think before you speak. Will’s advice echoed in Pete’s head, causing him to take a moment to contemplate his next words. He couldn’t make any mistakes with Rebecca. The consequences were too severe for her if he failed to convince her of what needed to be done.
Restlessly, he scanned the room, running his gaze past the sink to the spotless counters with canisters lined up in neat, functional rows. There was a pile of dough sitting on a wooden cutting board, and the smell of baking pies created the pleasant scent of home, a real home. The thought whipped an unexpected pang of sadness through him. He’d forgotten how soothing order and cleanliness could be in this chaotic world.
He wasn’t surprised Rebecca Gundersen kept her kitchen neat and free of clutter. She had that air of competence about her. He found himself admiring her all over again, which made the knot of regret forming in his gut all the more disturbing.
Lord, help me to clear up the muddle I’ve made with my rash behavior.
Pete continued staring at Rebecca.
He’d never looked at her like this before, head-on, without interruption, not even when they’d been alone in his storm cellar. He’d never noticed her fine, sculpted cheekbones. Her clear, pale skin. Her silvery-blue eyes that were not a run-of-the-mill blue as he’d always assumed. Her light blond hair and sturdy build spoke of her Nordic descent. Yet, in spite of her height, her soft curves made her seem feminine, almost delicate.
His stomach performed an unexpected flip and he nearly reached out to her.
He took a step back, instead. This was no time to forget why he was here.
A rustling of paper coming from his right captured his attention. Irritated by the distraction, he turned his gaze onto Emmeline Logan. He’d been so focused on what he’d come to do, he’d forgotten she was in the room with them. Bent over a small table in the middle of the kitchen, Will’s new bride was wrapping brown paper around some sort of blue material.
Even with her hands busy, she kept casting nervous glances at Rebecca, while Rebecca kept staring at him. And staring. And staring.
A clock chimed the hour. By the third note, Pete sprang into action. “Emmeline, would you allow Rebecca and me a moment of privacy?”
“Oh, yes.” She straightened and then smiled prettily at him. “Of course.”
Holding on to her smile, she picked up her package and glided closer to Rebecca. “I’ll just be in the next room if you need me,” she said, giving her the kind of meaningful look only another female could interpret.
Eyes still on Rebecca, Will’s wife turned only her shoulders in his direction. “Good day—” her gaze followed at last “—Pete.”
Pete forced his lips into an answering smile. He hoped. “Good day, Emmeline. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”
“The pleasure was mine.” She threw a brisk wave in his direction before exiting the kitchen through the swinging door.
Now that he was alone with Rebecca, Pete’s sporadic heartbeat eased a bit. He moved without thought. One step forward. Two.
He stopped.
What was he doing, advancing on the poor woman like a hunter stalking his prey? It was no wonder her eyes—those beautiful almond-shaped, silvery eyes—filled with alarm.
“You wanted to speak with me?” she asked in a quivering voice.
“Yes.” The word came out rougher than he’d intended. He was out of practice talking to a woman.
As if to prove his point, Rebecca took a noticeable step away from him.
Was she afraid of him? The thought was like a punch to his gut. Determined not to scare her, he broke eye contact. He had to remember that although she was no fragile miss, he was still much larger than she.
“We have a problem,” he said in a more contrite tone. “We…” Think before you speak, he reminded himself. “There’s gossip going around about our time together during the storm. And I’m afraid the things being said are not…nice.”
“So you’ve spoken with Mrs. Johnson,” she said, her tone resigned and more than a little cautious.
“Yes, I spoke with her just now.”
Guilt spread across her face, followed closely by shame. “I had no idea she’d take your effort to save my life and turn it into something depraved.”
Pete heard the apology in her tone, as though the situation was her fault. Knowing how Matilda Johnson worked, how she liked to twist the facts to suit her nasty mind, Pete wanted to reach out and soothe away Rebecca’s distress. He clasped his hands behind his back. “This isn’t your fault.”
“But it is.” She braided her fingers together and sighed. “I let it slip that we were alone in your storm cellar during the tornado.”
“It doesn’t matter how she found out. What matters is—” he banged his fist against his thigh “—that I made things worse.”
A confused look crossed her face. “You did?”
“We must marry at once.” He spoke more forcefully than he’d planned. Powerful feelings were cracking through his usually calm exterior, making him want to give this woman a stack of assurances.
There were none to give.
“You want us to marry?” She said the last word as if she had yet to learn its full meaning. She’d spoken calmly enough, but her eyes were wide with shock. And something else. Sorrow, perhaps? Disappointment?
“To stop the gossip from spreading any further,” he clarified. He started to explain the role he’d played in fueling the gossip, but she spoke over him.
“Oh, Pete.” She let out a slow, careful breath, but then squared her shoulders. “You don’t have to marry me.” Her eyes took on the color of quenched steel. She would not be swayed to his way of thinking easily.
He should have been better prepared for her response. Instead, he felt his jaw tighten in an unexpected mixture of anger and frustration. All directed at himself, of course. He didn’t need Will Logan by his side to tell him he was handling the situation poorly.
Think before you speak.
“Yes, I do.” He forced his teeth to unclench. Let out an irritated hiss. Cleared his throat. Breathed out again. “Matilda Johnson should never have begun talking about you, no matter the circumstances. You—we—did nothing wrong that day. And now her poisonous tongue must be stopped.”
The force of his words could have melted iron.
Rebecca blinked at him. Her mouth started working, but no words came out.
“You don’t deserve to be treated with disrespect by anyone, especially not by Mrs. Johnson,” he added.
At that, everything about her softened. Her shoulders, her eyes, her lips. She looked as though she might smile at him, but then she folded her hands in front of her and took a bracing breath. “You truly believe that?”
“I do.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, then lowered her head and sighed. Her hair cascaded forward in a waterfall of golden waves, curtaining her face from his inspection. “But I fear it’s too late. The damage is already done.”
Pete frowned. Something in him threatened to snap at her quiet acceptance of the situation. He might not have presented the issue of marriage with any sort of style, but she was being ridiculously stubbo
rn.
“The destruction is not irrevocable,” he said through a tight jaw. “Our marriage will stop the gossip before it goes any further.”
He would see to it.
Shaking her head, she walked calmly to the oven. A pleasant scent of baked apples wafted through the room as she cracked open the door to peer inside.
“Don’t you understand?” Her words were enunciated perfectly as she closed the oven door and spun back around. “I’m an immigrant. Whether or not you marry me, whether or not the gossip continues, I will never be fully accepted in this community.”
“So you’re new to this country. That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with this. If we marry, if you took me as your wife, my reputation wouldn’t be restored, yours would be destroyed.”
Pete felt his mouth thin at the absurd notion. Praying for patience, he rubbed a hand down his face. There was no denying that her words lifted just a little of the shadows from his bitter soul. Rebecca Gundersen actually cared what their marriage would do to him. To him. He hadn’t expected that, nor had he expected to be captivated by her unselfish heart.
Something deep within him shifted toward her, something so small, so slight, he nearly missed it. He wanted to make promises to this remarkable woman. The thought felt like the ultimate betrayal to Sarah.
He took a deep breath. “Rebecca.”
He moved a step closer, close enough to smell her pleasant scent—much like the pies she was baking, a sweet combination of vanilla and sugar and summer fruit. Aware of his own rank odor of coal and melted iron and sweat, he shifted a few steps back.
“Marry me,” he demanded, realizing his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t asked her. He’d told her.
He tried to rectify his insensitive act, but she was already speaking over him. “Why are you willing to spend the rest of your life married to me, a woman you hardly know, simply to save my reputation?”
