by Stacy Henrie
He’d come to the place where she stood. His gaze slid over her face. “Are you unwell, Mary?”
She shook her head. “I’m a little weary, I suppose.”
“Are you working too hard? I’ll not have you wearing yourself to the bone and growing ill. This is meant to be a good life for you, not a burdensome one.” He said things like that often, thoughts just tender enough to make her hope there was more beneath them than a tentative friendship.
“My thoughts were too full last night for sleeping well is all. I’m not working too hard, I assure you.”
He didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “Do you need to lie down?”
“No.”
His gaze flicked to the barn door. “Are you nervous about the visitors?”
He was attentive, just not in the way she needed.
How would she ever receive the things she needed, or at the very least know that those things were out of her reach, if she never spoke of them? She simply had to find the courage to do so.
“Gerald?” Her voice emerged quieter than she’d expected and far less certain. She swallowed and pressed forward. “Would you—?”
He didn’t look away, didn’t seem the least put out by her bumbling attempt at a request.
“Would you hold my hand?”
His brows pulled low immediately. “Hold your—? You said you weren’t afraid of the visitors.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you need me to hold your hand?”
Because I need a moment’s affection. Because the young girl who once adored you would like to know you don’t resent her now. Because I can’t live the rest of my life entirely unloved.
She couldn’t find words she was willing to speak out loud to explain this aching need in her. She wasn’t asking for him to fall desperately in love with her or to suddenly be all tender affection. She simply needed something from him. Anything. The tiniest reason to hope things would get better.
“Never mind,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “It was silly.”
His longer strides caught up with her quickly. She didn’t turn back or stop walking.
“Mary, please.” His hand, gentle on her arm, stopped her at last. “Do you want me to hold your hand?”
She wanted to say no, that it didn’t matter. But she couldn’t lie, so she simply nodded.
“May I ask again why?”
She took a deep breath. “Because I always imagined that someday, when I was married, my husband would hold my hand. My father held my mother’s hand. It was how I knew they were happy and that she was cared for. I know ours is not the ideal marriage they had, but I’d like to have at least that small piece of it.”
It was a far more vulnerable explanation than she’d intended to offer, but it was the truth.
His warm, calloused hand, slid down her arm, and his fingers wrapped gently around hers. “Mary Smith, I promise you here and now that I will hold your hand anytime you wish for it. Only, please don’t run away from me when you’re needing something. I can be prickly and rough and difficult, I know that. But I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“I don’t want you to be unhappy either.” She dropped her gaze to his hand, engulfing her own. “And I know you didn’t want to marry me, of all people.”
His thumb rubbed a slow circle along the back of her hand. “There is one advantage to marrying a childhood playmate as opposed to a stranger.”
“What’s that?”
“Well,” he said, “for one thing, you’ve seen me at my worst, so you aren’t likely to be shocked when my charm starts to wear off.”
There was just enough cheek in his words to add a bit of welcome humor. She found she could even smile. “Oh, have you been trying to be charming all this time?”
“I’ve been at my most charming. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Oh, dear,” she said dryly. “You may have to work on that.”
“And that’s another good thing about being previously acquainted,” he said. “You’re already comfortable enough to tease. A sense of humor’s an important thing out here where life can be hard.”
She held fast to his hand, reveling in the warmth and reassurance he exuded. “Life can be hard no matter where a person is. I’ve found it usually is, in fact.”
His gaze turned to the horizon and the cloud of dust growing closer. “I’d wager you are about to meet our nearest neighbors. Brace yourself, Mary. The Attleys are exhausting.”
She leaned her head against his arm. “You may have to hold my hand through the entire ordeal.” Though she made the comment in jest, the idea appealed to her more than she’d expected it to.
He squeezed her fingers. “Come on, then, Mary. Let’s introduce you to your neighbors.”
He didn’t release her hand as he walked with her to the new arrivals’ wagon, or as they invited the Attleys inside, or sat on the sofa, visiting. She knew he kept her hand in his only because she’d asked him to, but it was a kindness she very much needed, and in that moment it was enough.
Chapter Five
Gerald found he rather liked holding his wife’s hand. He was, in fact, discovering that he rather liked his wife, something he’d not have thought possible only a few short weeks earlier. Much of Mary’s worry and wariness had eased over the almost-month since she’d arrived in Greenborough. She talked more. She laughed often. Those lighthearted bits of her personality that had grated on him as a young man were quickly becoming the highlight of his day.
Though he’d not realized it when he’d sent for a wife, he needed more than mere companionship and a helping hand. He needed a reason to smile and something to look forward to during the grueling hours of work. Mary had proven to be exactly that.
A nasty turn in the weather brought him in early. He sat on the sofa, not planning his next day or thinking about his plans to prepare for the upcoming winter as he’d have once done but, instead, listening to Mary working in the kitchen.
She hummed as she moved about. He didn’t remember her doing that when they were younger. He likely would have found it obnoxious— he’d found almost everything she did obnoxious. He’d been rather unfair to her all those years earlier.
“The stew won’t be ready for another hour.” Mary stepped out of the kitchen as she spoke. “You’re in from the fields earlier than I’d expected.”
“I’ll not starve in the next hour.”
She smiled. Heavens, he was coming to love that smile. “Mrs. Attley tells me that I’ll never have the slightest hope of earning your affection if I let you go hungry. This next hour might undo all the goodwill we’ve built this past month.”
“It hasn’t been a terrible month for you, then?” He could hear the uncertainty in his tone and wasn’t sure he liked it. While he did want her to be happy and worried that she wasn’t, he wasn’t used to being rendered so desperate for another’s good opinion.
Mary sat beside him on the sofa. “The two years I spent pasted to your side were among the happiest I’ve known. Being in your company again has been lovely.”
“I don’t know why it is you enjoyed spending time with me back then. I was a bit horrible to you.”
“Even when I annoyed you, you weren’t unkind. That meant a great deal to me then. It still does.”
He threaded his fingers through hers. “Your hand is warm.”
Another of her smiles made an appearance. “I’ve been slaving over a hot stove.”
“And I’ve been outside in the wind and rain.” He pressed her warm fingers to his face, intending to show her how much colder he was. But the touch sent a shiver of awareness through him, and he couldn’t find the words to finish his tease.
“You’re freezing, Gerald.” Mary hopped off the sofa, pulling her hand free of his before he could make the slightest protest. She pulled open the cedar chest beneath the far window and took out a quilt. “You did change out of your wet clothes, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
She returned to the sofa, quilt in hand. “You’re still so cold, though.”
“Colorado is a cold place, dear. I’ve been chilled through many times before.”
Her cheeks reddened instantly. She pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She silently shook her head, still not looking at him.
“Mary?”
She pulled the folded blanket up against her. “No one’s called me ‘dear’ before. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I just...” She bit her lips closed once more, still not looking at him.
He hadn’t meant anything by the endearment. But if using it would make her color up so adorably, he’d pull it out more often. He’d never considered himself a flirt. Perhaps he’d simply never had the right partner. Imagine if, rather than prickle up at her and insist she leave him alone, he’d spent their two years together teasing and flirting with her? Those years would’ve been a vast deal more pleasant.
“So, did you mean to give me the quilt or did you fetch it so you could hug it?”
She bit back a smile. “Of course. I was distracted.”
Oh, yes. Teasing her was far more enjoyable.
Mary unfolded the quilt and laid it across his lap. When she stood, clearly meaning to go see to something or other, he took hold of her hand once more. She gave him a questioning look.
“I’d be far warmer if you stayed here with me,” he said. “You do have an hour before the stew’ll be ready.”
She slowly, warily, lowered herself to the sofa once more. She watched him, clearly unsure what to expect. He hadn’t intended to make her nervous. He’d given her all the space she could want the past month. Truth be told, that distance had been harder to maintain with each passing day. But, if she wasn’t comfortable being close to him, he wouldn’t force her to be.
He held her hand, but didn’t draw her nearer. And he chose an impersonal topic in the hope that it would ease the uncertainty he saw in her expression. “The mercantile down by the depot has some seed still. I thought we ought to decide what we mean to plant in the kitchen garden come spring. If we have the seed already, we can begin planting as soon as the ground thaws.”
She took up the topic, and, as they discussed the importance of various herbs and vegetables, she relaxed by degrees. By the time they settled the question of carrots, she’d wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him. The gesture was a quiet and simple one and, he quickly discovered, one he hoped she would adopt regularly.
“You didn’t plant any beets this year, I noticed,” she said from her position curled up against him. “I think that would be a useful addition.”
“Ma used to pickle beets each fall. I looked forward to it all year.”
“I’ll pickle beets for you next fall, Gerald. I’m quite good at it.”
He leaned closer and kissed the top of her head. “And what can I do for you, dear? What piece of home would you like to have here?”
She moved ever nearer, her side pressed to his. “You are the only part of home I’ve wanted these past four years, and I have that now.”
“Me?” He shook his head at that. “I made life a misery for you.”
“I never felt terribly wanted when I was with you, I’ll confess that much.” She didn’t look up at him, which only added to his growing guilt. “But I also never felt unsafe. That meant a great deal.”
It was not the first time she’d spoken of craving the security she’d felt with him. “What was happening in your home, Mary? What was it that meant safety was a novel experience?”
He felt her shake her head. “I’d rather not talk about it. I’d really rather not even think about it.”
He slipped his arm free of her embrace and set it around her shoulders. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know so many things about her. But he sensed that her trust in him was fragile. If he pressed, she’d simply pull away.
She tucked herself into him and set her hand on his chest. He set his free hand on top of hers. He’d meant to offer her comfort, but found that sitting there with her beside him was bringing him comfort as well. Maybe that was part of the magic of a marriage: even small gestures of kindness brought healing to both people.
Gerald closed his eyes, letting the perfection of the moment settle over him, from the smell of her lavender soap to the warmth of her nearness. How easily he could imagine spending his future this way. Theirs hadn’t been an ideal beginning, but they were finding their way, slowly but surely.
A heavy, pounding knock at the front door broke the spell. Mary startled and sat upright once more. Another knock followed, just as loud and impatient as the first.
“Who could that be out in this weather?” Mary’s gaze was riveted to the door.
Gerald shook off his distraction. Mary was clearly nervous. He meant to see to this visitor and set her mind at ease.
He tossed back the quilt and stood.
“Be careful,” Mary said.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “I doubt someone’s come to murder us or steal all our valuables.”
She shook her head at him. “Well, just in case they have, I’ll ask you again to be careful.”
He gave a quick nod, then pulled open the door. It wasn’t a band of bank robbers or a desperate stranger with shifty eyes. It was, in fact, the last person on earth Gerald would have expected to see on his front porch: Tommy.
Mary couldn’t see the new arrival, but the stiffening of Gerald’s posture told its own story. Someone— or something— unpleasant had arrived at their door. Gerald had offered his support time and again in her hour of need. She could certainly do the same for him.
She joined him at the door and slipped her hand in his, looking up at him with as much reassurance as she could muster.
The new arrival spoke first. “You’ve a woman here?”
She looked at him for the first time and nearly stumbled backward. “Tommy?”
His eyes pulled wide. “Mary Hill?” His gaze returned to Gerald. “Why’s she here?”
“She’s Mary Smith now. And it’s your presence, not hers, that’s baffling, brother.”
Tommy laughed long and loud. “You married her? Ain’t that a lark. The girl you called ‘The Plague’ is now your wife.”
The Plague. That was far from flattering. But it fit. Gerald hadn’t much cared for her when they were younger. And Tommy hadn’t much worried over other people’s feelings. His jests had often come at other people’s expense— at hers much of the time. It seemed that much hadn’t changed about him.
“I’ll go check the stew.” She made to walk away, but Gerald didn’t release her hand.
His searching gaze met hers. “Mary?”
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “You see to your brother.”
He let her hand slip from his but with obvious reluctance. She could feel his gaze on her back as she crossed the room. She’d not yet reached the kitchen when Tommy’s voice echoed from the doorway.
“Seems you didn’t need to beg me to leave Gerald behind all those years ago. You sniffed him out in the end. You always were a persistent little thing.”
Though his words weren’t truly unkind, there was something smug and belittling in his tone.
Mary didn’t look back, didn’t speak. She slipped into the quiet sanctuary of her kitchen. Why had Tommy chosen that moment to invade their lives? Before his arrival, she’d been sitting in Gerald’s embrace. She’d felt safe and cared about and almost... almost loved.
Chapter Six
Gerald turned from the door and stepped in the direction of the kitchen.
“You’re going to leave me standing out in the rain?” Tommy asked.
“Do whatever you must. I’ve far more important people to see to than you.”
He heard the front door close behind him. “Mary? Mary Hill? There must be an amusing or horrifying story behind her being here.”
Gerald spun back around and pointed a finger
of warning at his brother. “She’s Mary Smith, and if you dare to speak to her again as flippantly as you did a moment ago, I will beat that information into your thick skull.”
Tommy held up his hands in a show of innocence. “No need for threats. I didn’t say anything to her that you didn’t on a daily basis four years ago.”
The guilt Gerald felt at the admittedly accurate accusation only further fueled his temper. “This is her home, Tommy. She has only to say the word, and I’ll toss you from it.”
He didn’t wait to watch the impact of his declaration on Tommy. If Mary was hurting or upset, that was far more important than his brother’s sensibilities. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his brother— he certainly did— he simply couldn’t clear his mind of her expression when she’d told him how much she appreciated the feeling of safety she had with him, that she felt secure and looked out for when he was nearby. He wouldn’t fail her in that now.
Mary was at the kitchen window, looking out at the storm. Either she didn’t hear him step inside or chose not to acknowledge him there.
“Tommy shouldn’t’ve said those things to you.” It was not the most eloquent way to break the silence, but flowery speeches had never been his specialty.
She didn’t turn back. “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Except the part about you calling me ‘The Plague.’ I was aware that you referred to me as a pest and a pebble in your shoe, but ‘The Plague’ was one I hadn’t heard.”
“I was seventeen, Mary. I was young and foolish and selfish.”
She shook her head. “And I was a pest and a pebble and a plague. I know that. I even wondered after you left if I’d pushed you to it, if you had crossed the country simply to be away from me.”
“It wasn’t you at all.” How he wished they could have back the moment of closeness they’d shared earlier, rather than this awkward distance he couldn’t seem to span. “He spoke so convincingly of adventure and making our fortune. As you can see, that didn’t exactly turn out to be true.”
