She decided this for herself, he argued silently.
Inga had understood the bargain they made. She’d agreed this was a temporary marriage. She’d known there was no love between them. So what was he worried about? She’d said she wouldn’t be sorry because of it.
She was innocent. She didn’t know. You did.
Quickly, he rose from the bed and finished dressing, then went downstairs where he stoked the kitchen stove and put coffee on to boil.
They would have to talk about this, about what had happened last night. It had changed things, as he’d known it would, and they were going to have to come to terms with those changes. Maybe it would be better if she returned to her father’s house now. Maybe she should get that annulment right away. Only how would he manage without her? His situation, his need for help with the children and with the household chores, hadn’t changed because they’d shared a bed.
He should have had more self-control, he chided himself. He never should have let last night happen.
He frowned. Did it have to make such a big difference? There had been no guilt when he’d left Clara’s horse farm in Kentucky. There’d been no remorse when he’d ridden away from the small town in Montana where Pearl lived and worked.
Suddenly it was clear to him why this time, this woman, was different from before. Because he could learn to care for her too much. Care for her as he’d never cared for another woman. Because caring for her—for his wife—would tie him down in a way he didn’t want to be tied down, a way he refused to be tied down.
“Mmm. I smell coffee.”
He turned toward the kitchen doorway, and there Inga stood. Her wheat-colored hair, becomingly disheveled, fell loose over her shoulders. Her eyes looked sleepy, dreamy. Her mouth was bowed in a tentative smile.
“It’ll be ready in a minute or two,” he told her.
“I did not hear you get up.” A blush pinkened her cheeks. “I slept very soundly.”
The urge to cross the room and take her into his arms, to kiss her until she was breathless, was nearly too strong to resist. “Look, we need to talk about last night,” he snapped.
Her eyes widened. Her smile vanished.
“It was a stupid thing for us to do. It’s my fault. I’m willing to take the blame ‘cause I know you didn’t…well, you didn’t know what you were gettin’ yourself into.”
“You are wrong. I—”
“Inga, you’re sweet, and I know you care a lot for Martha and Suzanne. But if we live like this—” He waved his hand toward the upstairs bedroom. “If we live like man and wife, there’ll be no way for you to get an annulment when I leave. You’d be a divorced woman or else one whose husband’s walked out on her. Think what that would mean for you. The gossip would be ugly. I don’t…I don’t want you to have t’go through that on account of me.”
“I am willing to take that chance,” she whispered.
He raked his fingers through his hair, feeling frustrated, angry, and confused. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. And don’t think I’ll change my mind about leaving when the girls are older, ‘cause I won’t.”
Inga was as pale as a ghost. “Of course you won’t.”
An even worse thought hit him. What if she got pregnant?
He turned his back and stared at the coffeepot as if it would provide answers. It didn’t.
“Dirk?”
He heard the catch in her voice and felt about an inch high. He was a selfish lout. He’d said all the right words to sound like he was worried about her, but he was only thinking about himself.
Inga waited as long as she could, her hands clenched at her sides. Finally, she said, “Dirk, please look at me.”
She could tell he didn’t want to, but eventually he complied.
“I am not a fool, Dirk Bridger,” she said, sounding more calm than she felt. “I understand it was not your intention for us…that we…be truly wed. But we are, so there is no sin involved. You worry about what the gossips will say eight or ten years from now when you go your own way, but I tell you they will talk no matter what happens between us now.”
Tell him you love him, her heart said.
But she couldn’t. Pride wouldn’t let her. Pride was almost all she had to hang onto. Telling him she loved him, especially now, would not make things better, but it might possibly make them worse.
She stiffened her spine, lifted her chin. “I want to live as your wife.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand more than you think I do.”
“What if you were to get pregnant?”
First surprise shot through her, followed by a warm sense of wonder she never could have described. “Pregnant?” she echoed softly.
“Yes. What would we do then?”
This time it was Inga who turned away. She walked to the window and looked out at the snow-covered barnyard, waning moonlight silvering the frosty scene. Pregnant? To have Dirk’s baby. To hold his child in her arms.
She heard the scrape of the kitchen chair against the floor, heard Dirk’s deep sigh of weariness.
“That’s all I’d need,” he said. “I’d never get away.”
The brief moment of joy was snatched from her.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she faced him once again. “Could it happen so…quickly?”
“Not usually.” He shrugged, then raked his hair again. “Never happened that way before…”
She knew he continued talking, but she couldn’t seem to hear him. Never happened before? Hattie had said Dirk might have been in love once, but it hadn’t occurred to Inga that he might have been…intimate…with a woman who was not his wife. Fornication was a sin. The Bible was clear on that. Only the marriage bed was undefiled. But Dirk didn’t believe in the God she knew. Would he go to another woman again? Would he commit adultery in the years ahead?
She felt both angry and sick at heart as she took a step toward him. “Dirk, what will happen if we don’t…if I don’t share your bed?”
His eyes rounded in surprise.
“Will you…will you find another to lie with?”
“Look—”
“Will you?”
He muttered an oath, then rose from the chair. He grabbed a mug off the counter and filled it with coffee.
More softly, she asked, “If it is a baby you fear, is there not some way to…to prevent it?” It hurt to ask. Her throat hurt. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt.
He stilled as he braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging forward.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Is there?”
“Inga,” he answered, “this isn’t fair to you. Not any of it. I never should’ve asked you to marry me.”
“But you did, and we are married. There must be—”
He spun around. His expression was harsh as he grabbed her and pulled her to him. “Yes, blast it, there are ways to prevent havin’ a baby.” He kissed her hard, then set her back from him, strode to the door, grabbed his coat, and headed outside into the frigid darkness that awaited him there.
“Is this better?” Martha asked, holding up two small squares of fabric.
Inga inspected the stitches. “That is very good, Martha. You will soon have a beautiful quilt.”
“Really?” The girl beamed.
“Really.”
“I wanna make a quilt, too,” Suzanne stated loudly.
Inga turned toward the younger child. “But, prinsessa, you are making a quilt. If you did not help your sister choose which fabric to use, she would never get it finished.”
“Isn’t Uncle Dirk ever gonna come in?” Martha asked with a sigh. “I wanna show him what I’ve done.”
“He is very busy.” Inga ignored the pinched feeling in her heart.
“Too busy to come in for breakfast?”
“Ja.”
“Aunt Inga?”
“Ja?”
“How come you’re so sad today?”
She shook her head, a
sudden lump in her throat prohibiting her from answering.
“Because I wasn’t very nice to her this mornin’,” Dirk said.
Inga gasped as she turned toward the doorway to the kitchen. She hadn’t heard him come inside.
He met her gaze. “Sometimes married folks argue, and sometimes they make each other sad. I’m right sorry I made your Aunt Inga sad. She doesn’t deserve to be.”
She feared she would cry again.
Dirk looked at the children. “Last Sunday after church, I promised Mr. Hansen I’d go have a look at his mare again this week. Reckon today’s a good day. Want to go along?”
“Yes!” they both answered, their quilting project quickly forgotten as they jumped to their feet.
His glance returned to Inga. “And you?” he asked. “Want to join us?”
She nodded, afraid to hope what all this might mean.
Without breaking his gaze from hers, he said, “Martha, you and Suzanne run get on some warm clothes. It’s plenty cold out there.”
He waited until the children had thundered up the stairs before he took a couple more steps into the parlor.
“Inga, I’ve been doing a lot of thinkin’ while I was out in the barn. I guess I wasn’t being too realistic, thinkin’ we could go back to the way things were before last night. You were right about the way folks’ll talk, down the road a piece. I’m sorry about that, too. You don’t deserve that, ‘cause you’ve been nothin’ but kind to me and the girls. It wasn’t fair of me, getting you into this. I never should’ve proposed marriage in the first place. But I did, and here we are.”
She rose from her chair. “Ja, here we are.”
His eyes darkened. “The truth is, I don’t reckon I could live here in the same house with you and not…and not want you with me.”
She shivered—with understanding, with joy.
“I don’t know how the girls and I’d manage, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave. You’d probably save yourself a load of grief later on. The longer you stay, the worse the talk’ll be when I go. Do you want to leave now?”
She shook her head.
“Then I think”—his voice was low and husky—“we ought live like man and wife as long as you’re here. If you’re still willing.”
She swallowed, then nodded.
He frowned. “You’re doing this ‘cause you want to?”
“Ja, because I want to.”
“You know what you’re givin’ up?”
“I know.”
He took another step toward her. “I don’t reckon I understand you, Inga. You could’ve had a family of your own.”
It was simple to Inga. She loved Dirk. He was her family.
He reached for her arm.
“We’re ready, Uncle Dirk!” Martha shouted from the top of the stairs.
He cleared his throat, and his hand fell away without touching Inga. “Guess we’d best be on our way.”
“Well, what do you think?” Erik Hansen asked as he leaned on the top rail of the stall.
Dirk straightened, then patted the pregnant mare’s side. “She looks fine to me, Hansen. I’d say you worry too much.”
“I paid a handsome price for this mare. I would hate to lose her or her foal.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. She seems plenty healthy.” He opened the gate and stepped out of the stall. “Like I said, you worry too much.”
“Mrs. Hansen says that is what I do best.” The giantlike Swede barked a laugh. Then he clapped Dirk on the back with one of his large hands. “And all this is over a horse. When it is the missus…” He paused and grinned. “The doctor, he has said I am worse than an old woman.”
“He’s probably right.”
“And when are you going to do some worrying of your own, my friend?” Erik winked.
Dirk frowned in return.
“We are hoping for a boy this time,” Hansen continued, unfazed by the look Dirk had given him. “After four daughters, it is time we had a son.”
“I didn’t know your wife was expectin’ again.”
“Four months gone, she is, and happy now that the worst of the sickness is over. You will find out soon enough what I am talking about. The women, they are all the same when the babies start coming.”
Dirk didn’t much care for this topic of conversation. It was hitting too close to home. But how could he tell Erik that the last thing he wanted was for his wife to be pregnant? That a pregnancy would be nothing short of catastrophe for a husband who had no intention of staying married?
“Come. We will get us some coffee and warm up before you start your drive back to your farm.”
Dirk nodded, and the two men headed for the rambling farmhouse.
Erik Hansen, a man in his late thirties, owned more land than anyone else in the area. He raised corn and wheat and hogs. He was probably one of the wealthiest men in the state and, without a doubt, was the wealthiest in the county. But he was not the sort to flaunt his good fortune and prosperous circumstances, and Dirk had always liked him because of it.
Erik was also one of the few men whom he felt he could call a real friend. Many, if not most, of the Swedish immigrants kept to their own community, but not so with Erik Hansen. He was a gregarious, friendly sort who reached out to everyone, and because of a mutual interest in Thoroughbred racehorses, a special bond had formed between Erik and Dirk right from their first meeting.
Perhaps this friendship was why Dirk was feeling so uncomfortable now. He was afraid Erik might start asking the wrong questions, and he didn’t want to have to lie to him.
They found the two women in the kitchen, sitting at the table. From upstairs came giggles and laughter—six girls, counting the Bridger two, having a grand time.
“Josephine, my love,” Erik said as he strode across the room, “you will be glad to know the mare is doing well.” He planted a kiss on her cheek.
“I told you it was so before you made Mr. Bridger come to see her,” his wife replied with a smile.
“That you did.”
Inga watched the interplay between the Hansens, then turned her eyes toward Dirk, who was also watching the couple. A wave of pure, unadulterated envy washed over her. How she would love it if he would look at her the way Erik looked at Josephine! Then she was immediately ashamed. She had so much, and yet she always wanted more.
First pride. Now envy. What had happened to Pappa’s sensible daughter?
Dirk’s gaze swung to meet hers. Her heart thumped. He hadn’t rejected her. Why wasn’t she satisfied? Why wasn’t that enough?
“I have you to blame for Mr. Hansen’s latest obsession, Mr. Bridger,” Josephine said to Dirk, interrupting Inga’s thoughts.
Dirk looked away and smiled at the other woman. “I doubt that.”
Josephine rose from the table and went to the cupboard. “Once he had the name of that Thoroughbred farm in Kentucky, he never stopped talking about going there and buying some horses until he had done it. Now all I hear about is that mare and her foal.” She filled two mugs with coffee. “Except when he is talking about the yearling and the races that colt will one day win.”
“I’m hoping Dirk will help me with the training when the time comes.” Erik poured cream into one cup, followed by several spoonfuls of sugar. Then, leaning against the counter, he blew into the cup to cool the beverage while holding out the other mug toward Dirk.
“I’ll be glad to help,” Dirk answered. “You know that.”
“Ja, I know.” Erik looked at Inga. “Your husband should have a stable full of horses of his own. He is quite an expert.”
Dirk shook his head. “I’m no expert, and there’s no room in the Bridger barn for anything as useless as a racehorse would be. What we need is a new team of workhorses.” He glanced at Inga. “Speaking of the barn, we’d better get a move on. It’ll be milking time ’fore we get home.”
“I wanna story,” Suzanne demanded as Inga tucked the blankets tightly around her.
�
�Tell us another one from Sweden,” Martha chimed in.
“All right. Just one.” Inga sat on the edge of the bed. “This is the story about the little, little old lady. Once upon a time, there was a little, little old lady who lived in a little, little cottage. And in this cottage she had a little, little table. She also had a little, little barn. And in that barn she had a little, little cow. She also had a little, little milk pail.”
The children giggled softly.
“One day she went to the little, little barn and milked the little, little cow into the little, little milk pail. Then she took the little, little milk pail with the little, little milk and went into the little, little cottage and placed it on the little, little table.”
“That’s like Uncle Dirk,” Martha said. “Only he’s not little, little. Uncle Dirk’s tall.”
Inga smiled as she continued with the story. “She also had a little, little cat that said ‘Meow.’ And when the little, little old lady went to get a little, little plate to filter the little, little milk, the little, little cat jumped up onto the little, little table and finished all the milk.”
“The little, little milk!” Suzanne exclaimed.
Inga nodded, then frowned dramatically. “But then the old lady cried, ‘Shoo!’ And the cat ran away to the forest and never returned again.” She kissed Suzanne’s forehead and said, “The end.” Then she stood, leaned over, and kissed Martha’s forehead, too.
“It should be so easy t’get rid of those pesky cats,” Dirk said from the doorway.
Inga looked up, his presence causing her heart to quicken, as was always the case.
“Didja hear the story, Uncle Dirk?” Martha asked.
He walked into the bedroom, crossing to stand beside the bed. “The little, little story?”
Both girls giggled.
“Yeah, I heard. Aunt Inga’s a good storyteller, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh,” they answered in unison.
“It was not my story,” Inga demurred. “It is a children’s story from Sweden.”
Dirk kissed the girls as Inga had done moments before, then straightened and turned. “But you tell the little, little story very, very well.” He grinned.
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 15
