Fern

by Greenwood, Leigh

  Madison knew Fern was right. Even basically kind people would think she must have done something to encourage the man.

  "Did you know him?"

  For eight years Fern had kept the memory of that night locked in the dim recesses of her mind. Every time it tried to creep out, she had built the wall a little higher. She had felt safe until Madison showed up with his beguiling smile, tender kisses, and electrifying touch.

  Now his demands had caused the wall to come down with a resounding crash, freeing all the ugliness she had tried so desperately to hide.

  "It was too dark to see his face," she said, gradually allowing herself to remember. "I was coming in from the herd. I wasn't paying attention. I knew Papa would be furious I was late, so I was trying to figure out what I could fix for supper in a hurry."

  "What happened?"

  She could see it now just like it was happening all over again. She shivered. She wished she had the courage to ask Madison to put his arm around her.

  "He jumped out of a buffalo wallow before I knew what was happening. He pulled me off my horse and threw me down on the ground. I couldn't see anything very well in the dark, but I wasn't trying to. I was just trying to get away."

  She could see him rising out of the night, a dark ominous shadow. She couldn't remember anything but that voice, that soft, breathless sound which reminded her of a hissing snake.

  "He was cruel. He liked hurting me. He tore my shirt open. He kissed me all over and grabbed at me."

  "How did Troy find you?"

  "He was coming back from playing cards. If he hadn't been so drunk, he might have caught him. But I didn't care about that. I only cared that he stopped him."

  "And you've kept all this inside you all these years."

  "What else was I supposed to do?" she demanded, rounding on him.

  "Nothing, I guess, but you can let me help now."

  "And what can you do?"

  Madison had always prided himself on being able to think a problem through to its resolution, but this one had no solution. Something had happened which couldn't be undone. Fern would have to live with it for the rest of her life. Nothing he could do would change that.

  But he could let her know he cared, that his feelings hadn't changed.

  "I don't know," he admitted, "but I'll think of something. In the meantime you've got one question you need to answer."

  "What?" she asked. She seemed edgy, wary.

  "Have you decided on a dress for the party? It ought to be something really special. I want everybody to be stunned at the beauty who's been parading around under their noses without them knowing."

  Fern laughed, probably at the incongruity of such a question after what they'd just talked about.

  "I've got a few more questions to ask before I can worry about that," she replied, but he could see her relax. Now if she just didn't kill him when she reached the farm and found out what he'd done, maybe he could work up the courage to tell her he loved her.

  * * * * *

  "He bought the Pruitt house," Pike explained. "He had it sawed into quarters and loaded on a wagon. It didn't take more than a couple of hours to put together."

  "But the barn," Fern said, staring at the building of fresh-cut lumber.

  "I ordered that from Kansas City," Madison explained. "They shipped it out on the railroad. It only took a day to put it up."

  Neither building was very large, but the house had a floor, an iron stove, and furniture. The barn was more than adequate for the few chickens, pigs, and the single cow that occupied it.

  "Why did you do this?" she demanded.

  "I didn't want you to feel you had no place to stay."

  "But you've been trying to get me to stay with Mrs. Abbott."

  "I didn't want you to feel you had to."

  Fern blushed faintly as she glanced as Pike and Reed. "You'll have them thinking you did compromise me. I wish you'd go back to town and let me get on with my work." She looked around. "At least the work you've left me to do."

  "I want to talk with you first."

  She looked ready to refuse.

  "Just a few minutes. Alone."

  "Find something to do," she said to Pike and Reed, clearly irritated with Madison. "I won't be more than five minutes."

  "I guess I'd better talk fast. I'd hate to keep the pigs waiting. And your chickens might have a nervous breakdown. Do chickens have nervous breakdowns?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry if I sounded abrupt," Fern apologized, smiling at his foolishness in spite of herself, "but making me remember about that night has stretched my nerves badly. I've got lord-only-knows what kind of mess facing me, and you want to talk. We've done nothing else for days. What can you possibly have to say?"

  "That I love you."

  Fern froze. Not just her body. Not just her thoughts. Her entire life. She felt as though she were in a vacuum where life could remain suspended for eons.

  She knew she loved Madison, she had known it for some time, but she'd never thought he could love her. She had attributed his constant attention to boredom, certainly no more than a mild liking.

  In fact, during the last few days she had been thinking of what to do with her life after he returned to Boston. Part of her hesitation in telling him about the attempted rape stemmed from not wanting to forge any more ties in a relationship that had no future.

  Then Madison said he loved her, and the bottom fell out of her life.

  "I thought you might be surprised," Madison said -- he sounded hurt -- "maybe even speechless, but I never thought you'd look so dismayed."

  "I-I'm not d-dismayed," Fern stammered. "I'm just shocked."

  Stunned. Incredulous. Disbelieving. None of those words could describe how she felt. Heartsick came a lot closer. Madison didn't love her, not really. He had confused sympathy -- over her father's death, the loss of her farm, the attack on her -- with love. But it wouldn't have mattered if he had loved her. She couldn't marry him. She knew that. She'd already accepted it.

  "Aren't you going to say anything?" Madison asked.

  "I don't know what to say."

  "The usual response is I love you, too, but I gather from your expression that isn't the right one this time."

  "No . . . I mean I don't . . . You see . . . It's just such a shock."

  She couldn't tell him she knew he didn't love her any more than she could tell him she loved him with her whole heart but couldn't marry him. "You never said anything before."

  "I wasn't sure until today."

  "I haven't had time to think about it."

  That was a lie. She hadn't thought about much else.

  "Do you think you could think about it now?"

  Fern had never felt so utterly miserable in her life. The one thing she wanted above everything else was for Madison to love her. Now he had said he did, and she couldn't tell him she loved him in return, had loved him for weeks.

  She wasn't sure just how much longer she could keep saying no, but she knew she couldn't marry Madison. Not when anything beyond the most casual embrace conjured up unbearable memories of that night. Not when she could never be his wife in the fullest sense.

  "I can't think with you here," she said. "I never can when you're around."

  "That's the way it's supposed to be when two people are in love."

  "Maybe, but I'd prefer it if you went back to town. We can talk again tonight."

  She hated the hurt in his eyes. It hurt her, but she couldn't do anything else. She needed time to think of something to tell him.

  "Can't we talk now?"

  "Madison, I never thought you'd like me more than a little. Honestly, I didn't. We're very different people. We don't really have anything in common."

  "But--"

  "There are a lot of things we've never talked about. Your family, the kind of wife you want, my clothes--"

  "They don't matter."

  "Yes, they do. And if they don't now, they will later. Give me some time to think and--"


  "Do you love me?" Madison asked. "If you do, nothing else matters. If you don't, well, I guess it doesn't matter then either."

  Fern couldn't look at him. She didn't trust her eyes not to give her away.

  She stood poised on the threshold of everything she wanted in life knowing she couldn't have it. After being alone for so many years, after finding no one who could understand her or want to try, it was cruel to have to give up Madison. But she must, for his sake as much as her own.

  "I need time to think," she managed to say. "I'll tell you tonight."

  Madison lifted her chin until she had to look him in the eye. "There's something you're not telling me."

  "It's not that," Fern said, removing his hand and dropping her gaze. "Please, Madison, I can't think now, not with you standing over me demanding an answer."

  "I'm not demanding--"

  "Yes, you are," she contradicted, looking up. "You're the most impatient man I've ever known. You want everything your way and you want it immediately. I can't do that, not about something like this."

  "Okay, I'll go back to town, but I'll be back this afternoon."

  "Reed or Pike can see me into town."

  "I'll be back," Madison repeated.

  Fern realized it was useless to protest. He would be back.

  And she was glad.

  * * * * *

  Madison allowed Buster to drop into a walk. He had never imagined the scene when he finally told a woman he loved her, but now he realized he had expected Fern to fall into his arms. He certainly thought she'd be able to answer yes or no, not I've got to think about it. He hoped it wasn't mere male vanity, but her reaction had stunned him, had left him feeling betrayed.

  No, you just never thought a woman would refuse you.

  Not exactly. He couldn't imagine falling in love with a woman who didn't care for him. Fern did care. Maybe that's what threw him off, but it couldn't be very much if she had to think about it. After all, what was there to think about?

  Well, quite a few things. Most things, actually, but he had thought they could do that afterwards, basking in the glow of their mutual adoration. Too, he had changed, and most things didn't bother him anymore.

  But had he really changed?

  He had gotten over his initial shock at Fern's mode of dress. But even if it hadn't been completely out of the question for a woman to wear pants in Boston, he wasn't sure he could live with it for the rest of his life.

  Then there was the question of Fern's ability to fit into Boston society. It wasn't that she couldn't learn. She simply hadn't been raised to that kind of life. He wondered if it was fair to ask her to try. You probably had to be born in Boston to really fit in. There were so many rules, so many conventions, so many ties that held the established social order together and kept others out.

  But even as part of his mind brought up one objection after another, another part just as quickly found reasons why they didn't matter. Her courage and spirit were enough to counter any difficulty she might have. She could do anything she wanted.

  But only if she loved him enough to want to try.

  Another assumption. Because he felt something, he had been sure she must as well. She had accused him of being arrogant and self-centered, and he had just convicted himself.

  There was no reason for her to fall in love with him. No reason for her to marry him. He had nothing to offer her except Boston and a life of wearing dresses and riding sidesaddle.

  She didn't need him to take care of her. She had her own farm and her own money. Maybe she didn't want anything to do with a man. Not even a husband. After the attempt to rape her, he couldn't blame her.

  Try as he might, Madison couldn't regret Baker Sproull's death. He should have been proud to have a daughter with only half Fern's courage, spirit, intelligence, and good looks. He should have been equally proud to protect her.

  Madison wanted to make up to Fern for these injustices. Not with things like houses and servants and clothes and trips to Europe. He wanted her to feel safe, to know he cared for her happiness, that he wanted to share her burdens as well as her moments of happiness.

  He wanted her to know she was loved.

  He wanted her to believe she was worthy of love.

  He wanted her to know she would never have to be alone again.

  He spent the remainder of his ride back to town thinking of ways to restore her ability to trust men, her desire to reach out to other people, her ability to share the love he knew was inside just waiting for a chance to get out.

  He tried not to think of what he would do if she said she didn't love him.

  That made the shock all that much greater when he stepped into the Drovers Cottage and came face to face with the life he thought he had left safely behind in Boston.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At least two dozen times during the day Fern told herself she didn't want Madison to come back for her. But as the afternoon wore on, her gaze strayed toward town more often. Now as she prepared to head back, she shaded her eyes and looked down the trail.

  Empty. Madison was nowhere in sight.

  "Not enough time to start anything else today," Pike said. He and Reed had finished work earlier, but they had found a few small tasks to keep themselves busy while Fern waited.

  "You'd better start for home," Rose advised. "Otherwise you won't get your own work done before dark."

  "We'll see you to town," Pike offered.

  "There's no need," Fern insisted. "I can find the way myself. I've been doing it for years."

  "I know but--"

  "But nothing," Fern said. She took a deep breath and put into words what they all knew. "Mr. Randolph must have forgotten, but I'm well enough now to take care of myself."

  She didn't know if they believed her injury was the reason Madison had offered to be her escort, but she hoped they didn't think she had fallen in love with him and he had forgotten her. She could just imagine the fun everybody would have with the notion that snooty Fern Sproull had fallen for a fancy dude who threw her over.

  "I'll meet you here tomorrow an hour after sunup," she said. "I can't start living here again until I buy a few things, but I mean to move in before the end of the week."

  It was time she left Mrs. Abbott's. Being around Madison so much had given her foolish ideas. She had started to think she might actually fit into his family. From there it was just a small step to thinking she might be able to ignore her aversion to Madison's touch.

  This was impossible, and she knew it. She also knew the only way to put an end to the stubborn hope that something would work out was to stop seeing Madison altogether. She couldn't possibly wean herself from him when he was constantly at her side doing everything he could to win his way into her heart.

  "You can't mean to stay here by yourself," Pike protested.

  "Of course I do. I won't be the only woman in Kansas living alone. Besides, I can't run the farm from town."

  "You could hire us to help you," Pike offered.

  "I might, but I've got to make sure I've got the money to pay you."

  "Mr. Randolph's already paid us for a month."

  Fern felt the heat of embarrassment flush her cheeks. "Then I guess I'll have to pay Mr. Randolph." She didn't want to be beholden to him. Maybe she'd give him those young bulls he was so worried about. "Now both of you be on your way."

  "I'm not leaving until you do," Pike said.

  "Me either," echoed Reed.

  This would never have happened before Madison came to Abilene. Pike and Reed would have been in the saloon by now with no thought for her whereabouts. It was amazing what leaving off her vest and wearing her hair down could do.

  "Mount up," she called. "The last man out of the yard gets to clean out the well."

  Pike beat Reed to the road, but Fern beat both of them. She waved gaily to the men as she headed toward town, but the smile faded the minute she turned her back.

  She was worried. Something must have happened to Ma
dison.

  Two weeks ago she would have figured his profession of love had been a mistake, that he had confused the role of Prince Charming with Fairy Godmother. But she had come to a better understanding of him since then. He really did care. Despite his own injury, he had hardly left her since her father's death. No man could endure a funeral and all the visits of condolence without genuine concern. Not even Rose had spent so much time with her.

  Besides, if Madison didn't like something, he was only too willing to tell her. No, he had meant to come back. Something had happened to prevent it.

  She didn't think it was anything really terrible -- surely Rose would have sent someone out to the farm to tell her -- but she couldn't shake her uneasiness. Madison was such a determined man. Nothing stopped him from doing what he wanted. She'd certainly had enough experience on that score.

  But what could have happened? That worried her so much it almost drove a more important question from her mind. How was she going to tell him she couldn't marry him?

  She wondered if the words would pass her throat. She wanted to marry Madison more than she wanted to go on living. She would have been willing to accept separate beds, separate rooms, to forego his kisses for the rest of her life, anything just to have him nearby.

  But she couldn't do that to him. It had to be all or nothing.

  It shouldn't be so hard. She had had nothing her whole life. She ought to be used to it. But after a month of being the focal point of Madison's day, of believing he cared for her, the gall of that emptiness tasted more bitter than ever. It was only because she loved him so much she could even think of giving him up.

  * * * * *

  "I haven't seen Madison," Rose told Fern.

  Fern tried to appear casual when she asked about Madison, but she knew Rose could hear the anxiety in her voice, could see the worry in her face.

  "I thought he intended to spend the day with you."

  "I sent him back. There was nothing for him to do, but he said he was coming back this afternoon."

  "He didn't come here for lunch," Mrs. Abbott said. "And a man who misses his lunch is a man with a lot on his mind."