Marry Me

by Susan Kay Law

Joe was as young as his wife. Neither one of them looked as if they’d been weaned long enough to be so far from home, round-faced and blond and broad-shouldered, from neighboring farm families in Illinois. Joe was the fourth son, May informed them, and so their only chance at having a farm of their own was homesteading, and they’d come out there two weeks after their wedding, and they were so happy to have another couple nearby, and wasn’t it wonderful?

  “Wonderful,” Emily and Kate agreed.

  “And you remember Mr. Biskup, don’t you?”

  “Sure she does.” Art, who’d no intention of giving up his prime seat in the rocking chair to the new arrivals, waved from his corner. “Even if I don’t make an impression, nobody ever forgets Mr. Smithie.”

  Mr. Smithie, comfortably settled on Art’s shoulders, took one look at the clever felt-and-feather birds on Kate’s hat and let out a screech that rattled the lone windowpane. “Hush now. Mind your manners.” He pulled out a plump date from his bulging chest pocket and handed it to the monkey.

  “Yes. I remember Smithie.” As inconspicuously as possible, Kate flattened herself against the wall farthest from the unpredictable creature.

  She didn’t move while Emily and May went to finish the last few details of supper and the men clustered in the tiny sitting area. Jake, clearly on his best behavior, was extremely complimentary of the condition of Joe’s fields, at which point the young man lit up with pride and launched into an extensive explanation of the new dry-cropping farming method he intended to employ.

  When he ran out of steam, Art, who appeared to have been lulled to sleep by the discussion, sat up so quickly Smithie grabbed a fistful of hair to maintain his perch. “So. You got yourself another wife, did you, Sullivan?”

  Kate edged closer, eyeing Smithie with rampant suspicion. “You knew his first wife?”

  “Sure. Been here longer than anyone else, most likely. Only Indians and buffalo when I came—they were the best to paint, I can tell you. Not as good now, but I’m too old to go galloping off after new subjects. Then the cowboys and the cows. They’ll all be gone, too, before much longer, I suppose.” He sighed gustily. “Not that I don’t like you all. Nice to have people to chat with. But the painting”—he shook his head sadly—“it’s something to chronicle the changes, but it ain’t as much of a challenge.” Then he perked up. “Now you, Miss Kate, I could do something with.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “I might consider it,” she murmured. “Now, about Jake’s—”

  “Haven’t done a nude for a long time.”

  “And neither will you be anytime soon.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He made a square with his fingers and framed her in it, squinting. “Been a while, I’ll admit, but I always did have an imagination.”

  “We’ll see,” she said smoothly. “Now, about Mr. Sullivan’s wife…”

  She ignored Jake’s glower. It was natural for her to be curious about his previous life. If he didn’t like it…well, he should have been the one to tell them about it in the first place, and from Emily’s sudden alertness, almost but not quite hidden by her attention to the gravy she stirred, she knew very little herself.

  “I had one of those once.”

  “You had what?”

  “A wife.” Slumping in his chair, Biskup gratefully accepted the brimming glass of Joe’s special home brew.

  “You did, Mr. Biskup?” Joe handed another glass to Jake and began to take his own seat.

  “I’d like one of those, Mr. Blevins,” Kate said.

  “Huh?” He fumbled to cover his surprise and disapproval. “Uh, sure thing. I just couldn’t…carry any more at once.”

  “Here. Take mine.” Jake handed over his glass. “I don’t drink anyway.”

  “You don’t drink?” she asked in surprise.

  “Not anymore. You taste it one too many times on the way up, it kinda loses its appeal on the way down.” Then he turned to Mr. Biskup and changed the topic. “I didn’t know you’d been married, Mr. Biskup,” Jake said. Hoping that Mr. Biskup would be too busy nattering about his wife to speak of Jake’s, Kate suspected.

  “Sure. Till Luard Chandler offered me three hundred dollars for her.”

  Kate, who’d insisted on the drink only because Mr. Blevins hadn’t offered her one, nearly choked on the first sip. “You sold your wife?”

  He shrugged. “She liked Luard better’n me, anyway. Smithie only cost me ten bucks, and he’s better company. Less trouble. Too fond of riding the bulls, but then, so was Myrtle.” He cackled at his own joke. “Still and all, once I got rid of the first one, I didn’t have much of an urge to get another. And here you are, Jake, with another one already!”

  “Maybe I had better luck at picking them than you did.”

  “Oh, you surely did at that!” Art hooted. “Pretty as a picture, that first one, if a little delicate-looking for my taste. Could see the stars when the two of you looked at each other.” He glanced guiltily at Emily. “Not that the two of you don’t—oh, criminy. Didn’t mean no offense, ma’am.”

  “None taken,” Emily said serenely, bringing Jake a cup of coffee. She put her hand on his shoulder and his came up to cover hers. A touch awkwardly, Kate judged. Because it was uncomfortable to hear his first wife discussed in front of his second? Or because he truly was not as deeply in love with Emily? He would not be the first man who couldn’t love his second wife as much. A new worry. She’d been so busy considering whether Jake was good enough for Emily that she’d never considered whether he could love her; she’d just assumed he would. Who wouldn’t love Emily? But a man whose heart was completely and permanently broken…oh no.

  “Excuse me!” May, who’d been efficiently puttering in the kitchen, suddenly bolted past Kate, hand pressed over her mouth, her usually ruddy complexion the color of diluted pea soup.

  “Oh dear.” Emily rushed to follow her.

  From just outside the door came the sound of vile retching. Jake gulped his coffee like he wished he’d taken the whiskey after all. Art merely tugged a couple of dates out of his pocket and gave one to Smithie. He popped the other in his mouth and chewed noisily, which, coupled with the sound of retching outside, made Kate queasy enough to glare accusingly at Joe.

  Joe, who’d drained the last of his drink, caught her disapproval. “What?”

  “In case you’d somehow missed it, your wife is ill.”

  “So?” His usual pink skin flushed deeper.

  “Don’t you think you should go to her?”

  “Why? Emily’s with her.” The jug was on the floor near his chair, and he scooped it up, sloshing a hefty glug into his glass. “Not like there’s anythin’ I can do.” He grinned proudly. “Already did my part. Now it’s her turn.”

  “But—”

  The two women returned, Emily supporting May’s elbow, while May swiped at her forehead with a damp cloth. May’s color had gone from green to chalky white. Better, but certainly not healthy.

  “My apologies,” May murmured. She lifted her arm away from Emily’s support and folded her hands in front of her apron. “It seems the typical morning indisposition is determined to strike me at suppertime instead.”

  “A baby?” Jake set his cup carefully on the floor. “You’re having a baby?”

  And then she had color, a bright bloom of pink.

  “Yup,” her husband answered for her as he reached over to give Jake a companionable slap on his shoulder. “Beat you to it, Sullivan. Bet you five to ten it’s a boy, too. Good breeding stock, my May.”

  Jake ignored him, kept his flat, expressionless gaze upon May. “When?”

  “I—” She blanched again. “October. November, perhaps.”

  “She’s worried about it,” Joe supplied. “Don’t know why. We’re farm people, both of us. Seen things born a hundred times. And look at her hips! Squirt it out just like my best heifer, I’ll wager. Why—”

  Jake had him up against the wall before the last word faded away. His fists twisted the fro
nt of Joe’s shirt into a tight ball, and despite the fact that Joe probably outweighed him by twenty pounds Joe’s booted toes dangled six inches above the floor.

  “You will,” Jake said slowly, “never compare your wife’s condition to an animal’s again.”

  Joe was too stunned to be angry. “Hey, look, I—”

  Jake shook him, making his heels thump against the wall. “You will do whatever she asks of you until her time comes. Whatever. Do you understand me?”

  “I didn’t mean anything. There’s no reason for her to be afraid of havin’ a baby, I—”

  “Do you understand me?”

  By this time Emily had gained their side. “Jake—”

  “I asked you a question, Blevins.”

  “Yeah.” For pride’s sake, he’d tried taking a swing, but Jake had his elbows wide, pinning Joe’s arms to the wall, and the punch had no more effect than a buzzing fly. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “If she wants a doctor, she gets it. If she wants to go back to Illinois, she gets it. If she wants you to build her a goddamn hospital before that baby comes, you’ll do it.”

  “Whatever she wants,” Joe repeated.

  “And you won’t make light of it again.”

  “I never was.” He spread his hands, as wide as their position allowed. “Really, Sullivan, what the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “Jake.” Emily touched his biceps.

  Jake held Joe in that position, his chest heaving, muscles bulging with the weight of his burden, eyes hard as if anticipating Joe giving him an excuse to start swinging.

  “Let him go, Jake.” This time Emily wrapped her hands around his upper arm and tugged. “He’ll take care of her. He promises, and so do I.”

  Jake turned his head in her direction, mouth compressed, cheekbones jutting sharp and brutal. “Jake,” she said again, her voice so intimately soft she might have been whispering his name in bed. A shudder ran through him, and he let go, releasing Joe so fast he was unprepared and his legs nearly buckled beneath him before he found his feet.

  Jake strode to the door, pausing briefly beside May, his head down. “I’m sorry,” he said without looking at her. “I—” His right arm came up and then dropped back to his side, as if he’d meant to touch her but thought better of it. “Take care.”

  Bewildered, May nodded. “I will.”

  “No, I…take very good care.” And then he was gone. The door slammed shut behind him, sucking in on a gust, leaving them all staring at it as if it might make some sense of what had just happened.

  “Huh.” Art chewed on another date, jaw working in rhythm with his monkey’s. “Never used to be such a touchy fellow, least not that I can recall.”

  “Hmm.” Kate supposed such a show of temper should worry her, but truly, she’d been on the verge of stringing up that idiot Joe herself.

  Emily, who’d remained standing by the door, so lost in thought she’d appeared half asleep, suddenly came to life. “May, how are you feeling now?” she asked briskly.

  “I’m better. I’m always fine for at least a few minutes after I empty out.”

  “Kate, stay with her for a while, will you, just to make sure? Sorry to interrupt your dinner, May, it was a lovely thought, and we’re both ever so grateful, but please don’t wait for us if you’re ready to eat. And in any case, I’ll be over in the morning with a tonic we’ve found helpful.”

  A man in bad temper was, in Kate’s experience, best left alone to stew. You could cheer him up when the edge was off, if you wanted, but there was no point in trying when his mood was running hot. “Emily, don’t you think—”

  But once again her sister was gone before Kate could stop her, rushing headlong into potential disaster.

  Chapter 13

  It took her a while to find him.

  The minutes Emily spent thrashing through hip-deep grass gave her a little too much time to wonder whether she should, indeed, be chasing after him. No doubt he’d much prefer to be left alone. And she’d certainly no right to go running after him. He was not her husband, something that was becoming harder to remember than it should have been. Which undoubtedly gave credence to their charade, but it had happened far too easily for her peace of mind. While she didn’t feel married to him, exactly, nevertheless she couldn’t deny that, way down deep, she felt as if she had some claim on the man. And some responsibility to him.

  Which, while natural—what one acted very often was what one became, in her experience—also seemed disconcertingly dangerous. Because once he’d seen Kate on a coach, he’d shove her on the very next one.

  But then she rounded a rise a few hundred yards west of the Blevinses’ and found him there, standing on the top of a slight bluff, braced into the wind, solitary and lost, and she couldn’t leave him alone.

  She mimicked his stance beside him, hands clasped behind her, the wind hot and dry in her face, lifting her hair. Sunset bled across the horizon: red, orange, purple. Hot colors, seething, born in violence and flame.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  How’d he do that? Strip himself of every emotion, tamp them down and down until there was no chance of them erupting again? She was sure they were still there, somewhere deep; he didn’t seem empty and dead, but so ruthlessly contained that the emotions had turned in on themselves.

  The light danced over his features, brutally forged, strong. Like an ancient warrior illuminated by a bonfire’s flames, when the only thing that mattered was survival.

  He fascinated her. It surprised her, that. She’d never suspected she was so susceptible to physical allure. So drawn by a man’s secrets, a man’s pain, a man’s strength. She could look at him, kissed by sunset and dusk, for hours. Forever.

  It would be easy just to stay beside him and enjoy the view. Muddling in deep, dark places, in long-ago memories, always held the danger of wandering into wounds best left alone. She’d no doubt he’d fight her should she try to venture in.

  But years of experience had taught her the value of lancing a wound instead of letting it fester. Abrief, brilliant pain rather than a lingering, cancerous one.

  She took a deep breath and plunged in. “So. There was a baby?”

  He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “Yeah. There was a baby.”

  Then he looked down at her. His eyes, dark as an old bruise, sought hers and held, only a few inches away. She hadn’t realized she’d stood so near; he’d seemed so very far away, she realized, she’d gotten close without recognizing it. She could kiss him, lift up to her toes and press her mouth to his, and forget all this. Make him forget, at least for a little while. And perhaps that would be a greater kindness.

  Except he surprised her. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “I thought I’d have to drag it out of you, word by word.”

  “Me, too.” Not a smile, but a sad, hard curve to his mouth. “I’ve not talked about it for a long time. Hasn’t helped.”

  “Start wherever.” There were no lines on his face, she realized in faint surprise. It seemed like his past should have left a mark somehow. She could tell where they’d etch in time, a deep bracket around his mouth, a furrow between his brow. Impulsively she touched him there, her fingers brushing against the corner of his mouth, and the tight tension there eased. “Tell me about your wife.”

  “Since when does a woman want to hear a man speak of another?”

  “This woman does.” She’d sometimes been told by Goodale’s patients that she had magic hands. It was an essential part of the healing process for her, laying her hands on an ailing joint, an aching belly. She didn’t know exactly why. Perhaps the heat helped, the energy, or maybe there was simply some tactile symptom she detected through her skin that she couldn’t define but nevertheless helped her diagnose ills correctly.

  She’d never before hoped so much that her hands truly could heal.

  Stepping closer, she slid her arms around his waist. She laid her cheek against his ch
est—hard, warm—and just held on. And it all sighed out of him, a gust of breath, a rush of tension, and the words came.

  “I can’t tell you about her without telling you about me.”

  Good, she thought; her curiosity would be satisfied at last. His heart thumped beneath her ear and his chest vibrated each time he spoke. A nice place to be, curled up against him. She wished it were for no other reason but the pleasure of it.

  “My father delivered ice. It provided barely enough for a wife and a son, I suppose, though I don’t remember much. I was only three when he died. Rushing home, went too fast around a corner, and the wagon overturned.”

  “So we’ve more in common than I knew.” She tightened her arms, let her hands wander up and down, a motion that couldn’t pretend to be anything but a caress, although the purpose could be debated. She could say it was only for comfort and almost believe it. “My mother died not long after I was born, my father when I was five. So young I barely knew enough to miss them.”

  “Yes.” She was peeling the bandages off wounds he’d carefully covered, layer by layer, and Jake couldn’t even say he minded. The pain was there, but kept at a low, dull ache by the feel of her body pressed lightly against his, her hands moving over his back. There was comfort in each stroke, a cool and soothing balm. And yet at the same time a simmer of desire, as healing in its own way as the comfort, holding the worst at bay. “But I still had my mother.”

  “And I had my sisters,” she said briskly, turning away any sympathy he might have offered before it began.

  “And a formidable pair they must be, from the one I’ve met.”

  “Oh no. I’ll tell my secrets later. It’s your turn now.”

  “I wasn’t changing the topic on purpose,” he said, startled to find it the truth. She…interested him, in a way little had for a very long time. Curiosity, long dormant, stirred. He let it sit for a bit, found he liked it more than he would have thought. “I’d like to know, though.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll confess that I am, too.” His shirt was thin cotton, and her breath seeped through it, warm and moist against his skin. He gave in, and wrapped his arms around her so that he held her as tightly as she held him. “It wasn’t all that long ago that I figured you’d rather run from here to Billings than have to listen to one detail of my life.”