Yet Matt did understand. He knew how grief could tear away at the inner man until he was so lost he couldn’t find his way back. Hadn’t the same thing happened to him in a different way? Hadn’t he roamed the plains, searching for something, and all the while that something was within him?
“Grief does strange things,” he said kindly.
“In those dark, terrible days after Jeremiah and Lily died, I prayed to die with them. Why should I, with nothing and no reason to live, remain here, when they, who were so good and perfect, were gone? But finally, as I lay on my empty bed one night, the sweetest presence filled that room.” She smiled softly, an inner radiance lighting her eyes. “It was Jesus.”
Jesus? Matt stiffened, struggling to keep his expression bland. “What did He say?”
“Say?” Emma seemed to come back from a distant place. She tilted her head to the side and shrugged one thin shoulder. “Oh, He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, watching me with His wonderful, kind eyes and letting His peace flow around me like a great cleansing river of light. When I woke up the next morning He was gone, but He’d left behind such a strength and joy that I could no longer lie in bed feeling sorry for myself. God had given me life, and Jeremiah had given me this place. I had to do right by both of them.”
A dream. That’s all. In her grief, she confused a dream with reality. Matt breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Emma slipped her hand from beneath his and inhaled deeply. “That, Mr. Tolivar, is why I need a husband. Jeremiah left me a fine ranch, but I cannot run it alone. Hired men are either dishonest or afraid of me. They think I’m crazy, you see. Maureen says that some folks in town believe I should be put away and my land sold. A husband can keep that from happening.”
Matt set his glass on the table and scooted his chair back, meeting her gaze. “According to the law, Mrs. Russell, a woman’s property belongs to her husband. Have you considered that?”
She twisted her hands nervously in her lap. “Yes. I know. That’s why I have to find the right person. An honest man who’ll do right by me. I’ve prayed a very long time. And now you’ve come.”
Matt wanted to promise her, then and there, that he’d always take care of her. He didn’t know why. The idea didn’t make a lick of sense to him. Perhaps her sad story struck a tender chord in his own sick soul. Whatever the reason, he knew he would stay. And he knew he would marry the crazy Widow Russell.
Chapter 2
Matthew awoke to the sound of voices. No, not voices. One voice. A sweet, feminine voice somewhere below.
“Daisy, dear,” the voice said. “What would I do without you?”
From his prickly bed in the hayloft, Matt opened one eye and peeked through the missing planks in the barn roof at the first pink-gray hint of morning. Slowly, memory returned to his sleep-fogged mind as he recalled where he was and what he’d agreed to do. Last night, over the best home-cooked meal he’d had in months, he’d consented to marry a woman who, this very moment, was somewhere below him, babbling to herself like a lunatic.
“The Anderson children will appreciate this so much. There are four of them, you know, and children are always hungry.” She laughed softly. “But you’re taking care of that, aren’t you, dear heart?”
Quietly, Matt edged toward the sound until he was lying on his belly peering down at the top of Emma Russell’s head. Now he saw what he couldn’t see from his bed of hay. She was talking to a sleek, docile Guernsey cow while her small hands rhythmically squirted milk into a gleaming bucket.
“Thank You, Lord, for Daisy.” The conversation suddenly switched to prayer, an unsettling habit Matthew had encountered more than once the previous day. “And thank You for sending Matthew Tolivar my way. He’s the right one, I know. Though I never expected him to be quite so handsome.”
Matthew held his breath, listening. Handsome, was he?
“But I don’t mind a bit, Lord, that looking at him is pleasant. Especially since he’s sturdy built with shoulders strong enough to do the things around here that I’m too small to do.”
A curl of pleasure rose in Matt’s belly, warming him like smoke rising from a chimney on a chilly day. She thought he was strong and handsome. For the life of him, he didn’t know why her opinion mattered. But it did.
“And his blue eyes, Jesus, as pretty as a summer day, but so full of sadness. You know his secrets. You know what’s hurt him. Help him find the peace he needs.”
A familiar heaviness descended upon Matthew, erasing all pleasure in Emma’s rambling over his good looks. He had come here to hide, to bury himself in hard, mind-numbing work, hoping to blot out all memory of who he was and what he’d once considered his calling in life. By helping the poor widow, he could make amends for his own failure and never have to think of medicine again. That alone was reason enough to marry her. It didn’t matter if she thought him as plain as a stick.
Wearily, he rose and thumped back to his bedroll, making enough noise to warn Emma that he was awake. The black medical bag he’d used as a pillow more times than he could remember now mocked him as he rolled it tightly inside the woolen blankets. He stopped, unrolled the bedding, and stashed the bag in the far corner of the loft beneath a pile of hay. He wouldn’t need the bag or its contents ever again. He didn’t know why he’d kept it so long, except that his selling it might raise questions he didn’t want to answer. Someday a traveling peddler would come along, and he’d be rid of the bag for good. For now, he didn’t need the reminder of all he’d lost. Today he’d start a new life and leave the old one behind forever.
There was plenty here to keep his body busy and his mind preoccupied. The Widow Russell had done her best to keep things going. He could see that. Even the barn was neatly kept, the hay raked to one side, fresh straw in the stalls. The animals were healthy and well fed, the garden planted and sprouting. But everywhere he’d noticed signs that the job was too big for her to tackle all alone. The barn door sagged to one side. A half-finished row of fence trailed from the barn to nowhere. And the woodpile was woefully low. No doubt, a further inspection would reveal more, and he was glad for that. Glad for the opportunity to hang up his hat and exhaust himself at something worthwhile.
Buttoning his shirt, he descended the ladder. The widow heard him coming and looked over one shoulder.
“Are you ready for some flapjacks?” Emma asked as she spread a clean white cloth over the brimming milk bucket.
“Sounds good.” Matt took the pail from her hands. “I’ll wash up a bit first, if you don’t mind. You did specify ‘clean’ in your advertisement, didn’t you?”
“Did You hear that, Jesus?” With a merry laugh, Emma reclaimed the milk bucket and led them out of the barn, her yellow dress a bright spot in the early morning.
Matt followed behind, shaking his head. Just when he’d decided that only a logical, rational woman could have kept the farm going so long, she talked to a cow or a rabbit or the Lord Himself, raising fresh questions and doubts in his mind.
“How long have you been up?” He stopped to scrub himself at the well where Emma had placed a rag and sliver of soap in anticipation of his needs.
“Awhile. I love the hours before sunrise when the stars are still out and the rest of world is sleeping. You can see things in the darkness that are never around inthe daylight.” She set the milk on the wooden ledge of the well and drew the water bucket to the top. Pouring a bit of the liquid on a rag, she rinsed her hands and swiped her grass-covered feet. The hem of her gingham dress was dew-drenched, letting him know that she’d been farther than the barn this morning. He couldn’t help but wonder where she had gone in the darkness. Did she roam the woods baying at the moon or communing with the devil?
Matt shoved the damp hair back from his forehead and dismissed the ridiculous notions. The conversation with the storekeeper had filled his head with nonsense. He was a man of science, not an ignorant country bumpkin who believed the insane were all devil-possessed. Emma Russell was a Christian
woman. Of that he was certain. And with each minute spent in her company, he became more convinced that the town of Goodhope was wrong about her mental state.
Tossing the towel over one shoulder, he hefted the two buckets and followed her to the house. A half dozen red chickens clucked around the front porch, running full speed toward Emma when they saw her coming.
“Not yet, girls. But give me six eggs today, and there will be corn for everyone this evening.” To Matt she said, “Just set the milk on the sideboard, please, and sit down. I’ll have breakfast ready in no time.”
Ignoring her command, Matt strained the milk, set it to cool, and rinsed the bucket, hanging it upside down on a nail by the back door. If he was going to live here, he might as well let her know he wasn’t lazy.
Emma opened the cookstove and poked at the fire; then she rubbed an iron skillet with lard before clapping it onto the stovetop. Pancake batter sizzled against the hot skillet, and the smell of sausage set Matt’s belly to rumbling. He’d missed this. Missed the familiar warmth and smell of a kitchen and a pretty woman bustling around, preparing a meal.
“Mrs. Russell.”
“Might as well call me Emma.”
“All right, Emma.” He sipped at the coffee she handed him and wondered when he’d last drunk from anything but a tin cup. “I reckon I’ll go into town later and fetch the preacher.”
Her hands stilled. “You’re still agreeable, then?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“I will.” Drawing in a deep breath, she turned toward him, twisting her hands in her apron. “I got no false notions about this, Matthew. You’re marrying me for my land. I’m marrying you to hang on to Jeremiah’s dreams and the only home I’ve ever had. A business agreement, pure and simple. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll look after you and you look after me.”
He heard the relief in her voice when she’d gotten the words out, and he understood her meaning. In Virginia, men and women courted, fell in love, and married, though a few still agreed to arranged marriages. Things were different outhere. Men ordered wives through the mail or bartered for them when a farmer had more girls than he could feed. Emma was trying to make it clear to him that she wasn’t looking for a love match, just a husband to work her farm. That was fine with him. Absolutely fine. There was nothing left inside him to love.
“People marry for worse reasons,” he said, half to convince himself. “We’ll do all right, if we set our minds to it.”
“Thank you.” She piled the flapjacks onto a plate and circled them with sausages. “You’re a good man.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I know.” She set the steaming breakfast in front of him. “And Jesus knows.”
Matt sighed. There she went again. “And I suppose He told you?”
Her innocent amber eyes widened. “How else would I find out?”
How else indeed? But was such a thing possible? Was God the reason that marrying the Widow Russell and resurrecting this farm appealed to him more with each passing moment? Or was it because he could hide here on a farm that other people avoided?
Emma refilled his coffee and placed a jar of molasses next to his elbow. Then she settled into her own chair and plunged into her meal as though she married a stranger every day of the week.
Matthew lifted his fork and looked down at the butter pats on his flapjacks. They were shaped like daisies.
A chunk of ice melted in one corner of Matthew’s frozen heart. Emma Russell was fanciful, childlike, utterly fascinating, and certainly in need of a man’s protection, but he didn’t think she was crazy. The more he knew about her, the more she beguiled him, and the more he wanted to stay.
Later that morning, Matt rode away from Goodhope Church, madder than he’d been in years. All the way back to Emma’s place, he rehashed the conversation with Reverend Jeffers, trying to come up with a winning argument.
“It’s against the laws of God and common sense for the insane to marry, Mr. Tolivar,” the parson had said as they stood in the sunlight just outside the church where Matt had found him pounding nails in a rickety step.
“I tell you, Reverend, Mrs. Russell is not insane.” Matt leaned against the railing and gazed in frustration at the kneeling man. “Unusual and childlike, yes, but as rational and sound as either you or me.”
Laying his hammer aside, Reverend Jeffers stood and dusted his hands down the sides of his trousers. An angular man with hollow cheeks and burning eyes, he pierced Matt with a look. “Mr. Tolivar, how long have you known Mrs. Russell?”
“Long enough.” Matt hedged, hesitant to admit he’d agreed to marry a woman less than a day after meeting her. “And in my opinion, Mrs. Russell is perfectly sane.”
“I see. And by what authority do you judge her mental state?”
“I…” Matt stopped and ground his teeth in frustration. As a doctor, he carried the knowledge and authority to make that judgment, but his profession was part of the past, buried when Martha died. He had no intention of resurrecting it. “I’ve observed her closely,” he finished lamely.
The reverend narrowed his eyes. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Tolivar, but you’re a stranger in this town. As the only clergyman for miles around, it’s my duty to protect poor Emma from unscrupulous souls who might take advantage of her to gain her land.” He held up a bony hand as Matt’s expression darkened. “Not that I’m saying you’re that kind of man. I don’t know you, but I do know Emma. And she has no business making a decision as important as marriage.”
“And I’m begging your pardon, Reverend, but this is between Emma and me. All we’re asking of you is to perform the ceremony.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I cannot, in good conscience, do that. Now if you’ll excuse me”—the preacher turned away—“I need to finish this step and get over to the Anderson place.”
The dismissal was clear. And so was the message. The Reverend Jeffers would not marry them. Matt crammed his hat onto his head and mounted his horse. The only other preacher was a train ride away, and Matt had no money. He could ask Emma, but most likely all she had was property. Cash was hard to come by.
He stewed over his dilemma the entire three miles back to Emma’s place. He thought about praying. Certainly Emma would have. She prayed about everything, talking to God aloud without a bit of embarrassment, then listening with head tilted and expression rapt until Matt was almost sure he could see the Lord whispering in her ear. But that was Emma’s way. He was a man, and any man worth his breakfast could find a way without bothering God.
As he rode into the yard, Emma came rushing out the door, amber eyes alight with expectation. When he dismounted and faced her, some of the light faded.
“Parson Jeffers wouldn’t come,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No.” Resisting the urge to ride back into town and drag the minister to the farm, he tethered his horse to the porch. How did he explain that the preacher thought her too unbalanced to marry? “He didn’t think it would be right.”
“Well.” Emma’s delicate face registered only momentary disappointment. “We can’t blame the parson. He’s only following his conscience.”
Matt gave her a solemn appraisal. “Are you saying he’s right?”
“To his way of thinking, he is.” She pushed a tangle of hair behind one ear and tilted her head, looking up at him. “What about you, Matthew? Do you think I’m crazy? Are you certain you want to be married to a woman like me? Shunned by the town, unable to attend church. Is six sections of land worth that much trouble?”
“Is that what you think? That I’m marrying you just for the land?” Anger, allout of proportion to the question, sizzled inside him.
“Why else, then?”
He couldn’t honestly answer that question, not if he was to keep his secret, and that bothered him. Even when he’d had little else, he’d kept his honesty. “There are things about me you don’t know, Emma. Things that might make you change your mind.”
�
�The Lord sent you. That’s all I need to know.”
Matt shook his head. Maybe he was the crazy one for considering matrimony with this woman. She talked out loud to Jesus. She accepted a husband she didn’t know, and she wouldn’t stand up for herself against a town that had badly misjudged her. But then, wasn’t that what brought him here in the first place? The crazy widow needed help, and he needed a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
“Then we’ll have to go somewhere else to wed.”
With a smile she extended a hand and touched his arm. “Don’t fret, Matthew. God will provide a way.”
Glancing down at her weathered little hand lying against his sleeve, a new determination overtook him. Instantly, he knew how he would get the money. He’d show the town of Goodhope just how little he cared for their opinion. “There’s a preacher up in Dodge who can do the job. Though from what I hear, he does more burying than marrying.”
Emma laughed. “Then he needs the practice. And I’d love a train ride to the city.
Just like that she accepted the town’s rejection and set her sights in a different direction. Without animosity. Without complaint. If that was crazy, Matt wished the whole world would lose its mind.
As Matt guided the team down Goodhope’s narrow Main Street, past playing children, chatting ladies, and the occasional horse and rider, he noticed a strange occurrence. Activity stopped each time one of the townspeople caught sight of him and his companion. Not a single person spoke a word of greeting, but all turned to follow their wagon’s progress.
A glance at Emma told him that she noticed, too. Head held high, a sweet smile on her lips, she stared straight ahead, but her hands were tightly clenched against her yellow cotton skirt.
Anger surged up in him again. Word must have gotten around that he’d asked the parson to marry them. He yanked the team to a halt in front of the livery and leaped to the ground.
“Emma?” he said, reaching up to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she stood and let him swing her down. A woman coming out of the livery gasped, jerked her child against her long skirts, and rushed back inside, voice raised.
Prairie Romance Collection Page 27
