She stopped herself and glanced toward the study, where she knew Lorelei’s old typewriter sat on the desk—her beautiful typewriter now. The door was open a crack, but she couldn’t see inside. No lamp was lit within. It was a room that had held so much intrigue for her, such mystery. It had practically pulled her into it. She’d seen that fascinating contraption and wanted to press the keys. She’d been so entranced she’d forgotten to watch Mae.
And Jem had given it to her.
But now, in this moment, with him looking at her so seriously, the greatest reluctance welled up inside Annie. Her fingernails bit into her palms. Why—why now—did she want to run as far away from that device as she could get? Or bury herself under Jem’s covers and belt both pillows around her ears to block the sound of his question.
Which seemed so odd. She felt so odd.
“Would you try?” he asked, taking her hands in his and tugging her closer. “Would you try at least a little?”
His eyes were so accepting. He wasn’t demanding that she do anything impossible, just type a few sentences. Tell him every awful truth about her. He didn’t know. How could he?
He couldn’t know the truth about her. Not everything.
She protested, uttering a ragged J sound since she couldn’t sign his name properly. She tried to tug her hands free. He wouldn’t let her go.
“Please?” he said.
She glanced toward the study door, not moving.
He let her look. His hands on hers were less a vice and more an embrace, his fingers entwined around hers. His gaze patient but insistent. He wasn’t going to give up. If she didn’t say yes tonight, he was going to ask again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
She sighed.
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
She pulled her hands from his grasp, and this time he released her, his expression expectant. He’d evidently only let her go because he thought she needed her hands to make the appropriate signs of her agreement.
She nodded again, melting a little, and signed yes, a motion much like her fist nodding. That was how she’d remembered it in class.
He smiled his approval, telling her without words how very pleased he was that she was making this effort for him. It was quite disarming. This man—how did he know how to wind her around his little finger? And yet somehow she felt as if it had been her own choice. He strode toward the study door, and she held out a hand to stop him.
Not now, she signed. Not now.
“Better now,” he said, motioning toward the small room, an action obviously meant to encourage her to follow.
Tomorrow. She made a motion like the passing of the sun over the horizon. In the morning.
“It’ll help you sleep,” he insisted, taking her by the hand and pulling her along behind him until they both stood inside the dark quarters. Soon, he had a couple of lamps lit and a sheet of paper rolled into the machine. He held the chair for her, and she sat, letting out a disgusted little grunt.
He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Nothing you say will surprise or shock me,” he assured her, although he couldn’t know what he was saying. What her life was. “Or make me feel anything different about you.”
Annie waved him away, her jaw stiff. The episode in his bedroom—where she’d cried her tearless pain—had left her nearly spent. She couldn’t argue any more. She couldn’t do much of anything. She set her fingers on the typewriter keys, but didn’t start to type until he’d backed away into the bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.
She didn’t start until she was alone.
She didn’t stop until the sun poked its head up over the horizon.
And then she slipped into meaningless dreams, her head collapsed onto her folded arms on the desk. She woke to the sound of Jem behind her, reading aloud.
White pages filled with neat black type lay strewn across the desk surface, pages and pages of paper. Had she really written all of that? Her hands felt cramped, so perhaps she had.
What exactly had she said? How much had she revealed? Too much, she feared. Possibly everything. She’d certainly written enough.
* * *
All I remember of my mama was the smell of sweat and liquor. Old liquor. Dried up on the floor near where I slept. It was in that place, where the men came for the ladies. You wouldn’t call them ladies.
My mama was one of those “you wouldn’t call them ladies.” I won’t spell the words they called her. Bad names.
I remember she was soft too, sometimes.
Her hair.
Mostly I remember one night. The night she left me.
Jem stood just inside the small study, reading Annie’s words aloud at first, but then continued silently, not believing what he was reading. Though he’d already guessed some of Annie’s life, to hear it in her words—all the stark details of her abandonment—was heartbreaking. She’d been Mae’s age. It didn’t bear thinking about.
His sweet little Mae...left alone.
Annie, left alone.
Annie, who couldn’t speak up for herself even now.
After a while he had to sit down, so he gathered up the last handful of pages from the desk and floor where they were scattered and returned to the bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed with the papers in his hands, making order of them.
He was aware of Annie rising to follow him, how she was reading over his shoulder, her eyes going wide as if she were reading it for the first time. As if she’d forgotten what she’d written. She had her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she worked it fretfully as she read. She peeped over at him occasionally, but he didn’t let on that he noticed.
When he was finally done with all of it, from the first word to the last, he straightened the pages into a neat pile and set them on the table beside the bed.
“Come here,” he said, opening his arms. She slid slowly into them and he drew her down onto the bed. They lay side by side, his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close. She remained stiff, and he had to wriggle around until they were more comfortably settled against one another: him in his nightshirt, her dressed head to toe in the same dress she’d worn last night.
“Sleep a while,” he insisted.
He waited a while more, but she never completely lost that awkward stiffness of wakefulness. Her breathing was still too shallow. She hadn’t fully relaxed against him. He caught her looking at Lorelei in her ornate silver frame.
“Does it bother you that her portrait’s here?” Jem asked.
Annie hesitated, her lip caught adorably between her teeth. She obviously didn’t want to tell him yes, but he could see it in her eyes. It wasn’t right to be here together, not with Lorelei right there on the bedside table. He could see that now.
He cleared his throat and snuggled Annie into his side. She fit nicely there. Or she would if she would let go of all the tension inside of her, keeping her from resting.
“I was thinking of moving her into Mae’s room,” he said, though it had just now occurred to him. “So she could have a memory of her mama. Would you mind that?”
He heard Annie take a breath and release it softly. She shook her head, her actions so filled with relief that he chuckled. They lay quietly in the cozy depths of the bed for a spell. After a while, she tilted her face up to look at him.
“I saw Lorelei’s photograph in the box,” she signed, and Jem could have sworn he heard her voice in his head, almost as if she’d spoken aloud. It was happening more and more frequently—hearing her when she signed. But then she frowned in a dissatisfied fashion. Not because her motions were constrained by her position tucked against his side, but from not signing the right word.
“Her trunk?” he supplied, his voice still roughened from sleep.
She nodded, then spelled it out one letter at a time. T-r-u-n-k.
“We’ll learn the sign,” he promised, “when the new books come.”
She offered him a small smile and continued, nodding at
Lorelei’s photograph, “I showed it to Ben.” When she made the sign for Ben’s name her irritation showed. “He took it. He said bad things.”
“Why?” Jem asked, nudging his chin against the top of her head. “Why show it to Ben?”
“I was—curious.” Again Annie spelled the sign she didn't know. Jem gave her a little nod as soon as he understood, so she didn't have to spell out the entire word.
“About Lorelei” she continued. “How she died. Anything. I thought Ben liked me.”
Jem considered what she’d said. Annie had come here not knowing anything about Lorelei, or about him or Mae either, really. She’d known nothing except one small interchange at the train stop, when that young preacher had been bartering her off. Jem shuddered inwardly at the memory, one question still haunting him: what had Creed planned to do with her?
In the weeks that followed, Annie would’ve naturally learned more about Jem and Mae, just from being around them. But he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about his loss. Not even when he should have said something. Not even after they’d stayed together here. In this bed. As married folks did. Instead, he’d escaped into work—work other men could’ve done. He could have stayed home after dinner tonight. Shared his history with Annie. But he hadn’t. After taking them one huge step forward, he’d practically run away. And that wasn’t fair
“I suppose that’s natural,” Jem conceded, referring to her curiosity about Lorelei.
She relaxed against him and signed, “Ben didn’t tell me anything.”
So, she still didn’t know about Lorelei.
“He was angry.” She tensed again as she signed the words. She seemed particularly distressed that Ben didn’t like her anymore.
“Don’t mind Ben too much. He still likes you.” At least, Jem thought he liked her. Ben had sure seemed worried when he was standing over Annie while she was breathing like she was.
“What happened to...Lorelei?” Annie signed the name and pointed to the framed portrait.
Jem tightened his grip on her, not wanting to open old wounds. She simply rested one hand over his, where it lay on her shoulder. She was with him. Understood this was difficult for him.
He pushed away his reluctance.
“She died,” he said.
Annie didn't move. She just waited.
“It was after a surgery. We were living in Iowa then.”
“Sick?” Annie asked, one small gesture.
“She had a...womanly issue,” Jem said. Though he was a veterinarian and a professional, he didn’t much care to go into all the sensitive details of his young wife’s troubles. What they later learned was a tumor. How they’d been told she’d never have any more children.
“It was bad.” He left it at that.
“She died in surgery?” Annie asked, making an S sound for surgery, accompanied by a cutting motion on her arm. He understood easily enough, but they’d have to learn that sign too. The proper one. Heaven forbid she might need it someday.
“No, the surgery went just fine. At least that’s what we thought. But then...” He gritted his teeth. He should have noticed things sooner. She’d been so terribly pale. Tired all the time.
“She wasn’t doing well. She barely got out of bed. Mae was so little. She needed her mama, but all she got was me.”
“What was wrong—with Lorelei?”
“We still don’t know. A sickness that got in her blood? Only there was no fever. Maybe the surgeon simply didn’t finish the job right.”
Jem imagined the operation. Perhaps the doctor hadn’t finished properly. Jem was a doctor—a horse doctor, but still. He should have known something was wrong. At the time, he’d thought it only natural that she was tired after the operation. He’d given her time to recover, taking over the care of Mae as best he could. Fed her cow’s milk, broth, and whey mush when it was clear Lorelei could no longer nurse. Mae had fussed, and Jem had spent hours rocking her. He hadn’t slept much. And it seemed Lorelei could do nothing but sleep. In his bone-weary tiredness, he’d actually envied her.
How could he have not seen?
“Not too long after, just a few days, she stopped eating. And by then”—he shrugged—“it was too late.”
“I’m sorry.” Annie paused to touch his hand. “I’m sorry you lost her.”
Jem squeezed her shoulder, refusing to let the burning sensation in his throat turn into tears. It seemed he was past tears anyway. Lorelei was becoming memories. It was bound to happen, but it still felt wrong.
“You loved her.” Annie’s easy acceptance—the way she didn’t press for more than he was prepared to give—was encouragement enough to continue.
“Yes, I loved her.”
She folded her hands softly across her middle. Her body rested against his side. He wondered if she expected him to say something about his feelings for her—Annie—now.
He stared up at the ceiling, the wide wood beams dark against the white paint. He should reassure Annie, tell her he loved her now too. But the words wouldn’t come together.
What did he feel for her? Was it love? It might not be the same as what he’d felt for Lorelei—the young love, the constant yearning, the inability to think properly whenever she was near—but there was affection there. Possibly stronger feelings.
And now...he’d waited too long.
The moment to say something passed in silence, slipping away with every second. Now if he said anything, it would seem to her that he felt he had to say something. Like he didn’t mean it. When he barely knew what to say. And when he did say it—whatever it was—he wanted it to mean something.
“Annie...” he began, uncomfortably aware that he was less the man he wanted to be for her in that moment.
She reached up and pressed her fingers to his mouth, stopping him. The action told him she knew it was too late too. She knew the moment had passed. What must she be thinking? He closed his eyes, feeling terrible.
Then he felt her fingers stroking lightly over his beard. She pulled herself up and kissed him softly, laying her hand so gently against the side of his face. What was she telling him now? Was she saying it was all right that he didn’t love her? Was that what she thought? Maybe she was simply saying it was all right that he couldn’t put it into words yet.
As he returned her kiss, he hoped that was true. He hoped she knew he had deep feelings for her, if not by his words then by what he did. Every day.
She tucked herself into his side again, still fully dressed from last night. Surely she’d be more comfortable without her dress and corset, but he suspected she was drifting asleep and didn’t want to disturb her now. She must’ve been awake nearly all night writing. She was likely exhausted.
“My ma left when I was young, maybe five,” he found himself saying, without meaning to say anything. It was just her words and her story, they caught at him. He felt them. In some ways, he’d lived them. She needed to know that. To keep all his shame to himself now, after she’d exposed so much of her heart... It seemed wrong. “Maybe younger. I don’t know.
“But you had your father?” she signed.
“He beat me,” Jem said matter-of-factly. “Beat her too. That’s why she left. Mean-to-the-bone kind of man. Never happy. He drank too much.”
She lay unmoving in his arms, with a listening kind of quietude of spirit, then she signed, “I’m sorry.”
“Never quite got over that,” he said. “Her leaving me there with him. But I got out too, eventually. Some folks helped me, the Jessups.”
“Sounds like good people. Like you.”
Jem was starting to learn the rhythms of her signing more and more, even anticipating what she was going to say, but he couldn’t have been more surprised by what she’d just expressed.
“What?”
“You saved me. You saved Sugar. I told you, remember?”
“I remember.” He settled her more comfortably against his side, resting his chin against her head. Breathing in the fresh clean scent of her sham
poo. Her words had meant a lot. Mostly because he never wanted to be like his pa. It was an ugly fear that sat in the back of his mind all the time. Would he ever hit someone? Surely not Mae, not ever. But would the rage catch up with him someday?
Soon, Annie’s head drooped against his chest and her breathing deepened in sleep. Jem wished he could dream away the whole day with her. But he was wide awake, thinking about what she’d written. He thought about having to move Lorelei’s photograph into Mae’s room. And how hard that was going to be. Regretted not telling Annie what he felt about her.
Even now—when he had time to probe at his feelings—he couldn’t think of any proper words to say. And so he looked around the room. There was nothing to see, except Annie’s pages stacked on his bedside table. The loose photograph of Lorelei was there too, the one Annie had found in the trunk. He barely remembered setting it there, but he must have.
The morning sun shone in, slanting golden streaks across the quilt. Everyone else was likely up already. They’d probably eaten breakfast. Jem thought he smelled fresh-baked biscuits and that good thick brown gravy that Ray made. His stomach rumbled in protest but he ignored it. Mae and Sugar were probably downstairs pestering poor Ray. And Ben. Both men were almost certainly speculating why he and Annie weren’t up yet. Probably drawing all sorts of wild conclusions about that.
Jem sighed.
He hadn’t been able to tell Annie he loved her, but she hadn’t made any declarations of love either. She knew the sign for that—they both did. Although, maybe she’d been too shy to tell him. A woman wanted to hear a man say it first, didn’t she? As Jem’s arm went numb under the weight of her body, he was left wondering how Annie felt about him.
Was there any love in her heart toward him?
Whatever they had—and however unsettling things were at times—this wasn’t a bad place for them to be. They were simply making the best of what had happened to them at that train depot in the Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. And it wasn’t bad, not bad at all.
It just seemed there should be...more. Something that might cost him something. The question was: did he have enough left in him to give?
The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) Page 26
