Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  "Toots' bed would be more comfortable," Effie said.

  "Truly, I'd prefer the couch," Ariah said. "I've inconvenienced people enough already, having to rely on Mr. Noon to get me to my new home and all."

  "But she's a guest, Ma," Toots protested. "I can sleep on the couch as easy as she can."

  "Wouldn't be fittin' fer either one o' ya to sleep in the same room with Bartholomew, and you know it, girl." The room echoed with Nehemiah's stern baritone.

  Eight-year-old Mark insinuated himself in front of the old man. "Bartholomew can sleep in my bed, Grampa. And I can sleep on the floor between my bed and Johnny's."

  "Please, can he, Grampa?" Johnny pleaded.

  Nehemiah frowned. Bartholomew knew that giving in would seem to Nehemiah too much like relinquishing his position as head of the family, something that would be happening all too soon now that he'd passed his seventieth birthday. Effie would call the children’s suggestion it a sensible compromise, but to Nehemiah compromise was only another of Satan's hand tools.

  "Staying with the boys would suit me fine, Nehemiah." Bartholomew ruffled first Mark's hair, then Johnny's. "I promised them a story before they went to sleep anyway."

  "Very well," Nehemiah said with a sigh.

  "Good, that's settled." Effie rubbed her reddened hands together with satisfaction. "Toots, fetch Miss Scott some bedding for the couch before you get to bed. Come on, Nehemiah, tomorrow may be Sunday and a day of rest but you still need your sleep."

  Mark tugged on Bartholomew's hand. "Come on, Bart, I wanna hear the story 'bout how you saved the people from the ship that sank."

  At last everyone went to bed and Ariah found herself alone. Except for the slightly off-key sound of Joe's wife singing a lullaby to their two-year-old somewhere at the back of the house, all was quiet. Ariah retrieved her nightrobe from her satchel, turned out the lamps and moved to a dark corner to undress, in case someone felt a sudden need for a glass of water or something. She had stripped down to her underwear when Toots came in with another quilt.

  Toots dumped the bedding on the couch and ran her gaze up and down Ariah's slim figure. Tiny tucks alternated with strips of Platte lace beneath the square neckline of Ariah's combination chemise and drawers. Matching tucks and lace decorated the legs. Over this she wore a short Paris corset of black Italian cloth trimmed with embroidered insets.

  "Fancy." Toots rested her hands on her own curvaceous hips and thrust out her ample, uncorseted breasts. "Too bad you ain't got more to fill it out with."

  Ariah gave her a startlingly beautiful smile. "Yes, but I'm young. Seeing you gives me hope that in another five years or so I may be equally as well endowed."

  Toots' hazel eyes widened, and then narrowed. Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl. "Why, you little—"

  "Toots." Effie stood in the doorway. "Run along, dear, and let Miss Scott finish getting ready for bed."

  After a last scowl at Ariah, Toots stalked from the room. Effie sighed and shook her head. Then she turned to Ariah. "Here you are, dear, I brought you a pillow."

  Ariah thanked her and bid her goodnight. Finally dressed in her nightrobe, she went to gaze out the window. So much had happened that day, and it had been far too long since she'd had a moment to herself. She needed time to think, and to remember.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Bartholomew let himself in through the back door off the kitchen—a different door from the one he'd used to leave the house—and headed up the hall, pausing at the parlor doorway. The look he'd seen pass between the twins when it was decided Ariah would sleep in the parlor gave him a convenient excuse to make certain they weren't spying on her as she undressed. The thought that he might be the one to catch her half-naked caused the blood to curl and heat low in his abdomen. He ignored the guilt niggling at his conscience and peeked inside the room.

  Folded quilts lay on the couch, but there was no sign of Ariah or the twins. The lamp was out, the room dark. Finally he detected movement by the moon-washed window and saw her gazing out at the cloud-streaked sky.

  Hair tumbled down her back to her knees in gentle waves, a wild array that made him want to tangle his fingers in it, bury his nose in the fragrant tresses. In the shadowed light he saw that she wore only a nightrobe of muslin with lace high at the neck and about the wrists.

  Virginal. Except that he could barely detect her form through the thin fabric, silhouetted against the moonlit window.

  Her shoulders rose slightly as she took a deep breath, and the cold glass fogged as she exhaled. With a finger she wrote her name in large letters, the way a child would. Once more, her finger moved through the condensation, this time drawing four letters: P-a-p-a. Her head bowed until her forehead rested against the pane. She laid a hand carefully, lovingly, over the two words. He had to strain to hear the words she whispered brokenly: "Oh, Papa, what will become of me without you?"

  Not thinking about what he was doing, Bartholomew crossed the room. He forgot Nehemiah's earlier lecture. He forgot Hester and the rules of propriety. He saw only Ariah, knew only that she needed him. When he put his hand out to touch her, she jumped and whirled to look at him with alarm in her moist, stricken eyes.

  "I-I thought everyone was in bed," she said.

  "I went to check on the horses. I didn't mean to startle you." His hand tightened for an instant on her shoulder. "You were crying."

  "No." Her back straightened and she lifted her head. "I was just thinking of my father and wondering if anyone's filled my bird feeders at home."

  "You've lost your father recently, haven't you?"

  For a single heartbeat her head bowed. She forced it back up again. "I . . .yes, two weeks ago. It was sudden. I should be wearing mourning, but my father made me promise not to. After all, I'm about to be married and . . ." Her voice trailed off as she stared miserably out the window.

  "Is that why you agreed to marry Pritchard, because you're alone now?"

  She looked at him, her eyes surprisingly dry, and for a moment he thought he saw fear in their blue depths. But how could anyone as gregarious and optimistic as Ariah Scott be afraid of anything?

  "Shouldn't I have?" she said.

  "No, it isn't that. Pritchard's a fine young man. But there must have been dozens of men in Cincinnati you could have married. Men you knew."

  His complement brought a small smile to her mouth, and a bit of the sadness left her eyes. "One or two, perhaps." It was a lie; no man had ever asked for her hand, or even courted her, but she wasn't about to admit that.

  "Only one or two? Cincinnati men must be blind then, as well as stupid."

  Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose, like the dawn sky when it first begins to color, and she turned quickly back to the window. Bartholomew lifted his hand. It hovered above her head, aching to stroke her tawny mane, before falling to his side. If he were to touch her at that moment, he feared he wouldn't be able to stop.

  "You're much too kind, Mr. Noon. I don't blame you for questioning my motives out of concern for your nephew. I assure you I intend to be a good wife to him."

  "I've no doubt of that." An image of Hester's locked bedroom door intruded into his mind, along with the inexplicable certainty that Ariah would never do the same. "He's a very lucky man. Actually, it was you I was concerned about. It must take a great deal of courage to travel alone clear across the country to put your life into the care of a stranger."

  His sensitivity brought emotion surging back into her throat. How could he be so perceptive, to know exactly what was on her mind? She longed to tell him of her fear, to bury her face against his chest and take what comfort he might offer. But that would be the coward's way out, and unfair to Bartholomew, as well as his wife.

  Swallowing her tears, she put her back to the window and to the dreams in which the moon invited her to indulge. The smile she forced to her lips was wistful, but her voice was steady.

  "There's nothing left for me back home, Mr. Noon, except loneliness. At lea
st here I have the excitement of new surroundings and the challenge…" she thought of her exhilaration a few weeks past when she received notice that she had been accepted into the Cincinnati Society of Ornithologists. Her voice faltered. She forced up her chin and continued "…the challenge of a new career."

  Bartholomew's brow lifted at her choice of words. He'd never thought of marriage as a woman's career choice before. Ariah Scott was definitely different from the women he'd known in Tillamook, or in Forest Grove where he attended the university for almost a whole term before his father's paralysis forced him back to the farm. He thought of the free spirits he had met on campus, carrying banners and cursing the traditions that kept women tied to home, hearth and husband. Ariah was intelligent and independent. She might not follow any traditions but her own, yet he was sure she would never scoff at the beliefs of others or try to force them to think her way.

  Good hell. He'd only known her a day, and already he was half in love with her.

  He took a strategic step backward. "I admire your optimistic outlook on life, Miss Scott. I'm sure no matter where you are, you'll make a niche for yourself and create your own happiness. I'd best let you get to bed now. The boys are waiting for me."

  "First, I think I'd better . . . ah . . ." A slow flush reddened her cheeks. "Could you possibly direct me . . .?"

  Bartholomew hid a smile. "The necessary's out back. Come on, I'll point it out and make sure Pudding behaves herself. You'd best put on a coat, it's cold out."

  She looked down and gasped with the sudden realization that she had been standing there talking with him dressed only in her nightdress. She clasped her arms over her breasts and glanced up, but he had his back to her as he made his way to the kitchen, giving no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened between them. Ariah snatched up her cloak and followed.

  When she rejoined him after using the necessary, he saw her back to the parlor where her bed awaited, said goodnight, doused the lamp and vanished down the crooked, darkened hall.

  Ariah snuggled into the warm quilts and wondered what Effie had meant about Mr. Monteer not making a good husband. A fondness for baseball was hardly a good reason to scorn a man as husband material. She hoped he would be gentle and sensitive like his uncle. Bartholomew Noon had the most compassionate eyes she had ever seen. Eyes as dark as the thick Greek coffee her mother had brewed on holidays, sweet with honey and rich with secret meaning.

  An image of Toots Olwell sneaking into Bartholomew's bed sneaked into Ariah's mind. At least, with him sleeping in the boy's room, the woman wouldn't be doing that tonight. Ariah yawned. As she drifted toward sleep, she imagined him lifting the covers to welcome her and taking her into his strong arms. She felt the warmth of his huge body, watched his lips descend toward hers, and felt something strange and mysterious and wonderful stir deep inside her body.

  Lying in Mark's child-sized bed, his feet hanging off the end of the mattress, the boys snoring softly in the darkness, Bartholomew thought of Nehemiah's lecture on temptation. The old man was right; spending so much time alone with a woman who didn't belong to him was a risky business. He'd felt it strongly, standing in the dark alone with Ariah Scott. The girl aroused his emotions more than any woman he had ever known, giving him visions of what might be and making him all the more dissatisfied with what was. It was perilous. It was wrong.

  A sense of helplessness so strong that he wondered if it could be another presentiment haunted him. Then, like a driftwood log rammed into his solar plexus, reality struck home.

  The sense of doom he had felt the morning of the shipwreck—the same day Pritchard had announced his forthcoming marriage—had had nothing to do with that tragedy at all. No, this threat of succumbing to an infatuation for another man's woman, this was what he was being warned about. This was the debacle he had to prevent.

  Silently he prayed that the clouds crowding the sky outside the bedroom window would pass on and leave a dry, open road to get him and his much too attractive ward home as quickly, as safely, and as innocently as possible.

  Chapter Five

  Nehemiah insisted on praying for their safe journey as Bartholomew and Ariah prepared to take their leave of the Olwells the next morning. The sky had cleared and the day promised to be fair.

  Bartholomew bowed his head, but instead of closing his eyes, he studied Ariah's demurely folded hands. Tiny hands, as delicate as the fairyslipper orchids that grew in the woods near the lighthouse.

  As the wagon pulled away from the house, he leaned close to Ariah and let the rattle of chains and the rumble of wheels cover his words. "Be thankful we escaped after only one prayer. It's Sunday so the family will spend the entire day listening to Nehemiah read from the Bible and pray over everything from sin to the laying of the hens."

  Ariah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Bartholomew's eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her. He didn't try to analyze his unaccustomed feeling of joy.

  That evening, as they pulled back onto the road after eating supper at the inn in Yamhill, the morning stage from Portland barreled past in a cloud of dust. Ariah coughed and fanned her hand in front of her face.

  "By the time we get to Fairdale, the passengers on that stage will be at the Mountain House digesting the venison or salt pork and cabbage they get for supper," Bartholomew said when the dust settled.

  "How much farther is it?"

  "Nine miles. We've already come over fifteen since leaving the Olwells." He sidled her a glance and added, more casually than he felt, "Of course, if you'd taken yesterday's stage from Portland you'd be in Tillamook now, instead of having another forty-five miles to go."

  "I'm glad you picked me up instead. The stage looks dreadfully dusty and uncomfortable."

  "Are you truly glad?" he asked with an intensity that seemed to sizzle in the air between them. "It should have been Pritchard."

  "Perhaps." She smiled with a measure of warmth he felt all the way to his heart, and added, "but it's been a lovely trip, and I've enjoyed your company."

  Something tightened in his chest and he quickly glanced away. Her answer had meant too much, and he had desperately wanted to kiss her for her kindness.

  Ariah caught the intensity of his expression before he turned away and knew she had pleased him. He was such an emotional man and yet proud. If he were a bird, he would have to be none other than an eagle, the most magnificent of all. But there was still too much sadness in his eyes, and she wished she could wash it away.

  After awhile she said, "Mr. Monteer's wire didn't say why you were picking me up instead of him."

  He searched her eyes for disappointment but saw only curiosity. "Mostly it was bad timing. The only way a keeper can leave the station for more than a day or so is to arrange ahead of time for a man to fill in for him. I had already arranged for my trip and couldn't cancel. Shipping the birds later would have interfered with mating season. I'm sorry he didn't explain it to you."

  Her full lips quirked in a wry, sad sort of smile. "It was all rather sudden."

  Too sudden, he wanted to say.

  "It doesn't really matter," she said. "I've enjoyed getting to know you, Bartholomew."

  The sound of his given name on her lips stroked him like a caress. He swallowed a surge of emotion and busied himself driving the wagon as darkness settled over them.

  That night was spent at The Mountain House in Fairdale. By noon the next day it was raining, a gentle mist that seeped beneath their oil slickers. The temperature dropped ten degrees, forcing them to huddle together on the wagon seat, sharing body heat but very few words. From Fairdale the road went straight up, zigzagging across the snowy mountain face to the summit, seventeen miles to the tiny store and inn operated by the Rhude family. When the rain turned to snow Ariah and Bartholomew joined the Rhude children in an impromptu snowball fight before retiring to the rooms allotted them for the night.

  Late the next afternoon, as the road plunged down the mountain, along with the Sou
th Fork of the Trask River, a battle more turbulent than the storm pelting them with icy rain was taking place in Bartholomew's head.

  Two more miles would bring them to the turn-off for John Upham's farm. It would get them out of the weather sooner and off of a rough, muddy road that was rapidly becoming treacherous. The last thing he wanted was to risk Ariah's safety, yet he found himself mentally dragging his heels at the idea of stopping with the Uphams.

  What it came down to, if he were honest with himself, was that he simply didn't want to share her. Or to explain one more time why they were traveling together. Tomorrow they would reach Tillamook and the home of the Ketchams where Hester was staying while he was gone. The next day after that would see them home at the lighthouse station. There would be no more time alone with Ariah, something Bartholomew wasn't ready for.

  Without warning, the lead horse on the left, slipped and went down on one knee, nearly dragging down the sorrel next to her.

  Ariah cried out and clutched her cold hands to her mouth. Bartholomew yanked back on the reins. "Whoa. Easy there, Snowdrop. Get up, girl, come on now."

  The mare struggled several minutes before managing to stand firm on all four feet. Bartholomew wrapped the reins around the brake and climbed down. Twenty yards below, the South Fork of the Trask, swollen with snowmelt and rain, roared and tumbled and swirled. One slip and he would plunge to his death.

  Ariah held her breath as he slogged through the slick muck, talking to each of the horses and stroking their trembling necks until they were calm enough to continue on. When he went to haul himself back up into the wagon, Ariah reached out to help, as though her puny weight could keep a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle, bone and sinew from falling into the watery abyss below.

  Seated in the wagon again, he gazed down at her for a long time, lost in those bottomless forget-me-not eyes, his heart so full he thought it would burst from his chest. She was so close he could feel her quivering with fear and cold within her wraps.

  How long had it been since anyone had looked at him with such concern? Not since '78 when his mother died, he supposed. Or was it six years later, the night he buried his father, when Hester crawled into his bed to comfort him? Guilt and a desperate kind of need had driven him to marry her the next day. Ever since, she had berated him for not supplying her with a better life. And punished him with a locked bedroom door. The result was a brooding, cynical man who expected little from life and gave little in return.