Josie_Bride of New Mexico

by Kristin Holt

  The white gown was modest and beautiful— just like his bride.

  She climbed in bed as if it were the most natural, comfortable thing she’d ever done.

  And to think he’d fretted over it.

  So much for fretting. He was done with worrying about anything but ensuring she was comfortable and happy.

  He doused the light and settled on his side, facing her.

  His heart thrilled with delight when his eyes adjusted and he found her facing him.

  The gentle sway of the train in motion rocked many people to sleep, especially when they were unaccustomed to train travel.

  Would she last through the story he particularly wanted to share? “Are you too sleepy for a bedtime story?”

  “Not yet. So hurry up and begin.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled. “Once upon a time, there was a young man named George Richard Cannon, and he met a woman who he knew was very special. In fact, the first time they met, he suspected Lucinda Anna Evans, a few years his junior, was the only woman for him.”

  His eyes had adjusted in the dark enough he could see the stark difference between the ruffled cuff of her nightgown and her hand. He fiddled with the lace on the edge of her ruffle. “Lucinda was the loveliest woman in the village. Sweetest in disposition, too.”

  Josie giggled. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Were your grandparents perfect?”

  That gave him pause. He had to think about it. “No. But they were perfect for each other.”

  “Then I’m willing to hear your story.”

  “Good, because this is a tale you won’t soon forget. My grandparents, remember, had one of those great loves. A love that surpassed time and bridged difficulties and bards wrote musical tales about.”

  This made Josie laugh outright. “Your grandparents did not live at a time when bards entertained chieftains in their castles.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What year was your grandfather born?”

  “1840.”

  “You answer with much confidence. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m the one who knew Grandfather, remember?”

  “Yes, indeed I do.”

  “He would have loved you, by the way.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You have the same list of graces he attributed to Grandmother. He fell in love with her for the same reasons I will find myself madly in love with you.”

  She moved beneath the covers, settling to make herself more comfortable. One of her toes brushed his and he fought the urge to creep closer to her.

  “Now where was I?” He trailed the ribbon at her wrist through his fingers. Though he could no longer see it, he knew the ribbon was the same shade of pale candy-pink as the roses hand-stitched into the fabric.

  “George Richard Cannon thought Lucinda Anna Evans the loveliest girl in the village.”

  “You remember their names.”

  “Of course I do. I listen to everything you say.”

  Richard couldn’t help it. He grinned. “I may need to remind you of that one day.”

  “If you must.”

  “Now hush. The story’s about to get really good.”

  Josie’s knee bumped his thigh as she curled up a little tighter, obviously perfectly comfortable with him in her bed… or her in his bed…

  He cleared his throat again. He curled his knees up a little tighter just for the pleasure of bringing his thighs into contact with her shins.

  He might have been mistaken, but is sure seemed she nestled a little bit closer.

  He left off with her ribbon and traced his fingertips over her hand curled about the edge of the blankets. “Yes. Let’s see. Lucinda’s parents were very old fashioned. They believed in strict courtship rules and when young George went to her father and asked for permission to court his daughter, the first answer was a no.”

  “Oh.” She packed a wallop of sadness in that single syllable. Was his wife a romantic?

  “But George was not dissuaded. He asked Mr. Evans again for permission to court his daughter. This time, Mr. Evans didn’t immediately say no, but he asked George Cannon why he wanted to court his daughter. He asked ‘What do you see in Miss Lucinda that has caught your eye’?”

  He paused to moisten his mouth and to savor the pleasure of lying abed with his lovely wife. She’d drawn near enough he could feel the warm tickle of her breath on his jaw. He’d traced every plane of the back of her hand, and now he focused on his ring upon her finger. Caressing, sweeping his fingertip over it. He loved the thought of his ring on her finger.

  “What was George’s answer?”

  “He was young and foolish and fancied himself in love. George told Mr. Evans that he looked at Lucinda and saw the most beautiful girl in the whole village, in the whole settlement, in all of the whole state.”

  “Oh.” This time, her single-syllable answer echoed disappointment.

  Funny, how his ability to read her emotion was enhanced when the lights were out. He needed to learn to listen more carefully.

  Apparently, his bride understood the problem. “With George’s answer, Mr. Evans answered that no, young George may not court Lucinda and sent him on his way.”

  Josie slipped into his storytelling. “But young George Cannon would not be dissuaded. He asked Mr. Evans a third time for the privilege of courting his lovely daughter Lucinda.”

  “This time George did something he figured would help his case. He made sure Mrs. Evans was present when he begged permission. He’d also talked with every woman he knew. His mother. His sisters. The lady next door. And this time he was prepared with an answer Mr. Evans would be sure to take to heart.”

  Josie chuckled and the bright, happy sound made him smile. He slipped his hand beneath hers, the one he’d been caressing and felt the reward of her little fingers tightening around his. He loved holding hands with Josie. It brought a beautiful surprising intimacy he hadn’t expected.

  “Mr. Evans, young George Cannon said, and Mrs. Evans, when I look at your daughter, Lucinda, I see her kindness, her cooperation, her love of literature and all that is good. I admire her singing voice in the church choir. May I have permission to court your daughter?”

  Josie sighed as if happier with George’s approach.

  “While Mr. Evans did not respond with an immediate no, he did not respond with a yes. Instead he asked, ‘but when you look at Lucinda, do you see her?’ George was taken aback by this. Of course he saw Lucinda when he looked at her. How could he look at her and not see her?”

  “Oh, no.” Josie’s tone held both sadness and disappointment, but also much humor.

  “Oh, yes.” Adam’s left arm, which lay folded between the two of them, left his hand to rest over his knees. He’d rather touch his wife’s knee, so he used the excuse of storytelling to tap her knee where it lay, within an easy each. “Oh, yes.” He tapped her knee with each word. Just a little love tap.

  Would she allow him to rest his palm against the curve of her knee? Far too forward for a courting couple, and certainly not in public, but she was his wife, and they were alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Determined to watch for any indication, either way, in her response, he slowly and carefully rested his palm over the curve of her knee… and immediately realized it was an uncomfortable angle he couldn’t possibly maintain. But he could rest his hand on her thigh, near the curve of her hip.

  Most daring.

  Most forward.

  And most appealing.

  “Young George Cannon went away grieving. He found himself remembering Lucinda in every waking moment.” Adam rested his hand carefully over his wife’s leg, so near her hip and nearly held his breath in anticipation.

  And Josie, sweet Josie, remained perfectly relaxed and happy beneath his touch.

  A thrill of happiness raced through him, and he found himself continuing with the story while his heart seemed t
o thrill at the joy of cuddling with his bride.

  “George Cannon tried for weeks to stay away. Lucinda’s father and mother had rejected his suit. He didn’t know what they wanted to hear, but he found he couldn’t forget Lucinda. He thought of her when he saw her and thought of her when he did not. He sought her out, went places he knew she would be. He found himself completely disinterested in any other young lady of his acquaintance.”

  He caressed Josie’s thigh with his thumb. He gave her a little squeeze. “You do realize this story is a true one and does have a happy ending. My grandparents had one of those great loves.”

  “So you keep telling me. Do go on.”

  “Finally, when George had tried to forget Lucinda without success, he approached Mr. Evans for what he hoped would be the last time— at least for the purpose of asking permission to court his daughter, Lucinda. ‘Please, sir,’ George said to Mr. Evans, ‘when I look at Lucinda, I see the light in her eyes that tells me when she’s happy and when she’s sad. When I look at Lucinda, I see the way she listens to the young ladies of her acquaintance— really listens, because it’s not only about what they have to say, but the fact that those girls are her friends and Lucinda chooses to give them her best.”

  Josie drew a deep breath and sighed.

  Adam would have to remember this and keep this part of her happy, too.

  He could easily love a woman who found romantic things pleased her.

  “Mr. Evans tried to bring the situation to a close, but George said, ‘sir, please, I beg of you, do hear the rest of my observations, for I’ve found I can think of nothing else. I awake with thoughts of Lucinda and know that today is Monday so she will be outside with her mother, hanging wash upon the line and if I walk by I might have the pleasure of her smile. And I know,’ my grandfather told his would-be father-in-law, ‘when I see Lucinda, my heart tells me she is the one woman on this earth that I cannot live without. It is not merely her smiles, her angelic voice, her uncommon friendship and her blue eyes. I see a lovely young woman, Lucinda, who makes me want to bring that smile to her face, that I yearn to listen to, to hear her thoughts and give her the very best I have within me.”

  “I do hope Mr. Evans finally gave his permission.”

  Adam squeezed Josie’s hand and her hip, loving the easy comfort between his wife and himself. Somehow their foreheads had drawn near one another and he yearned, more than usual, to kiss her. Just a sweet kiss that would punctuate his story, but given she didn’t know the tale as well as he, he felt duty-bound to finish the tale.

  “But instead of a yes or no, Mr. Evans asked of young George Cannon, ‘Do tell, Mr. Cannon, what is the purpose of courtship?”

  Josie laughed. A sparkling, clear, beautiful sound that pulled a smile from him.

  “Why sir, courtship is a time wherein a young man and young woman spend time with one another under the careful watch of mature members of the young lady’s family, to allow the young couple to determine whether they might be suitably matched for matrimony.”

  “Oh, no.” More dread and disappointment in Josie’s tone.

  “But Grandfather wasn’t done with his response. Before Mr. Evans could tell Grandfather no and send him away grieving, George Cannon looked his would-be father-in-law in the eye and said, ‘Sir, my purpose of courting Miss Lucinda is to allow her to see me. I wish her to see me even while I strive with all diligence to truly see her. I want to see what brings Lucinda joy, what she needs the way flowers need sunlight and water. I would prepare myself in every way so that when I stand before you one year after our courtship begins and ask you for her hand in marriage, you will be eager to say yes the first time.”

  Instead of another “oh” or “oh, no” this time Josie’s response was a delighted, satisfied, sigh and a “yes”… and darn if she didn’t lean forward and kiss him.

  Just a sweet peck on the lips, over as quickly as it began. But Josie, his sweet wife, had kissed him of her own volition. She’d chosen to kiss him, not simply allowed him to kiss her.

  And it was a beautiful, welcome, and special moment he wanted to hold close and treasure.

  “I see,” she said softly, as if confiding a secret, “that your grandparents may have had a special courtship. One of those prime examples others hold up for young men and young ladies to see how courtship should be.”

  Adam wanted to lean in and kiss his wife more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.

  “But that story is not about a great love for the ages.”

  “I’m getting to that part.”

  “Well hurry up. I may grow old waiting for the tale to resolve itself with a happily ever-after.”

  He couldn’t help but smile and want to kiss her.

  It may have been selfish, but the tender cocoon that brought the two of them together in a sweet intimacy where the world could not intrude was too precious, too wonderful to allow to pass by. Very slowly, to show her precisely what his intentions were, and to allow her ample time to turn her cheek to his kiss or to say no in any one of many ways, he rose to his elbow— unfortunately pulling his hand from her hip— and still holding her hand, leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

  He had zero reason to rush. This seemed almost like the beauty of a first kiss. But without the minister watching, without an audience of any kind, he had the luxury of savoring the softness of her lips, the gasp of sweet surprise as his mouth touched hers.

  With willful slowness, he dragged his lips over hers, the friction a sending a rush of electric sensation through him. He pulled her lip with gentle suction between his own, marveling at the rush of affection that cascaded through the general vicinity of his heart.

  But she seemed to mimic him, now applying a bit of suction to his lower lip and he very nearly lost his heart to her.

  Oh, Josie. My wife.

  She clung to his hand, but also touched his jaw. She’d reached for him with her free hand and her kisses matched his. Warm and vibrant and filled with the kind of emotion that must mean something. Kisses like these could not be void of affection.

  Why had he suspected it might be work to fall in love with his wife? Why?

  She caressed his jawline, then as he remained propped on an elbow, she slipped her arm about his neck, and just as she’d done much earlier that day, tugged him in for a kiss.

  If he hadn’t already been kissing her, savoring every magical second, he’d have known precisely what she wanted.

  He straightened a little, allowing himself to draw nearer to her. The fine cotton of her nightgown, so smooth against his legs, felt cool against his heated skin.

  She broke away enough to whisper, “Adam.”

  “Josie.” He tried not to sound strangled.

  She’d turned away, just a little, and his mouth landed on her cheek so he kissed her there, trailed little nibbles along her jaw.

  “Adam?”

  “Josie.”

  “Would you mind if we finished the story tomorrow night? I— I’m not interested in more stories.”

  His heart skipped right over two beats, slammed against his ribs and raced to catch up. He opened his mouth to ask something, anything, for this was not the time to make assumptions.

  Before he could blunder his way through a question he had no idea how to phrase, she freed her hand from his grasp and settled her fingers along the buttons up the front of his nightshirt.

  She freed one, then two, and he found his question unnecessary, after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  The following morning, Josie enjoyed leaving the train with her husband for a quick stop in Gunnison, Colorado. The railroad town offered a variety of stores, but Adam remembered a shoe cobbler he believed could make her a sturdy pair of boots that would fit her narrow, small feet and slender ankles.

  She hadn’t been able to tell him no.

  She didn’t want to tell him no.

  Especially after he’d brought out an entire trunk filled with ladies’ boots, shoes, and slippe
rs in every size imaginable. He’d started their wedding trip well prepared to meet her needs— including footwear.

  “The cobbler’s place is up ahead. He does magnificent work. If he has nothing in stock that will fit you, we’ll place an order and ask him to ship them to us at Silver Queen. You’ll need a sturdy pair of boots in that soil, if not two.”

  She walked at her husband’s side, enjoying a beautiful new suit Mrs. Bushnell had brought on board as one of many hopefuls in her ready-made stock, and it had required little enough alterations she’d been able to dress in it before breakfast.

  The brown woolen jacket and skirt were made of companion fabrics and the construction was nothing short of extraordinary. Everything she wore, from the skin on out— except her boots— petticoats, drawers decorated with a frivolous waste of lace and ribbons no one but her… oh, and Adam… would ever see.

  And the stockings! So smooth, so thin, so feminine. The stockings just might be her favorite bit of the new, stylish clothing. She’d never owned anything so fine and had never felt so lovely.

  “You are positively radiant this morning,” Adam said for her ears alone. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  She couldn’t stop smiling. Between Adam’s attentiveness, his generous affection, her marvelous new clothes and a walk outside in the fresh air and mountain sunlight, she wondered why everyone wasn’t smiling.

  They turned a corner and Adam halted. He glanced up the street, then another block ahead. “The cobbler shop was right there, where that new grocery is.”

  A wooden structure, painted white, seemed brand new.

  Disappointment clouded his handsome features. In the daylight, the waves in his black hair shone and she wanted to run her fingers through them.