The Paper Marriage

by Bronwyn Williams

  Damned if he would apologize. If Luther wanted to make a fool of himself over a woman, that was his privilege, but not when it endangered a good horse. Not to mention two helpless females—although Rose hadn’t seemed so helpless standing between Annie and the maddened stallion, flapping her apron as if it were a weapon.

  But Matt remembered another young man, remembered how his own negligence had led to Billy’s death. Luther had to be taught a lesson for his own good. If Jericho had hurt either Rose or Annie, Matt would have had to destroy him. God knows what that would have done to Luther, whose heart was even softer than his head.

  Far easier to blame Rose for leading him on. She was old enough to know better, even if Luther wasn’t.

  Pouring another dipperful of water over his head, Matt struggled to regain his perspective, but Billy’s violent death was too fresh in his memory. He remembered taking one look at the scrawny, red-faced infant, the cord still dangling from her body, and mentally consigning her to a grave beside her father.

  Annie had fooled them all. Not only had she survived, she had thrived. And as much as he hated to admit it, Annie wasn’t the only one who appeared to thrive here on this isolated stretch of barrier island. For all her failings, Rose had come a long way from the pitiful female who had stumbled from the cart one cold, windy day in March wearing an ugly black gown, her face still green from retching her belly wrongside out. Bess said she’d been sick almost from the minute she set foot on the mailboat.

  Matt shook his head in dismissal. He was too unsettled to return to the correspondence he’d left unfinished. Better to take Jericho down to the shore where they could both work off a few demons.

  Inside the house, Rose managed to choke down half a cup of the potent tea before excusing herself to see to Annie, who, as it turned out, was sleeping peacefully. Feeling a powerful need to hold onto someone, Rose carefully gathered the small, warm body into the curve of her arm and settled into the cane rocker, staring blindly out the window at the shimmering glare of sun reflected from sand and water.

  She croaked a few words of a half-remembered lullaby, then fell silent. Her arms were steady enough; her voice was not. She continued to rock, gradually regaining her composure as she went over in her mind what had happened.

  Luther had been at fault for trying to ride a horse he’d been warned against. He’d even warned Rose never to go near Matt’s stallion. “You don’t never want to mess around no stallion,” he’d said. “They’re spooky. Jericho’s worse than most because he was treated real bad before Matt took him in.”

  Matt had been right to take him to task, but it should have ended there. Violence, no matter how justified, was never the solution.

  Although, in all fairness, Rose had to admit that Matt had saved her from possible injury. He’d taken the time—at least someone had—to shove Annie’s basket away from the edge of the porch, out of the reach of danger. He had remained calm so as not to excite the horse further, and as furious as he’d been with Luther—and rightly so, she had to admit—he hadn’t actually struck him.

  But try as she would to rationalize what had just occurred, she couldn’t forget the image of Matt’s towering rage and poor Luther’s stark fear. She had come a long way, but evidently she still hadn’t come far enough. Perhaps she never would.

  Which left her right back where she had started. She could admit her deception and go on the way they had originally intended, staying here with Annie while Matt went back to sea….

  Or she could pack her trunk and leave on that wretched boat.

  One option was no more attractive than the other.

  Chapter Seven

  They had arrived in early spring. Summer was now at its peak. Rose was surprised that Bess had stayed as long as she had, but then, a writer, she supposed, could write anywhere. Still, the older woman was growing impatient. “Go ahead and tell him, Rose, I can’t stay here forever. He’ll make you a fine husband. He’s a good boy.”

  Hardly a boy, thought Rose. “Why don’t you tell him? After all, it was your idea, and besides, you’re much better with words than I am.” Her own talent lay in evading issues. Far easier to avoid making a choice than to have to live with another bad one.

  “Of course I am, but as it happens, I’m off to visit with the magistrate, Dick Dixon. There’s not a closet in any house on the island that don’t have a few skeletons. He’ll know where to look.”

  Evidently, the skeleton hunt proved rewarding, for Bess spent much of her time over the next few days in the village.

  Rose, postponing the inevitable, spent hours on her ridge mending, shelling beans, talking to Annie, or simply lying back on a spread and letting the warm, damp wind blow over her body.

  What would he do when she told him? How would he react?

  Impossible to know. He was such a puzzling man, quick to anger, but only when anger was justified; hiding a broad streak of tenderness under gruff manners that no longer frightened her. In spite of every grain of common sense she possessed, she was increasingly attracted to him.

  Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around her knees and watched the two men in the distance. Once they’d taken care of the livestock this morning, they had dragged bales of hay to the shady side of the barn and settled down, Luther with a slate, Matt with a cup of Crank’s powerful coffee.

  Rose knew what they were up to. Crank had explained that with Billy gone, Luther would be chief mate as soon as Matt got his ship back, and Matt was using the interim to fill in the gaps in his education. “Boy’s young, but Matt weren’t too much older when he took command of the Swan.”

  This week they were working on mathematics. Amazingly, Matt never seemed to lose patience, not even when Luther stumbled badly over his times tables.

  She watched from a distance, savoring the way sunlight glistened on that broad, bronzed back, the way he raked his fingers through the thick, dark hair and gestured with his hands to make a point. The same hands that were strong enough to control that wicked horse of his, yet gentle enough to stroke a baby’s cheek and bring forth a smile.

  “Lord, Annie, what have I done?” she murmured. “I’m pretty sure I want him for a husband, but I’m not at all sure he’ll have me. I’m not even sure I know what I’d do with him if I got him.”

  Another sleepless night. Either she lay awake fretting or she fell asleep and dreamed. She knew very well that work wasn’t the answer, but until she could screw up her courage to make a clean breast of what she’d done, it helped. So she went through all the bedrooms, even those not in use, gathered up every shred of yellowed linen and dumped it all into the washtub to scrub and rinse, wring and hang, then fold and put away.

  Even using the twisting stick to wring the way Luther had shown her, the job took hours and left her with an aching back, a blistered nose, and rough, red hands, but at least staying busy kept her from worrying overmuch.

  Luther offered to help her hang, but before he could peg the first sheet to the line, Matt stepped out onto the porch and ordered him to ride to the village with a letter for the magistrate.

  “Them two’s worse than a pair of banty roosters,” said Peg, who had come out to the backyard with a bucket of scraps for the chickens.

  Having no knowledge of roosters, Rose dismissed the comment, twisted another sheet using the stick, then flopped it over the line, spread it out and anchored it against the southwest wind.

  She was going to have to get it over with. Better the agony of being rejected than the shame of knowing she was a coward.

  With the laundry drying in the sun and Annie fed, changed and settled for her nap, Rose went in search of another task. Crank and Peg between them did the cleaning, refusing to allow her to touch a broom or wash a single dish. “Go pick some more o’ them flowers you like so much,” Crank suggested. “They set off a table right smart.”

  “I’ve picked every flower in sight and planted them around the house. They died,” she said, as if accusing the old cook of sabotagi
ng her efforts.

  She’d be the first to admit she knew less than nothing about gardening, but she could learn. Goodness knows, Powers Point could use a bit of landscaping, especially if she decided to stake her claim. Which she might well be forced to do, whether Matt was willing or not, considering that she had no money and no other prospects.

  Just like that, she made up her mind. No shilly-shallying. No more excuses, it was time to put an end to this charade. Still gritty and windblown from her morning’s exertions, she marched down the hall before she could lose her nerve and rapped on his door.

  Fingers crossed, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Please let him want me. Please let it come out right this time. If not for me, then for Annie. She needs me.

  The door opened before she could think her Amen, or even uncross her fingers. “Yes?” he barked impatiently.

  He had a letter in his hand. His hair needed trimming. His shirt, a fine linen which she, herself, had laundered, was open halfway down his chest. Staring at the dark thatch on his chest, she swallowed hard and tried to remember why she was here.

  “I’d like to borrow the cart, if you don’t mind. While Annie’s sleeping I need to ride to the village for seeds.”

  You stupid woman, you’re doing it again!

  “Seeds.” He repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before. He was staring at her hands, and self-consciously she uncrossed her fingers and tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt.

  “Flower seeds. But I could plant vegetables, too,” she said anxiously, digging her grave even deeper.

  “I see. You think you can handle her?”

  “Handle who? Whom?”

  “Angel.”

  “Oh. I drove my own gig. I hardly think a mule cart can be that much more difficult. It’s not as though there were traffic to contend with.” Feeling her competency challenged, she stiffened to her full five-feet-eight inches.

  He pursed his lips, his intense gaze never wavering, and Rose fought the urge to turn tail and run. Forget it, she wanted to cry. Just forget I was ever here.

  But of course, she didn’t. She was, after all, a woman of her word…eventually. “Things do grow in sand. There are trees and shrubs and vines all over the ridge, and all kinds of wildflowers. Your house could certainly use a bit of landscaping.” Knowing she had lost her nerve again, she resorted to belligerence.

  He had stared at her until her mouth went dry. Just as she was about to slink away, he said, “Go ahead. If Bess don’t need the cart, I’ve no objection, as long as Annie’s not neglected.”

  “Annie will never be neglected as long as I’m here,” she declared. “And Bess is in her room reading someone’s diary that she borrowed from Mr. Dixon.”

  “Figures,” he said. “Do as you see fit, madam.”

  If she did as she saw fit, she would crown him with the nearest hard object. Either that or reach up and touch that bristly jaw of his, to find out for herself if it was as hard and unyielding as it appeared.

  Luther, just back from the village himself, hitched up the mule and instructed Rose on how to manage her if she acted up. “She don’t always mind. Sometimes she takes to daydreaming.”

  “I’m hardly a novice. I had my first pony cart when I was twelve, my own gig when I turned eighteen.”

  But because she knew Luther’s fragile self-esteem had been badly injured by the Jericho disaster, she listened, trying not to show her impatience. “Thank you, Luther, you’ve been a great help,” she said gravely. Time to begin underlining the difference in their ages. She was twenty-four, after all, and Luther was barely twenty-two years old.

  She and Angel made the four-mile trip with no mishap, if a severe trial of patience didn’t count. There was no such thing as a brisk trot in deep, powdery sand. It was trudge, trudge, trudge, battling flies and mosquitoes all the way. Despite her hat, she’d be burned to a crisp and eaten alive by the time she reached the village, nor was there such a thing as a shop once she arrived.

  Not so much as a fresh market. She was told by a grizzled fisherman mending a delicate net he’d hung between oak trees that the next village south had a store, stocked weekly by a freight boat from across the sound.

  “How far?” she inquired.

  “Half a day’s ride.”

  “Across the sound?” she marveled, remembering it as being more like half a century.

  “To the store. Me and my woman’ll be riding down in a few days if you need something. Luther or Bess can collect it next time they come.”

  Rose took a deep breath, absently scratched a fresh bite, and explained her mission. “Flower seeds, whatever grows best here. Perhaps come carrots and lettuce, too.”

  The tobacco-chewing fisherman smiled. At least the creases networking his face deepened. “Well now, I don’t know about plantin’ this time of year, but I reckon my woman could spare some collard slips.”

  Over the next half hour she met three women and several more fishermen, most of whom greeted her shyly and asked after Miss Bess. “I’ve not seen her around lately,” one woman said.

  “I believe she’s doing research,” Rose replied, with no idea whether reading another’s diary was considered research or snooping.

  An hour later she headed home, hoarding a precious bundle of seeds, cuttings and slips, plus two letters and the news, for whatever it was worth, that the magistrate’s son was coming home for the summer, and all the girls were excited about it.

  Roughly halfway home, Angel lapsed into one of the daydreams Luther had warned her about. At least that was the only reason Rose could think of why the stupid creature stopped dead in its tracks, miles from nowhere.

  Rose clucked and snapped the leads. She waited, thinking perhaps the hot sun would move it along. Who in their right mind wanted to linger outside on a day like this, when heat was shimmering off the sand in dizzying waves?

  “Angel, anytime you’re ready to wake up and move, I can promise you a treat.” Did they have any dried apples left?

  “How does a nice drink of water sound? And shade? The east side of the barn will be shady by the time we get home.”

  The stupid creature wasn’t even grazing, it was just standing there. If the voice of authority wouldn’t do the trick, perhaps a bit of bribery…

  Reluctantly, Rose climbed down from the hard bench seat. Over toward the sound the lush, tall grass looked promising. At least it was green. She stood for a moment in the rutted road, eyeing a thick clump of prickly pear cactus. She’d had more than one unhappy encounter with those wicked spines.

  The sound of the surf just over the dunes might have had a calming effect if it weren’t for the raucous laughter of the seagulls and the drone of the ever-present mosquitoes.

  With an oath she’d learned from Bess, she slapped a vicious green-headed fly away from her damp throat and glared at the somnolent mule. “I’m warning you, you stupid animal, I’ll never forgive you for this. Your captain’s going to think it’s my fault, but we both know who’s to blame here, don’t we?”

  With bribery in mind, she lifted her skirts and picked her way carefully, avoiding patches of pesky sandspurs and the longer spines of the cactus, toward the marshy edge of the sound, where the grass, however coarse and wiry, was at least green.

  Later she could never recall what had alerted her. Whether it was the sound of a soft hiss, or the prickling at the back of her neck. Another few feet and she would have stepped on it.

  Stricken with terror, Rose stared down at the thick, mottled brown snake, its beak-like mouth opened wide to reveal a cottony interior.

  Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod…

  Once her heart resumed beating, she began edging away. If she could just reach the cart and climb up on the seat….

  “Angel,” she called softly without turning her head, “get ready to move.” Her skirt snagged once or twice but she kept on moving backward, never once taking her eyes off the snake. It, thank God, didn’t move. Curled in a loose S hook, it
remained there, its wicked mouth open wide as it hissed a warning.

  It was another sound that finally made her look over her shoulder. She gaped in disbelief. “Angel, you get back here!” With one last glance at the snake, she turned and began to run.

  Angel, obviously thinking it some sort of game, began to trot.

  “Come back here, you flop-eared jackass!” The more Rose yelled and the faster she ran, the faster that dratted mule trotted, with the cart bouncing over the ruts, shedding Rose’s precious cuttings and slips along the way.

  It took no time at all to exhaust her meager vocabulary. It took longer to collect the cuttings, limp now, and sure to die before she could get them into the ground again.

  Flies swarmed. Heat sizzled. Rose swore, unbuttoned her shirtwaist all the way down to her camisole and snatched off her bonnet, using it to swat at the flies and mosquitoes buzzing around her sweaty face.

  How far had they come from the village?

  More important, how far did she have to walk?

  Behind her, the dense maritime forest that sheltered the handful of cottages shimmered grayly in the ever-present salt haze. Ahead, the few buildings that constituted Powers Point were barely visible.

  She’d been walking for nearly an hour as near as she could estimate when she saw something moving in the distance. By then she had removed her petticoat to make a bundle for the seeds and cuttings she collected along the way, fearing the heat of her hands wouldn’t improve their chance of survival any more than lying in the road under a blazing sun would.

  The idea of going back to beg for more had no appeal at all.

  Her steps slowed as she squinted against the blinding sun. Was that—? Could Angel have changed her mind? Lost her mind, more like it. Lost her way and turned back. Dumb beast. Wicked, crazy animal. “You’ll never get another apple from my hands, I can promise you that,” Rose muttered.