Christine Johnson

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Christine Johnson Page 13

by The Marriage Barter


  Where was he? What was he doing? Her hands marked the fabric for Holly’s dress with a piece of chalk, but her mind wouldn’t settle on the task at hand. Surely Wyatt hadn’t stayed in Greenville.

  Yet part of her feared he had. She’d pushed too hard this morning. A man in love might change his ways in time, but she should never have insisted he go to church the first day of their wedded life. He wasn’t ready for it, and she’d been too consumed by her hope of a future together to see that.

  As a result, he’d left, and she had no idea if he would return. What would she tell Sasha? The little girl had asked for him all day, and Charlotte had been forced to make up excuses. How inconsiderate he was! How selfish. He should have thought of Sasha before running off to Greenville. No doubt he intended to consult with Mr. Baxter about tomorrow’s court hearing. Nothing had changed Wyatt’s mind. She might be able to keep Sasha, but come tomorrow he would take away Liam and the rest of the unplaced orphans.

  By the time she heard footsteps on the porch, she’d worked herself into a frazzle.

  She clutched the chalk when Wyatt opened the door. “Where have you been?”

  He paused, cold as stone, his hand still on the knob. “I told you I had business.”

  His resentment was palpable, but Charlotte couldn’t stop the flow. He didn’t know the taunts she’d endured. He didn’t know how often Sasha had asked for him. He didn’t understand how much his actions hurt others. Today of all days, Wyatt Reed should have stood at her side.

  “They said terrible things about you this morning,” she told him. “Mrs. Ingersman was worst of all, though Beatrice made it clear she did not approve of our marriage. And that after congratulating us the night before.” Charlotte lined up two pieces of fabric that needed to be basted together. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” he growled, closing the door. “Gossip doesn’t deserve an answer.”

  “It’s not only gossip. It’s spiteful.”

  “They’re just unhappy people.” Only the hard planes of his cheeks were visible beneath the shadowed brim of his hat. He made no move to remove either his hat or his buckskin coat, and that worried her even more.

  “Maybe I’m unhappy.” She attempted to thread a needle, but her hands shook too much to get the thread through the tiny eye. Frustrated, she threw the harshest accusation at him that she could imagine. “Sasha asked for you all day.”

  “I told you I was going to Greenville.”

  Charlotte wouldn’t let him make this her fault. She pointed at the peony propped in a mason jar. “She brought that home for you.”

  He gave the flower passing notice before looking toward the curtained bed. “She’s asleep?”

  Charlotte managed to get the thread through the needle’s eye. “She was tired after our long day. I cooked Sunday dinner for Rebecca Sterling and the orphans. We were trying to distract them from the selection committee meeting. Did you know there was a meeting this afternoon?”

  “I’m not surprised.” He still stood near the door, ready to escape.

  She set her jaw. “They approved sending Patrick to the Monaghans and Tom to the Quintons. Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “But it’ll make your argument more difficult, won’t it?”

  His jaw tensed. “Listen, Charlotte—”

  “Don’t ‘listen Charlotte’ me. I didn’t go running off when I was needed. I didn’t show up hours later. Your dinner must be dry as jerky by now.”

  “That’s fine.” He finally took off his hat, and the sight of his steel-gray eyes shot uncomfortable needles of regret through her.

  She stared at the fabric and reminded herself that he was at fault. She hadn’t run off, leaving him to handle everything. She stabbed the needle into the fabric—and her thumb.

  “Ouch.” She shook her hand and sucked on the injured thumb, even more petulant. “We missed you. Sasha missed you. You promised to show her your horse.”

  “I said maybe.”

  “She wouldn’t take her nap after dinner because she didn’t want to miss it. I finally got her to fall asleep by assuring her you never forget a promise.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I hoped that was true.” But she was choking on that hope. His dark, unyielding presence made her fear for their future. “I—I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

  “I told you I would.” The words pelted her, hard as stones. “I always keep my word.”

  She bit her lip to stem the rush of tears. Careless emotion had gotten the best of her. She’d made up all sorts of terrible things that could happen when he had in fact done exactly what he said he would. She choked back a sob. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He grasped her shoulders. “Don’t be.”

  The jolt of his touch made her gasp, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he let go.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he continued, oblivious to what had just happened. “I should have been more considerate. I should have told you how long I’d be gone.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m not used to considering anyone else in my plans.”

  His words swirled around her head, like puffs of cottonwood seed on the wind. She knew he was apologizing, and she did regret her words, but how could he not feel what she’d just felt? His hands had cupped her shoulders with both strength and tenderness. His touch sent shivers skittering all over her flesh, drawing up goose pimples.

  Yet he didn’t react.

  How cruel to feel so drawn to a man who could never love her. This was worse than Charles, for she had never felt more than mild affection for him. This hurt. To the bone.

  “Don’t cry,” he commanded stiffly, as if embarrassed by her tears. “I will keep every word of our agreement.”

  That only unleashed the flood. For the briefest moment she’d sensed the man beneath the cold exterior, a man starved of affection, but the unbreakable shell returned the next instant.

  He thrust a handkerchief at her, and she buried her face in the rough muslin, wishing she hadn’t let down her guard. A chill whispered between them, unspoken, yet absolute. He had given his word, but he would not give his heart.

  * * *

  Why had he touched Charlotte? Even as Wyatt lay awake in the loft, he replayed the moment. Her thin shoulders beneath the plain cotton dress. The warmth of her. The way she’d tensed and then relaxed, leaning toward him.

  None of it made sense. The moment he’d stepped in the door, she’d leveled accusation after accusation at him. Each word made him more furious. He’d wanted to turn right around and leave. What did she expect? They had a business agreement, not a real marriage. But then she’d laid out her fears, and he’d unthinkingly reached out to comfort her.

  He ground his teeth. He should have known better than to touch her. From the beginning she’d gotten to him more than any other woman. She sent the same shivers up the back of his neck that he got from a crimson sunrise or drinking in the millions of stars overhead on a moonless night. And then he’d gone and made her his until-death wife.

  He lay on the straw-stuffed mattress, perspiration beading on his skin, and listened to the wind whistle between the boards. It blew endlessly here, until it set a man’s teeth on edge. Maybe San Francisco would be different.

  He tried hard to imagine that city the way the old prospector had described it, with shining buildings perched on a slope around a clear blue bay. The island in the center. The fog that rolled in and out. It must be beautiful.

  Just like Charlotte.

  Now, why’d he gone and thought that? Must’ve been the tears. He couldn’t stand to see women cry, and she’d wept over some promise he’d apparently made to Sasha. He blew the air from his lungs. That little girl was his weak spot. She deserved a good home after losing her parents at such a tender age. Charlotte was a good guardian for a child, unlike the Star Plains farmer. That encounter still angered him. Wyatt couldn’t forget the boy’s furtive glances.
He’d make sure Sasha never had to endure that sort of life.

  He flexed his aching knee. The army doc couldn’t get the bullet out, so it rattled around inside, grinding against the bone. On nights like tonight, it throbbed, reminding him of his guilt.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think of Charlotte and Sasha. In a perfect world, those vows he’d spoken in the church would last more than a few days, and he could be a true husband and father—but that wasn’t possible. Even if he could convince Charlotte to give him a real chance, eventually the truth of his past would come to Evans Grove, and she’d learn to hate him. Better she never loved him, for like the bullet in his knee, the truth would grind away against something as gentle and kind as love.

  * * *

  The yells awoke Charlotte. At first she thought something must have happened in town. She shot up, and then checked Sasha to see if she’d awoken.

  Thankfully, no.

  She tucked the covers around her daughter and slipped out of bed. The hard floor bit into her feet as she crept to the window. The curtain filtered the waning crescent moon. As she brushed it aside, she realized the yells hadn’t come from outdoors. They’d come from above.

  Wyatt.

  Her pulse quickened. What had happened?

  She slipped past the curtain that separated the bed from the rest of the room. The dim moonlight guided her across the room to the ladder.

  She shivered, but the house wasn’t cold. No, this shiver came from an intense feeling of vulnerability at the thought of going to Wyatt, comforting him through what appeared to be a nightmare.

  Perhaps she should return to her bed.

  But then he yelled so loudly that she feared he’d wake Sasha. She darted across the room to check on her daughter. Still asleep, for now, but one of those yelps was bound to awaken the little girl. She’d have to shake Wyatt out of his nightmare.

  When another volley of moans tumbled down from the loft, she hurried to the ladder.

  Charlotte feared heights. When she was little, she’d lost her footing and fell from the loft in her father’s barn. The resulting blow had knocked her unconscious. Her mama said they’d kept vigil at her bedside for two days until she finally awoke. Her limbs still froze when faced with heights.

  Another moan followed by a thud unlocked them.

  The poor man could roll clear out of the loft if he continued. That fear made her grip the sides of the ladder. That fear made her take the first halting step.

  Foolish woman! How did she think she could pack up Charles’s things if she couldn’t climb into the loft? This had been her late husband’s retreat. She hadn’t entered it. He’d brought down the dirty linens and clothes. He’d made the bed with fresh linens. At first she’d considered it a kindness, but soon she’d suspected he wanted it that way.

  She took another step.

  Holly would have helped her, of course. Her friend wouldn’t be afraid of heights. Holly was the bravest person she knew.

  Charlotte pretended she was Holly and took another step and then another. She must be five feet above the floor now. If she fell... Her head grew woozy and her limbs shook. She couldn’t fall.

  “Burn,” he mumbled, the urgency building. He sounded so utterly distraught.

  Taking a deep breath, she scurried up the remaining steps and pulled her body onto the floor of the loft. The raw planks prickled against her palms and knees, but she’d made it.

  “Mah-get,” he muttered incoherently, followed by violent thrashing.

  The light was poor up here. Strips of moonlight from the vent at the peak of the roof lined the floor and revealed the bed a few feet away. She crawled forward and halted.

  He lay twisted in the bedsheet while he moaned and tossed his head so that his lean face fell into the moonlight. His usual calm confidence had been replaced with pain. Every feature was contorted.

  She instinctively reached out to him. His forearm was damp with sweat. No wonder. The air up here was unbearably hot.

  “Margare—” he shouted.

  She shoved her hand over his mouth.

  He twisted away.

  “Hush!” She held his damp cheeks, rough with whiskers. “Please, you have to calm down. It’s just a dream, Wyatt. Just a dream.”

  He wrenched from her grip. “Margaret.”

  Margaret? Who was Margaret? His wife?

  “Margaret!”

  Without another thought, she shook his hot shoulders. “Wake up, wake up.” He flailed at her, but she persisted. She had to make him stop.

  “Wake up,” she said, ducking a hand.

  With a start, he suddenly sat up, sending her sprawling.

  “Who’s there?” he barked.

  In the moonlight, she saw the flash of something metal.

  His pistol.

  Heart in her throat, she whispered his name.

  “Charlotte?” He said it shakily but lowered the gun. “What are you doing here?”

  “You were shouting. I was worried—that you’d wake Sasha, that is.”

  He set the gun down beside him, still loaded she presumed, and scrubbed his face. “Must’ve been a dream.”

  “You were calling out for Margaret.” When he said nothing, she asked, “Is she a cousin or aunt?”

  “She’s no one.”

  His tone implied he wanted no further questions, but Charlotte couldn’t rest without knowing who this woman was. “Clearly she’s someone who means a lot to you, or you wouldn’t call for her.”

  “It’s from the past,” he growled.

  This time Charlotte heeded the note of warning. He did not want to tell her about this woman. She fought a twinge of jealousy, but their marriage was only a business transaction. She had no right to demand more.

  Wyatt rubbed his eyes, and his open-neck shirt shifted enough to reveal a jagged scar on his left shoulder.

  Charlotte gaped at the old wound. “What happened?” She pointed to his shoulder, half fearing the answer.

  His jaw tightened, and his shoulders tensed. “The war.”

  The war. Of course. Many men had joined the terrible struggle. She knew several in Evans Grove. All had fought to save the Union, but she knew so little of Wyatt. He could have been a Rebel.

  “Which side?” she asked softly.

  “Union.”

  She breathed out in relief. She wasn’t sure how she would have felt had he fought for the Confederate states. “I’m sorry you were wounded, but at least your sacrifice brought justice.”

  “Justice?” He stared at her as if crazed, and her fear escalated. Would he harm her? Did the madness of the nightmare continue into the waking world?

  “I—I didn’t mean anything by it.” She retreated until her back hit the edge of the shelves.

  His tension eased. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please don’t run away.”

  She gulped at the emotion that rushed through her. Charles had never asked for her to stay with him. His presence had never stirred her this way. He’d been safe, predictable, uninterested. At first glance, Wyatt had seemed just as aloof, but beneath the surface boiled raw intensity. He was dangerous and unpredictable. She knew so little about him and wanted to know more. She wanted to drink in everything about him, to know him deeply, fully, as a wife should know her husband.

  If they were truly married, they would start a family. Baby brothers and sisters for Sasha. She drew in her breath as she imagined what his child would look like. If a son, Wyatt would teach him to ride, to handle himself with confidence, to walk tall. If a daughter, he’d cherish her the way he cherished Sasha. Her eyes misted at the thought of the future that would be possible in the full, loving marriage she’d always wanted. The marriage she now could only imagine with him.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” he said softly as he reached for her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to take it. As much as she wanted more from their relationship, like Charles, Wyatt had never promised to love her. Taking his hand now would only make his imminent dep
arture hurt more.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head, unable to risk spilling her heart, and grasped on to the first thought that crossed her mind. “You look...different in the moonlight.”

  “More frightening?”

  He was teasing, but she couldn’t calm the pounding in her chest. “More handsome,” she whispered.

  He started at her words before the cold exterior returned. “The moonlight lies.”

  His stark denial extinguished the heat and revealed the truth. She’d remade him into the man she wanted, not the man he truly was, scarred and angry. Yet he didn’t see clearly, either.

  “God made you in His image.”

  His jaw tensed. “Then God is a fool.”

  She reeled at the blasphemy. “How can you say such a thing?”

  He turned from her. “I’ve seen things that no loving God would allow.”

  “Evil does not come from God.”

  “But He allows it.”

  “To test and purify us, like in the forge.”

  He turned back to face her. “Is that what your husband did? Test and purify you?”

  She gasped. “I already told you that Charles was a good man.”

  “But not to you.”

  The harsh words slashed deep into her soul. Charles had shown her the same kindness as everyone else in town, but she wasn’t just another neighbor. She was his wife. She should have received more than gratitude for a meal well cooked before he retreated into this loft. She bowed her head and mumbled, “Married life is both trial and joy.”

  Wyatt snorted. “More trial than joy sometimes.” But then his voice softened. “He never grew to love you, did he?”

  She turned from him so he wouldn’t see the truth on her face. The moonlight flooded the shelf above her head, illuminating a daguerreotype of Charles’s first wife, Gloria, surrounded by candles. A shrine. That’s why he’d retreated here each day. She could often hear him overhead as he mumbled and sobbed regrets.

  Wyatt’s hard gaze bored through her. “Tell me, and I’ll never ask again.”

  Time stopped as she hesitated. Revealing her heartache wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t erase the thirteen years of hoping Charles would change. It wouldn’t bring back her youth or give her the family she’d always wanted. It wouldn’t make Wyatt stay.

 

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