by Sara Dahmen
“So, I was next best?” I offer, needing every ounce of truth from him.
“Janie,” he admonishes. “There is no contest. It was different with you. You must believe me.”
“But—”
“You were more real to me than any woman I’ve ever known. Tangible, reachable,” he vows. “Kate was a phantom, an untouchable woman of my past. I got along well with her from the start, yes. But I only considered her because I thought you were interested in Bern Masson. You . . . you insisted I court her, when all I wished was time with you.”
“You mean to say you pined for me too?” I am incredulous.
He nods, and brings my fingers to his lips again. I close my eyes against the sensations. When I open them, he leans in.
“I thought you were quite wonderful from the start. I expect I will always think so.”
“Patrick.” I battle my practiced, simple ways with words. My sweetheart is eloquent enough, and I must try to communicate in kind. “I hope you might. I know I will.”
We stare at the floor as one. I know what I want, but am afraid to let it loose. I know my own passions and my penchant for the extreme when I allow my heart to take the lead. I suppose I should confess to such a character flaw.
“Will you let me explain why I was so very violent the last night in Flats Junction?” I ask him. To even put the question out is terribly intimate.
I still cannot look at him, but I feel him shift toward me on the couch.
“If you feel you must,” he says slowly.
“You don’t care?”
“You know I’m always hankerin’ for answers, but I won’t press. I figure it came from grief. At least, now knowin’ what I do of your heart, that’s my best guess.”
Covering my eyes with my hands, I bend forward toward my knees, thankful, grateful, and relieved I need to say so little. “You don’t condemn me, then?”
“Am I right?”
I nod, and his arms slip about my waist and tug me to his side. I go, willingly. He kisses me hard and long, and I find myself overcome with desire, lust, want. I have laid in bed for months thinking of and wishing for this moment, but the heat I feel is many times deeper and more overwhelming now that he is here in reality. He fumbles with the buttons on my dress, blindly trying to expose some of my flesh, even if it is only the inches of my neck. His obvious need for me is wonderful, and I help him with the tiny hooks and bands of a bodice’s neckline. He seems a man enraptured. His breath comes short, and he captures my face in both of his hands, kissing me softly, tenderly.
“Marry me,” he whispers. “Please. Marry me.”
“When?”
He pulls away, his blue eyes searching mine, as if incredulous again. “You mean you will?”
I give a little laugh. “Of course I will. I have never been so . . .” I stop and blush, for this emotional disclosure is still new. “I have never felt so much passion.”
“What about . . . the other? The man after Mr. Weber?”
Strangely, I feel no shame when he brings up the phantom of Theodore. I think he does it to settle his own research and questions, and I cannot blame him for that. And the fact that he knows this weakness, this unsavory bit of my life, and still wants me? I can tell him whatever he wants to know in these moments.
“Passion and love are very different than wanting to escape, Patrick. I wish to marry you, love you, help you. Just you, and no other. The man after Mr. Weber was . . . no more than an experiment. I cannot recall his face, though your features are burned into my heart. . .” I trail off, thinking of how I had fallen in love with him once I’d woken from my shivering, bloody bed. How do I put all that into words?
I suddenly realize how exposed I am with my neck open to his eyes, and demurely put a hand to my throat. The heat between us certainly makes me less prim than I expect of myself. But no one has ever lusted after me so that I would be so eager like this.
“Why are you hidin’? Your bosom is legendary, Jane.” Patrick takes my hand and pulls it away.
“Indeed?” I give a nervous laugh.
“Oh, aye!” He drinks me in, as if thrilled he can now look at me openly. “The cowboys always gave me tease that I should have a housekeeper with a bosom enough for two men to lay their heads. They wonder why I did not try to court you myself from the start. Then Bern had the guts to try to woo you.”
“He didn’t manage it. Nor did Andrew. I realized I loved you, and a commitment to any other man was pointless,” I say honestly.
My admission grants me another hard kiss, passionate and titillating.
He breaks away and mutters, “Sweet Jesus,” before curling his face in the crick of my neck. The faint tickle of his cheek and hair is delightfully sensual. I am amazed at how stimulating this is, how I utterly desire his nearness. I want him to continue touching me. This is what I missed in my marriage: this heat, this conversation, this need. I will not mind tying myself to this man with a promise and a ring. My hands come up unwittingly and stroke his face and hair, hugging him nearer.
We sit like this a long time. Are we calm enough so our passion cools? We ought not devour each other in any unseemlier a fashion than we already have, though just thinking about his hands on me is enough for lust to course through my body all over again. How long did he hold this hearty yearning inside? How silly of me not to notice it earlier, how ridiculous that I felt so alone in my love for him, so blinded by Kate’s beauty to think myself not enough. Clearly, he says I am.
His head comes up, tousled and flushed. I think he has mastered his desire so I might get up and make some supper. Instead, he bends down and runs his lips along my neck before releasing me entirely.
“How did you learn to make a puddle of a woman?” I gasp. His eyes are clouded, but his unmasked craving makes them a brighter blue.
“I have dreamed of what I would do, if I had you alone and you’d let me, by some miracle, touch you.”
“Patrick,” I breathe. “You’ve thought a long time then.”
“Nearly since the first day I saw you. I’ve been buildin’ ideas since then.” He gives a wicked grin.
Now that we are not so near each other, the windy chill of the storm outside seeps in, and Patrick kneels to fix the fire without another word. At least the glass is gone.
As I heat the water for turnip and potato soup, he comes over to the small stove, takes one look at me, and shakes his head. Snaking an arm around my waist, he pulls me tight to him.
“You’ll not get much supper done, I’m afraid,” he admits. “I’m too distracted, and I won’t be able to stop kissing you.” He bends down to plant a kiss at my temple.
I give a soft sigh. If I let myself go, I could be entirely scandalous, and I want to do this right by him.
“So, you really will marry me?” he asks again. He seems genuinely amazed at his good luck, when it seems to me it is I who is the lucky one.
“Yes,” I say, and smile at him. “Gladly and with a full heart.”
“Then you’ll wear this.” He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a simple band.
I stare. “When did you think to get that?”
“This mornin’. I had hope,” he explains. “Will you wear it?”
“Of course.”
He picks up my hand and slides the cold metal on. It instantly warms. I look at my fingers clasped in his. It is amazing. I will be able to hold onto him whenever I want.
“Kiss me again,” he requests, and I drop the spoon and turn into his embrace.
I kiss him, but behind me I can hear the soup bubbling. I pull away, though he leaves his arm about my shoulders, and watches me scrape the bottom of the cast iron pot to turn over the vegetables.
As we eat, the fire crackles in the hearth and shoves heat into the far corners of the room. I look out at the rain and ocean. Doctor Kinney seems attuned to me, reaching across the table to finger the band of gold.
“I meant what I said, Janie. I’ll bring you back here as oft
en as we can manage it, whenever we can afford it. . .” He trails off and looks at me strangely. His voice is suddenly rougher. “I would think we should let our children know the sea, as you did.”
“What is it?” I wait as he struggles to keep a casual composure. I’ve forgotten how expressive he is. It is this empathy that makes him a fine doctor, and a tolerant man. His strong hand pulls at mine, grasping it tightly. Finally, he clears his throat.
“You don’t know how much I worried when you miscarried. There’s only so much medicine can do at times like that. I was scared, more so than I’d ever been before. You were dyin’ in front of me, and there was nothin’ I could do but wait. I did not realize how much I loved you, even then. Only, your death would have brought me to my knees. It was the most difficult day and night of my life.”
I thought I’d heard a man sobbing. Had that been him, at my bedside? The thought is too dear and too sweet to ask.
“I lived, though. And yes, Patrick. I’d like to have children.”
He is quiet again for a moment, gazing at my hand, rubbing it with his thumb. Why had he waited so long to profess his love? Maybe he kept his heart locked because he believed I did not love him. I try to map my past. I suppose I was not interested at first, and then I was too shy, and too proper, to show any feeling. What man would reach for that coldness?
He sighs and meets my eyes. “You know, when I first discovered you were expectin’, I thought it would be nice to have a babe in the house, someone to watch grow.” He pauses, then plunges ahead. “I began to think of that babby as mine, or my kin, anyway. It was imaginary, I know.”
“We’ll have that,” I promise, reeling a bit myself. He says he daydreamed as I did?!
“What do we need to do to get you gone from here?” he suddenly asks pragmatically. “Do you need to give notice?”
“Yes, traditionally I do. Several weeks, to let them find another cook. But I’ve been teaching my kitchen girl for months. She possibly could do well enough until they find another.”
He glances at the clock on my small mantle. It is late on a Sunday evening; not exactly the time to go calling on my employers. I know what he is thinking. He wants to take me home to Flats Junction as soon as possible. My thoughts fly to the split skirt I shredded. It’ll have to be mended, now. But I don’t want to admit to another fit of weakness.
“I can stay at the inn another night, but that’s all.” He hints to how he will run out of borrowed funds, but he is matter-of-fact about the next. “Still, I’m not leavin’ until you’re on the train with me. No more goodbyes like that. I think the next one might kill me.”
I laugh a bit tremulously. “I think Aunt Mary might be very happy to fill her guest room for as many days as needed to get things settled.”
He laughs, a deep, sweet-sounding rumble. “I can’t wait to meet your Aunt Mary.”
Chapter 43
23 October 1882
I visit Mrs. Chester first thing as the sun rises. Today it is not stormy. The sun is crystal, white, and bright. I smell briny saltwater on the breeze, refreshed by last night’s rain, as I walk into the great house. Mrs. Chester is in her morning gown, writing a note, her hair pinned up prettily and her toes folded over daintily. She is a very lovely woman, and kind, and I have been fortunate she is so easy a mistress, willing to take me on with such little experience and no real reference. It was probably helpful I did not make many wage demands.
My hands twist nervously. I have not mastered the easy stance of people seasoned in service.
“What is it, Mrs. Weber?”
I instinctively pause at the title. It is the first realization that soon I will have a new name. I look at the floor, and then into her clear face. “I am . . . I’ve been offered marriage, ma’am.”
Her gaze flicks to my fingers. The new gold of Patrick’s ring glimmers in the early, soft light. She gives a delighted smile.
“Why Mrs. Weber! How splendid for you! I am glad you’ve found someone to make you happy.” She stops and squints at my face. “You do, indeed, seem very happy. Love becomes you.”
“You’re not very cross, then?”
“How soon do you have to go?”
“In a few days. I have been teaching young Beth. I thought if you might be able to find someone in a fortnight or so, you’d be fine with her.”
“You’d like to be married so soon?” She arches her eyebrow, and I flush. Yes, I cannot wait to marry him. Perhaps she thinks there is another reason for the speed, but I find I don’t care a bit if she has suspicions on my virtue.
“He’s a doctor, ma’am, and needs to get back out West. I’d like to go with him when he leaves.”
She gives a small sigh. “Well, I don’t like the speed of your departure, but I have no hold over you. It’s a good reason to be a little relaxed with the rules, anyway.” Then she laughs. “You will have to be sure Beth has all of Mr. Chester’s favorite recipes. He might faint if he thinks he won’t get your creamy soups ever again.”
“I will. Thank you, ma’am, truly. I’ll have her settled in a few days.”
She nods, and then turns back to her desk.
That was easier than I thought it might be, and I head to the kitchen with a light step. Beth is waiting there for the morning’s list, and I break the news. Her eyes well with tears.
“Oh no, Mrs. Weber! But I’ll miss you so much!”
I hug her shoulder with an arm. “I know, and I will miss you, too. But we have gone over so much, and this may be your chance. Please Mr. Chester and his wife. They may not hire a new cook at all and give the post to you.”
Her face pops up. She is a bright and ambitious girl. It would be grand for her to land the position so young.
“See?” I soothe. “Let’s plan to do that for you.”
Chapter 44
23 October 1882
Doctor Kinney is waiting for me at Jean and Ada’s stall in the market. His face lights up when he sees me, and I feel myself blossom in return.
“How did it go?” he asks, as I loop an arm through his. I feel I’m bursting with love, but am unable to even glance over at the dairyman’s stall. For all that Andrew and I parted on good terms, I feel badly for flaunting any of my joy where he might see it.
“Wonderfully so. We can leave together.”
“Now that is good news,” he says contently, then looks around the marketplace. “Do you have time to go to your aunt’s now?”
Jean gives me a little wink. She has been listening, and I’m sure Patrick has not been shy about our story. “Go. This order will take quite a while to fill.”
I smile thankfully at her. Oh, how I will miss her, too! It seems no matter where I go, I will leave pieces of friendships behind. Patrick and I walk the short distance to Aunt Mary’s little house quickly.
When she opens the door, her narrow, bird-like face erupts in wrinkles and a huge smile.
“There you are! Finally, you’ve come for her!” It is a classic greeting.
Patrick has the presence of mind to take off his hat and give a half-bow of his head.
“Doctor Patrick Kinney, at your service.”
“Are you really? What fortune.” My aunt gives him a hard eye, then smiles again. “Come in, then.” She opens the door wider, and we file into the small foyer. I am happy to introduce her to my love, as I know she won’t wrongly judge him. I’m still spinning with happiness that he is here, that he loves me, that I can leave with him in a few short days.
“Tea?” she asks, as she sits in front of her service in the parlor. Only yesterday did I sit here and dismiss Andrew’s suit. Now, I am an engaged woman, and it is Patrick whom I sit with as Aunt Mary considers the match. There is an odd space between him and me until he swallows, gives up, and takes my hand. She glances at us as she pours but says nothing about his physical touch.
“I am sorry I did not have the presence of mind to ask your permission,” he starts. I know these formalities must be a bit beyond him, and h
e is nervous. “I was uncertain Jane would even say yes, and I admit I was distracted with worry about the whole business. I’ve never married, and things are less involved in the Territories.”
“Oh yes, the Dakotas. I’ve heard tell.” Aunt Mary sips her tea carefully, but her eyes are very bright.
“I . . .” He looks at me. I know he wants to pull me closer, but he doesn’t dare in front of my aunt. He takes a breath and turns back. “I love your niece, and I have for some time.”
“Why’d you let her get away from you, then?” she asks shrewdly.
He smiles a little, as if the memory is painful. “Because I was a fool. And because, as you may know, Jane does not express herself overtly. I never had so much as an inklin’ she might care for me as well.”
“Oh, I’ll give you that,” she agrees, and shakes her head gently at me. “You’d do well to remember this man will want for your attentions and nurture.”
“Yes, of course, Aunt Mary,” I say, and blush like a silly schoolgirl.
“And be sure you say to him how you feel, so he doesn’t wonder.”
“Listen to your aunt. She gives good advice,” he teases me, and I laugh tremulously.
He seems to see an ally in her and leans forward. “We’d like to marry.”
“Of course you do.” She looks at me. “And what will you do about the Chesters?”
“I’ve already asked to leave.”
She spreads her hands. I can tell she is excited. “Well, when can we have the wedding?”
“As soon as we might.” Doctor Kinney pleads with her, though I know he doesn’t need to do so. She will humor us, no matter the speed. “Perhaps on Friday.”
“So soon? There will hardly be time for a cake.”
I look at him. We’ve discussed this. He does not care one whit about a cake, or flowers, or bows. In truth, neither do I. My first marriage was heralded with a bit of fanfare and it did nothing to help find love and happiness.
“Aunt Mary, we just care about the logistics. Keeping Patrick here in Gloucester until we are wed and can travel together, for instance, and settling up my cottage. Getting the license.”
