Yankee Wife

by Linda Lael Miller

  “But you loved him once.”

  “I thought I did,” Polly responded, less heatedly. “I was just a scatter-headed girl then, though. I didn't learn what love was until I met you.”

  Devon was quiet for a moment. He cared deeply for Polly, wouldn't have returned to Quade's Harbor if he hadn't, but he wasn't ready to say he loved her. Not straight out, anyway. “If that baby you're carrying is a boy, I'll want to name him for my brother.”

  She paused, her hands on his shoulders, and bent to kiss the nape of his neck. Devon wasn't exactly sure, but he thought he felt her tears on his skin.

  “Brigham is a fine name,” she said hoarsely.

  Lydia was busy at the blackboard, writing out the day's arithmetic problems, when she heard, rolling beneath the incessant chanting of the wind, an ominous, grinding creak. Just as the roof shattered, she lunged beneath her heavy oak desk and instinctively covered her head with both arms.

  When she looked up, the schoolhouse was filled with branches, and the festive scent of pine sap. And smoke.

  She bit her lower lip and struggled to stay calm. A tree had fallen on the schoolhouse, that much was perfectly obvious, but except for a few scratches, she had not been hurt. No, the threat now was fire; the lamp had been broken, and perhaps the stove had been upset as well.

  Lydia started to crawl out of her hiding place, but the broken tree limbs were too dense; she was trapped.

  She heard a crackle of flames, and the smell of smoke intensified. Her eyes and throat began to sting, and she pressed the palms of both hands to her stomach, thinking of the child nestled there inside her. Trusting her for life and love.

  Tears pooled along her lashes. “Brigham,” she said softly, amazed at how small and unimportant their differences seemed to her now. She had been wrong to demand so arbitrarily that he close down the Satin Hammer Saloon, no matter how that might have affected his timber business, but she reserved the right to wring his neck if he ever patronized the place. As for their political quarrel, well, if a broken country could mend itself into a union again, surely two people who loved each other could, too.

  Lydia lowered her face to her updrawn knees. It was strange, she thought, with despairing ruefulness, how quickly one could put things into perspective when all other options were closed off.

  Brigham had been dozing, but some sound jolted him awake, and he sat up straight in his chair. Instinctively, he rushed to the window, and in the first uncertain light of a rainy dawn, he saw the ancient tree that had fallen across the schoolhouse, crushing it to splinters.

  He told himself Lydia wouldn't be in there, couldn't be, that she was safe in her bed in the cottage, but all the while he was thinking those thoughts, Brigham was bounding toward the front door.

  He flung it open, left it gaping behind him when he ran down the walk and vaulted over the fence. Flames were roaring in the branches of the downed tree, catching at the broken walls of the school. Devon arrived, ax in hand, just as Brigham did, and there were others coming out of the night, too.

  Brigham paid no mind to any of them. She was in there. Damn her stubborn Yankee hide, Lydia was in that schoolhouse, and if she hadn't been run through by a branch of that huge tree, she would surely be burned to death in the fire.

  “Lydia!” he yelled, fighting his way up the huge, knotted trunk of the fallen fir, clawing at the shingles of the roof with his bare hands. “Lydia!”

  Devon was beside him, shoving the ax into his grasp. Brigham only distantly acknowledged his brother's presence, so intent was he on Lydia's situation. “Here!” Devon shouted over the rising roar of the flames. While Brigham chopped at the roof with the wild efficiency of desperation, Devon remained at his side, despite the heat and the danger, using all his strength to clear away boards and branches.

  Her voice rose to them, small and precious as the sound of a church bell the day after Judgment.

  “Brigham? I knew you'd come for me.”

  Brigham was soaked in sweat and the drizzling mist, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but still he swung the ax. A raw sound, part shout and part sob, tore itself from his throat. He thought he screamed her name again then, but he couldn't be sure.

  Men were passing buckets of water up onto the burning roof, and Devon and others fought the blaze while Brigham lowered himself down through the rafters and the clawing fingers of the tree's branches.

  “In the name of God, Lydia,” he shouted in an anguish of fear, barely able to breathe for the smoke, “where are you?”

  “Here, Brigham. Under the desk.”

  Coughing, fighting his way through a curtain of sharp needles and aged, pitchy wood, he found the desk, wrenched her out. Her face was white in the glow of the fire, except for smudges of soot, and she flung her arms around his neck with a little cry.

  He took one moment to hold her close, then shouted, “Hold onto me—no matter what happens, don't let go!” She nodded, and Brigham began the dangerous climb back up through the debris. The heat was hellish, and the fire made a voracious whooshing sound in the timber and the remains of the building.

  Devon was waiting on the rapidly disintegrating roof, though everyone else had already fled to safety He took Lydia from Brigham's grasp and carried her down over the massive trunk of the tree. Brigham hurtled after them only moments before the fire exploded and both the school and the tree blazed like the devil's vengeance.

  At a safe distance from the inferno, Devon laid Lydia gently in the damp grass. Joe McCauley knelt at her left side, Brigham collapsed at another. His arms and face were scratched and burned, his clothes torn, and he couldn't seem to get enough air no matter how his lungs grasped for it. None of that mattered now, though, because Lydia was lying too still, and her eyes were closed.

  Joe McCauley laid his head to her breast. “Her heart is still beating,” he said, rising to look directly into Brigham's burning eyes, “but she's not breathing.”

  Panic swelled in Brigham's chest; he took Lydia's limp shoulders in his hands and raised her up, so that her mouth collided with his. If she had no breath, he would give her his. Had it been possible, he would have given her the strong, steady beat of his heart as well, and the nurturing blood flowing through his veins. He would, indeed, have surrendered his very life to save her.

  No one spoke as Brigham drew air into his lungs and forced it into Lydia's. No one dared touch him, even though he knew they all thought his desperate effort was futile.

  Tears mingled with the sweat on his face; he shook her once, out of fury and despair, and then he began to feed her air again. All the while, a litany of misery and hope threaded through his mind, twisting, turning, doubling back on itself.

  Don't die—please, Lydia, don't leave me—

  Finally, Brigham felt strong hands come to rest on his heaving shoulders, heard Devon's voice in the thundering din of that tragic morning. “She's gone, Brig. Let her go.”

  Brigham threw back his head and bellowed at the sky, like an animal. “Noooooo!” And then, like God breathing life into Adam, he pressed his mouth to hers again.

  A light rain began to fall then, a misty benediction, and suddenly, wondrously, Lydia stiffened in Brigham's arms and then shuddered. He drew back, saw her open her eyes, watched as she tried to form his name.

  A swell of joy rose from the onlookers, though Brigham could not have sworn afterward that anyone made the slightest sound. Joe McCauley rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and said hoarsely, “Let's get that wife of yours in out of the rain, Brig.”

  Brigham carried her toward his house, the townspeople trailing behind them in the early light as he held her so close against his chest that he could not guess where his being stopped and hers began. She lay trustingly in his embrace, only half conscious, her head resting against his shoulder.

  When Brigham reached his front gate, someone ran ahead to open the door. He carried his bride into the entryway and up the stairs without slowing his pace, stopping only wh
en he'd come to his own room. There, he laid her gently on the bed.

  Polly sent Devon to the kitchen for a basin of clean water, while McCauley matter-of-factly began to untie Lydia's shoes. Brigham helped, numbly, only vaguely aware of the cuts and burns on his own flesh.

  Lydia smiled up at him, her expression dreamy and fey. “You were right, Brigham,” she said, as he and the doctor peeled away the last of her clothes and Polly wrapped her in a blanket.

  Brigham made a consummate effort to speak normally. “You don't say,” he rasped. “What was I right about, Yankee?”

  She sighed. “I don't precisely remember, just now,” she told him.

  He chuckled, felt surprise that the sound hadn't come out as a sob. “Remember this, then, Yankee—I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and I'm not going to let you forget it, ever. There will be no more wandering, no more living apart. Is that understood?”

  Lydia ran her tongue over dry, soot-smudged lips. “Yes, Mr. Quade,” she replied sweetly. Brigham knew this docile mood of hers couldn't possibly last. “It's perfectly clear.”

  Joe handed him a cup of water, and Brigham raised Lydia's head, gently touching the rim to her lips.

  There was a knock at the door, and then Devon came in, carrying a basin and some clean washcloths. When he was gone again, Polly and the doctor unwrapped Lydia, gently cleaned the soot from her skin and treated her burns and scrapes. Brigham sat with her the whole time, holding one of her hands in both of his, thinking how close he'd come to losing her.

  Only when Lydia was sleeping comfortably did Brigham agree to have his own injuries taken care of, but though he felt the searing pain of his burns, he barely acknowledged it. Once Joe and Polly had finally left them alone, Brigham stretched out on the bed beside his wife and gathered her into his bandaged arms.

  “Don't leave me.” She sighed the plea, without awakening, when his lips brushed her forehead.

  Brigham's eyes stung, and the emotions that moved through him then were so powerful that he shuddered in their wake. He held her closer still. “I'm here,” he assured her quietly. Tenderly. “I'll always be right here.”

  Epilogue

  Three Years Later…

  LYDIA WATCHED FONDLY AS THE TWO BOYS, ONE DARK AND one fair, sat on the wooden floor of the mercantile, within the warmth of the stove, chattering as they made a fort of colored blocks. Fat flakes of snow drifted past the windows, and the spicy smell of hot cider filled the air.

  “Devon,” she said, when her blond son reached out to steal a block from his cousin, whose name was Brigham. “You promised to share, remember?”

  Polly, her stomach huge with Devon's second child, perched happily in a nearby rocking chair, embroidering a tiny nightshirt. She looked as serene as a madonna, sitting there. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes were shining with happiness.

  “Don't fuss, Lydia,” she said good-naturedly. “Brigham and Devon need to learn to work things out between themselves.”

  A soft cry from the bassinet beside Lydia's chair distracted her, and she reached down for her younger son, Seth, who was now eight months old. She covered her chest with a small, soft blanket, unbuttoned her bodice, lowered her camisole, and gave the baby her breast.

  He took the nipple greedily, as though eager to garner all the nourishment he could get, grow up fast, and make a place for himself in the world. Seth's hair was light, like Lydia's, but his eyes were the same pewter-gray color as Brigham's, and he had already revealed a nature much like his father's.

  The door opened and a rush of wintry air swept in, along with Brig. He nodded a friendly greeting at Polly and lifted his elder son deftly into his arms, but his gaze was fixed on Lydia from the first. She felt a sweet heat as he stood there, watching her as if he could see through the blanket that hid the baby and her breast.

  He smiled at Lydia's blush of response and hoisted little Devon onto one shoulder. Polly made some fluttery excuse about checking a merchandise list and bustled off into the back room as quickly as she could.

  “It's time you took yourself home, Mrs. Quade,” Brigham said, his gray eyes twinkling. “On a snowy day like this, a man needs a wife to keep him warm.”

  “Hush!” Lydia hissed, though secretly she was pleased. She found as much joy and fulfillment in the marriage bed as her husband did. “There are children present!”

  Brigham reached up to tickle the little boy riding on his shoulder, and the child shrieked with delight. “All Dev knows is that his mama and papa love each other,” Brig said. Then he reached out to tug at the blanket and take a peek at his other son and Lydia's full breast. “As for Seth, there, he's not thinking about anything but that nipple. And I can't say I blame him.”

  Lydia went crimson. “Brigham Quade!”

  Still holding Dev, Brigham crouched beside Lydia's chair and put a finger beneath the blanket. He stroked Seth's tiny head, then Lydia's breast, taking care to tease and excite. “Once our son's had his fill,” Brigham promised quietly, “I mean to take you to bed, Mrs. Quade, and have a taste of you myself.”

  It infuriated Lydia, the way Brigham could send a hot shock of need pulsing through her system so easily. He had only to look at her a certain way, or touch her, or speak to her in a low, husky voice, and she was ready to obey his every whim. For the life of her, she couldn't rebel.

  She shifted Seth to her other breast and closed her eyes as Brigham reached beneath the blanket again to play with the nipple his infant son had just abandoned.

  “I have some business at the mill,” Brigham said idly. “Charlotte and Millie won't be home from Seattle until tomorrow afternoon, and the boys will be asleep before dinner.”

  Lydia swallowed. She was terrified someone would come into the store, and yet she didn't want Brigham to stop teasing her breast. “And?”

  “And I would like you to serve supper in our room, Mrs. Quade.”

  Lydia imagined how it would be; they would dine beside a crackling fire, with candlelight flickering in the darkness and snow rimming the windowsills. Brigham would insist on eating slowly, savoring every bite of his food with a sensual languor, making an erotic ritual of drinking his wine. By the time he actually made love to her, her senses would have reached such an explosive state of wanting that the merest touch would send her tumbling over the edge.

  “I'm not one of your bull whackers, and I'll thank you not to give me orders as if I were,” Lydia said. She'd never persuaded Brigham to close down the Satin Hammer Saloon, though she knew he didn't patronize the place except to have an occasional glass of whiskey, nor had she ever gotten him to apologize for selling timber to both the Confederate and Union sides during the war. For all of that, she liked to think she'd made some progress in softening his stubborn ways; he was a tender and thoughtful husband, and he'd sought her advice over and over again when the new schoolhouse was built. He was a fine, attentive father to all four of his children, and it seemed to Lydia that she loved him more with every passing day. Moreover, he freely admitted that he loved her in return, and though he wasn't the sort to compose verse—or recite it, either, for that matter—Lydia often found one of his well-read volumes on her vanity table. She would open the book to the place he'd marked with a scrap of paper or a colorful leaf and find a passage that moved her to tears.

  It was for all those reasons that Lydia almost invariably obeyed her husband, in matters of romance at least. When he opened the door of their room later that night, when the boys were asleep, she was waiting for him in a frothy gown of satin and lace and ribbon.

  She had lighted candles and set the logs in the fireplace ablaze, and the covers on the bed had been turned down to reveal fresh linen sheets scented with rosewater.

  Brigham closed the door and stood looking at her in quiet amazement. His voice, when he spoke, was gruff. “I always think I'm prepared for your beauty, but when I walk in here and find you waiting for me, looking like a lost angel, the sight of you never fails to take my breath away.”

&n
bsp; Lydia smiled flirtatiously, but her own heart was swelling with love, and she didn't know how she'd ever wait through a meal before losing herself in her husband's embrace. “You behaved like a perfect scoundrel in the mercantile today,” she told him. Her breath caught in her throat as he approached and curved a finger under her chin.

  “And you've been thinking about me ever since,” he replied. Gently, unhurriedly, he drew one strap of her gown down over a milk-white shoulder. “Haven't you?”

  Lydia wanted to deny his words, for the sake of her pride, but she couldn't. “Yes,” she confessed. “Damn you, yes.”

  He lowered her other strap, ran the tip of his finger across the cleavage swelling above her bodice, and smiled as a blush rushed up to her neck and then pulsed in her cheeks. Then, with a teasing tug, he bared one of her breasts and caressed it with a look of wonder in his eyes. She lifted her palms to the sides of his face, clean but stubbled with a late-day beard, and pulled him close for a kiss.

  The contact was long and lingering, weakening Lydia's knees and setting her heart to racing. Brigham pulled down the other side of her gown and fondled the second breast, chafing the eager nipple with the pad of his thumb.

  “Please,” she gasped, beyond all ability to wait, when Brigham finally freed her mouth.

  He continued to caress her for a few excruciatingly glorious moments, then gestured with one arm toward the table. “Supper first, Mrs. Quade,” he said. “Then dessert.”

  Brigham ushered a distracted, flushed Lydia to the small table next to the fire and seated her as graciously as if they were in a fine restaurant in Paris or New York instead of their own bedroom. Awkwardly, she pulled her gown up to cover her breasts again, but Brigham only smiled. He was a patient man.

  Just as Lydia had known he would, he took the time to enjoy every bite of his food, every sip of his wine. She was barely able to contain her need by the time he finally set aside his glass and stretched out his hand to take hold of hers.