“I’ll light the lantern,” he offered as she held the mending closer.
“Don’t waste your oil. It’s fine.”
He lit it anyway, without another word, and sat back. “Well.” Time stretched before he continued. “I’ve been corresponding with Ethel Darton for over a year now, and I aim to marry her. I may not have met the lady in person, but I’ve formed a relationship and made a proposal. She’s expecting to hear from me. You have to go, and you have to pay me back. And that’s that.”
“I could work for you,” she hedged.
“No. First off, I have nothing to pay you with, so even if you were to work off what you owe, there’d be no money for Ethel’s tickets. Second, you got your reputation to consider.”
“Hang my reputation!”
Daniel’s head jerked with surprise at the vehemence of her expletive. He ran his fingers through his hair leaving a length hanging in his eyes. Emily studied him, noting the strong, straight nose, the well-shaped lips sheltering perfect teeth, and those fiery eyes. At some point, he’d been hurt, at some stage he could hate. Yet, for the most part, Daniel Saunders seemed to keep a grip on his emotions, kept his feelings under control. He had learned that command of his passions, that power. Why?
“You said you were from back east,” she ventured. “Is that why you sought a mail order bride from there?”
He rested his chin in his hand once more, elbow on the table as he considered this. “I don’t know. I don’t know what made me do it, but one day I got so dang fed up with being on my own out here I thought I’d go crazy. Man in town was meeting his mail order bride off the stage, and I thought, yeah, that could be me. Someone to come home to, someone to set dinner on the table and…well, you know. I guess.”
Emily felt the color rise in her cheeks. “I’ve seen the pile of books by the bed. You read a lot. You’re obviously schooled.”
Daniel took in a breath and sighed. “Yeah.” There was a note of caution in his voice. “I’m schooled.”
“But you speak…well, I guess it’s sort of western. Is it?”
“Been living out here nigh on to ten year now. You want to be part of the community, not known as some stuck up greenhorn or tenderfoot when you’re so dependent on the kindness of neighbors. You want to fit in. Feel like everyone else.”
There was the crack of his knuckles again. He appeared not to know what to do with himself now she had the mending. He probably wouldn’t be used to sitting idle.
“Well, now. What to do with you. This is what I’m thinking—as soon as the roads are passable, I’m gonna take you back on into town. We’ll see if there’s work there. Obviously, you can keep house—”
“Yes. I think a housekeeper’s job would do.”
“Hang on just a minute. Ain’t many folks hereabouts—in fact, none I suspect—can afford a housekeeper. It’s not like New York, you know, with plenty of jobs to go round. I’m thinking the new Jackson hotel perhaps. That’s about it, saving the saloon. Then there’s working in a shop. Any experience with that?”
She faced him and raised her brow in answer.
“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to see. But for now, snow’s falling, the road through the pass’ll be closed. I’m stuck in the barn, and you’re stuck here.”
But I’m not stuck. You are. Stuck with me.
She snapped off the end of the thread after she’d run it through the fabric several times to hold, wrapped the tail around the card and wove the needle into the bound thread. “Mending’s done. Want to see?” She held a bright note in her voice.
Daniel stood and stretched slightly, then extended his hand for the garment. He scanned it over, ran the shirt through his hands as it lay on the table, moved it back, turned it over. “Where the heck is it?”
Emily smiled, stood, and bent over the shirt beside him. She could feel his breath on her cheek, his gaze skimming her features, his closeness. She had a sudden yearning for him to put his arms around her, to hold her. But no…
“It’s right here.” She took the garment from his hands and spread it out, then pointed to where she had stitched the hole. “There.”
“Well, I’ll be. You can hardly see it. You can’t see it. The stitches are so small.” He straightened again and studied her once more. “Heck, that’s a marvel, ain’t it?”
Emily took the shirt from him and folded it carefully, smoothing it out as she did so. He had given her the smallest bit of praise, but it was more than she’d ever had. And that was surely a step in the right direction.
Chapter Seven
Daniel drove back in with the feed sleigh in the late afternoon. The snow had stopped, leaving a silver-white aura over the landscape. The moon fought the sun for this hour, a crescent hanging in the sky like a misplaced toy. There Emily stood, her pelisse bundled tight around her. She leaned on the corral fence, staring out, the mountains standing silently caped in their ermine cloaks, the high prairie encased in its diamond shell, a fading sun scattering jewels onto the landscape. As he reined in, she cast a smile his way, one he could not help but return.
“It’s so beautiful. This landscape. It’s remarkable, quite honestly. It’s as if there’s nothing but space for us for miles and miles and miles. Only the mountains and rivers and the prairie, no one else, just us. Amazing.”
He halted the dray horse, set the brake, and jumped down to stand beside her at the corral, trying to see what she saw, see it through her eyes. He sucked in the fresh air, his hands on the fencing he had built himself. “Like you, I didn’t know what I was coming to. Ten years back. But I had read lots. It was different then, quieter. Even less folks than what there are now. I thought…I thought I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Still don’t.” Although, with her before him, he wondered.
“It’s so different from the city.”
Her voice had a note of quiet peace, like the evening call of birds. That was what her voice was like. A call. To him.
“Yeah. It sure is.” He patted the waiting horse, puffs of cold breath forming clouds from its nostrils as it snorted out its impatience.
“I’ll put dinner on,” she informed him, and with a last glance at the hills beyond, she headed back into the cabin.
Daniel stood watching her, the reins in his hand, the horse stomping eagerly to be led to warmth, to its feed.
Bet it’ll be good. Bet it’ll be delicious.
And when he made his way back from the barn, the hay sleigh unhitched, the horse curried and fed, he caught sight of her in the lamplight, sitting there with the mending once more, the table set and waiting for him.
He wanted nothing more than this, the firelight casting her shadow against the cabin wall, the golden locks of hair highlighted by the wavering colors of the fire in the grate, the woman at her work, silently waiting for his return. His alone.
He removed his hat as he entered and set it on its peg before unfastening his sheepskin coat. He wondered if he smelled, if she was offended by his body odor and his unshaven face and uncut hair, but it was too late to care about such matters. Ethel, still in New York, still breathing the stench of city streets, enclosed streets with no views, still waiting in the wings, haunted him now.
“I cooked venison,” Emily said. “I hope you weren’t saving it. I found it hung, and the dried berries as well I used for a sauce. And potatoes.”
Daniel couldn’t hide his delight. A single laugh, almost disguising itself as a snort, burst out. “No, I wasn’t saving it. Use what food we got.” He almost told her there’d be fish soon, but recalled she wouldn’t be here then.
He drew out her chair, but she ignored it and set the food on the table while he stood waiting. He wouldn’t sit until she did, that much of manners he could demonstrate still.
As she finally sat down, a long tendril of hair sprang loose to hang over an eye. Daniel started to extend his hand to fix it back, then quickly withdrew. Emily flicked it behind her ear, unaware.
He looped his thumbs through his belt and
stood gazing at her before he folded himself into the waiting chair.
****
Daybreak lit with the merest streak of fire on the horizon, a blaze of orange, a radiance in the sky behind the mountains. Emily stood transfixed, barely aware of the crunch of footsteps in the snow as Daniel came up behind her, lantern in hand.
“I’ve never seen a sunrise,” she whispered. To speak any louder would violate the moment. “There are still stars, so many stars here.”
He put the lantern down and rested against the corral fence next to her. “I suppose, after ten years, I’ve started to take these things for granted.”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t. You must never take these things for granted.” She settled her cloak tighter, but sensed his body heat. He had bathed last night, was clean-shaven...and appealed to her in a way no other man ever had.
“Here.” He put an arm about her and gathered her close, gave her more warmth.
For the merest second, Daniel rested his chin on the top of her head. They stood together and watched as amethyst lined the azure and shades of rose marbled the skyline, and the tops of mountains ignited with the sunrise.
Emily melted into him. She so wanted him to kiss her then, even if it were the top of her head, so yearned for the smallest sign of affection. But it never came.
He gently released her and bent to collect the lantern once more before trudging off without another word. She listened to the sound as the barn door screeched open, and then went back to the cabin to fix breakfast and coffee.
A half-hour later, a blast of cold air announced his entry into the kitchen. She felt his gaze as he stood by the door.
“I’ll take it with me this morning, breakfast and something for dinner, too, if you don’t mind. Put ’em in a basket there, please.” Daniel scraped his boots clean and took the cup of coffee she offered. He stood drinking it while she gathered the food. “I reckon you got enough more mending to keep you occupied for the day. If not, I got a bolt of fabric in that drawer. I thought…I thought someone might make something with all that. Curtains or whatever.”
“If I start something like that, I won’t be here to finish it.” She busied herself, but didn’t glance at him.
Suddenly ruffled by her response, he took the proffered basket. “Well, suit yourself.” Sorry for the curtness with which he addressed her, he added, “Is there anything else you want? Need? Something I should be doin’ for you? More firewood perhaps?”
Emily crossed her arms and straightened her back, looked him right in the eye. “I would like you to…to come to my bed tonight.”
“You’d—” Air left his lungs as he put down the basket, his mouth slightly open. Bewilderment churned his gut. “You’d…” He gaped once more.
“Yes.”
“You are crazy.”
“No. I don’t think so. I simply want what every other woman my age has.” She paced over to the fire and held out her hands to the warmth, her back to him. “I know about Ethel. I’m not trying to take you away from her. Believe me. But I traveled out here…hoping, I guess...yes, hoping to get married.”
“And you still may!” he boomed. “You may find someone in town. If you’re ruined, if…well, I was going to tell everyone you were a cousin who decided to come west, journeyed out for a new life. It would allow for you staying here for a bit if word gets out and then, you know, you may find a position. ’Sides which, I couldn’t do it. It ain’t decent.” Ain’t decent, he repeated to himself, though his body tried convincing him otherwise.
She faced him, knowing full well what she asked was wrong but wanting it still. “Are you…are you saving yourself for her? For Ethel?”
“Heck, no!” He forced himself to calm a bit. “I mean, not the way you mean. I think. But, you know. I don’t take my pleasure on decent women. I don’t go about ruining ladies. It’s different.”
“I see.” She kept her hands clasped. They might have been chatting about the weather, for the lack of emotion with which she discussed this.
“Do you? You do know you could be left with child. And then what? Where would that put you? Me?” Incomprehension snaked through him, and anger, too.
“If I promise not to hold you to anything, make no demands?”
He snatched up the basket again and headed for the door. “What the heck has put this dang idea in your head? You’re crazy! You are most definitely crazy.”
“I…I don’t want to die a…a virgin. That’s what will become of me. I’m a spinster. No one wants me at twenty-eight. I want to know what it’s like, what it feels like to be loved. Even if it isn’t real love, even if it’s make-believe, even if it’s for one night.” She seemed to hesitate, yet she didn’t waver from her request. “Can you not understand? Is that so terrible? So very terrible?”
Daniel was cornered, caged; it was nowhere in his realm of experience, none of this was. “Emily. Miss Darling.” He took a few steps toward her. Could he attempt to explain once more? Should he try to comfort? None of it made sense to him. “You’re a fine looking woman. A beautiful woman most would say. I have no idea why you ain’t married but… Seems strange to me you turned your nose up at all those beaus you say you had, and now...now you’re willing to jump into bed with me. You hardly know me!”
“I know you well enough. I know you’re good and kind and gentle. I know you keep your promises—you’re good to your word. I know you appreciate what I do around the house. And I know you’ve chosen to live here, to leave the east, as I would have done...as I did. And that says a great deal about you.”
If he could have lit a fire with the heat of his yearning, he would have done so then. But was it Emily he was yearning for or Ethel?
Confusion doused the flame, decency turned it to ashes. “All those things you say about me, being good and kind? Then you’ll know it’s for your own good I can’t do that. Surely out here you’ll find someone. Tomorrow. There’s a thaw on now. We’ll go into town tomorrow and sort you out.” He tapped his hat back low on his brows and reached for the latch. It was his final response, an end to the conversation.
“I don’t need sorting out,” she murmured to his retreating back.
He turned and gave her a last, hard look before closing the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
It tormented Emily knowing this other woman’s letters must be somewhere in the cabin. Daniel surely must have kept them, and he wouldn’t be back until nightfall. He’d have no idea of how long it took her to do things, would not suspect.
Yes, she most definitely must read them, know her opponent, know the woman for whom he yearned so.
It was against her morals to search, but not against her instincts. The hunger to see those letters, the desire to see the woman with whom this very complex man had fallen in love, the words of love and endearments Ethel Darton had written to elicit his response—that loving address of Dearest Darling—were so strong, she could not possibly resist. Snooping, yes. Inquisitive, yes. And prying, nosey, too.
She opened her hunt in the linen press, casting aside his spare shirts and blue jeans, a suit (strange to think), a jacket, spare union suits, and boots. No letters.
She passed on to the kitchen where he might have read them, the pantry, cupboards. Still no letters. She had been living in his bedroom and noticed nothing unusual. Piles of books. Could they be in the books he read at night? Stuffed like markers in the pages?
Each book was lifted and shaken, the pages flapping like some intricate fan or a strange bird, but nothing revealed, no content other than the written word.
Emily plopped herself down on the bed, the stacks of books disturbed around her on the floor. She lifted one to read its spine.
Ah, yes. Mark Twain. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
It had been published but last year. Daniel had a sense of humor. Or so she could assume. But aside from that, no clues, no evidence of this Ethel Darton.
A quick peek under the mattress revealed nothin
g. Nor in the makeshift nightstand. Could he have transferred the letters to the barn? While she was asleep the very first night? She again strummed through the front pages of several books. Some had Ex Libris plates with “Daniel Saunders” on them: a strange anomaly. Some were library texts, others well-read tomes, obviously second or even third-hand. And one had the bookplate of Collegiate School, New York. Wilfred’s alma mater.
Strange. How very strange…
She flipped through the pages, but there was nothing more to clarify why Daniel would have this particular book. It could, of course, be second hand. She reviewed the last days with him, but nothing gave her any more evidence of his past. He was from back east and had emigrated west ten years ago. A year ago, he had commenced a correspondence with one Ethel Darton whom he now wished to marry. And that was about it. No, one more...he had said something about knowing people like those in her circle.
Is that it?
She glanced again at the book she held: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Yes. She had read Wilfred’s copy, similar to this, but not thought much of it. She tossed the book back on the pile.
Sitting down once more with his mending, she made every attempt to think it through, consider it as he would. Mr. Saunders wouldn’t feel the need to hide letters while he was here alone. Had he hid them while I slept? He had only removed her shoes that night, and set her bag by the bed, perhaps taken some of his spare clothes to the barn. But the letters weren’t in the linen press; she had gone through that—
The barn, of course.
Leaving the mending in a heap, she grabbed her cloak and dashed to the barn.
As Emily eased open the door, she could see through the shaft of half-light the bed he had made for himself, a sack for a pillow, his bedroll, a spare coverlet, and a carpetbag with…some garments covering...the letters.
Dearest Darling Page 3
