“What are you getting so excited and upset about? This doesn’t concern you! As I said, Wilfred told me Papa had left everything to him. Papa was English. They leave everything to the sons. It’s their natural way, and the daughters they hope to marry off. Only I didn’t marry.”
He looked away to calm himself, his exasperation rising. “But surely they leave something for a dowry?”
“I suppose. Perhaps. I never really thought about it. But Papa did not. Perhaps he believed Wilfred would provide something. I never really thought about or considered the matter. I didn’t like the men who were thrown at me. And I assumed Papa believed I was past the age when men sought me out. I had made my debut years ago and was past the age most girls marry. And Wilfred would now look after me, would supply, if need be, whatever dowry necessary to have me safely married off if the opportunity or desire presented itself.” There was an urgency to her tone, a need to explain, or perhaps to be done with this.
“But he didn’t,” Daniel confirmed.
“No. Of course not. He had a housekeeper, so why would he make any effort to marry me off? He had all he needed, all he wanted. I suppose he never wanted a wife, just someone to cook and clean for him. No children. His house clean and his laundry done and his meals cooked. That was it. What else would he want?” Resentment surged out of her in a torrent. “He never wanted a family,” she repeated more quietly now. “What else would he want?”
Indeed. What else would Wilfred Darling want? Lazy bastard.
Daniel sifted the information, was mute as the horse continued its way. A jigsaw cut through the knowledge, a bit of information here, a bit there. But would they fit together? From what he recalled of Wilfred Darling, the knowledge he had would eventually fall into place. It would make sense, it would form a picture.
“What shall I do now? Where shall I go?” There was no self-pity in her voice, no whine. She merely asked the questions.
“I told you. I will decide what’s next.” He stole a glance at her; in the thickening evening, the night coming on, he had a sudden yearning to comfort her, tell her it would be all right, to take her in his arms. But always there was Ethel, beyond the line of his vision, far out of his reach. “I have an idea, but for now, you’ll have to stay with me.”
****
Emily prepared the evening’s meal and bustled about the kitchen getting ingredients together. Next to her, Daniel sorted through a cupboard then settled himself at the table with ink and paper. He rolled up his sleeves, and she stole a glance at his bare arms, the slight bulge of muscle where his shirtsleeve now ended, the fine hair. There was a certain manly grace to the way he moved. She wanted those arms around her, but wouldn’t ask again. Not while he wrote to the other right in front of her.
“We didn’t pick up your mail.”
The note of petulance had him glancing up. “Mail goes to Kelly, not Jackson.” He dipped his pen in the ink. “I’m not writing to her, by the way, if that’s what you think. I’ve another matter to take care of now.” The pen scratched out a line. “I only wrote her the once after you arrived, to try to explain, and it’s too soon to receive a reply.” His gaze stole up at her for a moment before his head bowed once more.
Satisfied, she got on with the supper preparations, peeling, chopping, mixing, slicing. She could feel his gaze on her as she worked, but whether he was studying her or absently thinking of what next to write she didn’t know. The pen scrabbled. She liked the rhythm of it, the scratch, scratch, scratch before he dipped again in the ink and the process continued once more.
A kind of serenity enveloped her, a peace of having him nearby, and that if they were man and wife it could be as this always. Did he ever think that way? And then it washed over her; the other woman rode through her, flowed through her veins with fury and a fiery hate as she remembered, and the dream shattered, splintered and fragmented as she slammed the lid on the pot and carried it to the fire.
Daniel’s head shot up, his eyes enquiring, no doubt wondering what had brought that on.
She hadn’t a right to be jealous as she didn’t belong here; he had never asked her to come.
“I would like to see her picture if I may. I imagine my curiosity has got the better of me now.” The words tumbled out, uncontrolled, uncaught as she gave in to her yearning, and her contempt.
Daniel placed the pen carefully by the side of the paper and let his chin come to rest in his hand, elbow on the table, fingers covering his mouth as he gazed at her. If he were puzzled and perplexed by this sudden request he didn’t show it, barely blinked as he continued to observe her. Emily’s own fingers were entwined, her hands clasped in front of her, expectant. She tried to remain solemn, unemotional. Waiting.
“All right,” he said at last, reaching into his shirt pocket. He didn’t give the photograph a look, not even a glance; must have had the features memorized and imprinted on his mind’s eye. He held it out by the corner, his gaze on her, constant.
Emily laid it flat in her palm. A sharp gasp escaped her before she could stop herself. Amazed and perplexed, she peered at it closer before she stole a look at him. Daniel appeared to consider her, watched openly. She focused her gaze back on the photograph, disbelieving, uncertain what to do. Was she sure? Of course. The famous face, the famous lily in her hair. How could he not know….and yet, how could he? Yes, it must have been ’82 or ’83, shortly after Daniel had made a life here, in the middle of nowhere. He couldn’t possibly know. But why? Why would someone do this to him? Whoever had been writing back to him—this Ethel Darton—would arrive and not be like the photo, just as Emily had not. Would his heart break then? Or was it one giant joke being played on him? She would never come; she had written nothing but lies, this woman, nothing but promises she would break.
He continued to stare at her, his eyes steady. “Is something the matter? What did you expect? I had fallen in love with a troll?”
Daniel held out his palm for the photo and she slipped it back into his hand. He gave it a quick glance then left it on the table.
“Of course not,” she answered, ever so quietly and carefully lest her emotions overcome her. “She’s very lovely. Beautiful. A great beauty.”
So, who then was Ethel Darton? With whom had he been corresponding? And how could Emily possibly tell him the truth? She continued to stare at him as his head bent again and he gave his letter a final read.
“How…how did you start the correspondence, if you don’t mind my asking? How did it begin?” She tried to keep her curiosity from her words, tried desperately to keep the tone conversational.
He rose to fetch an envelope from the cupboard, gave it a look as if considering if it were the right one, then took up the letter in his hand. His gaze once more scanned what he had written before he cautiously folded the page, took his time, and slipped it into the envelope then took up the pen to write out the address. His glance met Emily’s as his tongue poked out to give the envelope gum a lick. He tucked it in the pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of his chair.
“I…I had seen this neighbor fetch his mail-order bride off the stage as I told you. That night, I was in the saloon in Jackson, and had a conversation with some man from back east. I’d seen him get off the stage as well. He had an easy way about him. Not pretentious-like. Happy to be out here. I liked him. He said he knew someone who was looking for a better life, looking to get out of New York, away from the filth, the crowds, and the busy streets. Same as me, same as what I’d felt. Well, I asked if he had her address? Could I write her? Said her name was Ethel Darton and gave me the address, and so I wrote. And it began. She answered me back in no time, no time at all. Sent me the photo. I couldn’t send her one, of course, but she didn’t seem to mind, said the correspondence would tell her all she needed to know. And so it went. Up to the point where I proposed and she said, ‘yes,’ and I sent the tickets and you arrived. ’Course, I didn’t propose until I had the money for the tickets, but that’s another matter. You came
instead, and so here we are.”
Emily hastened to the fire, to the pot with their supper waiting and to her chores. “Do you ever ask yourself, why? Why she wants this? Why that man in the saloon that night recommended this woman? Do you ask yourself—” She tried desperately to keep her voice calm, noncommittal, to give it all a casual tone. Truculence would get her nowhere with him, she knew.
“I ask myself plenty of questions. Plenty. Including, why me? Why would she choose me, out of all those folks in New York City, why me? But I never get an answer other than she wants to get out, wants the same as I do.” He stood behind his chair, his hands gripping the back, the knuckles white with his tension.
Emily dished the stew onto their plates, her back to him now. “I see.”
“Do you? Do you understand at all? Sure, it’s a beautiful place to live, and I wouldn’t want to leave, but there isn’t much of a chance to meet a woman, not a decent one anyway, while I’m here on the ranch. Do you know how lonely it can get out here, the solitude, the silence, without a woman? How much I yearned for that warmth, that company?”
She stopped and turned, a bowl of stew in each hand, staring at him, disbelieving. “Of course I can understand. It may be a different environment, but it was the same for me. In New York. Only Wilfred, my brother.”
“Ah, yes. Wilfred.” He sat back down and cracked his knuckles.
Emily plunked the stew in front of him and sat herself, taking note he hadn’t waited for her this time, hadn’t pulled her chair out. Even so, he waited for her to start eating, but she only stared at him. “You know him, don’t you?” she ventured. “You attended Collegiate School, did you not? You knew him at some stage.”
“As I said, I was a charity student, on scholarship. I wouldn’t’ve been part of Wilfred’s set.”
“You must be very smart to have gotten a scholarship. Far more studious, smarter than Wilfred.”
“I suppose.” He lifted a fork and avoided her gaze. “For the good it did me.”
“What do you mean?”
Daniel didn’t respond. He let the answer be the sound of his fork plunging into the stew and coming back out with the desired mouthful. It found its way between his lips. The mouthful, however, proved far too hot to eat as yet, and he waved a hand in front of his mouth before swallowing.
Silly man. He was getting annoyed and would end up shouting, no doubt.
“It doesn’t matter, does it? Let’s leave it, shall we? Yes, I knew your brother and that, as they say, is that. End of story.”
Emily blew carefully on a chunk of meat before taking it into her mouth and chewing. She considered the coincidence, of her coming here, to him, on stolen tickets, and him knowing her brother. And then she considered the other matter, the woman who said her name was Ethel Darton and had sent a photograph most certainly not herself. It was like some giant mosaic, or some crazy quilt a Great Being was sewing, and she struggled to find the right pieces to put it all together.
But as for herself, she didn’t know what was next, what to do. She knew now she had loved Daniel Saunders from the moment she had read his letter, loved him more now she understood him, loved him more each day. She so wanted this man, this westerner. But couldn’t find the words to tell him, couldn’t hurt him with the knowledge she held. And couldn’t tell him how she loved him, loved the way he cared for certain things, loved the way he took charge, looked after her, looked at her. Loved him.
“I’ll be riding into Kelly first thing to mail this. Is there anything you can think of you need still? Want?”
She hesitated, then let it come out. “The only thing I want is what I asked you for before.”
****
Heat ran through his body with his own desire tightening in his groin. Daniel could take her now, there, throw the dishes aside and take her right there on the kitchen table. But such indecency, even if flamed by passion, was not natural to him. He still balanced his word to Ethel against his growing feelings for Emily, and discovered Ethel weighing heavily on his mind. In his heart.
No. He must send Emily back. At whatever cost.
He helped her clear and then traipsed out to fill the kettle with water to heat for their evening washing. When he tried to take up the dishrag to do the plates, she elbowed him aside.
“It’s woman’s work. Let me.”
“I’ve been doing it for ten years. Might as well continue, seeing as how it’ll be a time until I can send Ethel tickets again.” He leaned against the table, braced against its edge, and gripped either side. “I’ve decided I’m gonna borrow money to send you back. Either that or see if I can sell one of the horses.”
The plate she held stopped in mid-air. Her back went rigid and he could imagine the pain on her face.
She started scrubbing again, and he continued, trying to soften his tone.
“I know it’s not what you want, but there’s nothing for you here, nothing for you to do, unmarried. It’s no place for a decent woman alone.”
She whipped around, her mouth tight, eyes blazing. “Why, oh tell me why...why do men always, always think they know what is best for women? Why is that? Why do you think you know what I want, what I should do? Don’t men ever allow women to do what they think best for themselves?”
He didn’t blink as his fingers tapped the underside of the table. “You tell me what you think is best for you to do now, with no work here. You came here to me, unwanted and uninvited. I’m sorry about that, but it’s true, and there’s nothing I can do now to alter it.” Outside, a horse whinnied and drew Daniel’s attention for a moment. “I just…just can’t tell Ethel I’ve gone and changed my mind. It wouldn’t be right. ’Sides which, I don’t want to.”
But he couldn’t face her as he spoke for it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true any longer. He strode to the washstand where the warmed water waited and took up the soap. He could feel her gaze, hear the sound of the dishes being put away while he washed and then rolled down his sleeves. When he finally turned back, she was stretching to put the plates on a shelf.
“Here, let me.”
As one hand took the plates, his other rested on her shoulder, a wisp of hair brushing his fingers, the lavender perfume filling his head. He placed the two plates onto their stack, but his hand remained on her, one finger absently rubbing her neck to lift the tendril.
“Sorry,” he said at last. “Sorry.”
Almost sleepwalking, he strode past the picture of Ethel on the table, stepped to the door, and lifted the latch, letting in the cold air of evening.
Chapter Eleven
In the barn, the torment of it all overcame him, and Daniel paced the length of the floor several times. Could he be in love with two women? Could he write to Ethel and say how sorry he was, but there was no money to bring her here now? Most of all, could he lose Emily? Did he truly know Ethel? Was the woman in the photograph, the woman in the letters, as much to him as the woman now in his cabin? Which love was true? Which love was real? Did the woman with whom he had been corresponding mean as much to him now as the woman in his cabin?
But he had made up his mind: Emily was to go home. It had been his decision, and he must stick with it.
And if she stayed? If he saw her around town once he married Ethel, what would that be like?
No, this must be his final determination: Ethel must be his fate.
He strode back out of the barn to the house. A yellow glow shone through the back window, an inviting warmth, and he edged closer with care. The net curtain hardly gave Emily the requisite privacy for a bedtime routine. She sat on the edge of the bed, back to him, in her nightshift, brushing her hair.
He stood enthralled, transfixed as the brush came down the length of her hair, that wheat-straw hair, plowing lines through it as the brush made its way, and then rose to the top once more to start its path again. It was like silk, waves of silk or satin, and he could only imagine what it might be like to touch it so, to feel lengths of it, have it slip through his fingers, h
ave it fall over his face if she lay above him.
His manhood hardened at these visions, a yearning in his groin. The desire for her ran through his blood as he remained still, observed the way her hand held the brush, her thumb running the length of the handle, her fingers gripping, moving the brush through her hair, the fine strands like filaments caught in the lamplight. And when she stopped, tossed her head faintly, the very slight motion stirred the curtain of hair as one, over her shoulder. He gasped, had to catch his breath.
The light of the lamp caught her once more, highlighted her hair with flecks of bronze and gold, and she bent so that the tresses tumbled forward as she brushed downwards from the nape of her neck, stroke upon stroke upon stroke. Still, Daniel gazed on, hypnotized by the rhythm of her hand, his yearning growing with every movement, his desire becoming unbearable, the throbbing of his blood wanting release.
And then he remembered the photo. He had left the photograph of Ethel on the table. He could collect it. Would collect it. And see Emily once more.
He lifted the latch.
In his heart, it became clear what he had come to do, why he was there, and it was not to collect the photograph. His hardness throbbed with certainty. He entered with the click of the latch, a few paces to the table, a glance through the partition.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forgot…” But he could not lie as Emily sat there, the brush suspended in her hand, her hair flowing over her shoulder, staring at him, questioning. “The photograph,” he used to explain, though another fabrication.
They gazed at one another, locked on each other, through the sheer fabric of curtain separating the sleeping area from the rest of the room. He held her in his sights and left the photograph where it lay, his mouth dry with desire, his body ordering him to go forward, to proceed.
“Did you mean...” he started to say, trying to be sure of what didn’t need certainty.
Dearest Darling Page 5
