Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  This was Jon Atkins' fault, he decided. Every Sunday his friend's well-delivered sermons seemed directed straight at him. Last Sunday, his topic was "Hope," the Sunday before that, "Faith," and three Sundays ago, "Trust." Oh, he rued the day his wife had insisted he set the example by driving the family to church.

  He stared at the fire's embers, watched as the flames flickered and hissed, and asked himself how he could be expected to trust a God who thought nothing of stealing away Hester and Joseph. What would keep Him from taking Sarah or Seth or Rachel next? These were hard times. Disease sometimes swept entire communities, blotting out one life after another. He doubted he had the strength to endure such loss again.

  "Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord."

  The Word of God kept coming back to him in bits and pieces, piercing him like sharp little arrows, sending messages of hope-lulling him into a fitful sleep.

  Sometime after midnight, a whimpering, whining sound forced Rocky awake. Rubbing his eyes, he pulled a hand through his hair and sat up, taking a moment to get his bearings. Snagging the Levis he'd left draped over the end of the sofa, he hurriedly stepped into them, then tuned his ear in the direction of the sound, which appeared to be coming from Sarah's room.

  "Sarah?" he whispered into the closed door after giving it a light knock. When she didn't answer, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. "You all right in here?"

  Still nothing. At first, he decided his imagination had played a trick on him, for she lay still under a mound of blankets, the moon's silvery glow reflecting off her thick mass of hair lying loose across her pillow. One bare, slender leg had found its way outside of the blanket, and for a moment he just stood there in the open doorway, frozen, feeling like a kid who'd caught a glimpse of something quite forbidden.

  And still she didn't move.

  Then it came again-that tiny mewling sound. It became clear to Rocky that she was dreaming. Perchance he even played some part in it, he mused-the ogre, no doubt. Frowning, he determined to let her work through the dream on her own, so he prepared to turn and leave, but then her cries increased to the point of quiet sobs.

  In two oversized steps, he was crouching at her bedside. "Sarah," he whispered. "Wake up." Gently, he jostled her shoulder. It was then he glimpsed the tears, gleaming like diamonds on her alabaster cheeks. Without forethought, he wiped them with the underside of his thumb, reveling in the feel of her cheek, so soft against his callous-ridden hand.

  Her head shifted on the pillow, and one moist eyelid lifted slowly, followed by the other. Registering her gaze, it took but scant seconds for her to sit bolt upright, tugging her blankets with her. "What-?" Eyeballs popping, she clutched the comforter tight to her chin and jerked her smooth, bare leg back where it belonged.

  "Relax."

  "What are you doing?" she shrieked.

  "You were dreaming." He swiped at another loose tear. "Must have been a bad one."

  Her mouth dropped, and eyes once filled with alarm now cast him a faraway look. "Yes, I-my mother and I were talking and walking-down at the harbor. We used to stroll past the docks and watch the ships come and go. She was telling me she had to go away and I was-begging her to stay." She drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest, pointing her head downward as if embarrassed. "It was silly." Misty eyes sought his. "I'm sorry I woke you."

  "Never mind that," he ordered, flicking his wrist, furious with himself for never having inquired until now as to her personal loss. Selfish clod that he was, he'd forgotten about his own wife's burden of grief. What kind of monster was he? In one fluid motion, he rose from his haunches, grabbed a straight-back chair from a dark corner of the room and, placing it next to her, plunked his body into it. She watched him with something like fascination.

  "You miss her?" he asked.

  "What? Yes, of course. But, well, as you know, life goes on."

  "I don't go on with life as well as you do," he confessed.

  That little tidbit produced a smile on her part, but she didn't respond.

  "Did she suffer long-your mother?"

  Her ginger curls glistened where they fell, and he wanted nothing more than to clutch a mass of them in his fist and test their softness.

  Again, she nodded. "Yes, but her suffering drew her to the heavenly Father. God's timing was perfect for everyone concerned."

  Another time he would have shunned this sort of discussion, but not tonight. "How do you mean?"

  Using her drawn knees as a place to rest her chin, she thought about her answer. "Her suffering gave her time to reflect upon her life, find her way back to God." She breathed a deep sigh before continuing. "My mother and I didn't always have the perfect relationship. Because she was so involved with her charity groups, garden lunches, library club, and museum projects, the housekeeper saw more of me than my own mother did. In a sense she raised me." She gave a lighthearted chuckle. "But that was okay. I loved Mrs. Winters, and she was really the one who told me about Jesus. My parents attended church, but more from a sense of duty, I think, than from devotion."

  The round neckline of her cotton sleeping gown fell off a creamy white shoulder, making his fingers itch to put it in its proper place.

  "In the latter years, Mother and I established a closer friendship." At that, a certain brightness came into her moist eyes. "She was a very generous person, my mother, always lavishing gifts of money and goodwill on one worthy cause or another. The problem was she often neglected the people closest to her. I used to resent her for that, but as I grew older, I realized a bitter heart gained me little peace."

  Rocky absorbed her words. She was right about the bitter heart. He hadn't truly known peace since before Hester's passing, and he supposed his cold heart was mostly responsible.

  A bright winter moon cast its glow across the bedcovers, and Rocky watched the shadows dance about on the colorful print quilt as Sarah dropped her knees, flipped onto her side, and rested her head on her propped elbow to gaze up at him. Entranced, he sat forward, clasped his hands, and dangled them loosely between his spread knees. Mere inches made up the gap between their faces, and the notion that it wouldn't take much to lean down and plant a kiss on her full lips intrigued him plenty.

  He gave himself a mental tongue-lashing. 7 'his is a marriage in name only.

  "It must have been hard for you, Sarah, moving away from everything familiar." It seemed important to keep her talking, for the more she talked the longer he could stay and feast his eyes on her.

  A tight little frown found its way to her face. "It was, but I have no regrets about coming here, if that's what you're getting at. I've told you before, Rocky, I enjoy living here. Little Hickman is a quaint place, and I'm getting used to the people and their way of life. Yes, it's far different from my life in Winchester, but I'm finding it quite rewarding." She scrunched up her nose at him, and he had the strongest urge to kiss its tip. "I don't even mind all the housework."

  "The real work starts when planting season comes around." 7 'hat's when you'll be heading back East, Sarah Woodward Callahan.

  "Why do I get the distinct feeling you think I can't handle it?

  Now it was his turn to grimace. "Because farming is not for everyone, Sarah. It's downright hard work from morning till night. Womenfolk especially find it grueling unless-well, they're made of tough stuff."

  "Like your Hester, you mean," Sarah said, turning down her lip.

  He hadn't expected her to bring up his former wife, but since she had, he said, "She was born and raised on the farm, and yes, she was pretty tough. She also knew exactly what to expect from every passing season."

  "Unlike me." Sarah flopped on her back. Yanking the quilt up under her chin, she stared with narrowed eyes at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. "You don't think I can do it because I'm rich and spoiled."

  He couldn't help his sudden peal of laughter. When she didn't join in, only angled her face at him and deepened her frown, he laughed t
he more. "Okay, I'll admit that's part of . 11 it.

  "Well, you best give me a chance, Mr. Callahan. I may not be your Hester, but neither am I a weakling." This she said while drawing her arms out from under the covers and folding them across her chest, as if to emphasize her stubbornness.

  His laughter dwindled to a chuckle, then petered out completely. "I wouldn't expect you to be like Hester, Sarah," he said, wanting to make that clear.

  "Well, that's comforting to know, because, you see, after all the glowing things I've heard about her, I've already determined I could never measure up."

  That did it. Without forethought, he cupped her chin in his hand and moved closer to study her face. So delicately carved, he thought sculpted cheeks of dusty rose, exotic eyes, exquisite little nose, and that plump, tempting mouth. It was enough to drive a man crazy.

  No, she was nothing like Hester. And, wonder of wonders, he liked her that way.

  She lay there motionless under his perusal, her expression denoting some indecipherable emotion.

  Shifting on the chair, he positioned himself so that he could angle his head in her direction and was relieved when she didn't resist. If anything, she seemed cemented in place, perhaps too shocked to budge.

  He kissed her slowly at first, experimentally, needing time to explore, to test her willingness. He moved his mouth over hers, waiting for her retreat. When it didn't come, he continued the journey, cupping her slender shoulders with both hands and lifting her closer. To his amazement, she responded, her own lips moving with his, her arms coming up to encircle his back.

  For the life of him, he couldn't comprehend the feelings churning up inside him. He certainly hadn't planned to kiss his wife, hadn't expected this gush of emotion, this swirling, burning aftermath of passion. It was just a kiss, he told himself. Nothing more. But even as he talked himself into believing the lie, the passion multiplied tenfold.

  Lord, help me...

  As if waking from a dizzy spell, he quickly drew away, setting himself straight in his chair again. This was supposed to be a marriage in name only, he chided-no touching, no emotional ties, certainly no kissing. And now he'd blown their perfect little plan right out of the water.

  What must she think?

  Feeling the fool, he managed to mutter, "Sorry about that. I didn't intend for that to happen. It's just that, well, you looked so...

  Wide-eyed and silent as a church mouse, Sarah seemed pinned to the mattress, her mouth still red from the force of his kiss, her arms now resting limply on either side of her. Had he shocked her with his forwardness?

  Grappling for the right words, he said, "What I mean to say is-I won't let it happen again. It was wrong of-me-to..."

  Still no response, just chilly, dead air. She hated him for breaking their marriage bargain. That had to be it. Why else would she be giving him that stunned expression?

  He dropped his shoulders in defeat. "All right, I'll admit it; I messed up. That's the plain truth of the matter. You and I struck a marriage bargain. We agreed there'd be no physical contact, and I overstepped my bounds. So-I hope you'llaccept my apology."

  She dropped her gaze and appeared to be studying her toes. "No need to apologize," she replied just as simple as you please. He stared at her. "It was no one's fault."

  "No, I take full responsibility," he argued.

  "Fine," she replied, setting her jaw in a firm line.

  "Fine." ,Just like that, he stood to his feet and started retreating toward the door. "Fine," he repeated, walking backward, eyes centered on her. Best to leave while he still had his wits about him, he ruled, especially since the sight of her made his heart turn over.

  She'd be gone come spring anyway. Blast! He'd make it easy for her and help her pack.

  At the door, he paused and asked, "Will you be all right now?"

  "Of course." Her clipped answer made his nerves clatter.

  And when she put her face to the wall, he made his exit.

  n the day of the hoedown, Sarah rose just before dawn. Several women planned to arrive by mid-morning to begin preparations for the event, and Sarah wanted to have the house ready for her guests.

  Benjamin Broughton and several others had posted signs, and rumor had it that nearly the whole town planned to attend. Butterflies whirled in Sarah's stomach as she flitted through the house, mopping floors, scrubbing countertops, and wiping out the oven, where the smell of freshly baked bread still lingered. She'd been baking for days now, and the pantry shelves lined with pies, platters of cookies, and various other baked goods were clear evidence of the fact.

  "You're up early." Rocky stood at the closed front door, his hand still on the knob.

  Sarah jolted. "I didn't hear you come in," she said, doing her best to cover her flustered reaction.

  "I didn't want to wake the household." He shook off his coat, wet from a light morning rain, and hung it on a hook.

  "I see." She quickly turned toward the sink and began scrubbing the potatoes she'd hauled up from the little cellar in the lean-to. Glancing out the window, she said, "I hope the rain quits. It would be a shame if it kept up throughout the festivities."

  "There're a few stars peeking out in the west. I think the storm will pass soon enough."

  "I'd hate for the children's games to be cancelled due to the weather."

  "It would be a trifle difficult holding races in the barn, but we'll manage."

  At that, she heard him wipe his feet, and the next thing she knew he was reaching around her for a tin mug. She hastened to give him room, shivering when she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

  Something had passed between them since the kiss, something sweet but incredibly delicate. She'd determined even mentioning it might make it seem less real, less sacred. Apparently, he felt the same, for neither had uttered a single word about the intimate moment, particularly since they'd both decided against its ever happening again. One might have thought it hadn't happened at all-except for the nervous tension that grew between them. At least, there'd been no move to repeat the act. Good thing, for she wasn't sure how she might react the next time. She knew they'd agreed to a marriage in name only, but she couldn't deny that part of her that longed for intimacy.

  "Smells mighty fine in this house," Rocky said, moving to the stove for a cup of coffee. Steam from the hot liquid rose from the cup, performing an almost eerie, circular dance in the dimly lit kitchen. Because Sarah hadn't wanted to wake the children, she'd taken care to light only a few of the lamps around the house. Now she had the uncanny urge to set every available lamp ablaze.

  Sarah continued scrubbing with a vengeance, but stole a quick glance at her husband, who had turned around to lean his bulky frame against the sink and watch her work, mug encased snugly in his oversized hands. She couldn't imagine what he found so interesting about watching her scrub potatoes, but at the risk of allowing him to see her jangled nerves, she scoured harder.

  "By the time you're done with those you won't need to peel 'em," he remarked.

  "What?"

  "The potatoes."

  She glanced down at the nearly skinned vegetable, hastily peeled it the rest of the way, then dropped it into the nearby steaming kettle.

  "Need some help?" he asked after she retrieved her next potato, this one full of grit and grime, a result of having been wrenched from its earthen bed at the end of last season. The question made her pause midway through her scrubbing to stare down the drain hole.

  "I bet together we could make fast work of those spuds," he repeated. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him taking a long swig of coffee and wondered how he did it. Try as she might, she could not acquire a taste for it.

  "I can manage, thank you," she answered, resuming her task and wishing he would leave her to her kitchen. Or better, leave her to her house. "Is the barn ready?" she asked.

  He chuckled. "The barn was ready last night when you asked. Bales of hay are stacked against the sides for folks to sit on, and Ben and I m
oved the worktables from the center to make room for your square dancing. You can use those for laying out the food later. A few minutes ago, I turned the horses and cows loose on the north pasture. Anything else you need?" He rewarded her with a slanted grin. Her response was a nervous cough.

  "Do you have the jitters?" he asked, tipping his head closer.

  "No!" she answered too quickly, sidestepping to avoid his hot breath.

  "Yes, you do," he countered, setting his coffee mug on the counter. When he sidled up next to her, brushing against her to reach for a potato, she felt the quake of her body. Lord, how could my own husband make me so edgy?

  "Be still, my child."

  The simple reminder calmed her, but, unfortunately, it was short-lived.

  "No need to be nervous, you know. The folks around Hickman have already accepted you." He handled the potato for a moment before dousing it in the bucket of water and then commencing to scrub it clean.

  "I appreciate that," she said. And she was grateful for his offer of assistance. However, the citizens of Hickman were the least of her worries. Plainly put, ever since they had kissed, her husband rattled her to the point of rendering her useless.

  "How's this?" He held up the dirt-free potato for her inspection.

  "Looks good."

  "Is that all you can say?"

  A guarded smile played around her lips. "You want me to compliment you for washing a potato?"

  He gave her a playful nudge in the side. "I like a bit of encouragement now and then."

  Was he toying with her? And did his statement hold a double meaning?

  Deciding to play things safe, she threw up her guard. "Don't you have something else to do?"

  He laughed. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Callahan?" He tossed the clean potato down and set out to rinse another one.

  "And what if I were?" she asked, adding vigor to her scrubbing motion, then taking up a paring knife to make fast work of her peeling job.

  "Then I would just have to assume that I'm the one who makes you nervous."