He slept quietly—the frown gone from his face at last. As she watched him for some time, Genieva wondered if he had known it was she he had ravished with affection. Or had his mind, in its fevered state, envisioned someone else in his arms and bed? Her mind fought back the name echoing throughout it—Lita.
The April sun was warm and the lilacs fragrant as Genieva drove the stick into the soil. She dropped a few corn kernels into the hole, using her foot to cover it with dirt. Having never planted before, planting the corn was a tedious chore for her. Still, she knew how important it was to Brevan—how important it was to have it done immediately. Brevan had married Genieva to help him with the farm. She knew it was her responsibility to get the planting done, especially since Brian and Travis had left for two days on important business. Though Brenna had offered to help with the planting, Genieva knew Lita was not well and needed Brenna with her while Brian was away. Brenna had shown her how to plant, and, being assured she now had a proper knowledge of it, Genieva had begun the planting herself. As she continued the monotonous process of planting, she began to dread having to haul water from the creek to the field. Hauling water would indeed be necessary—for there was no sign of impending rain.
Brevan had not stirred since the previous morning. Genieva worried over him with every step she took—with every kernel that she buried in the soil. From time to time, she would leave the field to return to the house and check on him—for she feared that, even though his fever had gone, something might cause him to take a turn for the worse once more.
Genieva’s legs, arms, back, and every other part of her body ached as she carried bucket after bucket full of water to the field. Each seed must be watered. It had taken her a full day to plant the corn, and she knew it would, no doubt, take this entire new day to water it sufficiently.
As the sun set that evening, Genieva sat at the kitchen table. Her body was racked with aching and soreness. Even for having worn gloves, blisters had formed on her tender palms. Her hands throbbed and stung, ached with the soreness of unfamiliar hard labor and the sting of swollen blisters. She placed cool, damp cloths on them, but it did little to soothe her pain. Still, it was done—after two days of hard labor the like Genieva had never known—Brevan’s corn was planted and watered in the field.
“Get yarself to bed, Genieva.” Brevan’s voice echoed through her mind. She found it hard to raise herself from the great fatigue forcing her to sleep as she sat—head resting on the kitchen table. “Genieva,” his voice echoed. This time she opened her eyes. She looked to Brevan standing near the table, glaring down at her.
“What are you doing up? You need your rest. And just give me a moment, Brevan,” she mumbled. “I’ll just sit here a moment.” Genieva was so exhausted! Her mind hardly registered that this was the first time Brevan had been about since being injured. Even when she felt herself hoisted from the chair and into strong arms, she was so worn and weary that she did not rouse more than a moment—just long enough to enjoy the pleasant smell of Brevan’s skin as her head lay against his shoulder.
Brevan laid his wife gently on her bed. She flinched as her hand hit the pillow, and he took her small hand in his own, studying her palm. A deep frown furrowed his handsome brow as he gazed at the horrid blisters there.
“What have ya been doin’, lass?” he muttered to himself. The other hand was just as blistered. Laying her hands gently on the bed and taking the lantern hanging in the kitchen with him, he hurried out of the house and to the field. He stood, astonished at what he saw.
“Surely Brian has done this,” he whispered. But when he drew near to the field and saw the small size of the boot prints in the soil, he knew. Placing his own boot next to one of the impressions in the dirt, he knew at once that the tiny boot print belonged to Genieva. Her boot prints led from the creek to the field as well. Her boot prints were near the empty buckets and seed sack sitting against the outer wall of the barn.
Guilt enveloped his conscience as he quickly made his way back to the house. He entered her room to find Genieva still slept—the deep sleep of one worn to the bone. Gently, he removed her boots and stockings to find her feet blistered and red as well. He removed her skirt and petticoats—all the time pitying women for having to wear such cumbersome gear. He rolled her onto her stomach and unbuttoned her shirtwaist, gently turning her to her back once more in order to remove it. Not once did she stir from her fatigue-induced slumber. Brevan frowned—shook his head as he fumbled with the fastenings of her corset.
“What devil invented such a device of torture?” he muttered as he removed it—leaving her looking more comfortable in just her camisole and pantaloons.
Going to the kitchen, he poured the hot water from the kettle on the stove into a basin of cool water from the pump until the mix produced a warm and comfortable temperature. He shook his head in disbelief as he carefully bathed Genieva’s dusty arms and face. As his hands worked to freshen her neck and shoulders, he was still amazed at what he assumed had occurred while his own body nursed his wound. From all appearances, this small, freckled woman had planted his cornfield and hauled buckets of water from the creek to ensure its need of moisture was met. He was angry with Brian for letting her do the work. And where had Travis been all the time?
Brevan pushed Genieva’s pantaloons up over her knees and washed her feet and legs as well before covering her with a light sheet. As he sat studying her peaceful face, he wondered at how one such as he could find such a woman with such little effort. It was as Brenna had told him—someone was indeed watching over him.
“I fear that ya deserve far better than Brevan McLean, lass,” he whispered, closing the door to her room behind him.
“Brevan, ya know Travis and me had to check with the land office,” Brian explained the next morning as he and Brevan carried water from the creek to the fields and garden. “He’s gettin’ desperate, he is, and we, neither one of us, wanted to travel alone, we didn’t. I’ve got to think of me own wife and child now too. But I swear it to ya now that I did not know Genieva was plannin’ on plantin’ the crop herself, brother…or I would’ve waited all the same.”
“I know, Brian. I know. I’ve not the right to be angry with ya. And I thank ya for finishin’ the plowin’, I do,” Brevan said. Both men turned as Genieva approached.
“And good mornin’ to ya, Genieva,” Brian called merrily.
“Good morning, Brian. Should you be exerting yourself so soon, Brevan?” Genieva asked—her expression that of concern as she studied Brevan intently.
“I should,” he answered. “’Tis an admirable job ya’ve done in the field, Genieva,” he added.
“You said it had to be done,” she responded.
“I didn’t mean that you had to do it, lass.”
“It was my responsibility. Not Brian’s,” she reminded him. Genieva smiled, overjoyed at seeing Brevan’s strength renewed. He was whole once again, and she felt relief at the knowledge. “I’ll get some more buckets and help,” she offered.
“No,” Brevan growled. But his frown softened, and he added, “When yar hands have healed, ya can water, Genieva.”
Looking at her sadly blistered and terribly sore palms, she muttered, “But the gardens and fields must be watered, Brevan. There hasn’t been any rain.”
“Brian will help me for now, he will,” Brevan informed her. “Lita has been ill. Ya run over and keep her company while her husband is here.”
“Yes. Do that for me, will ya, lass?” Brian asked. “She’s been feelin’ so badly these past couple of days. She could use a friendly visit from ya, she could.”
“But the watering,” Genieva argued. “It has to be done, and I’m not sure Brevan should be…”
“’Tis well and strong I am, Genieva,” Brevan interrupted. “Me back is sore, but the rest of me is ready enough.”
“All right,” she agreed a little unwillingly. But should she take to admit
ting the truth to herself, she was uncertain as to whether or not she would enjoy the visit with Lita. Something wasn’t right. Genieva knew some substantial and unspoken secret was being kept from her concerning Brevan and Lita. Certain obvious events, such as the conversation she had overheard between them the first night Brevan was injured, testified to this—as well as other subtle, less noticeable things. She also still found it perturbing and odd that Brevan would know of Lita’s condition before her own husband was aware of it.
Still, as she meandered toward Lita and Brian’s house, she tried to put her anxieties to rest. Surely she just imagined there to be more between them than there truly was.
“Mí amiga! Genieva!” Lita called from her chair on the front porch as Genieva approached. “You have come to keep me company, no?”
Immediately, guilt began to gnaw at Genieva. Lita was a beauty in both body and spirit, and Genieva was reassured in her sense that this woman would not be capable of such things as Genieva’s insecure mind had been imagining.
“Brian has told you, no? He has told you that we are to have a bebé?” Lita asked, gesturing toward a nearby chair.
“Actually, Brevan told me,” Genieva answered, smiling pleasantly as she accepted the chair.
“He is well then? I was so worried for him, Genieva,” Lita sighed, placing one of her dainty hands at her bosom. “That was the worst cutting on a person I have ever seen! I don’t know how you managed to sew it yourself. I would have died! Muerta! On the floor next to him!”
Genieva shook her head, agreeing with Lita. “I don’t know how I did it either. When you have to…well, you have to, I suppose.”
“Híjole! I don’t know,” Lita sighed. “You will have to help me have the bebé, Genieva. You are so brave, and I will need you there.”
“I’m not brave, Lita,” Genieva corrected her.
“Sí! Yes, you are. Not only did you sew up Brevan’s back, but you came here to marry him when you did not even know him!” Lita clicked her tongue and nodded with reassurance. “You are brave, Genieva.”
Again, guilt began eating at Genieva’s heart—but for different reasons. Brave? No. A coward, yes! To leave as she did—it was pure cowardice. Genieva wondered if she would ever be able to confide in Lita. Would she ever be able to tell any of them the story of why she had found the courage to marry someone she had never met? Most likely not. She would remain a coward.
“Brenna is wanting a bebé badly, too. Especially now that Brian and I are having one,” Lita announced. The Mexican beauty placed her hands low on her stomach and smiled as if she held some secret and joyous knowledge no one else could understand. She looked to Genieva and said, “You need to have Brevan give you a bebé soon and then todos los niños…all the childrens can be perfect friends…playmates!”
Genieva shook her head and laughed. “I’m here to help him with the farm, Lita. Nothing else,” she explained.
Lita’s brows puckered in a disapproving frown. “Babies come from God, Genieva. They are a blessing to men and women. You do not want babies?” she inquired shortly.
“Of course I do! You don’t understand, Lita,” Genieva defended. “I want them ever so badly! But…but it’s not what Brevan wants of me. It’s not why he had me come here.”
“Brevan is a good man, Genieva. He would not marry with you just to have your hands to work his farm,” Lita stated. The expression on her face was stern and, Genieva fancied, rather reprimanding. “He would not have married with you if a worker is all he had wanted. He could have married with any woman then. No. He married you because you are you.”
Genieva smiled kindly at Lita and went on to talk of other things. “Were the rains this sparse last spring?” she asked.
“Not this bad,” Lita answered, looking up to the sky as if expecting to see it filled with thunderclouds. “This is dry. And the crops must have water. The apple trees have deep enough roots that they can do fine for a short time. But soon they must have rain too.”
“My hands were bleeding by the time I finished bringing the buckets from the creek yesterday,” Genieva mentioned, looking at her sore, cracking palms.
“You must wrap them in rags, Genieva. Just gloves do not protect enough. And I have something inside—some salve that will help them to feel better.”
As the audible sound of an approaching wagon suddenly caught their attention, both women turned to stare in the direction from which it came. Two women were in the wagon—one obviously older than the other. The younger looked to be about Genieva’s and Lita’s age.
Lita smiled and stood, waving one hand happily. “Hola! Amy…Mrs. Wilburn! Hello!”
Upon hearing the names, Genieva immediately jumped to her feet beside Lita. She was far more interested now in the approaching wagon.
“It’s Mrs. Wilburn and Amy. Mí casa is one of the few where they are welcome now,” Lita explained sympathetically.
Genieva watched with avid curiosity as the women climbed down from the wagon and came to stand before them on the porch.
“Mrs. Wilburn!” Lita exclaimed, hugging the woman. “And Amy. You look so pretty.”
The lovely, brown-haired girl dropped her gaze to the floor of the porch, and Genieva could not help but notice the time of her baby’s coming was near. The girlish curves Amy Wilburn had no doubt once boasted were replaced with the new figure of an expectant woman.
“This is Genieva,” Lita said, turning to Genieva. “She is the lucky one to have married Brevan!”
Genieva smiled as Amy’s eyes immediately met hers—searchingly. There was a sweet and repentant soul showing brightly in them, and Genieva could not help but pity her.
“It’s so nice to meet you both,” she greeted, extending a hand to Mrs. Wilburn.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Mrs. Wilburn offered, smiling. The elder woman did indeed wear a smile—yet her overall expression was that of worry and fatigue.
“Is that good or bad?” Genieva teased. She would be friendly to both women—no matter what the circumstances behind Amy’s condition. She was determined to show them kindness.
“Good, of course,” Mrs. Wilburn assured her.
“How is the bebé, Amy?” Lita asked. Genieva quickly glanced to Lita. It seemed a very bold question.
Amy continued to study Genieva but answered, “I think fine.” Then, still looking to Genieva, she added, “It’s no great secret, Mrs. McLean. I’m the talk of the county, and I know it.”
Genieva blushed—embarrassed at having let her thoughts show so obvious on her face. Insecure thoughts began growing in Genieva’s mind again as she looked back to the attractive girl.
Amy was taller than Genieva—her skin was porcelain—her eyes a bright blue, not unlike Brevan’s. She was lovely—would no doubt easily catch any man’s eye.
Genieva looked to Lita as her friend suddenly announced, “Brian and I…we are going to have a bebé too, Amy!”
Mrs. Wilburn squealed with delight, throwing her arms about Lita’s shoulders with true affection.
“That’s wonderful, Mrs. McLean!” Amy agreed.
“You and I, Amy…we share even more now, no?” Lita giggled. Genieva did not miss the twinkle in Amy’s eyes, or the one in Lita’s. She wondered what else they held in common. Lita’s answer to her own question sent a shudder throughout Genieva’s body. “Blood is a thick bond, Amy.” Lita’s face was serious and encouraging to Amy. “You’ll always have me here…as a friend.”
Amy nodded and brushed a tender tear from her cheek. Genieva, however, was beginning to feel ill.
“I think I had better get home, Lita,” she announced abruptly. “I’ll let you all visit. It was nice to meet you both. Please stop in on me if you’re ever over our way,” she offered a bit insincerely.
Walking home that afternoon, Genieva was lost in her frightening thoughts—thoughts of Lita and her baby—of Amy and her baby. How could Lita and Amy share a blood bond unless Brevan was the father of
Amy’s baby? There was no other way about it. And what if…she shook her head. The thought was too lewd—too disloyal. Yet what if the paternity of Lita’s baby were in question as well? Turning away from these devious thoughts, she concentrated on her own wounded hands—on the fear she had felt when Brevan lay hurt in his bed. Most of all she thought of Brevan. Thinking of Brevan took the other terrible contemplations from her mind. The mere thought of Brevan was like having her spirit take flight over the fragrant apple blossoms hanging so heavy on the trees. The vision of his handsome features of face and body—of his wit and commitment to his land—it was uplifting. And the memory of his succulent kiss? The memory of his kiss was exhilarating!
“Hola,” the rider called.
Genieva had been so immersed in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard the soft trot of the approaching horse and rider at first. Now, however, she turned around, shading her eyes from the sun hanging intense and bright in the sky.
“Hola!” the rider repeated. “Eres tú la esposa de Brevan McLean?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Genieva apologized. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Forgive me then, señora. I ask only if you are the wife of Brevan McLean?” The large man reining in his horse just before her smiled down at Genieva. He donned a heavy black mustache and a well-worn sombrero—similar to the one that Genieva had seen hanging from Lita’s bedpost—and the one donned by the stranger in the orchard. The man was somewhat handsome—perhaps in his late fifties.
“Yes. I’m Genieva Bankma…McLean,” she affirmed.
“I am Juan Miguel Archuleta, señora,” the man greeted, offering his hand to Genieva. “I am Carmalita’s papá.”
Genieva reached up and took the man’s offered hand, shaking it firmly. “Carmalita?” she asked. Then, as she realized to whom the man referred, she added, “Lita! Oh, how wonderful to meet you!”
The Heavenly Surrender Page 10
