A Bride at Last

by Melissa Jagears

  “Maybe you’ll get to meet her sometime.” Kate stopped washing to look at him. “I guess that depends on where she lives.”

  “Raytown, Missouri.”

  “Why, that’s not far from Hartfield.”

  Anthony’s smile died. “You mean she lives near Pa?”

  Kate winced, and Silas’s stomach knotted.

  “Silas is your pa, Anthony.” Kate’s reproach held authority despite its softness.

  “I know, I just . . .”

  Silas cleared his throat. “It’s hard to remember to call Richard something else when you’ve called him Pa your whole life. I understand.” And yet, the comfortable family-like mood Kate had created now seemed shallow. “And yes, I’d like us to go back to see her if possible.” But without a last name, how would he begin to find an address for her? At least Jewel wasn’t a common name. Maybe he might get lucky. Though if he did find her, would he ever feel comfortable enough to travel after how his homestead had fared with Peter Hicks?

  Outside the window, a wagon turned onto his road. Silas put a hand against the glass to erase the low-lying sun’s glare. The livery boy again? He frowned. Anthony would not be happy. He’d assumed they’d have to take Kate home.

  Sighing, Silas folded his letter. “Kate, your ride is coming.”

  “No.” Anthony groaned and slumped in his chair, the chessboard halfway reset.

  She wiped her hands and crossed the room to press Anthony’s dark head against her side in a makeshift hug. “We can play another day.”

  “Tomorrow?” he whined.

  She laughed. “You have school tomorrow.”

  “Even worse.” With a big sweep of his arm, Anthony knocked the pieces back into the wooden box.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get the dishes done, Silas.” Kate folded the towel and set it beside the dish basin.

  He couldn’t even form words to tell her she needn’t have done any of them.

  She packed the candlesticks and some of the cooking utensils, then took her coat off its hook.

  He stood and looked around at all the things she’d brought. “Can I help you gather your things?”

  “No, I’ve got everything.”

  He frowned at the stuff he knew wasn’t his. Then realized he should’ve been helping her into her coat, but she already had it on.

  “Come on, Anthony.” Silas grabbed the back of the boy’s chair. “Let’s see Kate out.”

  Kate pressed Anthony to her side as they both squashed through the front door. “I’ll walk to the edge of town with you after school like always—no need to be so glum.”

  The livery boy stopped in front of the porch, and Anthony trudged down the stairs with one of Kate’s empty baskets and tossed it into the buggy.

  “I had a good time, Silas.” She came close, almost as if she were going to go up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, but with a glance at the driver, she stepped back to a more respectable distance. “Thank you.”

  “I wish I’d done something worth being thanked for.” He shrugged, trying not to pull on his collar anymore today, lest it hang loose on him forevermore. “I should be thanking you.”

  “Maybe we can do it again next year?” She raised her eyebrows, and the way she tilted her head to look up at him . . . was she flirting?

  No, surely not. What woman would flirt with a man who’d jilted her all because he was worried she might follow in Lucy’s footsteps?

  Might.

  He followed her down the stairs. When she grabbed hold of the side of the buggy, he helped her up.

  Once seated, she didn’t let go of his hand. The strength in her grip made him certain she held on to him on purpose.

  He shouldn’t have proposed to her back in Breton—he was still right about that.

  But did that mean he’d proposed to the wrong woman? He worried about her, thought about her, wished she could’ve stayed longer, wished he didn’t have to let go.

  He lowered his hand once he realized she’d released him at some point.

  “Good-bye.” She smiled a little at him, then winked at Anthony as the buggy pulled away.

  And he envied his son that wink.

  His heart had clearly lied to his brain. He’d never truly been worried about her leaving Anthony—but rather her staying and him failing at marriage once again.

  What would happen if he let himself kiss her again? The first time, he’d proposed; the second, he’d thrown all caution out the soddy’s window. There’d be no way he’d not fall hard for her once they were wed.

  So what if he married her and she never came to love him back? He’d been unable to capture Lucy’s heart, and now he was having difficulty winning his son’s. How could he be sure he would win Kate’s?

  The second she stopped waving and turned to face the road, Anthony reassumed the slumped posture and sour expression he’d been sporting for weeks.

  The same expression Jedidiah had sported for years.

  Silas paused. He’d always thought Jedidiah a fool. His wife had gotten pregnant with another man’s baby before they’d met and kept the information to herself. Not a secret any husband would be happy to learn about years later, but nothing she’d done while married to Jedidiah indicated she was or would be unfaithful again.

  Nothing Kate did now indicated she’d run. Despite the difficulty he’d put her in, she seemed determined to stay for Anthony’s sake—as she’d said she’d do all along.

  Was it wrong to want to gain the boy’s affections without Kate’s help though? “You know, Anthony, I wish you didn’t act like this every time Kate left. I don’t expect you to love me like you do her just yet. I know I’m little more than a stranger to you, but I’ll only stay that way if you don’t get to know me—if you don’t give me a chance.”

  The boy didn’t so much as flinch.

  “I want you to stop calling me Mr. Jonesey. If you don’t want to call me Pa, that’s fine, but at least call me Silas. I know your ma didn’t have much nice to say about me, but I’d like you to judge me for what I do now rather than what I did years ago.”

  “But aren’t you mad at Kate for something she did years ago?”

  He swallowed hard. No wonder he was getting nowhere with his son if he was modeling the very thing he wanted him to stop doing.

  He put his arm around Anthony, and though his son didn’t wrap his arm back around him, he at least didn’t shrug him off. “It’s hard to risk our hearts, isn’t it?”

  If it weren’t so cold, he could’ve stayed out here with his arm around his boy for hours, but his numb fingers protested. “Let’s go in and have the last of the cocoa Kate made.”

  “All right . . . Silas.”

  He smiled and kept his arm around his son as they walked back into the house.

  “Can’t you hire her to work around here?” Anthony grumbled.

  “I can’t afford to.” But maybe he’d take his own advice and risk his heart—for everyone’s sake. If not, was he not as foolish as Jedidiah, wallowing in a bitter bog of his own making?

  But he wouldn’t tell Anthony he wanted to shuck all his misgivings and chase after joy. Because if Kate wouldn’t have him—and he wouldn’t blame her if she wouldn’t—he didn’t want Anthony to think she’d chosen not to be his ma.

  But maybe he had a chance, if he could find the right words to say.

  Chapter 21

  “Oh, Kate.” Julia Cline dropped the apple she’d been cutting and put a hand to her mouth again. “I need to—” She ran out the door and little Gabriel started whimpering at the table.

  “Don’t cry, Gabriel.” Six-year-old Matthew patted his three-year-old brother’s hand. “She’ll stop getting sick someday. Papa says so.”

  “But I want my apple cut.” He picked up the apple, twice the size of his hand, thrust out a pouty lip, and blinked his big, sad eyes.

  Kate fought a smile. “Can I cut it for you?” She wiped her sudsy hands on a towel and grabbed Julia’s abandoned knife. Though Rachel
had told her Julia’s husband could only pay her a small amount for helping his wife through the early stages of her pregnancy, at least she was doing something to pay for her boarding.

  Gabriel hugged the apple to his chest. “I want Momma to cut it.”

  “She might throw up on it.” Matthew stood with his hands on his hips as if lecturing someone who should know better. “Miss Dawson won’t.”

  She couldn’t help her grin now. “I promise I won’t throw up on it.”

  “All right.” The little boy reluctantly held out the green fruit.

  She cut the apple she’d brought in from the root cellar that morning and put the slices on his plate.

  “That’s not enough,” the boy whined.

  She frowned. “But I gave you the whole apple.”

  Matthew peeked over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Momma cuts it into eight pieces.”

  She shook her head and made eight pieces. No wonder Julia struggled to get things done while sick and sleepy. Doing anything for these two took five times longer than necessary. “Maybe you should learn to eat an apple in four pieces.”

  The boy looked at her as if he’d never agree to such a horrible proposition, but at least he didn’t complain about how some of the apple pieces were smaller than the others.

  The door creaked behind them, and Julia leaned heavily on the doorknob. Her hand pressed against her still-flat stomach. Julia was beautiful, with her delicate features and thick dark hair, but her sickness seemed to have drained her of all color. How could a baby so tiny cause so much discomfort?

  “I was looking forward to having children, but now I’m not so eager.” Kate handed the woman the tea Rachel had suggested for queasiness.

  “This is worse than either of the boys.”

  “Maybe you’re having more than one?”

  Julia’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, heaven help me! I was hoping it meant I was having a girl.”

  “I don’t want a girl.” Matthew crossed his arms. “Girls are bossy.”

  Julia rolled her eyes, but Kate couldn’t tell if it was in response to Matthew’s declaration or another bout of dizziness. She pulled out Julia’s chair. “Have a seat. You look ready to fall over.”

  “I’m not so sure . . .” She put a hand to her mouth, spun around, and dashed back outside.

  “Why does she have to be so sick?” Matthew slumped in his chair. “She said she’d read to me this morning, and it’s already after lunch.”

  A man’s throat cleared behind them. Everett, Julia’s husband, gave his boy a stern look as he stepped inside. “We’re to be understanding, Matthew. We talked about this.”

  The young boy sighed, and Everett came over and pulled him into a hug, ruffling his son’s dark hair.

  Kate grabbed her discarded dishcloth. “And your parents hired me to help, so as soon I dry these glasses, I’ll read to you. All right?”

  “I guess so.” He mumbled against his father’s shirt.

  Everett let go of Matthew and leaned over to pick up the apple slice Gabriel had knocked onto the floor. The little boy’s mop of dirty blond hair and deep blue eyes made him unmistakably his father’s son. Everett popped back up and planted a kiss on Gabriel’s little forehead before turning back to her. “Miss Dawson, you’ll want to hold off on the dish drying and the storytelling.”

  She took in Matthew’s pout. He’d been very patient, and Julia had promised him a story hours ago. “Do you want me to check on your wife?”

  “No, I’ll do that, and I’ll see to the boys. You’ve got a visitor.”

  She took a towel and dried her hands. “I’m sure Rachel wouldn’t mind me telling him a story first.”

  “Not Rachel. Silas.”

  She stopped rubbing her hands against the towel and strangled it instead. “Oh.” With nearly useless fingers, she hung up the towel, then reached behind her waist to fumble with her apron strings. “I can’t imagine why he’d come all the way out here since—”

  “I bet you can once you get a look at him.” Everett gave her an all-encompassing, handsome grin, as if her nerves amused him.

  Hurrying to avoid any questions from the boys, she deposited her apron on a chair and walked through the door Everett held open for her.

  Silas paced on the other side of his wagon, head down, hands clasped behind his back. Surely his agitation didn’t bode well.

  She stopped at the front of his cart and waited for him to pivot.

  When he turned, he caught sight of her, and his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but not a frown either. “Good afternoon, Kate.”

  “Likewise.” Except not really. Her back ached after cleaning all morning, and now her stomach threatened to visit Julia’s misery upon her as well. “Is Anthony all right?”

  “Yes.” He walked straight to her, as if he meant to plow her over, but he stopped short and reached into his pocket. “I came to give you enough money to cover your lost school-year salary—what I cost you.” He pulled out a thick, clipped square of bills. “Two hundred dollars.”

  She closed her eyes and all the muscles in her body threatened to give up. She reached for the side of the wagon. Two hundred dollars was more than adequate, but goodness, she’d let herself hope. Stupid. Had he felt nothing for her?

  She shouldn’t have let herself feel anything the times she’d thought of him, looked at him, imagined what being loved by him might’ve been like. She tightened her grip on the wagon’s sideboard to keep from walking away without his money.

  “Is that enough?” He held the cash out between them. “I’m sorry I expected you to fend for yourself when I was responsible for your predicament. That was wrong of me.”

  “Yes, it’s enough.” She couldn’t open her eyes to look at him. “But I thought you didn’t have enough to even hire me.”

  “I sold a parcel of land to my neighbor, Mr. Thissen.”

  “Sold?” She had to look at him now. “But you took so much pride in your spread; you had plans for it all once you got everything back in order.”

  “Well, yes. But I had no other way to get enough money to make things up to you without depleting my savings.”

  She pressed the heel of her hand to the corner of an eye, hoping the pressure would keep her emotions at bay.

  “But I have something else I hope you might consider.” He placed the money on the wagon’s seat, then leaned over into the back and hefted a small crate over the side. Inside the box lay a single dark bottle propped in a corner.

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  “Wine. A man who once lived near me gave this to me after Lucy and I were married. Can’t remember what year he said it was, but he’d brought it from Scotland and was saving it to celebrate his firstborn son, but he’d only had girls.” Silas smiled. “He gave it to me for my first boy, but of course, I didn’t know about Anthony.” His countenance lost its happiness for a second. “That was before the state’s prohibition.”

  Did he expect her to want wine instead of money? Surely not. The idea was laughable, but he didn’t look like he was trying to be cheeky. “Did you bring this for me to pour out?” Surely he could’ve given the bottle to someone else instead of driving two hours to have her do it.

  “No.” His laugh was little more than a huff. “I’d been keeping this because I never truly believed I’d conquer my addiction. Maybe I still don’t. So since I expected to fail at staying sober, I’d figured I’d keep this to enjoy someday.”

  She swallowed and wrapped her arms about herself. Was he here only to confess to someone in an attempt to take weight off his shoulders? “Are you certain you don’t want me to pour it out? Think of Anthony.”

  “I am thinking of him.” He stared at the wine bottle in the crate but didn’t take his hands off the box. “I’ve quit drinking plenty of times, as you know, but I never had enough faith to believe I could stay sober. After Thanksgiving, I considered my reasons not to marry you, and I remembered this bottle.”

  Not to marry her.

&
nbsp; “I’d forgotten about it and went to the barn to hold it again.”

  “Holding it’s not good for you.”

  “I didn’t have much of a problem this time, since I was thinking of you and Anthony. As I rolled it between my hands, I prayed God would help me stay sober.”

  He set the crate down between them on a patch of dirt. “Then I realized I was viewing your past the same way I viewed mine, believing that caving to our weakness was inevitable. I believed someday you’d run again, because I believed someday I’d drink again.” He pointed to her worn boots. “Anthony says you only run in your old boots.”

  She hooked the toes of one foot behind the heel of the other. “Yes, they’re the best for it.” What did that have to do with anything?

  “How long have you had them?”

  She shrugged.

  “Since before you jilted the first fellow?”

  “Yes.” She’d never had money to spend on anything but necessities.

  “I still think of drinking almost every day, Kate. Whether I dream of sipping moonshine, or I suddenly recall the bottle of aged wine in the barn, or get a random memory of how a good whiskey burns, the desire doesn’t seem to leave. It might grow weaker, but I’m not sure it’ll ever go away, so I can’t promise I’ll never drink again, even though I wish I could.” He shifted his weight. “Do you think about running a lot?”

  She relaxed her grip on the wagon. Hadn’t she just anchored herself to keep from running away without his money? “Sometimes.” She’d never thought of running as an addiction, but it was certainly a bad habit, a knee-jerk reaction to situations turning sour. “I guess I couldn’t completely promise anyone I’d never leave when life got difficult.”

  He nodded as if that was a good answer. Days ago she’d have been certain he’d have considered that the worst possible answer.

  He smoothed his beard as he drew his fingers down his jaw. “My other fear—if I were to marry again—is that I wouldn’t be able to shake the dread of being abandoned physically or emotionally. I worry I may never feel free enough to love a wife as much as she deserves, to love her with no reservations. So I decided to give you this.” He poked the crate forward with his toe. “I . . . I do want to marry you, Kate. Not because Anthony wants me to, but because I realized this week that I want to risk loving you, though I’m afraid to.”