by Jillian Hart
“That’s good of you but not necessary. You take care of Gertie. That’s our bargain.” He could hardly breathe as he rinsed the roasting pan, the sloshing sound hiding the wheeze in his chest. Shame wrapped around him. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was in the lamplight. He did not deserve her. She did not deserve what folks would be saying about the woman who married him.
He set the pan down too hard. The clatter punctuated the harsh cast to his words, made harder by the fading light. The lamp needed more kerosene. “You don’t need to pay your way, Felicity.”
“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”
Hope. He hadn’t been without it so long that he’d forgotten the sound of it. He hung his head, unable to look at her. A terrible feeling settled in his gut. He put the pan on the shelf, grateful for the break away from her. The lamplight writhed, struggling for life, casting eerie orange flickers along the wall. “I suppose I can’t call you Miss Sawyer for much longer.”
“No, as I will soon be Mrs. Winters. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve said that.” She circled the table in the lengthening shadows, swiping up every last crumb, a swirl of color and sweetness. “I like it. It makes me feel as if I belong here.”
She filled the house with a force that did not fade as the flame gave one last thrash and sputtered out. The last thing he saw clearly was the plea in her lovely eyes.
A plea. His guts twisted tight as he spun on his heel, plodding by memory to the lean-to entrance. He fumbled in the dark and not because he couldn’t find his way. Her plea stayed with him like a noose about his neck. Something he couldn’t outrun. Something that tightened around his throat cruelly.
The woman hadn’t come here expecting some romantic fairy tale, had she? He snatched the kerosene can off the shelf, his grip so tight on his cane his skin burned. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for. That wasn’t something he could do. He knew where love led. He was still picking up the shattered pieces of that illusion. Bitterness soured his mouth, tore through him like winter lightning and he stumbled back into the kitchen where the faint scent of roses, of her, softened the darkness.
“Gertie said you work tomorrow. Should I expect you home for lunch? What would you like for supper?”
Her kindness became cruel, but she couldn’t know that. She meant well. Her helpfulness and concern glanced off the glacier his soul had become. He wished he had some kindness to offer her in return. He removed the glass chimney with a clink as it landed on the table top and twisted open the can. He ignored the pungent smell as he tipped the can, listening to hear when the reservoir sounded full. What he heard was Felicity. The pattern of her step, the drops of water as she doused and wrung out the cloth, the steady nearly nonexistent rhythm of her breathing. Her plea remained, tighter around his neck.
He could not be what she wanted. He was sorry for it. Once he was a man of deep feeling. Prison had torn the feeling right out of him, leaving only the shell. He hated the emptiness inside as he watched her pour the soapy water into the rinse basin. She bent to the task, making a lovely picture. Gleaming, light blond hair, ivory skin, the graceful angle of her slender arm, the way her perfect top teeth worked into her bottom lip as she shook out the last few stubborn drops.
“I’m fortunate to have found you.” He had to be honest. It was the best thing he could do for her. He winced, hating to do it, wishing he had some gentleness inside to use to soften the blow. He took the heavy, water-filled basin, lifting it from the table so she wouldn’t have to. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “Not every woman is sensible enough to agree to marriage the way we have. A business arrangement. A living arrangement. A mutual agreement to make a child’s life better.”
He hardened himself for her reaction. As his words sank in, the brightness shining within her dimmed a notch. Hope faded, leaving a hollow smile and a tiny gasp of pain she could not hide.
“Nothing more.” He searched her, emphasizing those words, waiting for understanding to play across the perfect blue hue of her eyes. “It was what we agreed to before you came.”
It was better to be honest, rather than letting her hopes get too high. She had to see the man he was, the failure he’d become. She had to see he had nothing inside of him to give. That did not mean he would not work hard to provide the best life he could for her, for Gertie.
“I’d best get to bed. Work starts early in the morning.” The words felt torn from him.
“What time would you like breakfast?” Her strained voice struggled to disguise her disappointment.
He’d hurt her. He hated it but what else could he do? Let her hopes rise higher, only to fall further? He resisted the urge to reach out and brush a wayward curl from her cheek. Silly urge, wanting to bridge the distance between them. A distance that had to remain. That always had to be. He turned on his heel. “I start work at six.”
“Five-thirty, then?” She cleared her throat but layers of heartache remained as unmistakable as the shadows. Not even the growing strength of the lamp could chase it away. “I’ll have food on the table.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door, mountain-strong but no longer as remote. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a woman around, aside from Ingrid. I’ll do my best to be gentle.”
“We both have some adjusting to do. I’m not used to being around a man.” Her boardinghouse had been for women only. How did she explain suitors tended to bypass her just like those prospective parents in the orphanage yard, always choosing another? She hung up the wet dishcloth, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for you tonight?”
“No.” Surprise skimmed his face, then furrows of thought dug in. “Good night.”
The shadows claimed him as he opened the door. Cold curled in as if to snatch the man out into the dark. With a final thump the door closed, leaving her alone. The wind and snowfall masked the sound of his gait. The stove lid rattled as another gust broadsided the little house, making her pulse skip.
This wasn’t what she’d imagined. She gripped the lamp’s handle carefully and took it with her from table to couch. The rustle of her petticoats, the swish of her skirt, the pad of her shoes echoed around her. No, this was not what she’d expected when she’d made the decision to accept Tate’s briefly written proposal. Not at all what she’d risked dreaming of riding the train westward across the territory.
How could she have been so wrong? Agony twisted through her. With a sigh, she set the lamp next to the sofa and sat. She buried her face in her hands. She’d risked everything coming here hoping for love, a love that could not possibly be found.
A business arrangement. A living arrangement. Nothing more. Tate’s words came back to her now, replaying over and over again in her mind. The man she’d imagined didn’t exist. He didn’t want to care about her. He never would. Her precious hopes fell like glass and shattered all around her into tiny shards and bits of dust that glimmered mockingly in the light.
Her fault for wishing love might grow, anyway. Her heart swelled with pain as she straightened and took a steadying breath. She tugged her yarn basket closer, glad she’d thought to unpack it earlier, and took up her needles and a skein of red Christmas yarn. Gertie needed mittens.
Gertie’s love kept her going as she made a slip knot. She cast on stitch after stitch and while she worked the click of steel needles echoed in the vast stillness of the tiny house. The loneliness wrapping around her had never been so huge.
* * *
“What’s she like?” The question rose out of the dark like a gunshot, startling him.
Tate’s cane flew out of his hand, hit the floor and reverberated like cannon fire through the feed store’s back room. A match flared to life. “Devin, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
“A gust of wind blew out the light.”
A glass chimney rattled as his older brother touched flame to wick. Illumination crept across the small worktable, crossed an open
ed ledger and fell onto the floor at Tate’s feet. He bent stiffly to fetch his cane. His injuries ached sorely from the cold and rising storm. “You don’t fool me. You’re hanging around pretending to do your books late so you can hear all about the woman.”
“What if I am?” Devin leaned back in the captain’s chair, grinning wide. “I heard all about her from Ingrid. Pretty, blonde, nice. Brother, the good Lord is watching over you because what were the chances you would get someone like that?”
“The good Lord was watching over Gertie,” he corrected, seizing the cane’s grip. The distaste of what’d he been forced to say to Felicity rankled in his chest.
“C’mon, you’ve got to be relieved.” Devin had that tell-me-more look on his face. Clearly he was tickled pink by the turn of events.
“Whether she’s pretty or ugly makes no difference to me.” He unbuttoned his coat, brushing off snow.
“That can’t be true. It would matter to me.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not you. Fortunately.” He didn’t joke much these days but he still had a drop of humor left somewhere inside. He almost grinned. “Say, tell me again why you aren’t married yet?”
“No sensible woman would have me.” It was their standard joke and Devin shrugged, leaned farther back in his chair and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. “Ing sure liked her.”
“Ing likes everyone.” He saw again the hurt and disappointment and Felicity’s struggle to hide it. The intangible noose remained around his neck, pulling tighter. He’d done his best tonight. He couldn’t resurrect the man he used to be. That man was gone, beaten near to death years ago. He hung his coat on a peg. “She made Gertrude a doll.”
“Whew.” Impressed, Devin sat up straight. “Figure that’s a sign from heaven?”
“I figure it’s a sign she is the right woman. She loves Gertie. It’s quite a doll. She must have spent a lot of time sewing on it.” He swallowed hard, wondering what Felicity was doing right now. Was she still looking shell-shocked? Or had she recovered? He hated to think of her alone and hurting. In time, she would be grateful to him but for now… He blew out a hurting sigh. “Best get upstairs. Morning rolls around fast.”
“That it does.” Devin searched for a pencil amid the paperwork. “Good night, little brother.”
“’Night.” He made his way up the stairs through the dark and into the room tucked beneath the peak of the roof. Warmth remained from the heat of the stovepipe spearing through and he lit a battered lantern.
Alone in the half light he sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the straw tick crinkling beneath his weight. He kicked off his left boot. Where did his mind go? To the woman and the gift she’d given Gertie. There hadn’t been money enough to replace the one taken from her. Until he’d lowered his pride and accepted help from his brother, he had been desperate. No one wanted to hire a convicted felon, and those who did weren’t pleasant to work for and did not pay well.
Just how long would it be before Felicity learned the truth from some town gossip? He raked his hands through his hair and snow sifted downward onto the blankets. He should tell her first, he decided. Perhaps he should have simply blurted it out tonight.
He wanted to say that bringing her here had been a bad decision, but it wasn’t. No matter what, he knew that for sure. He just needed to keep his distance and to let the girl and woman bond. Gertie needed her. And that woman full of sweetness and a heart ready to love needed Gertie as much.
At least he prayed it was true. He bowed his head, a man who knew for a fact God had turned His back on him, and prayed.
Chapter Six
The cold bedroom shivered around her as she pinned up her braid. An Iowa girl, she was used to frigid mornings but this one was made worse by nerves. They popped in her stomach as she buttoned up. Facing Tate wasn’t going to be easy but after a good night’s sleep and more than a little prayer, she felt stronger. One more hairpin and her braid was secure. She gave one last look in the mirror and lifted her chin, ready to face the day. Except for the hurt in her eyes, she looked the same. No other outward sign she was hurting.
Good. The last thing she wanted Tate to know how hurt she was. A girl had her pride. Her primping done, she took the lamp from the chest and opened her door the same moment the front door burst wide in a blaze of ice and wind. A dark figure broke through the storm. Tate. Seeing her, he stiffened and drew up to his full six-foot height. Formidable, he shouldered the door closed, frothed with white. He did not look happy to see her.
“Morning.” He shouldered away to the potbellied stove in the sitting area and disregarded her entirely.
“Good morning.” She spoke to his back as she skirted around the back of the couch, bringing the light with her. Awkward silence settled between them as she set the lamp on the round oak table. Why was she aware of every sound he made? The squeak of the stove’s hinges, the crush of the shovel sinking into the coal, the rush and tumble of sizzling-hot ashes.
Would every morning be like this? With both of them wordlessly going about their work? Images long forgotten rose to the surface, memories that whispered and nudged her as she pulled the metal ring in the floor, lifted the door and descended the few steps into the cellar.
Faint light lit her way. The memories followed her as she lifted a bowl of eggs from a shelf and a slab of salt pork. She recalled her mother’s voice calling the family to breakfast. Stockinged feet paraded across the braided rugs, little girls’ voices sang out gleefully one on top of another, “I want pancakes” and “I do, too!” Chairs clattered, Pa’s deep chuckle accompanied the flurry as he swept the littlest onto her chair and gave her plump cheek a kiss. “Sorry girls, but I get all the pancakes.”
“No, Pa!” They would all squeal.
Smiling in memory, she tucked the butter bowl into the curve of one arm. The happy sounds followed her up the steps, fading to silence in the kitchen light. A few feet away, Tate hunkered down in front of the range, feeding the growing fire.
“Ought to be going good in a few minutes.” He didn’t look at her. He closed the door and grappled for his cane. “I’ll make sure you have enough coal to last the day.”
“Thank you.” She set her load onto the table. “Should I wake Gertie?”
“Later. When the house is fully warm.” He took the hod and disappeared into the lean-to.
How could she feel more alone than she’d ever been? She couldn’t explain it. She squared her shoulders, gathering all the determination she could and chose a fry pan from the shelf. It clunked to a rest on the stovetop. There would be no pancakes this morning, she decided, haunted by her memories. She hadn’t realized how deeply she’d wanted to find that past and recreate the joyfulness of her long-ago family.
Maybe I can do that for Gertie, she decided, lining a pan with slice after slice of salt pork. She would salvage what contentment she could for herself and give her new daughter the happiness and joy she deserved.
Her decision made it easier to crack the first egg and watch the white bubble when it met the hot pan. Footsteps and cane rapped closer. What about Tate? What did he deserve? She tapped a second egg against the lip of metal, watching a crack creep across the delicate shell.
Hopelessness clung to him like the cold draft from the lean-to as he sidled close to the stove with the load of coal. A living arrangement, that’s what he wanted, as if she were nothing more than a cook and a maid, but she knew that wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he meant. Grim, he lowered the hod, nodded once to her. The apology poignant in his unguarded eyes made her thumb pierce the shell too hard. Egg innards tumbled into the pan in an untidy clump.
“I need to feed the horse and harness him, but I’ll be back by the time you’re finished cooking.” No emotion carried in his tone, he sounded like a dead man walking as he gave a heavy sigh and turned away. “I’ll take my meal with me. I’ve got a long work day ahead of me.”
“I’ll have it waiting for you when you’re done at the barn.” She reached fo
r another egg from the bowl. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched him limp across the room, proud shoulders braced, powerful back straight, a man holding on to his dignity.
She knew what hardship could do. She knew how it felt to believe all the good in life was behind you. Was that what he thought? Didn’t he know that you never knew what the good God had waiting for you somewhere up ahead? It was what she had learned holding out hope that her sisters would find her. She may not have found her first family, but she had the chance for another.
Aching filled her, a soreness that radiated from heart to rib, from soul to bone. She breathed out slowly, all she could manage with the fresh emotion lodged in her chest. She cracked the egg, placing the last runny white and bright yolk carefully into the pan. A little salt and pepper, and the salt pork was ready to turn. After giving everything a flip, she set last night’s leftover biscuits in the oven to warm.
Cooking was all he would let her do for him. For regardless of her disappointment, he’d been honest with her. He was doing his best. This man would be her husband, and she would not stop caring.
* * *
What if he’d been too hard on her? The question troubled him as he fastened the harness buckles. Old Patches stood obediently, not complaining when a mean gust of wind hit. He wished he had some gentleness to spare for both the horse and the woman. The way she’d looked at him this morning twisted through him. He didn’t like what he’d become.
“I won’t be long, fella.” He patted the gelding’s neck and dreaded the few steps that would bring him to the house where Felicity was, going about her work in the kitchen, trying to hide her feelings. At least the woman was an open book, honest with her emotions. He appreciated it as he patted the horse’s neck and headed toward the house.
It wasn’t easy turning the doorknob, knowing she would be there. Fresh coffee and sizzling salt pork scented the air and he kept his gaze low to the floor so he wouldn’t have to see that look. The one that told him she had come here looking for more than a convenient marriage, hoping for much more of a man than him. He didn’t blame her. He steeled his spine, doing his best.
