by Jo Noelle
Both the office and the living room were similar with wooden floors, large fireplaces, and a couple of windows. The living area had a large woolen rug in the middle. Chairs, a sofa, a large desk, tables and chairs, and even the beds upstairs were now in place. The next room had the staircase leading to the second floor. It surprised him how much it suddenly felt like a home with Clara standing there with him. He supposed that if he wanted to make it so, and he very much did, he’d better get to courting his wife.
“And back there is the kitchen.” As they looked through that door, Bernard pointed out the water pump at the sink. “And behind that wall is a water closet with enough room for a bathing tub.”
“It’s a fine building, Bernard. The leaded glass and the shiny wood floors, even the moldings around the ceiling—I love it all.” Clara turned in circles in each room.
Bernard couldn’t help but notice the fine figure she had. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes back to her lovely face. If he thought that would calm his racing heart, he was wrong. Courting first, he reminded himself.
A knock on the door echoed through the house. Bernard opened it and invited John Jackson and Willie Meeks to bring in the box from the mercantile. “Take it to the last door at the top of the stairs.”
After they came back down and left, he followed Clara upstairs and pointed ahead. “That will be your room. It’s where they put the box.” He thought he saw her shoulders relax. She might have been worried about his expectations as well.
They both retired early to separate ends of the house, his boots clicking down the hall and her soft steps retreating from him. He shut the bedroom door behind himself. What had he done? What does one do with a wife? It seemed best not to linger on that question until he had some kind of idea about normal family life. He’d never seen that and didn’t know how to create it. He’d seen the worst. Maybe he should just do the opposite of everything he knew.
A light knock sounded. “Excuse me?” Clara said outside, her voice uncertain.
When he opened the door, she handed him the house coat he’d purchased at the mercantile. He’d forgotten all about it.
“This was packed in the boxes with the coat and gloves.”
“Thank you. I thought I might need it since we’ll be in close quarters.” He took if from her, and his hand grazed against hers. Tingles raced all the way to his scalp.
“Well, goodnight and thank you again.” She left it with him and turned away.
He watched her walk down the hall. Her skirt swayed behind her as if she was dancing. He’d never been one to notice ladies’ fashions, but it was hard not to notice them on her.
As Bernard reclined on his bed, he thought about his day. He’d woken up as a single man and had come home a married one. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Where was the methodical lawyer considering all sides of the situation and then determining the best course of action? Instead, he had been propelled by passion, a primitive instinct to protect Clara. Quite a surprising turn of events—for them both.
Chapter 4
Clara Hatfield
Clara looked out her dark window. The nearly full moon was just over the western horizon, illuminating a few silvery clouds. It would be sunup in an hour. She’d lain awake for most of the night thinking over the previous day. She’d started it with no idea that she’d get married. Definitely no idea that there would be two grooms. Her heart leaped in reaction to Mr. Newell—Bernard. She’d enjoyed his company many times over the last few months, adding to how much she liked working at Hearth and Home. He was easy to talk to and had fine manners.
What a mystery the man was. In church, he didn’t say a word, didn’t sing or talk with others, but he came every week alone, sitting in the back where Clara sat as well. Then he left before Reverend Theodore even made it to the door to shake hands with the congregation. Bernard was a serious, even stern-looking, lawyer and appeared passionate about his work, studying large tomes or reading the newspaper between clients, but he’d come to her rescue on an impulse. He was large and strong but gentle with her.
The thought of marriage was overwhelming. Her cupped hands covered her mouth, and she closed her eyes. Just take some deep breaths. It might turn out to be all right.
Even though she admired him greatly and had, a time or two, been carried away with grandiose ideas of falling in love, her past whipped her back into reality. She had told herself many times that she would never marry again. And yet, she had.
He probably hadn’t imagined he’d marry a woman so beneath him. How would she ever be able to repay his kindness? That’s what had kept her awake. She decided that she’d have to be the best wife she could be. She’d make dishes he enjoyed. She had a good idea based on what he ordered. She could keep his house clean and beautiful and stay out of his public life. They would be together but separate. It was a good plan. She’d be more of an employee than a real wife.
She hurriedly dressed, taking a moment to admire the fine clothes he’d given her. The man had changed her life twice now. They were the kind of dresses that had her straightening her shoulders. A moment later, she sneaked down the stairs to get an early start on the day.
“I see you’re an early riser, too,” Bernard said, sitting just inside the kitchen and laying his newspaper aside.
Clara nearly jumped out of her skin and pressed her hand to her chest.
“Sorry.” Bernard smiled at her. “I don’t have food, but I do have coffee.” He lifted his cup and nodded toward her. “Would you like some?” He already had another cup on the table and a spoon at ready in case she wanted cream or sugar.
“Thank you. Yes.” A quick list of items she’d have to order ran through her mind as she walked to the table—eggs, flour, ham and bacon, milk, potatoes. When she sat in the chair across the corner from him, their knees touched. She swung them away but noticed that a smile grew on his lips. There were little crinkle lines around his eyes when he poured some coffee into her cup.
She’d noticed that in the conversations he had with clients, he rarely smiled. It was too bad. His smile changed his whole face. Oh, he was a handsome man, but smiling increased how handsome he looked. She couldn’t tell how old he was. The graying at his temples had her adding years to his age, but the boyish grin took just as many away. She wondered if the gray was there too early.
Her eyes kept moving away like she shouldn’t study him so closely. Well, we are married, so . . . “May I ask your age? I know it might be a personal question, but—”
“Take a guess. We’ll make a game of getting to know each other. I’ve been wondering about yours too.”
“You have?” Why that surprised her, she couldn’t say, but she suspected it was because no one really noticed her before. Clara had a ticklish rumbling in her stomach and took a quick sip to hide her pleasure.
“Yes. You look like you’re maybe twenty-three or so, but you don’t speak as if you are. There’s more maturity there. I’ve settled on twenty-five. Am I right?”
“Close.” Delight sparked—she liked that he’d guessed low. “I’m twenty-seven,” she answered.
“Your turn. How old am I?” Bernard walked to the coffee pot on the stove and freshened his cup.
“The gray made me think late thirties, but your face says you’re younger.” As he walked toward her, she studied his face. “I’ll say you’re thirty-four.”
Bernard laughed and threw himself against the back into his chair. “Right.” He slapped his leg and shook his head. “That’s a good guess.” Then he shoveled several teaspoons of sugar into his drink and stirred.
“Really—exactly?” So, he has a sweet tooth. Clara started thinking about which sugary treats she could make that he’d like. Why did she want Bernard to look forward to her cooking? And why was she excited to do it? Her brain knew that she was only married now because of a heroic gesture on Bernard’s part, but her heart had started thinking she was good and truly married. The idea excited her and terrified h
er. She would have to be more cautious.
“On the dot. The gray hair is a family curse. It’ll be white long before I’m old.”
“Oh, as far as curses go, that’s not a bad one to have. It gives you a dignified look and makes you seem more trustworthy.” Clara could hear the warmth in her voice. She was flirting. She needed to turn the conversation away from intimate information. “Thank you for giving me my own room. It was a little awkward coming to your house last night. I’ll try to keep to myself as much as I can, so you can enjoy your home.”
Although she tried not to notice Bernard’s expression, she caught it anyway. His eyes momentarily widened and then narrowed again. He picked up his cup and sipped, but his gaze never wavered from her. He seemed to be trying to figure her out. She hoped he didn’t.
“Yesterday, I arranged for you to make purchases at the Jacksons’ mercantile, and I’ll contact the Crowther’s dry goods store today. I’d appreciate if you would order up some food. We can talk about the house budget later.”
Clara took in a ragged breath. He was talking about the mundane tasks of running a house. That suited her more than fine. “I’ll take care of it today.” She walked her now empty cup to the counter.
“You mentioned still working with Millie and Julianne. Let me know when I can expect you there or home.” Bernard placed his cup beside hers. “I don’t trust Quint or your brother, and I’d like to offer you what protection I can.” He wrapped her coat from the hall tree around her shoulders, brushing his hands at the top of her arms briefly.
Clara knew she’d stiffened at the surprise of his touch and forced her spine to soften. If he didn’t stop touching her, she thought she’d melt. Bernard was a kind man. Although she had turned the conversation away from being personal, he was still going to be there for her. She hadn’t thought Arlo and Quint were still a danger to her, but Bernard might be right. They might not give up so easily.
“Shall we get you to work?” he asked shrugging into this coat and walking her to the door.
Clara nodded her assent. “And you too.”
Bernard shut the door, locking it behind them.
Over the rattle of the keys, Clara heard tiny mewing sounds and saw a gray tabby mother cat, heavy with milk, slip between the wooden slats of their front stairs. The kittens’ cries increased. She imagined the mother settling herself. Then they were all silent. As they walked farther away, Clara imagined the happy little family scene in the shadow under the stairs.
They walked on Main Street toward the boarding house. She supposed it was possible that she could make a nice home for him and still not become intimate. Her stomach clenched. That was what she most dreaded. Oh, it was so nice to be within a man’s arms, his muscle and strength against her softness, his face close enough that his breath warmed her cheek, his lips against her own. She imagined Bernard pushing his hands through her hair. There was a special glory in being loved—until the babies came.
A familiar warmth began to grow behind her eyes, and she swallowed hard. Her chest tightened, holding back the little gasp that would precede tears. That wasn’t something she wanted to think about right now. Maybe later—very late tonight. She sniffed and blinked her eyes, but she was well aware of the lump in her throat.
“I’ll arrange with Millie and Julianne to work fewer hours at Hearth and Home. I’d like to make proper suppers for you to thank you for taking care of me.”
If Bernard noticed the way her voice was quietly strangled, he didn’t mention it. “I’d like that,” he said. “Now and again, I’d like to take you to one of the restaurants in town to eat a meal you don’t prepare.” He winked at her. “Just to thank you for taking care of me.”
Goodness. That little gesture nearly took her breath away. She supposed that there were many things that might feel like a real marriage in the coming weeks that she’d have to keep in perspective.
“Well, not tonight. Is there something you’d like to eat?”
They walked along, talking about preferred foods, then parted ways when she entered the back door of Hearth and Home’s kitchen. Bernard walked on to the front.
Millie and Julianne were standing with their arms folded, staring silently at her.
Clara removed her wrap and bonnet, then hung them on the peg before she began putting on a work apron. Although she had turned away, she still felt them watching her.
“Do you have anything to do, Millie?” Julianne asked.
“No. Not even one little thing. How about you?” Millie replied, stretching out her words for emphasis.
“I could stand around all day. All night, too, especially if I’m waiting to get the rest of the story from a certain friend who’s ignoring us.”
“Uh-huh. Ignoring us,” Millie echoed.
Clara knew she’d have to say something, but what? She wasn’t sure how to explain it. “All right,” she paused, considering which part to tell. One minute, she was being sold to Quint or abandoned again, and the next minute Bernard gave her a choice. But when she started, the whole story spilled out of her.
In the telling, she’d purposely skipped over the lady gunslinger and the apparent way time stopped. Clara was sure that her brother’s treatment had rattled her emotions. Maybe her head wanted to stop time so she could figure things out, so she imagined that it did. That’s all that was. Nothing to worry about.
Millie and Julianne looked at each other. This time, Clara thought they were sharing a knowing look.
“Quite the miracle, don’t you think?” Julianne said. She reached to squeeze Clara’s hand.
“Yes, miracle. That’s the exact word I’d use for it, too,” Millie said. “Do you believe in those, Clara?” she asked softly.
Clara thought about the gunslinger again. That would certainly explain her.
“I do,” Julianne said. “I think my marriage to Hugh was the result of a miracle.”
They both looked at Clara expectantly, but she didn’t know what to say. “Yes.” That would probably fit Clara and Bernard’s marriage. Her friends might even think so, but they didn’t know the rest of it. “I’ll get to work now,” she said.
After a long moment, Millie said, “Edwin’s sisters are upstairs. We’ve decided to clean the mattresses today, and they’ve gotten started. Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?”
Clara nodded, and the women went to work on making fig bars for the sack meals. Several times during the preparation, Clara noticed that Millie rubbed her forehead or closed her eyes as if she had a headache, but then she always went right back to work.
When they were finished, Millie said, “I have to go to Crowthers’ Dry Goods to order a bag of oats. Would you like to come?”
“I would. I’d like to arrange for a delivery to Bernard’s house today.”
“Let’s get to it, then.”
They chatted about the menus for the coming days as they walked along. Before they crossed the street, Millie stopped and clutched her arms around her waist, then reached out to Clara’s shoulder to steady herself.
“Are you all right, Millie?” she asked. She’d been suspecting that Millie was with child for a couple of weeks now.
Millie’s hand was clamped over her mouth, and she nodded without opening her eyes.
Clara knew the symptoms well—sudden nausea, dizziness, the headache she’d supposed earlier. She gave her a quick hug around her shoulders. “Well, eventually you will be.” Her heart went out to her friend. She hoped—prayed—that Millie would have happiness and not sorrow, life and not death. Clara decided she’d be happy for Millie. All would be well.
“When is your baby coming?” Clara asked.
“About springtime,” Millie answered. “Only Edwin knows right now.”
“I won’t say a thing, but I’m happy for you.” Clara hugged her around the shoulder before they opened the door.
Lissy and Rita Crowther stepped up to the women as they entered the store.
“I heard the news! Didn’t we, Ri
ta?” Lissy said.
Clara worried for a moment that they’d overheard their conversation, but she realized they were looking at her instead of Millie. Her cheeks warmed. She looked around to see who else was in the store.
“I mean, it was all so sudden. Wasn’t it, Rita?” Lissy’s voice seemed to ring off the walls. “You married Mr. Newell.”
Although it wasn’t a question, it sounded like Lissy was prying for more information. Clara wasn’t going to share, but she also didn’t know how to get herself out of the situation. When she looked at her friend, Millie’s eyebrows lifted and fell.
“I have a few things on my list today, Lissy. Could you help me?” Millie stepped forward and took the young woman by the elbow, turning her toward the other side of the store.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Newell. What can I help you with?” Rita asked.
“Thank you. I need to set up a kitchen with everything from food to pots and pans.” Clara began listing things she needed while Rita wrote, separating the food onto a different piece of paper than the household goods. With that complete, she handed the grocery list to a clerk to gather it.
“Let’s have you pick out a few things from the kitchen wares.” The young woman pointed to the other side of the room. “Over there.”
Clara chose pots and pans of various sizes, which Rita noted, but her attention wasn’t completely on their task.
“We have a coffee pot,” Clara repeated the second time Rita placed one in her hands, but she didn’t seem to be listening at all. She stared out the window with her hands clasped next to her chest. Clara followed Rita’s line of sight and saw Michael Turley working on the roof of the telegraph office next door.
Oh, she’d looked at a man like that at her age, and she’d married him soon after. Love had waned over the first few years, and the marriage had lasted eight, ending in bitterness and accusations. She had failed. Clara shook herself. Every woman in love would not repeat her experience. She had to stop thinking they all would. That wasn’t the way with all couples. There were many people who seemed to manage decades together. How did they do that?
