An Inconvenient Bride

by Blythe Carver

  “Of course, there are times when I wished I did not have so many sisters.” Holly chuckled.

  She sat in one of the two chairs near the table, waiting for the water to boil. He noted her tired sigh as she sank onto the thing, the way she stretched with her hands pressed to her lower back.

  This was taking a toll on her, though she did what she could to hide her fatigue and soreness most of the time.

  Yet she was smiling, likely in remembrance of her younger days. “But there are times when I am so terribly grateful for their presence in my life. It might sound foolish or childish or, well, womanly. I wouldn’t want you to dismiss my thoughts as being nothing but the prattlings of a woman.”

  He gave her what he hoped was a withering look. “I would never—”

  “Oh, yes you would!” Her laughter was merry and bright, and Edward soon joined in as if he understood. This made her laugh all the more, and Roan soon joined her. It was nearly impossible to be in a dark mood when surrounded by laughter, especially the laughter of a child.

  “Please, tell me. What were you going to say?” He prompted, suddenly eager to learn more of where she had come from and who she was.

  No, it wasn’t sudden. His curiosity regarding her had grown over the last several days. And it was far less idle than it had once been. He wanted to know her. Not simply what brought her to the mountain or where she’d come from, but more of herself. What made Holly who she was?

  Though he could not imagine what he would do with this information when she was no longer part of his life. And as long as the wind howled outside, and snow continued to fall, as it had just begun to do according to what he saw through the window, she would be with them out of necessity. He might as well make the best of it.

  She looked at the floor, a fond little smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. There was a faint blush on her cheek, and her eyes shone. “There is something to be said for going through life knowing there are people who understand you. My twin, for instance, there are many times we don’t get along, as I’ve always considered her to be rather bossy.”

  His brows lifted. “You consider her to be bossy? You?”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I merely wonder how much worse she could possibly be than you are.”

  “If there wasn’t a child in this room…” she warned.

  “Go on,” he urged, grinning.

  She shrugged. “There are times when it feels as though Molly and I can read each other’s thoughts. Perhaps we can. Perhaps there is something to be said for having a twin. But the others, too. Rachel and Phoebe and Cate. We know each other. There is always someone in the world who knows us without having to be told. When we are upset, the others know how to comfort us. When we are happy, the others rejoice with us. When we are ill, we are taken care of. We accept each other, though that does not always mean we get along without argument. Let anyone try to hurt any of us, woe to the man.”

  She broke off with a sigh, staring out the window now. “I can only imagine what they must be thinking.”

  His heart clenched not only for her but for them. By now, more than a week after she had disappeared, the girls might well believe her dead. They might already have come to the conclusion that they would never see her again.

  Though he knew this was not the case, he could not help but ache for them. And he almost wished he could see their reunion, that he might witness their joy. This struck him as strange, out of character for him, but there was no helping the impulse.

  Holly jumped up from the chair with a groan. “I didn’t put the kettle on the fire. No surprise the water hasn’t boiled yet.” She shook her head, disappointed in herself. “Forgive me, Lenore. I ought to pay better attention.”

  Little wonder, though, seeing as how neither of them had gotten much sleep thanks to the constant coughing from the bed.

  Roan looked back to his sister, who he assumed was resting comfortably for the moment. She had fallen quiet while he and Holly talked.

  In an instant, he knew why she had fallen silent.

  He should’ve known the moment her coughing stopped, as it had hardly stopped in the last two days.

  “Holly…” he murmured as he went to the bed, his hands trembling as he reached for Lenore.

  “Yes?” she asked, still at the stove.

  He took his sister’s hand, stroking the back of it before pressing his lips to the now cold skin. “You needn’t bother.”

  13

  “No.”

  She gathered Edward in her arms, careful not to turn her back on him when he might wander close to the fire, then sank to her knees at Lenore’s side. How could she not have known? How could she have been laughing and speaking of her sisters and teasing Roan when Lenore was dying?

  She had been lying there, dead, and neither of them had noticed.

  Only a few minutes had passed, but it might as well have been a lifetime. For now, there was one less soul in the room. Everything had changed.

  She held Edward close, her cheek against the top of his head and her tears dampening his hair. “Oh, my poor boy. Poor, poor boy.”

  And poor Lenore. She had known so much sadness, so much pain.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for good people to suffer so. And now, she would never have the happiness she deserved. She would never watch her boy come of age and become a man, one who she would undoubtedly raise to be a better man than his father was. Someone who would not abandon what he had professed his love for.

  She wept for everything that had been lost.

  Roan was infinitely gentle as he crossed his sister’s hands over her stomach and placed one of his hands on top. “I wish we had the chance to be brother and sister,” he whispered. “I wish I had been able to know her better. Perhaps I might have been able to help.”

  Holly turned to him, wiping away her tears. It would not do for emotion to take away the comfort he needed now. “You were here for her when she needed you. You did help. And perhaps these last several days were a gift. You had the chance to be together. You sat with her, you spoke with her. You gave her comfort. That was all you could do, and it was a blessing to her that you were here when she needed you the most.”

  He looked at her, and the pain and confusion and regret in his eyes tightened her throat.

  “You believe that?”

  “I do. I believe it with every breath in my body. You were a blessing to her. She was so fortunate to have you.”

  “I hope so. I do hope so.” He took one of Edward’s hands, so small compared to his own, and held it. “And now, there is you. What is to be done with you?”

  For a moment, Holly gaped at him. He could not mean what he appeared to mean, could he? He could not question whether or not to keep the child, could he?

  Was everything she thought she knew about him wrong?

  Evidently not, for he reached for Edward and took him in his arms, hugging him to his chest. “You will never know her, but I will do my best to keep her memory alive in you. That is all any of us can do when we lose someone we love.”

  Holly rose, turning away that he might not see the torment this put her through. She had come to love and respect Lenore over their short acquaintance.

  Silly as it seemed, she had almost come to think of her as a sister of sorts. While they may have come of age in completely different circumstances—truly, they could not have been less alike—they had a great deal in common.

  How sad to think that this bright young woman was forever gone. When Holly thought about the happiness her sisters found with their husbands, it broke her heart. Lenore thought she had found such happiness, only to be devastated.

  Somehow, this made her long for her sisters more than ever. She just had to get back to them, for they might be suffering this sort of heartache now on her behalf. Oh, how she would spare them this if she could.

  But the snow had begun to fall again, and looked as though it had no intention of stopping. Would she be here
until spring?

  Could she even manage it?

  “I suppose something will have to be done with the body,” Roan reasoned, still seated on the side of the bed.

  “The ground will be frozen,” she said, turning her head slightly. “Will you be able to dig a grave in this weather?”

  “No, though there would be little chance of being able to do so were it spring or summer. This is rock we are on. I would build a burial mound for her. That is the old way, the way of her people.”

  “How do you know that? What they would do, I mean?”

  “My father told me. He spent five years living among them, after all. He learned their ways.”

  “I would imagine he wouldn’t want to speak of them, after how—” She bit her tongue to hold back the rest of what she’d been about to clumsily say. She was not supposed to know of the family’s history, after all. It wouldn’t do for him to find out Lenore had been sharing secrets.

  “After how cruel they were to me,” he concluded.

  “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.” She couldn’t go on allowing him to believe he’d done something to warrant his banishment from the tribe. “It was not because of you the tribe made your father leave.”

  “Then why did they allow Lenore to stay?”

  She already regretted having loosened her tongue. Perhaps there could be no harm in admitting the truth, now that Lenore was gone. Holly wished she’d had the chance to tell her brother of this herself.

  “Because Lenore’s mother and your mother were two different women. Your mother had already passed on. You were too young to understand or to remember it correctly. That was what angered your grandfather and the tribal elders. She told me so. If she were never born, no one would’ve known. You would have grown up in the tribe as she did.”

  Her face flushed in embarrassment. Who did she believe she was, speaking so freely of another’s family? What right had she to share the secrets Lenore had confessed?

  The fact was, she felt sorry for him. And perhaps a bit protective. It pained her to know he was in pain. She supposed it was only natural, after everything they’d been through.

  He was quiet for a long time. Edward had long since fallen asleep against his uncle’s chest, unaware of what had just transpired. She envied him this, the ability to rest comfortably, secure in the fact that he was safe and warm and taken care of. Unaware that his mother would not be waking up again.

  Watching the entire scene caused a terrible in her chest. There they were, a family, and one of them was gone. She had never seen Roan behave tenderly toward the baby before. She supposed now was as good a time as any for him to start. He stroked Edward’s head, perhaps unaware of what he was doing, and the sight gave her hope. He was not entirely uncomfortable with a child.

  “I’m sorry if I shocked you, but it seemed to me you deserved to know the truth. There is no reason to blame yourself.”

  He shook his head. “I never blamed myself. I blame them, the tribal elders. They were the ones who saw to it we were removed. I’ll grant you, I often asked myself why my sister was allowed to remain. Now I understand. Her mother was there, in the tribe. Mine was not. My father was likely unable to care for both of us at the same time. Especially if Lenore was a baby. He could not have taken both of us with him. He did what needed to be done.”

  “I imagine he longed for her. To have you two together,” she ventured. Was she overstepping herself by speaking so freely? If she was, he would have no trouble telling her so.

  He never had before, after all.

  “I imagine he did,” Roan sighed. “I wish he’d told me the truth long ago. But there isn’t any sense in dwelling on the past when there is so much to be done now.”

  She almost wished he wouldn’t do that. It was clear to her how he closed himself off, how he turned his thoughts away from his sorrow and toward something else, something to keep him busy. To keep him from thinking and feeling.

  She wished he would stay with her and talk with her, because she was hurting, too.

  But he was right. There was so much to be done now. They could hardly leave her lying there, could they? She took the sleeping child from his arms and watched, silent, as he bundled himself up against the cold.

  “Where will you go? Not far, I hope,” she ventured as he crossed to the door.

  He shook his head. “I believe the ledge where we sheltered from the storm will do nicely. I will go there now and clear it for her.”

  “Out in the open?” she asked, scandalized at the very thought.

  “Their ways are not our ways,” he explained, “and I believe she would prefer to have the sort of burial she would receive by the tribe. They leave their burial site open, that their spirit might walk free to join the ancestors in the great beyond. They believe in leaving their body to nourish those who come later, the animals, you understand, or even the very ground itself. They become part of life in another way, you see.”

  There was something oddly touching about all of it. About Roan knowing of these customs and wanting his sister to have the burial she deserved. He might not have cared much for his mother’s people, but he respected Lenore’s desires just the same.

  It was perhaps the most decent, unselfish thing she’d ever witnessed.

  “I can prepare her,” she offered, already imagining washing down the body and plaiting her long, thick hair.

  A faint smile touched his lips. “She would like that. Thank you. For… all of it.”

  He left then, either overwhelmed or uncomfortable. Perhaps both.

  She did not start right away. Instead, she sat in one of the chairs, rocking Edward while watching over his mother. The shack was quieter than ever now.

  And all she could think about was the man in the snow, clearing a place for his sister to rest.

  14

  “I covered her with pine branches,” he explained that night by the fire. “She will rest peacefully there.”

  He said nothing of how it pained him to leave Lenore there, all alone where any animal could find her. He would rather have sealed her to with rock or something similar, but he knew it was not what she would have wanted. She would have wanted her burial to be like those she had witnessed all her life, he imagined.

  Why had they not discussed it before she died? He had not wanted to speak of it, and now he wished he had. Just as he wished it was she who’d told him the truth of their shared—and unshared—parentage.

  It did not make her any less his sister, but it would have been better to hear it from her.

  Holly sat by the fire with the child in her arms. He was sleeping, content and peaceful. Not yet missing his mother.

  If he did, there would be no way of knowing. He certainly could not speak of it, nor could they explain in a way which he might understand.

  Roan suspected he’d begin to ask questions as he grew older. That would be the time for explanation. He considered himself fortunate that there would be a few years until that day, he might be able to come up with something suitable by then.

  Or so he hoped.

  “I’m sure she would be pleased with whatever you did,” Holly murmured, careful not to wake the child. “And I’m also certain she would be quite touched that you went out of your way to lay her to rest according to the traditions of the tribe. It was thoughtful of you.”

  “I did what needed to be done.” And he did not wish to speak of it anymore. There were certain things a man did not wish to relive, and this was one of them.

  At least the snowfall had only been a squall, not much more. Nothing like the blizzard they had endured. By the time he’d finished his simple ceremony, with no one but himself to pay respects to his sister, the sky had cleared, and the sun began to shine.

  Were he the sort of man who believed in such things, he may have believed his sister sent sunshine for him. To tell him how grateful she was that he had laid her to rest in such a fashion.

  But he was not that sort of man.

&n
bsp; Holly might have understood, had he shared this with her. He could not, for it would mean speaking again of the incident. He would much rather have left it behind him.

  As if he could.

  What a silly waste of time it was to believe any such thing would be possible. There would be no leaving it behind, for his nephew was there in front of his very eyes. A child who needed him. A child who would not need him, were his mother still alive.

  What was he to do? There was no room here for a child. He was older than Edward when he and his father had set out from the tribe, was he not? He remembered walking on his own. Edward could walk, but not nearly so far. And he was not yet big enough to be held at the front of the saddle. He would not understand how important it was to sit still and allow his uncle to guide the animal.

  How was he to go about his business with the child in the house? How was he to watch Edward and make certain he did not hurt himself or fall into the fire or wander outside when his back was turned? There was a great deal of work to be done, a great deal of hiking and climbing during a hunt.

  He could not possibly bring a child only two years of age along with him. It was up to the mother or to the women of the family to stay behind and tend the children while the men went about their business.

  He had no woman. The woman before him, the woman so tenderly rocking the boy back and forth, the woman whose hair shone in the firelight, whose eyes softened when Edward yawned, would soon be gone.

  Or would she?

  He could not pretend as though the thought had not occurred to him before now, but it had been fleeting. Unclear. A mere hint of an idea.

  The thought of her staying with him.

  If she did, it would not be for his sake. He would never ask her to do such a thing, because he did not want her to do such a thing. He did not wish to live with a woman. Especially not this one. She drove him nearly mad, after all. What man would welcome constant argument and misunderstanding and awkward attempts at reaching out afterward?