by Barbara Goss
“I…I care for you, too, Sam—you’ve sort of grown on me. I couldn’t sleep, being so far away from you,” she confessed. Meanwhile, his touch was making her tingle all over.
“I could put a cot in the room so we could be near each other without…you know.”
“You would do that?”
“I would do whatever it takes to make you happy,” he said. “I’m ready to consummate this marriage, right now,” he said, stroking her arm, “but I realize you aren’t ready yet, so I’ll wait for you to tell me when you are.”
Fiona felt tears slip from her eyes. How could she tell him he’d married a murderer? She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but her past stood in the way. Then a thought struck her: maybe he’d never need to know. She had a new name now, and they might never find her. Why should she tell him at all?
Sam seemed to be waiting for her to say something.
She reached up and grabbed the hand that was stroking her upper arm and brought his hand to rest over her heart. “I’m ready, Sam,” she whispered.
Sam was quiet and didn’t react.
“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” he whispered finally. “Just thinking about it has me ready. I want you so much, Fiona, and not just for that. I love just being with you, and I want a family.”
Fiona moved to lie beside him, and he quickly made room for her.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Kiss me and find out,” she said.
Sam wasted no time. He pulled her close, so close; the feel of his readied body nearly scared her. He kissed her lightly, at first, and then he kissed her again and again, each kiss becoming more passionate, while he stroked her face, her arms, and subsequently places no one had ever touched. He was gentle, and told her in a soft whisper what he was going to do just before he did it so she wasn't repelled or alarmed by it. Before she knew it, they had consummated the marriage, and she was truly his wife.
While they lay together trying to control their breathing, Sam whispered, “It was beautiful, Fiona,” and he continued to hold her close. “We’ll have a good marriage; I can tell.”
They made love again in the morning, and Sam thought it even better than the first time. He knew that each time would be better still, as they became accustomed to each other. Though he’d been intimate in the past, it was different with Fiona, as he'd felt none of the shame that had always followed with Abby. He wasn’t sinning, and it made everything about the act so much more beautiful. His feelings for Fiona made the act more than just physical pleasure, but the desire to give as well as receive. To see the look of passion on Fiona’s face sent a thrill through him that he couldn’t explain. He didn’t have to get quickly dressed to go out into the night and ride home, either, or face the looks on his brother and mother’s faces the next morning. This was all just so right.
He didn’t want to leave the bed, wanting to remain there with his wife all day. She made no move to leave either. Was it love? Sam wasn’t sure, but he knew he felt differently. He didn’t want to part with her, and he held her closer as he kissed her forehead.
Fiona pulled away but only far enough to look up into his face. “I feel married, now,” she said.
“I feel happily married,” Sam said, playing with the curls that fell over her shoulder. “What would you like to do today?”
“I need to familiarize myself with the kitchen and start cooking,” she said with a yawn. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said and started kissing her neck again.
“I am,” she said, sitting up. “How about eggs? Do we have any?”
“Mother gave us a few, and we can buy more from one of the farms,” he said, stretching his arms. “I’d rather buy them than have a bunch of noisy, messy chickens running around.”
“Me, too,” she said. She started to swing her legs over the side of the bed to leave, but Sam pulled her back.
“Will you move into our bedroom today?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“More than anything.”
“Then I will. It'll save on laundry, too” she said with a grin.
Their days and nights went pretty much the same for the first few weeks as Sam and Fiona continued to grow closer to—and fonder of—each other. Sam often had to run errands or work on the ranch, and he always found himself anxious to get home to his wife.
Fiona’s cooking was excellent, she kept the house tidy, and she was the best company. He now knew what it felt like to be in love, yet neither of them had used the word yet.
He still managed to collect the mail each day for himself, his mother, and Martin. He no longer received messages from Abby every day. Though he still got one at least once a week, he didn’t open them.
Coming home after one of his trips to town to get the mail, he found that nothing had been started for supper, the breakfast dishes were still in the sink, and Fiona was nowhere to be found. Sam searched through the house, calling her name. Finally, as he walked down the stairs, he caught sight of her through the sitting room window. Sam walked to the kitchen and exited through the back door.
“There you are,” he said cheerfully. He was met with a scowl. Fiona was bent over a large wooden tub, scrubbing clothes. More clothes and bed sheets hung on the line. When Fiona saw him, she stood and wiped her brow.
“I’m not crazy about doing laundry,” she said.
Sam took her hands intending to pull her into a hug, but was shocked at the feel of them. Though they were usually soft, they'd turned red and rough. Fiona was perspiring, and her hair was stuck to her forehead. She looked completely exhausted.
He pulled her to him, and he hugged her. “Maybe someday I'll be able to afford to hire someone to help with jobs like this.”
Fiona nodded against his chest.
Sam took her into town where they ate at Rosie’s, a local eating house.
For the rest of the day and evening, Sam tried to think of a way to help make her job easier.
That night was the first since they'd moved into the house that she fell asleep before he’d even gotten into bed.
Fiona loved her new home. She didn’t mind scrubbing, cooking, or cleaning, but she dreaded laundry day, which was usually on Monday. When she’d worked for the Littlefields, they'd had modern laundry equipment because they were rich. They'd had an indoor laundry room with a metal tub over a fire with which to boil whites and linens. They also had a water pump so she didn’t have to carry buckets of water clear from the kitchen to the outdoor vats. They'd also had a contraption called a wash rotator, a metal barrel with a tall wooden rod in the center with wooden, paddle-like branches. Once you'd put the dirty clothes in, you churned the wooden rod, much like the motion used to make butter. After rinsing the laundry in another metal barrel, it was run through two rollers called a mangle. All she’d had to do was crank the wheel at the side and push the laundry through, no wringing necessary.
Here, she had to boil water, carry it outdoors—usually taking several trips—and fill another vat with cool water for rinsing for each load. Each piece of laundry was rubbed up and down a washboard before being wrung out by hand and hung on the line, which was backbreaking work. By the end of the day, she was exhausted.
The rest of her week wasn’t bad at all. She loved cooking for Sam, since he appreciated everything she made. She missed him when he wasn’t near and was always excited to see him when he came home. He wasn’t the same man she’d met at the train station that first day. Instead, he was happy, cheerful, and helped her whenever he could. He dried dishes, carried heavy items for her, and what she loved best about him was, when he first cast his eyes upon her upon arriving home, they sparkled with joy. She knew he was as glad to see her as she was to see him, and she'd always run into his open arms for a welcome home hug.
Their lovemaking became better each time and she looked forward to it—except on Mondays. When she thought back to her reasons for marrying Sam and Martin’s w
arning, she was amazed at how wonderful it had turned out. She thanked God daily and hoped it meant He’d forgiven her for killing Mr. Littlefield.
The day after he’d found her washing clothes, he returned from town much later than usual. He usually visited the hardware store or the lumberyard for the things he needed, as well as pick up the mail. Fiona kept checking out the kitchen window as she whipped the cream for the top of her cherry pie. He’d never been gone that long.
Finally, she saw his buckboard coming down the lane, and she felt relieved he was finally home, and she ran out to meet him.
“Sam,” she cried, running into his arms. “I was worried.”
He squeezed her to him and kissed her forehead. “I have a surprise for you.”
He walked to the back of the wagon and pulled out a contraption that looked similar to the laundry mangle the Littlefields had.
Sam looked proud of himself. He pulled her closer to the machine. “I bought these pastry rolling pins at the hardware store along with some nuts and bolts. I found a wheel from an old pump, and I took them all to the blacksmith’s, who put it all together.”
Fiona smiled, not because it would make her laundry day easier, but because he was so proud, and his smile lit up his whole face. Still, she did appreciate the mangle.
“Here’s how it works,” he said. “You put the wet item between these two rollers and crank the wheel, like so.” He demonstrated.
“Sam! It’s fantastic,” she said. “How can I ever thank you?”
“I might be able to think of a way,” he said, raising his eyebrows up and down with a devilish smile.
“It was ingenious of you to think of how to make this. Have you ever seen one before?”
“I saw one at the hotel laundry. I went there first to see if I could come up with an idea to make your laundry day less tedious,” he explained. “I might just make one for Mother for her birthday next week.”
“She’d love it, Sam. She’s getting on in years and could surely use any help with her workload.”
Fiona thought Sam had an inventive mind. She thought the little things he’d put together around the house were so clever—was there nothing the man couldn’t do?
She knew she was in love with him and she felt that he was in love with her, yet neither one of them had used the word, which bothered her somewhat. Maybe they were both afraid to be the first to say it.
Everything continued to be rosy and wonderful for the couple until Fiona began preparations for doing her laundry. Sam had gone fishing with Martin, so Fiona started her Monday washday on Sunday. She mended things that needed mending and changed the bed. Some things that were extra dirty, like Sam’s work pants, needed to be soaked, so she began by emptying Sam’s pockets and was surprised when an unopened letter fell out. The feminine handwriting made her curious. It had been addressed to Sam, but was unopened. Who could it possibly be from? She placed it on the fireplace mantle, finished sewing a few of his shirts, and then put them in hot, soapy water to soak overnight.
When Sam came home, they ate leftovers, since no one cooked on Sunday, and took their tea in the sitting room.
“Where are all the fish?” Fiona asked.
“We didn’t catch any,” Sam said. “Martin caught one, but it was so small, we threw it back.”
Fiona laughed, but her eye caught the letter on the mantle. She stood and picked it up. “Sam, who’s this from?” She held it out to him. Did she imagine him paling?
“I didn’t open it because I know I’m not corresponding with anyone,” Sam said, nervously taking the letter, “and I was going to throw it away, but the trash can at the general store was being emptied, so I just put it in my pocket to throw out later,” he said. “I’m sure it’s a mistake; let’s just throw it away.”
Fiona took the envelope from him and studied it. “It could be a mistake, I guess.” Still, she hadn’t liked the look on his face, or his nervousness when he’d seen it. She slipped it into her skirt pocket. “I’ll throw it in the bin later.”
“I’ll do it!” Sam volunteered.
“No, let’s enjoy our tea,” Fiona said.
After Sam went out to take care of his horse, she slid the envelope beneath the Bible on the mantle. She wanted to open it so badly, but she held back. She’d have to think about it overnight and decide if she should read it or discard it tomorrow.
Chapter 12
After breakfast, Sam got up from the table and stood behind Fiona's chair. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear, “That was a remarkable breakfast, wife,” and kissed her on the ear, giving her goose bumps.
“Mother’s birthday is Saturday, and I’m going into town today to see if I can make her a mangle like yours. I’ll be home for lunch, though.”
Fiona stood, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “See you at lunch time,” she said.
He pulled her to him again and kissed her long and hard. “Hmm,” he said, “I’d much rather stay here with you, though.”
“You’d best get going so I can make that chicken and dumplings that you like so much for dinner tonight,” she said.
“All right,” he said resignedly as he walked to the door. “Later,” he called, and waving as he went out the door.
As soon as Fiona saw him turn from the lane to the main road, she went into the sitting room and pulled out the envelope. She sniffed it, detected a slight flowery scent, impulsively tore the envelope open, and slowly unfolded the letter.
Dearest Sam,
As usual, my door is always left open to you. I’ll be waiting for you to warm my bed again.
All my love,
Abby
Fiona dropped the letter and plopped heavy onto the sofa. Was he still seeing Abby? Why else would she be sending him letters? Her heart pounded. No wonder Sam had looked so pale and nervous when she’d showed him the letter. He'd also lied. How could he do this to her? She put her hands over her face and wept.
A knock on the door made her jump. She wiped her eyes and ran to the front door, sliding the letter into her apron pocket.
“Come in, Martin,” she greeted. “This is a surprise.”
Martin came in, removed his hat, and hung it on the hook by the door. “Hello, Fiona.”
“Coffee? I have half a pot left,” she said. “Sam isn’t here. He went into town.”
“No, I've had enough coffee today. I have news, but I think you should sit down for it,” he said.
She took a seat on the sofa, and he sat beside her.
“I just came from the newspaper office because I'd heard another rumor. This time, it was printed in the newspaper. A woman named Mary Littlefield is searching for a woman named Fiona Sullivan. According to the editor of the paper, the letter looked like a form letter that had probably been sent to many newspapers.” Martin patted her shoulder as she buried her face in her hands.
Fiona didn’t know what to do. Her husband was seeing his old mistress, and now Mary Littlefield was looking for her. It had been in the Hays newspaper—everyone would find out.
“I think you should go back and turn yourself in, Fiona,” Martin said. “I’ll go with you, if you’d like, but I think Sam would want to go with you if you’d only tell him about it.”
Without looking at Martin, she reached into her apron pocket, took out the letter, and handed it to Martin. “Can you lend me enough money to buy a train ticket to Boston?” she asked.
Martin scanned the letter. “No! This can’t be. Sam's been telling Mother and I how happy the two of you are. I can’t believe this!”
“That makes two of us,” Fiona said between sobs.
Martin hugged her lightly. “I’ll lend you the money, of course, but are you going to let Sam know where you’re going?”
“Could you tell him after I’m gone?”
“Why, Fiona?”
“I just can’t face him. I’ve tried so many times to tell him, but the words just never came out…and now with this letter…I just ca
n’t face him. “
“What now?” Martin asked.
“I’m throwing together a few things, and I’d like you to take me to the train station before Sam returns. You can tell him if you want, but not until I’m gone. Thank you for offering to go with me, but I need to do this alone.”
Sam gathered the same materials to make his mother’s mangle as he had for Fiona’s. While the blacksmith was putting it together, he went to see Abby. He’d had a close call the night before, and he couldn’t take the chance of it happening again—he had to have a showdown with her.
When Abby opened the door, her hair was messy and she wasn't wearing makeup. “Sam," she said, "you came! You woke me, but that only means the bed’s still warm. Come in.”
Sam stepped just inside the door. When Abby reached out to put her arms around his neck, he grabbed her wrists and pushed her away.
He tried to speak calmly. “Abby, I want you to stop writing me letters. I’m a married man now, and I’m very happy. What we had is over. I’m in love with my wife, and I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Find someone else and leave me alone…Please.”
“But Sam,” she pouted, “we were so good together.”
“You said the magic word, Abby: ‘were.’ It’s over and done. I love my wife, and I hope to have a family. It’s something I’ve always wanted. I love her with my heart and soul, but even if she died tomorrow, God forbid, I still wouldn’t come back because what we had was wrong. I’m a Christian man, and I sinned each time I came here, which bothered my conscience. While I've tried telling myself it wasn’t wrong, it was, or I wouldn't have felt so weighed down with guilt each time I left you.”
“But you promised to marry me,” Abby said.
“You're right, I did, but only because you used intimacy to sway me, and I was a fool to fall for it,” he said. “I’m glad I woke up in time. Goodbye, Abby,” he said as he turned and stepped out the door.