He cut her off with an abrupt shake of the head. “Sometimes I wish you’d worry about what I think.”
She snatched her hand back as if burned.
He sighed. She wouldn’t be Annie if she wasn’t concerned about what Celia and Spencer thought too.
A loose board creaked behind him.
Celia stood with her arms crossed, head hung in defeat. “I’m hungry so I’ll talk now.”
Spencer’s head poked back through the kitchen doorway. “Are you eating with us, Pa?”
“If your mother deems it proper.” His bitter words hit their mark judging by the flinch on Annie’s face. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Anne, I should’ve held my tongue.” He gritted his teeth to keep from saying anything more until he’d processed her rejection better.
“Great.” Spencer nearly bounced back into the kitchen.
Celia gave her mother a probing look before following after her brother.
His first cross word with Annie had been smack in front of the children. Bad timing indeed.
Shaking his head at himself, he followed Annie into the kitchen where she shuffled to the counter and cut into a loaf of fresh bread.
He sank into his chair and propped his head in his hand, elbow on the table. What a fool he’d been this morning while out tracking, unable to concentrate reliving the memories of last night, completely preoccupied with a woman who hadn’t been looking forward to his return nearly as much as he’d hoped—if at all.
“Did you know Bryant has two swords?” Spencer leaned across the table. “I got to hold one.”
Celia glanced up from her seat with a frown. “Do we have to talk before I eat or can we wait ‘til later?”
Annie handed out plates, and Jacob just stared at Celia.
Of all the times for the girl to come down.
The girl’s scowl died on her face.
Spencer took a bite of bread the second his mother handed him a slice. “An’ den dis morning I saw a fwog on da—”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, son. And we haven’t yet prayed.” Jacob waited for the boy to swallow then looked at his daughter. “I don’t feel like talking right now, Celia.”
“So then we don’t have to?”
He wanted to swipe off her triumphant grin. “No, we’ll talk. When we’re both ready. After lunch, you’ll return to your room, and perhaps before supper—”
“Unfair!” Celia clanked her fork on her plate.
“Celia.” Annie’s voice snapped. “Leave him alone. For once, think about someone other than yourself.”
“Fine.” Celia snatched up her sandwich and milk glass. “I’ll go lock myself back into the tower. When the marshal decides to follow his own rules, let me know.” She stomped out of the room and up the stairs.
“Celia—” Annie started.
Jacob grabbed her sleeve to hold her back. “Let her go.”
Annie hesitated a moment, but then took a seat and bowed her head without looking at him.
He opened his mouth, but clamped it shut. A mealtime prayer was beyond his ability right now. The only things he wanted to ask of the Lord were inappropriate to voice in front of Spencer—especially if simply kissing his wife in front of the children was taboo. He folded his arms across his chest to keep from smashing something.
Annie uttered a quick blessing and turned to Spencer. “Now, tell me about this frog.”
Jacob chewed on his sandwich, trying not to look at her. With such an intimate knowledge of her imbedded in his brain, what would he do if she wanted to remain in separate rooms? He’d noticed she’d left before first light this morning, but he’d only thought she’d needed to visit the necessary.
But she hadn’t returned—not that he’d thought much of it since her things were in her room. But what if she hadn’t come back to his room because she was ashamed of doing what she thought improper?
Surely, that wasn’t it. She’d only said she wasn’t ready for him to demonstrate his feelings in front of the children.
But what if she wanted to act in front of anybody and everybody as if nothing at all had happened between them?
His wife straining against his embrace had pained him like no wound ever had.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to experience that feeling ever again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jacob fiddled with the lantern’s flame in his office, making the shadows of the jail cell bars blur, then sharpen against the walls. Should he extinguish the light or reread the stack of wanted posters that had been delivered this afternoon? He fingered the top poster, but chose the Daily Ricochet to flip through instead. He took up his pencil and traced the oval around the tiny blurb he’d already circled a half-dozen times today.
A ranch along the Laramie for auction—horses, cattle, equipment—$5,234.18 owed.
Annie was worried about keeping her cattle if they didn’t buy land soon. Celia pined for her father’s ranch. He had coveted property ever since his parents had sold the ranch he’d expected to inherit—enough so he’d married a stranger.
But that wasn’t what he desired any longer. Not most of all, anyway. He wanted that stranger to be happy he’d married her—to be happy with him alone.
His pencil lead gouged into the paper and broke. He sighed and threw the pencil into the trash. His bank account boasted $4,500. Attending the auction would be a waste of time.
The incessant chirp of a cricket holed up in the wall was annoying him, now that the summer sun had buried itself below the horizon. No legitimate paperwork held him here. He’d read what law books he had twice over, finding nothing that would help him get back Annie’s land, and he’d already written up a letter inquiring after a lawyer in Denver after he’d received the news that his father’s old lawyer had passed on and couldn’t even give him a hint on whether or not what he was looking for was something he might find. In fact, the work he’d done today would probably have to be redone tomorrow—his mind hadn’t stayed focused all evening.
Jacob fingered a drawing of himself atop Duchess. His oddly long stick arm was pointing a gun at ten bad guys in black blindfolds with cut-out holes for their huge eyes. The artist’s name was scrawled proudly across Duchess’s hooves—Spencer Hendrix.
Surely the boy’s opinion of him would plummet if he spent the day watching him rake streets, serve never-ending petty fines, and track rustlers but never catch a one.
He rubbed his temples. Why couldn’t he find the rustlers? Did they camp in another county? Were his tracking abilities worse than he’d reckoned? Did a scout watch his every move? Who had shot at him, and why?
Someone was slipping him notes and he’d yet to figure out who that was, so there could be a whole slew of people watching him that he was unaware of.
Jacob grabbed his keys, locked up the office, and plodded home, unable to enjoy the brisk night air. How many prayers could he utter before he stood at his door? He’d need every one to give him the strength to cross the threshold.
Oh Lord, how can I live with a woman who might never love me? I’m certainly not going to win her by being the best marshal this side of the Mississippi—either side actually.
Was I wrong to marry her?
He kicked at a stone glistening in the moonlight.
I thought I was right. I prayed, and you didn’t stop me. Did I miss something? It hurts, God, it really does. I know I need to talk to her, but if the conversation goes like it did this afternoon—
He stopped in front of the shadow of the church, crossed his arms, and stared at his enormous house. A dim light burned in the kitchen, but the children’s rooms were dark. His shoulders slacked, and a pent-up breath escaped. Regardless of what had occurred earlier with Annie, he should’ve been home to tuck the children into bed.
They needed a father, even if their mother didn’t seem to want a husband.
Opening the back door slowly, he peeped inside. At his place at the table, a plate covered by an upside down one sa
t next to a sweaty water glass. He walked inside and gently pushed the door closed. He uncovered the dish and touched the potatoes—still warm.
Annie’s robed figure walked through the parlor doorway and stopped. Her hair flowed around her shoulders, wispy and soft, like lofty ribbon clouds on a sun-drenched day.
He tugged off his hat.
“Would you like me to stoke the fire and rewarm your supper?” She glided into the room, but came no closer than the other end of the table.
“No, thank you.” He set his hat aside and unbelted his holster. “I’ll eat it how I found it.”
She came around the table and pulled his plate toward her. “It’s not a problem.”
“Yes, it is.” He laid a hand on her arm to halt her progress. A hum buzzed across his palm. He snatched his hand back and took the plate. “A fire would be inconvenient. I’ve troubled you enough by coming home late.” He sat and picked up his fork. “No need to fuss over me.”
He sat and bowed his head, more in hopes she’d see his gesture as a signal to retire than because he needed to pray at that very moment. Well, perhaps he did need to pray, considering he wanted to shut her out—Annie had hurt him plenty of times in the past two months when she’d shut him out. He should know better.
She stood beside him for a few seconds, then sat in the chair to his right.
He sighed and prayed aloud. “Father God, help me to never be this late coming home again. Help us both to know how to proceed with the marriage we find ourselves in. Thank you for my wife, who saw to my need for food. Please give me your strength. May you lead us on paths of righteousness. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispered.
He glanced at her. “I’m sorry for staying at work so late.”
“I understand.”
She couldn’t. She didn’t know him well enough to understand why he’d stayed away. Yet he nodded at her response to keep from having to explain right now. He picked up his fork.
“Can we talk?”
Jacob swallowed his first bite and took his time wiping his mouth. Did she expect dinner talk or deep conversation? He wasn’t sure he could handle either at the moment. “Do you mind if I say no?”
Her mouth twitched as she gazed at him. Her amber eyes exuded no malice, but they looked sad.
He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from giving in. They probably ought to talk, but with how he’d been unable to hold his tongue this afternoon and how he’d not completely worked through his hurt this evening, it was probably best not to. “Not tonight, anyway.”
She didn’t respond for a moment, but then reached for her knitting basket. Her quilted robe gaped, displaying the hand-worked lace edging of her nightgown’s neckline.
He looked away, stabbed his pork steak with his fork, and attacked the meat slab with his knife. “You don’t have to sit with me since it’s late. I’ll wash the dishes.”
“All right then.” She stopped unwinding her yarn and returned her knitting needles to the basket.
He held his breath as she leaned near. “Good night, Jacob.” A light kiss on his cheek stopped his food from continuing its downward path.
He coughed, trying not to choke. “Good night, Anne.”
She swept past and headed up the stairs.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at his food.
Within minutes, her footsteps shuffled softly overhead but he couldn’t decipher which direction they went.
If she chose her room, he’d feel as if he hadn’t measured up. If she chose his, how did she expect him to act?
A marriage of convenience indeed.
All the courting nonsense he’d hoped to skip—the hesitation to display one’s feelings, the fear of being rejected, the months, perhaps years, of waiting—hadn’t been made any easier by starting off with his grandmother’s ring on her finger.
After washing the tableware, he swiped the counters and the stove. He looked around for other things to clean, but more dawdling wouldn’t stop tonight from coming. After throwing the dirty dishcloth onto the laundry pile, he drove himself upstairs to his room to discover his fate.
Empty.
He sagged against his bedroom door’s frame and looked across the hall. No light seeped out from under her door. Everything quiet. He shuffled to his bed and sat. If only he’d behaved better at lunch, hadn’t just now refused to talk to her, she might be curled up beside him.
But did he want to take back anything he’d said?
After working off his boots, he settled himself against his headboard and grabbed his Bible to study the verses he’d read a dozen times at work this evening.
Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence: and likewise also the wife unto the husband. The wife hath not power over her own body, but the husband: and likewise also the husband hath not power of his own body, but the wife. Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again, that Satan tempt you not for your incontinency.
Did Paul’s words apply to a wife who wasn’t in love?
He dropped his Bible onto his chest and stared at the cockeyed pillow next to him. Its slipped casing exposed the blue and white striped ticking. Last night had changed everything. He desired her even more, yet he wanted her to respond to him out of love—not duty.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.
God, when she comes to me again, give me the grace to accept her without spite.
He fingered the leather binding of his Bible as he stared out the window.
He was a fool. He ought to have asked her to come in.
After the cold shoulder he’d given her this evening, how could he have expected her to choose any differently?
The downstairs clock chimed eleven, and he set his Bible aside. It was too late to talk tonight. Surely sleep would help clear both of their heads, and they could talk come morning.
He stripped to his drawers and rolled back onto the bed.
His door opened.
A light, hesitant step creaked upon his floorboards, and the glow of the moon played in her auburn hair.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
“I wanted to know if you’d want me in here.” A tremble marred her whispered words. She took another step, and her thin silhouette disappeared into shadow.
The corner of his lips turned up, and the lightness of his heart surprised him. She was willing to move in?
He’d almost ruined this new step in their relationship by nursing his wounded pride.
“I know you’re put out with me, but in light of last night—”
So he hadn’t been the only one whose thoughts kept returning to last night.
“Not that I need to be in here, if you, well...”
Her words hit him like a pail of cold water.
“Not that I need to be in here.”
Did she feel nothing for him?
He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. If she didn’t want to be with him, why had she come? He took a deep, cleansing breath and lowered his hands.
Regardless, he still wanted her here, and the scripture he’d read several times today eradicated any reason to deny her a place beside him. He scooted to the edge of the bed and flipped back the opposite side’s covers. She slid in, but he remained upright against the headboard.
“Good night, Jacob.”
He grunted an answer.
Good night?
Highly unlikely.
Saying no more, she tucked her pillow beneath her head and curled into a ball.
He laced his fingers atop his chest and stared out his moonlit window. For the past two months, he’d thought living in the same house with a woman was hard. But having her lying next to him in bed, ensconced in layers of clothing as was proper?
Far, far worse.
Sunlight pried Annie’s eyelids apart, and she moaned. The comfortable bed tick called her back to sleep. Despite the muggy air blanketing h
er, she snuggled closer to the warmth of her husband. If she got up to open a window, the solace of half-slumber would disappear. She reached across his chest and clamped down.
He could never drag himself out of bed early to attend the animals when she wrapped her arms around him.
The door creaked open, and Annie closed her eyes tight.
No. No children. Spencer’s pout could uncurl her firmest grip. She’d do anything for those bright blues surrounded by long lashes—so she wouldn’t look.
All she wanted was ten more minutes. Hopefully Gregory would shoo them out.
“Do you know where Mama is?” Spencer’s bright voice invaded her sleepy cocoon.
The firm mattress, the smell of the sheets, the sun spilling in through four windows...
Jacob.
Her eyes snapped wide open. She snatched her hand from Jacob’s bare chest and pushed away.
His muscular arm pressed her body back against his side. His chest hairs tickled her nose.
She shallowed her breathing to keep from sneezing.
Shuffling feet sounded at the door. “We can’t find—” Celia’s voice descended an octave. “Ma.”
Celia’s tone deflated Annie’s lungs. Clamped against Jacob, she glanced over his chest toward her children. Spencer’s eyebrows puckered, and Celia’s expression was exactly what Annie had feared.
The girl spun on her heel and exited the bedroom.
Spencer took a tentative step forward. “Mama? Are you sleeping in here now?”
“Yes.” Jacob’s gravelly hum reverberated against her ear. “This is her room now. Just like when she used to share a room with your first pa. But you need to knock before you enter, and that goes for anyone’s room.” His voice was firm but reassuring. “But since you’re already here, what is it you need of your mother?”
Spencer shrugged. “I’m hungry. Celia wouldn’t make me flapjacks. Said Mama would.”
“She’ll be down soon, son. Grab some bread if you’re hungry.”
“All right, Pa.”
The door clicked shut, and Annie pushed against him. “You shouldn’t have kept me flat against you.” His arm released her, and she put space between them. She could still feel the warmth of his taut chest muscles against her body.
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