by Lisa Bingham
His brow creased, and he stared at Ginny, watching her features pale.
“He doesn’t look a thing like you, does he, Orrin? All of your other children were the spitting image! This one … I suppose he’ll have his mother’s face, though it’s a little early to tell now. But he’s a dandy, yes sir. All big and plump and healthy as can be.”
Ginny’s eyes met his and bounced away, and he could tell that her fear was very real, almost palpable, tainting the air around them. Some of the women regarded her with concern, and an uncomfortable silence cloaked the room for a brief instant. Then Ida bustled forward, distracting the women’s attention.
“If we’re going to get this quilt done, we’d better start now. Otherwise we’ll be sewing till the cows come home.”
Although the women in the room might have been diverted, Orrin was not so easily fooled. Such bleak misery lingered in Ginny’s eyes that he shivered, his arms unconsciously clutching the baby tighter against his chest.
In a lightning bolt of images he remembered things that had struck his mind but never struck his heart. Her breasts had always been so full and heavy. Her stomach slightly rounded. Her gowns tight.
A bitter dread spread through his veins. His fingers dug into the boy’s flesh, and James started in surprise. One of the women clucked and took the baby away. But as the woman crooned Orrin wasn’t watching the boy, he was watching Ginny.
He’d castigated himself for planting such a swiftly growing child in such a delicate woman. But all at once he knew that James had not come early. In fact, he had probably come late. The little boy who now drew such attention was not Orrin’s son.
Chapter 19
The women left late that evening. Orrin felt relieved when he saw them go. He had spent the entire day in the barn, but he hadn’t been able to work despite the number of chores that awaited his attention. Instead he sat on a bench beside the stalls, regret filling him like a bitter bile. With each moment that passed, he knew with even more certainty that James Parker Ghant was not his child.
Ida was the last to depart, and she slipped into the barn to offer her respects. When Orrin looked up she exhaled slowly.
“You know, don’t you?”
He felt the muscles of his jaw clench, but when he spoke he forced his voice to remain calm. “How long have you suspected the truth?”
Ida came farther into the barn and closed the door tightly behind her. “Almost from the very beginning.”
“And you never thought to tell me?”
She threw up her hands. “Oh, I thought about it, all right, then discarded the notion right away. In fact, if there’s anyone to be blamed, it’s me. Ginny wanted to confess all along. As soon as she found out you didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know!”
“That girl came to you after being told you already knew of her predicament.”
He snorted in disbelief.
“She wanted to tell you right away, but I told her not to.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Orrin Ghant, never in my born days have I met a man as proud as you, yet there’s a streak of something in you most men don’t have and never hope to get.”
He looked at her with impatience.
“I’m talking about gentleness and sensitivity—and not just toward other people. There’s a tiny corner inside you that is easily hurt.”
He stood, obviously uncomfortable with her words, but she continued. “I think that you could have handled all this if it hadn’t come in the manner it did.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Ginny had come to you in trouble and told you the whole story from the very beginning … why, Orrin Ghant, you would have been like a knight in shining armor. You would have offered her a home and a family and everything her poor, battered heart could desire. You would have been tender and understanding and given her a shoulder to cry on. But you wouldn’t have touched her. And all her life she would have lived with the fact that she was never good enough for you, just because of a little mistake.”
“A little mistake!”
He whirled toward her in anger, and she plunked her hands on her hips.
“When did you get to be so high and mighty? You’ve lived with this woman for nearly a year, and in all that time has she ever given you the slightest sign that she was a woman of loose character? If I had my guess, I’d say that even with vows between you it’s taken some gentle persuasion to get her into your bed. And never in all this time has she given you any indication that she is less than satisfied with you or your family, or the duties you’ve assigned her.” Her lips settled into a straight line as she saw she was right. “What makes you think the woman you married is any different from what she’d been months before? Can’t you see that there’s a wealth of pain behind her smiles? Whoever fathered that baby hurt her. Hurt her deeply. Now you have the gall to stand here and say that your wife has the morals of an alley cat.”
His hands balled into fists. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you hinted as much.”
“Nevertheless, she came to me knowing full well—”
“She came to you, Orrin Ghant, needing your help, your tenderness, your affection. And you gave her as much willingly. Why should anything change now? She’s still the same woman. Can’t you love her for that?”
Orrin’s eyes closed, and his head tipped back. “The child isn’t mine.”
“Bosh!” She advanced toward him. “Your child, your child. What makes a man a father isn’t planting a seed in a woman’s belly. It’s the caring and the nurturing. The loving and the teaching. And if you haven’t learned that already, then your life is in a much sorrier condition than I ever would have imagined.”
“It’s only a matter of time before other people see that James is a bit too healthy and big to be my child.”
“And since when are other people’s opinions so all-fired important to you?”
He stiffened.
“You’re right to think that in this community people live in one another’s pockets. We probably know more secrets about one another than most people know about their kin. But there’s no proof in suspicions. And as long as you treat Ginny and that child as your own, other people will, too. You won’t give them a reason to poke their noses if you don’t poke yours.”
“He’s not my child.”
“That’s something for you to decide, Orrin Ghant. There are people in this world who are crying out for babies, who can’t have their own for one reason or another. And frankly, I think it’s mighty selfish of you to think that just because you didn’t conceive a child, he’s not worthy of your love. That’s just plain mean-spirited.”
She stomped to the door but turned just before leaving. “One other thing. You keep condemning Ginny for not telling you her secrets, but don’t you think you should have told her a few of your own?”
“Just what do you mean?”
“I’m talking about that empty grave you have on the hillside. I’m talking about the way you told folks that your wife died of pneumonia while visiting her kin in Denver—when both you and I know your wife left you months earlier. Left you for another man because she decided there was something bigger and better waitin’ for her than what she could find in Eden Creek.
“So before you start railing at that girl for some crime you think has been done to you, I want you to think good and hard about the crimes you’ve done to her.”
Night had fallen by the time Orrin returned to the house. The moment he stepped in the door Ginny looked up from the pot she was stirring on the stove. His children scrambled from the table to hug him, but he stopped them from a few yards away by curtly ordering, “Imogene, you and your sisters go into the other room.”
“But—”
“Now!”
Imogene stared at her father as if she’d been mortally wounded, her natural bravado wavering. To Ginny’s utter surprise, she ran to wrap her arms around Ginny’s knees.
The girl clung to her for one more moment. Then Imogene led her sisters into the other room.
Orrin felt Eunice’s teary-eyed gaze and Baby Grace’s confusion but waited until the door had closed behind them before confronting Ginny. She stood tall and proud, her shoulders straight, yet there was no denying the pallor of her features or the stormy blue-gray color of her eyes.
“Tell me about him.”
The room echoed in silence. Ginny watched him for long moments before finally setting the spoon on the stove.
“My father was a harsh man.”
Orrin’s frown eloquently conveyed his impatience, but she silenced him with a glance, knowing that if she were to explain anything, it would have to be done her way. “All my life I tried to please him, but I was never good enough simply because I wasn’t a son.
“My mother knew that the two of us would never really get along, so she tried to ease things somewhat by sending me away.” She crossed toward the window and stared out at the cold, leaden sky. “I can remember vividly the times I visited my own home. In most cases I was not allowed to return for holidays or vacations. Under the guise of my ‘education’”—the word emerged with a sarcastic bite—“my father managed to see to it that I spent most of my time out of his way.”
She looked down at her hands, then visibly relaxed them when she found they were laced together in a white-knuckled grip.
“First I attended boarding school in the east. Then a finishing school. Then tours of the Continent. After that I suppose there was nowhere else they could send me, so I was finally allowed to come home.”
Her thumb lifted to rub at the frost that covered the glass like some mutant moss. But she didn’t see the path she cleared. She saw the past.
“Soon, however, I noted that neither my father nor mother was prepared for my presence. I had been gone for so long, they didn’t know what to do with me. Understanding that I made my own parents uncomfortable, I sought to please them in any way I could. It was then that I met Billy Wicks.”
Orrin’s jaw tightened at the other man’s name. It was obvious he remembered him.
Ginny continued, her voice thin but proud. “As a person who had rarely been allowed the opportunity of walking outside without an escort, I thought Billy was everything I wanted. He was handsome and tall, charming and witty, brilliant.
“Billy worked as an assistant at my father’s bank.” She forced herself to go on. “Later I discovered that my father promised to groom Billy for the bank’s presidency if he married me. Unaware of that promise, I allowed Billy to court me. I dreamed that I would marry him, please my parents, and become an important woman of society. In my imagination he was charming, helpful, and mindful of my every need.”
Her voice became soft, barely audible. “In reality Billy played upon my emotions like a master violinist. I eventually … succumbed to his charms. A little over a month later I suspected I was carrying his child.” She uttered a bitter laugh. “Then I discovered that Billy didn’t love me. Probably didn’t even like me much.” Her eyes became dark, stormy gray. “I found him in bed with another woman.”
Her arm dropped. “I felt so betrayed. So used. But I had other, more pressing concerns. Like the baby.
“My mother was the first to discover my predicament, though I tried to hide it from her. Being a proper and genteel woman, she was naturally appalled at what had happened, but she had an idea. She’d heard Ruby talking several months before about a nephew in the West who was in need of a mother for his children.
“When I accepted the arrangement, Ruby told me that you had already been informed of my condition, and that you were willing to take me as your wife providing I would love your children as my own and care for your home.” She paused before adding, “I never meant to hurt you.”
He huffed.
“And I never meant to lie to you.”
“But you did.”
“I was told you already knew!”
“But I didn’t. And you never thought of correcting me.”
“I did think about it. I thought about it every minute of every day. I must have opened my mouth to tell you a hundred times.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I loved you.”
Her words echoed between them for long moments before Orrin said, “You had a damned funny way of showing it.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, you did, didn’t you?”
Ginny was surprised by his words. Not because he felt wronged, but because he freely admitted his pain to her.
“How could you pass that child off as mine?”
She straightened and pulled back her shoulders. “I was sure that if you knew, you wouldn’t love me anymore.”
His eyes seemed to glint in indecision, regret, then a cold, overwhelming pride.
Ginny knew then that she had lost him once and for all.
“Evidently I was right,” she stated before brushing past him and closing the bedroom door behind her.
Orrin shifted in the rocking chair, his lashes opening. Judging by the rasping chime of the clock, he’d been asleep little more than a half hour. A light, restless sleep had offered no relief but had heightened his inner turmoil.
A soft snuffling cry melted into the night, and he tensed. It was the same sound that had awakened him.
Orrin waited in the darkness, willing himself to ignore the whimper that came from the opposite room.
His son.
No. Not his.
Even now the pain within him was like the jagged thrust of a knife through his heart. He closed his eyes and tried not to feel anything. Tried not to think. But that snuffling cry came again. Then again.
He willed Ginny to retrieve the child.
But she’d been so tired lately. And the child wasn’t crying—only fussing.
He stood and crossed the room.
The little boy lay swaddled in blankets within the wooden cradle that Orrin had made for his daughters, polished only weeks before. Upon seeing him James grew quiet and watched Orrin with eyes as big and bright as a baby owl’s. Then he chortled deep in his throat, kicking his feet in delight.
So small. So sweet.
Orrin bent toward him, his hand sliding beneath the baby’s head. James arched against the pressure as Orrin lifted the baby against his chest and held him for long moments, gazing into the perfect, innocent features.
“Why couldn’t you be mine?” The words barely squeezed past the hard knot in his throat. “Why couldn’t you be mine?”
During the next few days the snow started to fall again, blanketing the area in deep, wet drifts and making travel impossible. Even the most necessary trips to the barn became insurmountable tasks. As one day bled into night, then another day, Ginny and Orrin occupied the same house but did little more than that. Ginny soon despaired of ever seeing his smile again. Or hearing his laugh. Even the children began to note their father’s moods, because they turned more and more to Ginny for entertainment and comfort.
Ginny wondered how much longer things could continue in this manner. Winter had barely begun, and already the tension within the house was palpable. Yet she didn’t know what she could do to make things right between them. She knew she’d hurt Orrin deeply. More than Jesse had ever done. But what could she do to atone for her sins? She couldn’t go back to being the person he’d thought she was. Tangible evidence existed to remind him each day of her transgressions.
James.
She had come to the Ghants to provide a home for her unborn son. Instead she had found not only a home, but also a family. And love—because Orrin had loved her. She knew he had. Now she had lost it all and had nothing but shelter and the means to keep her son fed and clothed. Even though that had been enough for her in the past, after tasting the sweetness of Orrin’s adoration and the fire of his passion she lon
ged for more.
Ginny looked up from her sewing and stared at the man across the room. He appeared so much older to her, as if his pride had aged him. Deep lines had etched his features, and his skin was pale.
Eunice tugged on Ginny’s skirt, and for the tenth time that evening Ginny pulled the little girl onto her lap. For most of the evening Eunice had been fractious and out of sorts. Her skin was hot to the touch, and Ginny feared she was coming down with a cold.
“I’m tired,” Eunice sobbed. “I wanna go t’ bed.”
Ginny peered at the little girl in surprise. Eunice never volunteered to go to bed. She would cry and stomp and put up a fuss until the last possible moment.
But now she watched Ginny with glassy eyes, her hair lying limply around her face, her lower lip trembling.
“All right, sweetheart.” Ginny lifted her in her arms. “Let’s put you to bed. Maybe you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
Ginny carried her into the other room and helped her undress. Eunice sobbed.
“I know, honey,” Ginny murmured, wondering if the little girl had a chill or if she was coming down with something more. Then her eyes fell on a patch of red spreading across Eunice’s stomach.
“Orrin?” she called, a slow fear seeping through her veins.
There was no response. Forgetting the fact that they hadn’t spoken to each other in weeks, she called again. “Orrin, come here. Quick!”
He must have sensed her panic because she heard his boots on the floor, and he flung open the door. “What is it?”
“Look at this.”
He knelt beside her, holding his daughter by the waist. Ginny saw him blanch. “What could it be?”
“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “But it appears to be measles.” His eyes when he met her own were bleak. “Red measles.”
They quarantined Eunice in the children’s room, but by morning Imogene showed signs of the disease, then Grace. Outside the wind raged and a whirling blizzard swept through the valley, but neither of them noticed. Orrin and Ginny were working around the clock, trying to cool the children with snow-packed clothes even as the stove raged in an effort to keep the house warm.