“Art Langley is up to something,” Thomas said. “He is as secretive as a squirrel burying nuts in the ground. I wonder if he’s taken up prospecting for gold again.”
“He doesn’t have time for prospecting,” Charlotte pointed out.
From their evening talks, she knew every one of the eight permanent residents of Gold Crossing. There was Doc Timmerman and his wife, Dottie, and Reverend Eldridge, the ancient preacher who had married them, and Art Langley, who owned everything. He employed Manuel Chavez, the one-eyed card sharp who ran the saloon, and Gus Osborn, a widower in his forties who ran the mercantile.
Gus Osborn had a fourteen-year-old son, Gus Junior, who rode messages to the farms and ranches and the prospectors in the surrounding hills. Gus Junior was a bigger gossip than any nosy matron had ever been.
Last, but definitely not least, there was Miss Gladys Hayes, a spinster in her fifties who according to Thomas had stayed in Gold Crossing out of sheer stubbornness, refusing to leave the place where her brother lay in his grave.
The rest of the men who had crowded on the porch of the Imperial Hotel on her wedding day were ranchers and farmers and prospectors from the surrounding hills. The train came into Gold Crossing once a week, on Thursdays, and people chose that day to come into town, to pick up mail and get provisions, and to see who was arriving and leaving on the train.
Thomas scooped up the last spoonful of his rabbit stew. He pushed his plate aside and leaned back on the kitchen bench. “That was good,” he said, rubbing one hand over his stomach. Then he returned to the earlier topic. “Art sure is up to something. Next time I go into town I’ll have to look up Gus Junior and see if he knows anything about it.”
Charlotte tried to ignore the small niggle of worry his words caused. She’d come to enjoy the peaceful existence in their valley. Anything outside seemed like a threat, like an intrusion. If only she could have her sisters with her. Then she’d be happy to forget about the outside world and never leave again.
* * *
Thomas wiped the china plate and reached to stack it in the cupboard. Doing the dishes, standing side by side, was a new addition to his growing list of favorite times of the day.
Charlotte was singing one of her sea shanties, and Thomas listened to the words. “Oh, my old mother, she wrote to me, my darling son, come home from the sea...”
The plate nearly slipped from his fingers. Had she chosen the song on purpose? He didn’t want to hear any more verses, didn’t want to listen to a song about a mother yearning for her missing son to return home. He cast around in his mind for something to say that would make her stop.
“I’ve been reading in the newspaper about a thing called electricity.”
Charlotte ceased her singing and glanced up at him, her hands immersed in the dish bowl.
“Ever come across it?” Thomas asked. “I hear they use it in big cities to power the street lamps.”
“I heard people talk about it in Bos—In the East. But I don’t claim to understand what it means.”
“It’s something you can use for power. Edison Machine Works is advertising these little machines they call dynamos, or generators. When the generator goes round and round, it makes electricity. You can use the electricity to power a motor. I thought one of those generators could operate the motor for the pump. I could irrigate the fields on my own.”
Thomas saw the stricken expression on Charlotte’s face and cursed himself for being so thoughtless. Couldn’t he have chosen a better example about the benefits of a generator? For the example he had chosen said: I can manage without your help. I can replace you with a machine.
He tried to smooth over the awkward moment by prattling on. “For the rest of the time, you could use the generator to power lamps. They have something called electric lightbulbs. I don’t think they cost a lot.”
Her voice was subdued. “What is this...electricity? Does it come in a bottle?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not like the steam they use for the trains, either, or the gas Art Langley uses for the lamps in his hotel. I’m not quite sure what it is. But I’d like to find out.”
She spoke tartly. “What’s the point, if you need to make it go round and round? You’ll just end up cranking the generator instead of cranking the pump.”
“It doesn’t work like that. The generator makes the electricity slowly and stores it. You don’t have to crank it by hand. The current in the creek would be enough to make the generator go round and round.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t care much for the sound of it. I don’t think it will ever catch on.” She handed him the last of the cutlery and shook her hands with an angry flick of her wrists, hard enough to splash droplets up to his face.
“Anyway,” she added in the sharp, determined tone that sometimes emerged behind her softly spoken ways. “I enjoy watering the fields. Why would I want to spend money on a machine that does something I like doing myself?”
She spun on her kid slippers and marched off with a mutinous clatter of footsteps. Halfway across the room, she paused and tossed him a frowning glance over her shoulder. “I’m going to bed. Try not to stomp the house down when you come in.”
* * *
Thomas lay in bed, stretched out on his back, arms crossed beneath his head. Somehow, a tension had crept between them, ruining his one more days.
It wasn’t just him and his suspicions about her secrets. There’d been something wrong with Charlotte in the last couple of days. She was increasingly wrought. Tonight, she’d been snappy, edgy with nerves. And after he came to bed, she continued to toss and turn, emitting small huffs of frustration as she struggled to get comfortable beneath the quilt.
Thomas tried to get to sleep. But rest didn’t come. He sighed, his breath rustling in the moonlit night. For the first time in six years, he had someone to help him on the farm, but because she kept him awake at night, he was suffering from fatigue now more than ever.
Hours passed. He lay in the darkness, chasing the elusive slumber. Just as the first rays of dawn lit up the sky outside, the bedclothes stirred. Thomas held his breath. Would it happen again? Twice before, Charlotte had become restless in the night, and had climbed across the bundle board to snuggle up against him.
He kept still while Charlotte wriggled over the small barrier between them. Her hair tickled his jaw as she tucked her head in the crook of his neck. Her hand slid onto his chest and halted there, the imprint of her palm burning on his bare skin. Her leg, bent at the knee, flung carelessly over his and hooked firmly across his thighs. The scent of vanilla filled every intake of his breath. The warm gust of her contented sigh brushed against his neck.
For what seemed like forever, Thomas lay motionless, apart from his heart that beat with such ferocity it surprised him the sound didn’t awaken her. Slowly, he lifted his hand, let it settle over her hair, his fingers tangling in the ebony curls. Charlotte mumbled something in her sleep and eased her body half on top of him, one slim leg sliding between his, the edge of her hip butting against his arousal.
Thomas froze. When the first shock to his overloaded senses faded, he felt something sticky and wet against his thigh. With infinite care, he disentangled his limbs from hers, slipped away from her and lowered his feet to the ground. Standing up, he bent to her and lifted the edge of the patchwork quilt. In the faint light of dawn, he could see the dark stains on her nightgown and on the bedsheet.
Blood. Dear God. Terror clenched in his gut. He’d known all along there must be something wrong with the baby. It hadn’t been growing, not the way it should have been. A woman approaching six months should have a rounded belly.
He shook her shoulder. “Charlotte. Wake up.”
“Mmm...” She came awake slowly, resisting his efforts.
“Wake up,” he said. “I think you’re losing the baby.”
“What?” She raised her head. Her hair was mussed, her body still languid, her eyes squinting with sleep. “The baby?” she muttered.
“You’re bleeding. That’s a sign of miscarriage.”
She snapped wide-awake. Leaning up on the bed, she surveyed the dark smears that were spreading on the sheet and on her nightgown. “No.” Her whole face crunched up as she shut her eyes tight, as if to block out the sight.
“I’ll ride out and get the doc,” Thomas said.
“No.” Her eyes flew open again. She stared at him, panic flickering across her pale face. “No, Thomas—”
“I won’t be long. I’ll be back in an hour. Look...” He pointed toward the first dawn rays at the window, attempting to reassure her. “It’s already daylight. The doc will be here in no time. It’s going to be all right.”
“Thomas—”
He leaned down, brushed a kiss on her brow, and then he pressed his palm to where his lips had touched. Her skin seemed neither feverish nor clammy. She’d be all right. She had to be all right, Thomas promised himself as he turned away from the bed to snatch up his clothing from the chair.
“Thomas, please, don’t go...” Her voice was fraught.
Too focused on fetching help, Thomas did not listen. He had his trousers and shirt on in seconds. His gaze drifted over Charlotte as he fastened the buttons and pulled on his boots. Should he ride bareback to save one precious minute by not saddling Shadow? No, he’d ride faster in the saddle.
“It’s going to all right,” he said as he bent down for another quick kiss, this time on her lips. “You’ll be fine, and there’ll be other babies.”
“Thomas, no!” She clung to his arm. “We need to talk!”
There was a shrill edge of desperation to her words. He wanted to haul her into his arms, talk to her, listen to her, sing one of those sea shanties with her, apologize for talking about electricity as if a machine could replace her, but now wasn’t the time. His first priority was to get Doc Timmerman.
“You’ll be fine. I promise,” he called back from the door.
His footsteps clattered across the porch and down the path as he raced to the barn. “Sorry, boy,” he said to Shadow as he flung the saddle on the horse. There was water in the bucket in the corner of the stall, and hay on the floor. At least he wasn’t going to make a thirsty horse canter across the desert. As Thomas swung into the saddle and hurtled up the path, doubts bombarded his mind.
Had he done the right thing leaving her alone?
Should he have attempted to stem the bleeding first?
Made her coffee? Cold water?
Hot compress? Cool compress?
He shook his head, frustrated at his ignorance of female ailments.
The right thing to do was to go and get the doc.
* * *
Charlotte buried her head in the pillow. This was terrible. Terrible. Her monthly flow was late. She’d assumed the stress of her situation was to blame and she’d been waiting, counting days, hesitating between confessing to Thomas and finding a way to wash the rags and keep them hidden from him.
And now this! Never before had her menses started with such a flood. No wonder her lower back had ached last night, and her mood had been so foul. How could Thomas not have guessed the truth?
With a strangled groan, Charlotte fisted her hands over the patchwork quilt. Growing up, she had resented how young women, at least those of her social class, were kept in ignorance of anything pertaining to the male body.
But could it be the same for men? Could it be that Thomas, who had grown up without sisters, had little understanding of the cycle of female bodies?
And now he’d find out the hard way.
A whimper of distress rose in her throat.
When the doctor hurried out to her and discovered the truth, she could just imagine his pitying glance at Thomas. There was no way to keep such a juicy scandal secret in a place like Gold Crossing. And when Gus Junior got hold of the story, he’d spread it around, until the hillsides rang with laughter at the naive and gullible Thomas Greenwood.
She could not let that happen to him.
She could not let him become an object of ridicule.
She had to make her escape, right now.
Something twisted in Charlotte’s chest at the thought of leaving.
She would never dart through the mist of the irrigation spray in the fields again, would never feel the roughness of straw grazing against her fingers as she hunted for eggs in the barn, would never see another sunrise over the hills, would never spend another twilit evening listening to the rustling of nature’s rush hour, would never get another chance to learn to milk Rosamund.
And Thomas! Charlotte burst into weeping now, harsh sobs racking her on the feather mattress. How Thomas would be hurt! Hurt and puzzled, but even in the throes of his grief he would worry about her, search for her, putting her safety before his own pain.
But what could be gained by staying? One day she would have to leave anyway, and the longer she stayed, the stronger the bond between them would grow, and the hurt would be even deeper when she finally left.
It was best to leave now. That way she could spare Thomas the public humiliation, and herself the shame and anguish of confessing to the deceit. Let him think she had married him because of the baby, and now that she had lost the child, she saw no reason to stay with him.
For a few more minutes, Charlotte allowed herself the comfort of tears. Thomas, Thomas, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, but of course all along I knew that in the end I would. Thomas, Thomas, I’m so sorry. Her mind sang the words over and over again, like the refrain from a sea shanty.
Conscious of the pressure of time, Charlotte stifled her sobs and got out of bed. An odd lassitude had seized her, a sense of disorientation, as if she had been suffering from a bout of fever, and she had to force herself to hurry.
After doing her best to tidy up her disheveled appearance, she dressed in her pale gray blouse and petticoats and green wool skirt and matching jacket. The thick wool fabric was far too hot for the Arizona summer, but she could not leave her only respectable garments behind.
At the risk of wasting a few precious minutes, she made a pot of coffee and left it to brew while she rinsed the bloodstains out of her nightgown and packed the wet garment away, together with the rest of her possessions.
She carefully folded the shawl Thomas had given her and put it away in the blanket box in the bedroom. The only thing she took from him was the bar of vanilla soap, and she left her lavender one in its place.
While she drank a fortifying cup of the thick, creamy coffee, Charlotte calculated in her mind. The journey to the farm had taken about two hours in the cart, traveling at perhaps twice the walking speed. That meant four hours of steady walking. Six, or maybe even eight, if she faltered and had to pause frequently for rests.
However slowly she made her way, she ought to get to Gold Crossing in the afternoon. Tomorrow was Thursday. Until tomorrow afternoon, when she could take the train south to Phoenix Junction, she would need to find some safe place to keep out of sight—a feat that shouldn’t be difficult in a town where more than half the buildings stood empty and boarded up.
“Goodbye, Thomas Greenwood,” she whispered, and swept one final glance around the cabin. She left no letter. Nothing would be adequate to explain or excuse what she had done.
Outside, the sun had already leaped up on the horizon. Charlotte set off walking, the heavy leather bag bouncing against her hip. In the past two weeks, she’d explored the tiny valley, but she had never ventured out beyond the entrance road.
By the time she crested the hill and the dusty expanse of the desert landscape spread out in front of her, she was already sweltering inside her thick clothing. She looked ahead, s
earching between the stunted vegetation for the narrow ribbon of a trail toward Gold Crossing.
There was no trail.
She could see ruts from wagon wheels, lines of hoof prints, even footprints. And all of them were overlapping, crisscrossing each other, and heading in different directions.
Refusing to be intimidated, Charlotte picked out the deepest set of wheel ruts. They were headed east. She recalled the drive out from Gold Crossing. The journey had been in one constant direction. She closed her eyes and tried to remember, tried to picture the day she arrived, tried to reach back in her mind for any recollections.
Perhaps the sun had been sinking on the horizon ahead?
Charlotte opened her eyes again and studied the landscape once more. If her memory served her right, they had been traveling west. Hence, the town must be to the east.
That would be easy. All she needed was to keep facing the sun that was rising on the eastern horizon. She was not a sea captain’s daughter for nothing. She would not get lost.
She set off at a measured pace, to preserve her strength.
After less than half a mile, the tracks Charlotte had chosen to follow grew faint and then petered out altogether. She tried to keep her direction fixed but desert shrubs forced her to detour, her path weaving like that of a drunk. Rocks tripped her up. Cactus branches snagged the hems of her wide wool skirts.
An hour went by. The sun rose high overhead and she no longer had a firm idea which way was east. Doggedly she marched on. Her mouth became parched. She should have thought to take a canteen of water for the journey. It would not have been stealing, for she could have left the empty canteen with Art Langley at the Imperial Hotel before she boarded the train.
By now, there should have been some sign of Thomas and Dr. Timmerman riding in the opposite direction. But she’d seen nothing, had heard nothing, had felt no vibration in the earth beneath her feet. She’d been watching out, so she could drop down to the ground and hide out of sight as they thundered past.
His Mail-Order Bride Page 11