The Negotiated Marriage

by Christina Rich

  He sat beside her and crisscrossed his legs. He stared at the water.

  “H-here.” She handed him her pole, trying not to think about the last time they’d been together and her direct question. “Just hold on to the s-stick and don’t let go. Our lines are short enough you needn’t worry about the fish taking off too far.”

  She reached behind her and baited the pole left by Mara and dropped the line in the river.

  “You saw Hamish?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She didn’t know how to feel about her uncle’s presence. Soon she’d know her future, to be married, or not to be married. To stay at the home she loved so dearly, or to move into town where she’d be at the mercies of Mrs. Smith’s incessant mothering.

  “How long have you and your sisters lived here?”

  “My—my father s-settled here some time ago. He built the oldest part of the cabin and began on the barn. At least that is what Uncle Hamish says.” She didn’t want to tell any more about her father than what she had told already. Duncan didn’t need to know she was the reason her father had left them. “Hamish brought us here about ten years ago, after other families had begun to settle in the area and after Mr. Davis built the mercantile. Before that we moved from town to town. Mostly Hamish would hire himself out to a farmer, or a mill. Naomi worked where she could, doing laundry and cooking, and we girls were kept out of sight.”

  Memories of living in hovels near the rivers where all sorts of people crept about in the night caused her to shiver. “They figured if the rich folk knew about us, they’d work us until our fingers bled, like they did Naomi. One day Ellie befriended a young woman. Even I knew she was not the sort to associate with young girls, but she rescued Ellie from something terrible and after that she watched out for us until we moved here.”

  She glanced at him. “More than you asked to know, huh?” She shrugged. “If we’re to be married you should know the sort of woman you’ll be getting.”

  He stared at the spot where his fishing line joined to the water. The corner of his mouth turned upward. “I think I know the kind of wife you’d make, and I find no shame in you.”

  She dipped her chin, thankful he didn’t hold that part of her past against her. “We had our mama for a time, and then we had Naomi. Mama taught me and Ellie how to cook and sew. Naomi taught us how to care for the animals, work the land and fish. Hamish wasn’t around enough to mend the roof and fix the pens. I tried. Ellie tried, even Mara. Thank you for what you’ve done.”

  “I’ll get to the rest in the coming days.”

  She rested her palm against his forearm. He glanced at her. Gold flecks vibrated in the bed of green moss and she caught her breath. “Thank you.”

  He leaned closer, bracing his palm against the rock. She blinked, drew in a shallow breath and blinked again. She lifted her chin a little. Her upper lashes fell against her cheeks and rested as she waited. A field of wheat blown by the Kansas wind seemed to be caught in her belly.

  “Hey,” Duncan grunted.

  She flung her eyes open. The tip of Duncan’s pole bent toward the water. Climbing to his feet, he pulled the pole toward him. The pole tugged him forward. Back and forth, Duncan warred with the fish caught on his hook, and all she could do was watch. After a few moments, Duncan jerked the pole. The line and fish flew out of the water. The fish smacked him against the shoulder and then slid down the front of his shirt until the edge of the hook caught in the fabric.

  A horrified look crossed his face as the fish dangled like a pocket watch from a chain, gasping for air. Camy burst into laughter. He turned a sharp glare on her. “What do you find so funny, Miss Sims?”

  She swiped at the tears of laughter leaking from the corners of her eyes and stood. “This.” She waved a hand between them. Us, she wanted to cry. Twice, he’d been about to kiss her, and twice they’d been interrupted.

  An eyebrow rose beneath the rim of his hat. “And?”

  “You caught a fish.”

  “I did.”

  “And it seems, Mr. Murray, it has thoroughly caught you.” She laid her pole down and examined the hook. Pressing her fingers against his chest, she pulled the hook from his shirt. “There. You’re fr-free,” she stuttered as she guided the fish and line so it would hang from the pole. She didn’t dare look at him, because she knew what he’d see in her eyes, knew he’d know what she wanted, what she longed for, so she watched the fish spin.

  He crooked his finger beneath her chin and gazed into her eyes. “I doubt that.”

  Before she could close her eyes, his mouth brushed against hers. Once, twice. She rested her hand on his chest. The fish plopped into the bucket, and Duncan’s fishing pole clattered on the rock. The river trickled, the birds chirped, the beat of his heart thumped against her palm. If this was what marriage would be like, she’d never get her chores done. She already spent too much time daydreaming about what he was doing, and now it would be even worse. And what if he found her flawed? What if he left her like her father had done because she had too many accidents? Could she forget the measuring stick, as Mara called it, and allow Duncan Murray to be measured by his own character? But what if—what if he was no different than her father?

  Duncan pulled away. A cool breeze rushed between them, chilling her. He didn’t look at her, but rather busied himself with pulling the hook from the fish’s mouth, gathering the poles and the rifle, all the while she stared at the river until it blurred into nothing.

  “We should be getting back,” he said.

  She touched her finger to her still-tingling lips, tears of rejection stinging her eyes. “Y-yes, of course.” She shoved her sling into her pocket, folded the quilt and tucked it into the basket.

  “Is this fish big enough?” He picked up the bucket.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak without giving in to the tears, so she nodded.

  “Camy,” he whispered. He grabbed her arm as she moved past him. “Look at me.”

  She raised her head and blinked. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Did I upset you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why the tears?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you. It has nothing to do with you, but we’re not married,” he said.

  She nodded but didn’t believe him. She’d seen Benjamin kiss Ellie, and they hadn’t been married. She knew why he didn’t want a wife, but she was finding she wanted to be one. To be his. One he kissed, more than once. Without regrets.

  He threaded his fingers through hers. “You did nothing wrong, but you must understand that what just happened can never happen again.”

  A large chunk of her heart tumbled into her stomach. She yanked her fingers from his and rushed up the hill.

  “Camy, we need to talk,” he called after her.

  She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to run, but she had never been a coward. She halted at the top of the hill and rested her hand against the giant tree. She’d watched this tree grow, watched the river eat away at the bank and expose its roots. It was barely anchored to the hill, but it continued to bring forth life. She and her sisters had suffered many trials and they’d survived, and she had no doubt she’d survive Duncan’s rejection too.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Ye’ve done a mite bit of work here since I’ve been gone.” Hamish leaned against one of the reinforced gates holding the oxen and glanced around the barn. “Don’t look like a man who intends to leave any time soon.”

  “I’ve been keeping myself busy awaiting your return.” Duncan settled a crate he’d found beneath several rusted wagon wheels on the ground and pulled out an iron skillet.

  “Looks like I was wrong about you, Duncan.”

  “How so?”

  “Here I thought ye weren’t succee
ding at wooing my niece.”

  “I wasn’t exactly trying, Hamish. You know how I feel about marriage. Why would I court Camy when I don’t intend to make a real marriage with her? I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up and crush her.”

  Although, recalling her tears after that sweet and tender kiss, he thought he might be too late.

  Hamish pushed away from the gate and toyed with the various equipment pegged to the barn walls. “I say ye’ve had a change of heart.”

  Duncan pulled out another skillet and a ladle from the crate. “What makes you say that?”

  “This.” Hamish spread his arms out wide.

  “I don’t understand.” Duncan focused his attention back to the contents in the crate. What seemed to be three books wrapped in oilcloth lay side by side on top of a case he would recognize with his eyes closed. He’d had a similar one as a child, one of the only luxuries he recalled given to him by his father. He removed the books and ran his fingers over the worn leather case before opening it. The once shiny lacquer covering the spruce wood had dulled where a chin had rested. Duncan gingerly took the violin from the velvet and set it against his shoulder. He plucked one string at a time and then picked up the frayed bow. His fingers danced over the strings as he brought to memory a time when all had been right as rain between his parents. He drew the bow over the catgut, a sharp note sang into the barn bouncing off the walls, electrifying his nerves as if he’d been struck by lightning. The violin nearly fell from his hands. He settled it back into the case and secured the lid.

  Hamish’s shadow crept over him. “Ye play verra well.”

  “It’s been many years. Since I was a boy.” Duncan’s father had given him a violin as a gift and had taught him to play while his mother sang. Those were fond memories, memories that had been buried by his father’s fits of rage.

  “It was my brother’s, Camy’s da. He made it with his own two hands.”

  “The craftsmanship is beautiful.” Even though he wanted to examine the instrument and hear it sing, he shoved everything back into the crate, right along with any good memories of his father. “Seeing the skillets, I thought the ladies could use some of the items in here.”

  “I’ve kept his belongings hidden. Ellie and Mara Jean adjusted well to their father leaving. Camy never did.”

  “I never did what?”

  Duncan positioned himself in front of the crate.

  Hamish sidled close to him. “Ye never liked to cook, a shame too.” Hamish glanced at him. “She makes the best pies this side of the Atlantic.”

  Camy blushed and kicked the toe of her shoe into the dirt. “Ellie says dinner is ready.”

  “Whelp,” Hamish said, stepping forward and turning Camy away from her father’s crate. “We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  Duncan waited until their shadows disappeared and returned the crate to the corner. He gathered the wagon wheels and laid them on top just as they had been. His fingers itched to play the violin; he longed to hear the strings sing beneath the gentle glide of the bow. Strange how one old box held memories for both of them, memories best left buried in the dust.

  Duncan stepped from the covering of the barn. Crossing his arms, he closed his eyes and listened to his surroundings. No wagon wheels or clanking of ironwork. None of the obnoxious noises filtering from the saloons, the occasional ruckus of rowdy rail men. No twittering females vying for his attention. He didn’t miss the city. He much preferred the river and the birds, Hound and even Uncle Tommy’s hoarse clucking. And Camy, from her fiery protectiveness to her shy uncertainty. He knew he couldn’t just walk away and let her fend for herself.

  He dipped his hands into a fresh bucket of water on the porch and splashed his face. He had to convince her to marry him on his terms, and without resorting to becoming his father. If only he could get their gentle kiss out of his mind. Perhaps that was asking the impossible even for him.

  * * *

  “Cameron Sims.” Duncan’s silhouette filled the doorway as the door banged against the wall. The ladle in her hand trembled, spilling broth and dumplings onto Ellie’s freshly scrubbed table. His kiss and the fierce glint in his eye remained with her, kneading her insides, rising like yeasted flour. “Your uncle informs me there is to be a party in town Saturday in our honor.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Our honor?”

  “Yes.” Duncan crossed his arms over his wide chest. Hamish hid his face, Ellie busied herself with stirring the embers and Mara looked between them with excited eye movements. “It seems we’re to be married.” He stepped into the cabin, shut the door and paced. “Of course, you already knew that was a possibility. However, it seems to be sooner than we imagined.” He halted and eyed her. “What are your terms?”

  She dropped the ladle into the pot and dried her hands on her apron. “My t-terms?” Companionship. To be honored and cherished. Kissed. To have babes in my arms and children pulling at my skirts. “For my s-sisters to have a home here.”

  He tilted his head. “Nothing else?”

  Hamish cleared his throat, catching Camy’s attention. Did he know she wanted more, but feared to ask? Was her uncle urging her to find the courage? “I would ask that we continue on as we have been.” Duncan squinted and opened his mouth as if he were about to argue, but she held up her hand and continued before he could say a word. “My sisters and I, we’ve lived here and worked here. Perhaps not to your standards, but we’ve done our best. I ask that we freely continue on if we choose. That you would not hinder us. H-hinder me.” She felt Ellie’s eyes boring into the back of her head. Hamish scratched his white beard, and Mara’s eyes grew wide. What had she said to cause them to act in such a way?

  “Let me see if I understand you, you agree to a marriage if I allow you and your sisters to remain living here, and I allow you free rein to continue doing as you wish?” She nodded slowly at his question. “What if I want to build a house in the far west field overlooking the river? Or to raise cattle instead of work the field?”

  What had made her think he would leave after they had said their vows and after ruffians no longer tried stealing her land? Because he didn’t want a wife. How could she live close to him, watch him make changes to her home as he wished and live, not as a married couple, but as neighbors?

  Hello, Mr. Murray.

  Hello, Mrs. Murray, the sun sure is hot today.

  That it is, Mr. Murray.

  Do you think it’ll rain, today, Mrs. Murray?

  We can hope. Good day, Mr. Murray.

  Her face flamed. She clenched her fists. The muscles in her shoulder tensed, the wound still tender. Mara’s words echoed in her ears, but the measuring stick her father had left her with was useless. From all accounts, Duncan didn’t act like a man ready to abandon her. But what did he intend, and how would she know if she didn’t give him a chance? The memory of his kiss tingled her lips, but the ensuing displeasure he’d displayed afterward remained, frightening her. His rejection would crush her, leaving her hollow much like Ellie had been the last few months. She didn’t want to live like that, getting up each day just to put one foot in front of the other until nightfall. She didn’t want to just live, she wanted to be filled with life, to breathe with expectancy, to be joyful.

  “Hamish, Mara, come let’s give them a moment.” Ellie untied her apron and tossed it onto the back of a chair.

  Duncan stared at Camy until they left, and then he stepped forward. Camy’s heart hammered, thankful the table remained between them. “What if I don’t want you going to the river by yourself? As my wife, would you heed my wishes?” He moved around the table, the tips of his boots touching her shoes, and he gazed down at her. “What if I want to kiss you again?”

  Her thundering heart climbed to her throat. She bit the inside of her lip. Did he want to kiss her? Would he?

  “Camy,” he whispe
red, pushing his fingers through her hair. Eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against hers and then straightened, dropping his hand to the side. He stalked away from her and stared out the window. “I cannot be the husband you deserve.”

  “Wh-what sort of husband is that, Duncan Murray?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t know?”

  “How could I? My father abandoned me, leaving me with Hamish and Naomi, and you see what sort of man Hamish has been, leaving us here for months at a time. Husbandly examples don’t exactly fall from trees.”

  Duncan strode back to her, taking her hands in his. “Camy, you deserve more than a wayward vagabond. Even before the war I moved from place to place, never wanting to set roots lest I become my father. I can’t guarantee I’ll stay here.”

  The better for her, given the disappointment striking her when he didn’t kiss her. How could he not see he was far from the man he’d described?

  “You deserve a husband willing to give you children,” he added.

  She pressed her quivering lips together and pulled her hands from his. “Mr. M-Murray, I’m fully aware of the k-kind of marriage we are negotiating and I’m prepared for the consequences. I don’t expect you to stay. I don’t expect you to fulfill your husbandly d-duties. Upon our agreement, we will become b-business partners and nothing more.” Until death do they part. “You will acquire the land and allow us to stay in our home as long as we l-like.”

  He stared into her eyes, and she nearly caved. After the kiss they shared, and even now, how could they remain cold and heartless, mere strangers, toward each other? It might break her, but she would survive. She had to do it for her sisters’ sake. For hers.

  “I do ask, Mr. Murray, that you would give me leave to live my life as I choose. You need not worry that I will b-behave improperly. I give you my word and I take any vow made, especially before God, seriously.”

  The door swung open. “Have ye come to terms? This old man’s stomach is stirring up a storm.”

  Her own stomach was feeling a mite unsettled, but it had nothing to do with hunger. She held out her hand. “Are we agreed, Mr. Murray?”