And then Helga came . . . and chose Ned Parker.
Everett gripped the edge of his seat. Julia was different. She’d asked to marry him. She wanted to marry him. But then again, not a real marriage. His stomach flopped.
“Would the couple please proceed to the front?” Reverend Vale’s smile beamed. The gaiety seemed odd after his fierce preaching face.
Everett clamped his hand on the back of the chair in front of him. He pushed himself to his feet, testing their steadiness before unclamping his hand. Though every muscle told him to flee, he moved forward. The faces of most of his neighbors displayed well-wishes as he moved to the front.
He’d given his word, though it might hurt him in the end. His mind shut off thinking. It was time for doing. Tugging on his coat, he tried to make it lie flat. His hands shook in the attempt.
Julia arrived before him, front and center. She didn’t look at him, just the preacher.
He stopped next to her. Her rosy-cheeked face turned his direction for a second before returning to the pastor. The quiver in her lip told him she had pushed herself up front too.
Holding his Book of Common Prayer, Reverend Vale trailed his finger across the pages as he read aloud.
“‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; . . .’”
Everett forced himself to stand still.
“‘. . . which is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men; and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.’”
Everett trembled. What had he done? His eyes shut.
God, forgive me for rushing into a sacred union.
Reverend Vale, perhaps hungry or impatient, let only a small sliver of silence interrupt his reading upon asking whether the congregation, bride, or groom had an impediment to the marriage. His voice boomed straight into Everett’s face. “‘Wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wedded Wife, to live together . . .’”
Everett couldn’t concentrate on the words. Fortunately, at the pause he knew to say, “I do.”
Julia echoed the same a few seconds later.
Did she really? Until death parted them? He took in her tiny nose, long neck, and petite form. Would he have to live with her and not touch her? Or would she end his agony and run off like Jonesey’s wife? Was there a shred of hope he’d be able to overcome her fear of men so he could take her in his arms and feel her melt into his embrace, instead of resisting?
He stared at the top button of the preacher’s shirt. He’d go crazy if he didn’t stop thinking.
“The ring, Everett?”
He scrunched his eyebrows at the minister.
Reverend Vale ducked his head and whispered, “The ring?”
“Oh.” Everett felt his pockets before remembering he didn’t have one. “It’s . . . I don’t have one with me.”
The minister frowned. He glanced at his book for a few seconds. “Then take her hand.”
Everett clasped Julia’s equally clammy fingers in his.
“Repeat after me: With this pledge, I thee wed.”
Everett spoke the words verbatim.
Julia’s slipping hand stole his attention. He gripped tighter lest her sweaty hand break free from his.
“Amen.” The whole congregation startled him with the end.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Her wide eyes turned to face him. Pretty as a doe startled in a dewy flower-filled meadow.
His smile disappeared. The thought of her lips touching his, her skin against his own, ratcheted up his heartbeat. How had he been so ignorant to believe he could behave himself with this woman under the roof of his one-room cabin? The words they’d repeated before God meant he could take her into his arms and hold her all night long. Every night.
Every bride had hurt him, but this one . . . this one would trump them all. And he’d just agreed to allow her to do so for the rest of his days.
How could he kiss her?
The murmur creeping about the room grew louder in his ears.
She peeped up at him through dark lashes. His gaze wandered down to her mouth. A mouth he’d been commanded to kiss. Her sharp intake of breath drew him in. And for a second, nothing but the feel of her lips existed.
“Congratulations, Miss Lockwood.” An older woman Julia had met at the mercantile the day she arrived in Salt Flatts quickly covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I mean, Mrs. Cline.”
I’m Mrs. Cline.
The next man in line stepped forward. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cline. I’m Mr. Stewart and this is my . . .”
An older man in a patched coat penetrated the haze and took her hand. “Congratulations on your marriage. What a happy day.”
“Yes, thank you.” Her mind whirled at the attempt to remember the names of people introducing themselves. Julia’s cheeks ached. Perhaps more from the falsity behind the smile than the smile itself. And her lips buzzed. She’d rubbed them with her hand, but the feeling of Everett’s kiss wouldn’t disappear.
At the end of the line, Rachel hugged her neck. She called over to Everett a few feet away. “Come, you two. Let’s eat.”
Rachel’s quilt lay under a tree away from the rest of the congregation. A young lady with strawberry-blond hair frizzed about her forehead sat near William, but other than her, Julia was relieved no more strangers wanted to see her happy face. She lowered herself to the ground and let the smile drop.
Dex placed a basket beside her. “Rachel made two lunches. With Nancy’s basket, we should be able to fill William’s stomach.” The girl next to William blushed prettily. He stopped rifling through his mother’s basket and made a silly face at his father.
Everett lowered himself next to Dex, but stopped halfway down. He straightened and looked at Julia. She tilted the basket in his direction to indicate they should share, and he moved to sit next to her, the basket between them.
Dex prayed, and Julia pulled the food from the basket Rachel had packed. She hadn’t thought about eating after church. Filling her trunks had been all she was capable of doing last night.
John, of course, chatted away, oblivious to the adults’ silence. Nancy and William were in their own world, and soon he assisted her to her feet, and they walked off hand in hand. Ambrose ran off to play after stuffing one last bite into his mouth. Emma busily stuffed grass and rocks into her pockets.
Julia fiddled with her fried chicken. Her basket overflowed with special foods. Her heart pooled in a puddle of warmth at her friend’s gesture of making such a special meal for her. And all she could do was pick.
She reached in for more, but instead of food, her fingers bumped into Everett’s. She withdrew her hand as if she’d found fire. He held her gaze for a second before lowering his eyes and pulling out two biscuits. He handed her one, his focus resting on her mouth again.
Turning away, she tore the flaky pastry apart before nibbling on it. Her nerves were out of control; she hoped the awkwardness would leave after a few days.
John’s conversation waned with the amount of food he ate, and Rachel tried to fill the silent gaps with funny things the kids had done that week. Stories everyone had already heard or witnessed. Julia tried to chuckle at the right places, but all she could do was think of Everett sitting beside her. And try not to think of Everett at all. His even breathing kept her from succeeding.
They all fidgeted, ready to go. Except her. Maybe she’d never be prepared to go. He’d promised her he’d wait until she was ready, but the shudder that went through him at their kiss frightened her. What if he didn’t? What if he . . .
Her stomach twisted with nausea. Staying forever in the churchyard was not a luxury she had. She’d committed herself to this path.
Everett stood and brushed off his slacks. “I need to catch Mr. Jackson before he leaves.” He strode away.
Dex
grabbed the baskets. “I’ll gather the boys.”
John followed in his father’s wake.
Rachel stared at her with an empathetic turn of her brow, pulling Emma onto her lap. “Are you feeling well, honey?”
Julia tossed her biscuit toward a bunch of robins and swiped at the crumbs on her skirts. “No.”
Rachel reached over and squeezed her hand, stopping her attack on the biscuit particles. Scooting over, she hugged her from the side. “I know Everett. You’ll be just fine. I’d never have matched any woman with a man unless I would have happily released my own daughter into his care.”
Julia watched him in animated conversation with a short, stocky man. His flash of a smile was so charming. So like Theodore’s. She groaned. “I shouldn’t have married him.”
Rachel squeezed her tighter. “Even people madly in love get a little frightened at the lifelong commitment.”
Without a care for propriety, Julia unbuttoned the collar bent on strangling her neck.
After clearing her throat, Rachel grabbed her hand. “I have to apologize.” Rachel squirmed. “I never should have meddled in Everett’s affairs.” She turned and smiled. “But I so badly wanted you to come. I’m glad I interfered this last time for selfish reasons. I’m sure you two will find your way.”
Rachel pulled a package from her basket. “A wedding present.”
“This last time”? Julia took the slim package. “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did.”
Julia tore off the white wrapping paper and exposed an embroidered housewife, stocked with needles and thread. “Ugh. Sewing.”
Rachel laughed. “Like marriage, you’ll get better at it as you go along. I’ll come over and help you finish your dress. And I’ll teach you the rest of what I know, but my guess is you’ll be plenty occupied with mending. A bachelor’s wardrobe is hardly ever in good condition.”
She took in a deep breath. Mending Everett’s clothes. So many things she hadn’t even thought of, though they should have been obvious.
Like her name being Mrs. Julia Cline.
She glanced across the yard to see Everett watching her. His eyes looked sad. He bit his lip and turned his attention back to the men patting him on the back and laughing.
If he didn’t hurt her, she’d most likely hurt him.
Chapter 8
Everett pulled into his homestead, his wife at his side. A strange, unsettling thought—his wife. He’d wanted one for years, and now that he had one, it felt odd.
Her eyes had avoided his after the service, and Julia had looked so pale when he’d helped her onto the wagon that he’d decided to let her talk first. But she never had. He stopped the oxen in front of his shack, and before he could say a thing, she started climbing off the wagon. He clambered around to her side before she hit the ground. His hands betrayed him by trembling at her tiny waist, as if he were a boy caught stealing from a store’s penny candy jar.
Though her feet touched the ground, he couldn’t make his hands let go. It was no sin to have his hands wrapped around her. She kept her eyes level with his chest, and he was glad she wasn’t tall enough to look straight into his. She wouldn’t like what she saw there. The boning under her shirtwaist felt strange and somehow totally absorbing. His arms struggled, then finally succeeded, to let go.
She peeked up from under her bonnet, a stain of red clouding her cheeks. “I’ll go inside.”
He swallowed and moved to pull her trunks from the wagon, his hands tingling with the sensation of the shape of her waist impressed upon his palms.
She disappeared through the front door, which still hung loose on its broken leather hinge. Why hadn’t he fixed that? Looking over the rest of the cabin, his shoulders slumped. How unworthy of her. But after the locust plague of ’74, it had taken longer than he’d hoped to afford the lumber for a new house.
Not that this shack wasn’t one of the better ones around these parts. At least it wasn’t a soddy, dripping mud every rainstorm. His other brides had come from poor backgrounds, and he’d expected they’d be content with a glass window and a cookstove for a while.
Hefting her largest trunk, he followed Julia inside. She’d seen his tiny house before agreeing to marry him, and he couldn’t do anything about it now. He set her luggage on the table and quickly brought in the other two, then swiped the road dust off the trunk’s tops. “I’m afraid we don’t have room to store all three of these in here. You’ll need to choose what you want to keep in one trunk. I’ll store the other two in the barn.” How different this must be for a city woman. Would throwing her beautiful dresses out with the animals be enough to send her fleeing?
“All right.” Her hands clenched tightly in front of her as she stared at the bed, the single bed.
So sure the marriage wouldn’t happen, he hadn’t even prepared for her arrival. How would he handle tonight? How would she?
He should have done this whole marriage thing conventionally.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got animals to feed, and well . . . plenty of work to be done.” He slapped his hat onto his head. “Like always.” He headed for the barn, but turned his head before stepping outside. “I’m, uh, grateful for you coming and helping me. Thank you.”
She nodded and then sat on the bed, hugging herself. He closed his eyes. She needed someone to reassure her everything was all right. But somehow, he was certain it couldn’t be him. He’d give her time alone. God knew he needed some.
In the barn he shed his jacket and went to work. The novelty of her beauty would wear off, and soon his natural desires would subside. But how long would it take? Could he keep himself busy enough that he wouldn’t be thinking of her every hour? Thinking how she was only steps away, but far out of his reach? He chucked a forkful of hay and drove the tines into the compacted dirt floor.
The vision of her large eyes in a china-white face as they stood before the preacher floated before him. Why did she have to be so attractive? The memory of her lips quivering after he’d kissed them floated before him. Why did she have to taste so good?
Why oh why had he agreed not to touch her?
After he disappeared from sight, Julia relaxed and surveyed the room. An errant curl dropped into her line of sight. Her hair must look awful. She rummaged for her mirror packed at the bottom of her trunk, but stopped halfway through the pile and smiled her first real smile of the day. Pulling her hat off, she yanked out all her hairpins. A simple hairdo would suffice on a farm. No need for perfection and style or worrying about how she looked. She fashioned her hair into a simple bun and took another look in the mirror. Would Everett mind? Even if he did, being less attractive would be a good thing right now.
She changed out of her fancy dress, found her cap, and placed it over the bun. Tying the strings under her chin, she fingered her jam-packed trunk and wondered where she could put the contents of the other two. No wardrobe. No shelving. No other rooms. Where did Everett keep his clothing?
The interior of the cabin was serviceable, but not homey. Cookstove, washstand, bedstead, table, two chairs, and two sawed stumps for extra seating. A small cupboard above the stove provided the only shelving in the room. Could she get used to this unsightly house? She shrugged. Better than the Stantons’ barn.
She looked in the last possible spot—below the bed, a strange contraption of boards wedged high in the wall with one stout post anchoring the corner. Two dusty trunks and a pile of linens were crammed underneath. She dragged the linens out, some folded, most threadbare.
The smaller trunk was the easiest to grab first. She unlatched the top and leaned it against the bed frame. A bit of unease filled her while rummaging through his things, but this was her home now. She’d be expected to take care of his stuff.
Mostly Everett’s clothes, crammed in haphazardly, many in need of mending. Matches, soap, and a few other sundries sat along the side.
She shoved the first trunk back and tugged out the larger one.
A sneeze
tore through her as she wiped the dust off the top. After wiping the grime off the brass plate with her apron, the faint etching of the initials AGG appeared. Whose trunk was this? His mother’s perhaps? She unlatched the case. On top of the contents lay a white linen tablecloth with grapevines embroidered on the edges.
She stood and spread the fine cloth over the table. This dreary cabin could use all the help it could get. Smoothing it with her hand, she scowled. “Needs ironing.”
She returned to her knees to see what else might be of use. A large flowered piece of fabric turned out to be a woman’s ruffled nightgown.
Odd.
A chemise, bonnet, drawers . . .
Why did Everett have a woman’s unmentionables stuffed away under his bed?
Two work dresses, a coat—a whole store of women’s effects. At the bottom lay a beautiful quilt of white, pale blue, and orange. It looked and felt new.
Sitting on the bed, she ran a finger over the beautiful even stitching on the blanket’s wedding ring pattern. Bending over, she dropped the lid of the trunk back down. AGG. There would be no reason for him to have saved his mother’s clothing down to her stockings.
At the picnic, Rachel had mentioned she’d messed with his affairs one last time. What did that mean? Had he lost a wife? Yet most of the items looked new. Julia had only worried about hiding her past, but what was his? So focused on feeling certain she could trust him to act according to her wishes, she hadn’t asked him anything about himself. The pain and sadness in his eyes at the church picnic—had that not been directed toward her, but toward this AGG woman? Maybe that’s why he said nothing on the way home. He was so still, she hadn’t wanted to disturb him.
Julia wasn’t sure she wanted to know who these things belonged to, wasn’t sure she should pry—might lead him to ask his own questions. Would he compare her to this woman from his past? Of course he would. Her fingers fiddled with the jewelry at her throat. She’d never measure up to a woman who had become his wife in every sense of the word.
Maybe she could get him to talk without saying a thing. Having the quilt spread over his bed and the tablecloth on the table would give him the chance to explain when he saw them. Would it embarrass, irritate, or grieve him to have these things lying about?
A Bride for Keeps Page 9