“Not really. Daisy wandered over here, but I could if you needed something.”
“Nah, you’ve done plenty enough for me.” Everett dragged the coil of rope from the corner to the bedstead. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to sleep on something besides the ground or a wood plank.” He uncoiled the cordage and threaded it through the frame.
“I’d bet since you arrived in Kansas.”
“That’d be a bet you’d win.”
Dex grabbed the rope and fed him a bit at a time. “How long until you move in? I could help bring in the cookstove while I’m here. You could be in tonight.”
His heart stuttered. “Not ready for that.”
“Why not? I bet Julia’d be happy to get out of that miserable excuse for a roof over her head.”
She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do anything but take on more chores and store every edible wild plant in the cellar. Perhaps this house would make her feel more secure in facing the winter. But it had to be faultless. No half-hearted gestures. This needed to be a good move. “I’m planning on making more shelving and a counter first. And more chairs.”
“But why stay in that hovel? I’m sure you can add those while living here.”
“Julia’s not in a hurry. And I want it to be . . . well, perfect.” He kept his gaze on the rope as he worked it through a tight hole. Truly, he was buying time, hoping not to have to build a second bed frame.
“What are you doing?” Everett scurried over to hold the chair Julia was standing on.
“I’m putting up wallpaper.” She smeared some white gloppy stuff on top of a page of newspaper and pressed it into a corner, her chair tipping slightly to the right.
He gripped the back of the chair with both hands. “No need to do that.”
Julia looked down at him, then bent over to get another paper wet in her murky white water. “Rachel said it would help keep out the drafts. How you kept this place warm in the winter is beyond me.”
Frankly, he hadn’t.
Should he stop her and tell her the new house was ready? Any woman would be ecstatic to move out of this leaning box. When he finally did move them, she’d probably be angry if she learned how much earlier they could have switched.
But would she be willing to move in with only one bed?
“No,” he answered.
Julia stopped in midstroke and cocked her eyebrow. “No?”
Heat rushed into his face, and he shook his head. “Never mind.” He needed to make another bed.
“I can stop, if you don’t want me to do this.” She wiped at the paste on her hands. “What do you want? Food? Is it later than I thought?” She bunched her skirts with one wet hand and rested the other on the back of the chair.
He grabbed her by the waist and set her in front of him, the smell of her clean hair but inches from his nose. “That’s not what I was thinking.”
“What’re you thinking?”
What I’m thinking now would send you running. I don’t want you to run anymore.
He let go of her waist, crossed over to the stove, and grabbed a pan. “Food’s not a bad idea.” His voice cracked. Stupid vocal cords. “But you don’t have to continue with this chore. The new house will be done before winter arrives.”
“All right, I see.” She cleaned up her mess, and they made dinner together in silence.
It’s not good enough just helping her, I need to know her.
He slid the warm bread onto the table. “So, Julia, how . . . how was your day?”
She scrunched one eye. “Fine.”
“I mean, what did you do?”
“Oh!” She stopped dishing out food. “I cleaned the coop, put away the eggs like you told me to—” she brought up her hand to tick each task off with her fingers—“rearranged the root cellar, mucked the barn, watered the garden, cleaned the stove, and started on the wallpaper. Is that enough?”
He shook his head at her serious face. “Plenty enough.”
“I should have chopped more firewood, knowing how much you stress firewood. I should have done that before wallpapering, but I’d intended to put in an hour of that after dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s why I’m here.” She placed the plates on the table.
“To do the wood chopping?”
“Well, yes, and all the other household chores. I hope I’m learning fast enough. Rachel gave me an idea of when to pick vegetables from the garden. I wrote it down so I could remember. I’m afraid . . .” She pulled at her collar. “I’m afraid I didn’t plant enough. Or really that I planted enough, but ruined too many. From what Rachel said, I don’t think I have enough to preserve for the winter. I’m sorry for that.” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “But she’s helped me identify some tubers and other things growing in the wild to help me make up in stores for what I’ve destroyed.”
He dragged his hand through his tangled hair and let his arm drop to his side. Why did this woman stand before him slumped as if beaten? Had she always stood this way? He’d averted his eyes so often when speaking to her in the past, he didn’t know.
“Maybe I should have asked you sooner if what I was doing was right. . . . No, I should have, but you were . . .” She bit her lip and traced the plate’s edge. “You didn’t seem interested.”
“No, I . . .” He set the potatoes on the table and dropped into his chair. She sat quickly and folded her hands neatly in her lap, head bowed. Her immediate obeisance bothered him. So much of how he’d treated her in the past had to be undone, and he hadn’t been doing enough to show her he wanted her to stay. And he wanted her to stay regardless of how many jars of tomatoes and corn she could put away.
She peeked at him. “Are you going to pray?”
He wasn’t sure he should attempt it. God said He heard anyone who called upon Him, but would He be willing to grant anything to a man who’d treated his wife so poorly that she acted like an abused animal instead of a cherished companion? “Why don’t you pray this time?”
She held out her hands. “Oh no. I can’t do that. You wouldn’t want me to do it.” She bowed her head.
He sighed. “Dear God, thank you for our food. Help me . . .” He looked at Julia, stiff in her chair. “Help us.”
Julia followed Everett as he walked to the creek, guitar slung over his shoulder. He’d never played it before, but when he asked if she wanted to go with him to the creek after breakfast, she’d about said no, except he’d picked up his guitar. She hadn’t heard music since she’d left Boston. Despite wanting to search for berries, she’d agreed to a small break. And if he sang while he played, then he couldn’t be asking questions. Prying questions. Absurd questions.
He’d badgered her these last few days since Kathleen had given birth. Not on what she did on the homestead anymore, but about crazy things, like her favorite colors and what games she played as a child. He gave her advice on what to do each day, but then often remained around the house like a shadow, random, silly questions popping out of his mouth.
He made her uneasy. Not uneasy like Ned, but uneasy like . . . like how Theodore’s eyes used to make her uneasy when they’d first met.
She played with the button on her collar. Everett’s new pastime was watching her. But not like an overseer. He simply observed her. So many men had ogled her in the past, but he didn’t leer, he . . . Well, it was just unsettling.
At the bank’s edge, he leaned against a willow tree. She sat at the base of the one across from him.
He plucked at the strings while turning the little knobs at the top. “So, what songs do you know?”
“Oh, I don’t know many songs.” She fluffed her skirts around her.
“You seemed pretty excited to hear some music.”
“I haven’t heard music since I left home. But I’ve never heard much on the guitar. Just the symphony, so I wouldn’t know what you could play on a guitar.”
He whistled. “Just the symphony? That must have been g
rand.”
She nodded. The sound of his tentative strumming, the haphazard melody he paid no attention to, made her heart swell with the same excitement she used to feel when the string section tuned before a concert. The promise of hearing sounds like that again convinced her that putting off chores to follow him would be worth it.
Evidently done fiddling with his instrument, he plopped down on the grass. “Did you sing at church?”
The happiness at the thought of listening to music fluttered away. God things were important to Everett. Well, at least all of a sudden. And the change in his attitude coincided with this God talk. She would have to humor him. “We went to church infrequently. Since we didn’t have customers on Sundays, we did a lot of inventory and cleaning then.”
“Do you remember any songs?”
“I might if I heard one.”
He smiled and patted the ground next to him. “Come over here and sit by me.”
“I’m fine here.” She couldn’t enjoy the music if she was but an arm’s length away.
“But I’m not. How ’bout you get closer, so I can hear you sing?”
Oh no no no. “You don’t want me to sing.”
“Why not? Surely you’ll catch the words after a few times through. Then you can join me.”
“I don’t sing well enough.” Her father had let her know that often. And he wasn’t wrong, judging by the looks she’d received in church the few times she attempted a hymn.
He patted the ground next to him again. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll catch on.”
Julia moved to a closer tree, but not to where his hand lay on the ground.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, strumming the strings gingerly, as if it were a pet. He opened one eye and glanced over at her. “I’m a bit rusty.” He gave her a playful smile.
Her breath caught at the fleeting grin. Then Everett settled back, eyes closed, fingers working the strings. That smile had passed quickly, but it transformed his work-weary face into a handsome one. Her heart beat with heightened rhythm. All the girls back in Boston would be jealous if they saw that smile. She averted her gaze to the sky. Billowing clouds hid the sun, lazily floating by. A flock of birds changed directions three times before settling in a tree.
She closed her eyes to listen to his guitar and the sound of water trickling behind her. Much more beautiful than a church organ. Not quite as captivating as the symphony, but close. The simple melody Everett plucked soothed her anxiety over wasting daylight. His clear tenor pierced the air, and she opened her eyes just enough to study him.
He sang with expression, head resting against the tree, eyes closed. Like he meant it.
Good thing she refused to sing—she’d ruin the sound of his singing with hers. After a few repetitions, she could have attempted the song. If she had a different voice.
“Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature,
O Thou of God and man the Son,
Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor,
Thou my soul’s glory, joy, and crown.
“Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,
Robed in the blooming garb of spring;
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,
Who makes the woeful heart to sing.”
After playing the song through a few times, he sighed and looked over at her. “Forgot how much I enjoyed singing. Feel like you can join in yet?”
She clasped her hands. “You don’t want me to ruin your song with my sorry attempt at singing.”
“God doesn’t care what it sounds like, just so long as you mean it.”
She wasn’t sure He didn’t care. And she wasn’t sure she could mean it. “No, thank you. I’m enjoying listening more than I would trying to remember the words and sing.”
After playing a few more chords, he laid the guitar across his lap. “What church did you attend in Boston?”
She squirmed. He was ready to pester again. Maybe it would have been better to have massacred the song with her pitiful voice. “Summer Street Church.”
He stretched out his legs. “What kind of church was it?”
She tore apart the grass in her hands. “I don’t know. Big? Father took us there because Mr. Kendall and Mr. Yang attended.”
“Kendall and Yang?”
She shrugged. “Two men who did business with my father. Well, Kendall did. Father just wished he did business with Mr. Yang. He made sure to greet them each time we went.”
“So you really didn’t go that much?”
“No.” Would he be mad? It’s not like they attended church often here either.
“Did they teach from the Bible?”
“I didn’t have a Bible to look up what they were saying, but I’m sure that’s what churches do.” She searched her mind for a chore that would have enough persuasive power to excuse her from this interrogation. Church could be important for him, but it wasn’t for her, and she didn’t want to say anything to offend him since they were finally on speaking terms.
He leaned forward over his guitar. “Did they talk much about Christ and how to know God?”
“I suppose so.” Would he be angry if she admitted she didn’t think you could really know God? Everett certainly talked to the air like God listened to him when he prayed over meals, but maybe that’s just how he learned to pray. But even if God did listen to him, He wouldn’t listen to her. “The pastor definitely harped on the things we did wrong.”
“Did he touch on God’s love, and how He wants to get to know you?”
She got on her knees and brushed the broken blades of grass off her front. “I’m sure he did. I better get to making lunch, if you would excuse me—”
“Julia, wait a second.”
She stopped herself from standing. Please let me go.
“I need to apologize for something.”
Apologize? Could he see how much this was bothering her?
“The way I’ve acted these past weeks has not reflected God’s love.” He picked at his hat. “Not at all, actually. I hope you can forgive me.” He cleared his throat. His face a slight hue of pink. “I shouldn’t have been so . . . scared to talk to you. I was an idiot because—”
“It’s all right, Everett.” She stood and nodded to break off his discomfiture. When his mouth opened again, she rushed to cut him off. “I’ve got to get back to work, but feel free to enjoy your music. I’ll have lunch ready by the time you get back.”
She gathered her skirts and stumbled over the tree root in her haste. A few minutes passed before his guitar droned his song again, but he didn’t join in with lyrics. She glanced over her shoulder. He lazily strummed, staring into the sky.
Thankful to be free from his questions, she strode home, passing the new cabin. The light color of the wood exterior gave it a shiny appearance compared to the old shack. He’d spent a lot of time on it.
She rounded the corner and frowned at her wilting garden plants. She wasn’t the girl he needed. Even if she scrounged around in the prairie all day, she’d not have enough stored up for the winter to see them through. That’s what he’d asked her here for, why he’d married her. He needed someone who knew how to run a farm. A girl who liked going to church. A woman who wanted to be a lover and mother. A wife who wasn’t her.
She groaned as she picked up the buckets and trudged to the pond. If it would only rain, she could use the well again. If Everett prayed for anything, it ought to be for a nice storm. She struggled with the weight of the pails and the heaviness inside.
How she had longed for Everett’s chatter, but now his talk ranged too close, too intimate, and his gaze made her uncomfortable. They’d only been married for a month and a half. As much as she would love to live in a nicer, larger house, perhaps it would be best if they lived in separate buildings. His gaze measured her too often lately, especially when she passed on adding to the prayers at mealtime. She couldn’t ask him to allow her to live alone in the house he’d worked hard on, but she feared staying close to a man
who looked at her like he did: boldly yet alluring, judging yet compassionate. But then, could she handle being alone, completely alone on the wind-blasted prairie? He was nothing like Theodore beyond coloring and build. Could her heart yield and her fears subside enough to give him a chance?
She needed time. More time.
The sound of harnesses brought her up short.
An unfamiliar team stood strapped to a shoddy wagon in front of the shack. Gooseflesh formed on her arms. Julia glanced toward the path to the creek but didn’t see Everett. Breathing deeply, she forged ahead to welcome the visitor.
No one stood near the wagon. She dropped off her buckets at the garden’s edge. A twinge in her gut kept her from calling out a greeting. A proper visitor would have waited near his animals or announced himself.
She stood on tiptoe and peered in the cabin’s window. No one inside. She spied the shotgun on the rack above the cookstove and stepped inside to grab it. Her hands shook with its weight. She tried to figure out how to hold it to appear as if she knew what she was doing. Another thing a farmer’s wife ought to know. She tested its weight a few times in her hand. Giving up, she decided to use it for a club if need be. With the firearm at her side, she slinked out onto the porch and scanned the yard. Still clear.
The barn door stood ajar. Trembling and sweat made it difficult to hold on to the gun’s stock, but she pushed herself to cross the distance. She lifted the gun to her shoulder, ready to heave it down upon an intruder like an ax. Her breathing matched the rhythm of her heart.
A hunched figure in the barn’s shadowy interior stirred.
Chapter 15
The shadow unfurled and the outline of a cowboy hat popped off the specter’s top and traveled to its chest.
“Afternoon, sweetheart.” The voice was sickeningly sweet. “Whatcha got there?”
Julia grabbed the stock tighter. She should run. Oh, how she wanted to run, but it would expose her back. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my barn?”
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