by Kate Sheperd
“I don’t understand. Why even search for a wife if you didn’t want one? Surely hiring a housekeeper would be much more affordable than paying for my way here and supporting me for…”
She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence: for the rest of our lives. Knowing that it was the marriage itself, not her that he objected to. Still, he could have mentioned the business arrangement to begin with. This was, after all, merely a means to an end on both their parts.
“I’ve been running this ranch for almost a decade, but the fact is that I haven’t fully inherited it yet. A stipulation in my mother’s will was that I be married by the time I turn thirty years old. That happens next month. I know Mom was just trying to help me, but the truth of the matter is that I have no desire to be married.” His words might have seemed almost cruel if they hadn’t been weighted down with an agony so thick that it almost had Sylvia hurting right along with him.
Sylvia didn’t respond. It seemed like Vincent had more to say, so she waited for him to expand on his remarks. Whatever he thought of saying, she could tell the moment when he decided against sharing it with her. The distant, pain-laced look left his face, replaced by a blank stare and then, finally, a rueful smile tossed in her direction.
“You don’t have to worry that I’ll do right by you Sylvia. I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. I just…don’t want what you might call a traditional marriage.”
Sylvia took a moment before she responded to the admission. Instinctively she knew that she needed to choose her reaction to his words carefully. She did hope for a happy marriage, but she hadn’t been banking on one. Besides, she understood all too well that some wounds couldn’t be healed by anything less that time and patience. She could wait.
“Well, we don’t have to have a traditional marriage. But is it too much to hope that we can still be friends?”
“No, of course not,” Vincent assured her with a smile that didn’t quite manage to bank the despair in his eyes.
Chapter 3
Morning seemed to come almost the second that Sylvia had closed her eyes. They had gotten to the ranch quite late the night before, and she had been so exhausted by the day’s travel that she hadn’t even paused to admire her new home. After Vincent’s admission that he didn’t want a ‘conventional marriage’ she hadn’t been surprised in the least to be tucked away into her own bedroom immediately after arrival. In truth she had been a bit relieved.
She wasn’t awakened by the sun this morning though. Apparently the days started far earlier than that here. Yet again she woke to the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs.
For a moment she smiled at the smell, and her mouth watered in anticipation. That only lasted for a brief moment, though, before Sylvia shot out of bed, barely taking time to splash water on her face before dressing hurriedly—or as hurriedly as possible. Buttons were still taking some getting used to. Vincent had bought her new clothes without commenting on the fact that she’d only possessed two worn dresses of the same color, though it was too much to hope that he hadn’t had some kind of thoughts on the matter.
Unfortunately all of the dresses that were ready-made at the mercantile had buttons, something that she was still rather unfamiliar with as all of her clothes prior hadn’t had buttons or any other kinds of ‘adornments’.
“Drat, drat, drat!” Sylvia murmured the mantra under her breath as she struggled to rush through buttoning the dress.
Sylvia had insisted that she be given some responsibilities around the house after Vincent had given her a few days to settle in. That had been a week ago. He’d only offered one request: that she help out with meals around the house. And she had slept in every single day since. Finally she finished fighting the cumbersome buttons and rushed downstairs to take over the meal preparations.
“I’m sorry,” she began as she headed into the kitchen. Her explanation of how she had overslept, again, dried up on her tongue as she took in Michael’s haggard appearance. “Are you feeling well? Did you get enough sleep?”
“None, as a matter of fact. That black mare had her foal last night. There were some complications, but she and the foal are both fine. And you aren’t late, Sylvia. It’s only about two in the morning now. Go back to sleep. This is more of a late-night snack than breakfast. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh, well…I can still help. I don’t mind at all. I’m already up now. Thinking that I’d overslept again shocked the sleepy right out of me,” Sylvia explained with a smile.
She moved over to the old potbelly stove and took over the movements that had already become almost routine in her short time here. She’d almost forgotten that Vincent was even in the room with her, so she gave a start when she felt his hands moving on the fabric at the back of her dress.
“Vincent?” Her voice was breathy, and the light touch of his fingertips against her back sent tingles up and down her spine.
“You buttoned this crooked, Sugar.” There was a smile in his voice, but it came out rough, and somehow…thicker than usual. The unfamiliar timber filled her with a warmth she didn’t quite understand.
“I’m sorry—“
“Don’t be. Sylvia…don’t be.” The words were spoken barely above a whisper before Vincent turned her to face him with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Sylvia, I…” His lips met hers then and sent a delicious thrill through her.
Sylvia felt almost lightheaded and instinctively placed a hand behind her to steady herself, only to come in contact with the warm wood burning stove behind her. She hissed in a breath and cradled her hand to her chest, shattering the fragile moment all too quickly.
“I hurt you,” Vincent exclaimed, looking at her hand briefly before pulling her over to the pump to cover it with cold water. “I…I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. I’m just tired, worn down…and you looked so beautiful…”
“I’m not sorry Vincent.” She spoke the words softly, her eyes on her hand as he slowly pumped cold water over it. Her mind made up, she pulled her hand out of the stream and faced him.
“I’m not even a little bit sorry Vincent. I understand that you didn’t want a wife, but you have one now. Is it really so wrong to have one in…in every way? Am I so undesirable?”
“It isn’t you, Sylvia. You’re…You’re wonderful. I just can’t—“
The scent of the bacon burning filled the air and Vincent turned away from Sylvia to pull it from the stove. When he turned around he was wearing the calm, composed face that Sylvia was quickly learning to hate—the face that he wore when he refused to let his true self, his true emotions, shine through.
“I am very sorry that this happened, and it will not happen again. It can’t, Sylvia.” Hurt flashed briefly in his eyes as he turned from her, but he still turned and left her standing alone, confused and feeling alone in a way she never had before.
The following days fell into a predictable rhythm, if a strained one. Sylvia’s internal clock finally came back online and she rose in time to have breakfast started. She would pack a lunch that Vincent would bring with him. He would leave their sprawling home and stay gone all day, returning for supper as the sun touched the horizon. Sylvia learned to make herself at home and spent the days cleaning the house and laundering the clothes when needed.
She truly became comfortable in her new life, but truth be told she felt more like a live-in maid than the woman of the house. The days were lonely. There were ranch-hands, but they apparently saw to their own meals and Sylvia rarely did more than greet them in passing. There were no other women on the ranch and her husband seemed to prefer working his ranch day after day without cease over any semblance of a social life. He made trips every so often to town for supplies but he rarely stayed even for a meal, preferring to pack food to eat on the trip home.
He never went into town for any social functions. That explained, Sylvia thought with a rueful smile, why such a handsome man had needed to inquire after a mail-order bride in the first place. Sh
e could tell, based on the lingering looks he received from the other women when they went to town, that he would have had no shortage of potential mates if he had only made himself available. One of his admirers actually addressed her one day after she’d been caught admiring him.
“He’s handsome.” Sylvia looked up in surprise when she realized that she was actually being addressed by the woman. It had been so long since she’d had someone to talk to besides Vincent… “Your husband,” the older woman clarified.
Sylvia sensed no malice behind the words, so she smiled hesitantly at the woman who appeared to be about her age.
“Yes, he certainly is that,” she agreed.
“I’m Mrs. Gardner. I have to admit I’m surprised he decided to marry again at all, after poor Sophie.” She must have seen the confusion in Sylvia’s eyes because she asked, “Did he not tell you about her then, dear?”
“No, I’m afraid he didn’t.”
“Well, no matter. She isn’t any competition for you, that’s for sure. No way that she could be, not now. He was engaged to the poor dear—she was always a sickly little thing. She passed away less than a week before they were to be wed. That was over ten years ago now. It seemed like a part of him just never healed. We’d all decided that he would probably die a bachelor, but then you came into town on his arm. I heard that Reverend Johnson married you the day you got into town, and you without so much as a proper dress….Where did you move here from, dear?”
“Pennsylvania,” Sylvia murmured in response.
“Well, all that way—“ They were interrupted when Vincent turned to look for Sylvia, his purchases completed.
“Yes, all that way. It was nice talking with you, but I’m afraid it looks as though my husband is ready to leave Mrs. Gardner. It was very nice to meet you.”
“You too, dear. I do hope that husband of yours won’t keep you locked away on that ranch forever. We’re all terribly curious about you.” Unsure how to reply to that, Sylvia merely smiled in response before making her way back to Vincent’s side.
“Vincent, will we ever talk about why you don’t want to be married?” Sylvia broke the comfortable silence that had fallen between them with the question. The irony of the fact that she had to ask her husband of almost two months the question didn’t escape her.
They were still a few hours from home. Long enough that Sylvia hoped he wouldn’t try to dodge the question, but not so far that the entire trip to town would be ruined if he clammed up and refused to answer her. It would hurt if he shut down on her completely yet again. He didn’t answer at first, and Mrs. Gardner’s words came back to her: She isn’t any competition for you, that’s for sure….
“You might be surprised,” Sylvia mumbled under her breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” she replied. In a gentler voice, she asked, “Does it have to do with Sophie?”
Sylvia hated to broach a subject that he obviously considered private, but she’d learned the hard way that refusing to let someone go after they’d passed on was almost the same as dying right alongside them. She’d gone through something similar after her sister had died, though it wasn’t the same as losing the person you thought you would spend the rest of your life with…It was almost impossible to say which loss was more painful: the loss of what had always been, or the loss of something that hadn’t even truly gotten a chance to start.
He looked her in the face then, his features a mask of shock and old, stagnant grief.
“Who told you about Sophie?” His voice sounded almost…broken. If Sylvia was right, though, no one had dared thus far to make him break through that pain. And that was what it would take for him to begin to heal, if he wasn’t willing to face the sorrow head-on by himself.
“Does it matter who told me Vincent? I’m not asking you to forget her, or even to give me, give us a chance. I just want you to tell me something about her. That’s all.”
“Sophie isn’t up for discussion. You’re overstepping here Sylvia.” The tone said all too clearly what his words had fallen short of. What business did she his bride on paper only, have asking about his lost love?
Sophie tried her best to swallow down the disappointment. He was right, after all. He hadn’t ever mislead her about her place in his life. She couldn’t have said it better herself. She was overstepping. Still, though…if she didn’t force him to meet the past head on then who would? Not the ranch hands. They were his employees after all. No one from town. He seemed to avoid them as much as possible.
“You can choose to avoid the subject. I don’t blame you for that, and I certainly don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me of all people. But just…take it from someone who’s been there. If you don’t let the pain out somehow it turns to bitterness and hate. And those emotions…They can make you into someone that you don’t even recognize.”
A heavy silence weighed on them both for a long moment. It stretched for so long that Sylvia began to believe that he might not answer her at all.
“Spoken with the voice of experience, Sylvia. Who did you lose?” The words were quiet but lined with steel. The hard edge to his voice didn’t offend her though. She understood that it was the only way Vincent was able to speak through the pain.
“My sister…my baby sister.” Sylvia felt the tears threatening then, but how could she ask him to confront his past if she was unable to speak of hers?
“Her name was Helen. She got sick, and my father refused to seek proper medical attention.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone.
“Really, he failed to seek any medical attention. We couldn’t do anything. We just sat by and watched the life drain from her a little bit more every day. Finally it drained away until there was nothing left. I hated my father for not helping her, my mother for just standing by…I still think I hate them sometimes, but it doesn’t consume me anymore. I can’t let it.”
So few words, relatively speaking, and yet it wore Sylvia down to speak them. She glanced over at her husband to see if her words had carried any weight. He seemed like he almost wanted to say something, but all too soon his face became shuttered again.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I…didn’t realize.” He turned his attention then to the road ahead. It was clear that the subject would not be discussed further.
In the days that followed Vincent’s reserve seemed to melt a bit more, but there was still a barrier between them. Sylvia feared some days that there always would be. While Vincent’s cheerful demeanor kept Sylvia in good spirits while they were together, the semblance to a familial bond without genuine closeness seemed to taunt her. To have something so close to the comradery she’d once shared with her sister only to have it fall short seemed almost…cruel.
At the end of the day Sylvia went to bed the same way that she’d started it: alone and longing for a closeness that she feared would never be hers to claim.
Chapter 4
In those first moments Sylvia couldn’t be sure what had pulled her from sleep. Thoughts came slowly to her sluggish mind as she struggled for consciousness. It was too early for breakfast, she felt sure, and she didn’t hear anything, but…then it came to her: smoke.
The scent was in the air, far thicker than the stoves that warmed the house should have allowed. It stung her eyes, forcing her to blink against the sensation several times. Where could it be coming from though?
That question pulled Sylvia the rest of the way into wakefulness. Confused, she pulled a dressing robe over her nightgown and plodded into the hallway, intent on finding the source of the smoke that was contaminating the air. There was a glow coming from the window in the bedroom opposite her own…Fire.
“Vincent? Vincent, I think the barn is burning!”
Sylvia hurried down the hallway to his room, only to find his bed empty. She hurried on, calling out for him even as she rushed outside to see if Vincent had already seen the flame and was combatting it. She reached the front door just in time to see him
as he rushed into the barn…an instant before the roof collapsed.
It seemed as though time stood still for an instant as shock froze Sylvia’s body in place. It seemed for a moment as though her mind would deny what her eyes had seen. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it happen.
The thought spurred her into motion. Sylvia ran across the open ground toward the barn. Sticks, rocks, and the burrs that grew so commonly in that region dug into the soles of her bare feet, and vaguely Sylvia realized that she hadn’t really dressed in her haste to tell Vincent about the fire. But she couldn’t stop now. Vincent.
She did stop, when she reached what had been the entrance to the barn. The heat seared her skin. It felt as though surely the hair was being singed from her scalp. Fear froze her to the spot where she stood as she gazed into the flames that engulfed the entire building.
Then she saw him. A beam had fallen on Vincent’s leg. He didn’t cry out, but he was struggling to pull it from beneath the wood. It hadn’t caught fire fully yet, thank goodness. If it had he would be lost for sure. Lost….Vincent couldn’t be lost.
Sylvia took a deep breath and then started forward. Every step seemed to get hotter and soon she was afraid to take deep breaths. It felt as though the heat would sear her lungs away to nothing. Determination propelled her forward. One step at a time she moved forward. When she was almost to him Vincent looked up and met her eyes.
“Sylvia? Get out of here! Go!”
She didn’t answer. How could she, when she could hardly breathe? Rather than answer she let her actions speak for themselves. She continued moving toward him, one step after another. Only the knowledge that pausing between steps would leave her in the flames even longer kept her pace fast.
Fear showed in Vincent’s eyes, and understandably so. Sylvia’s first attempt to lift the beam failed. Though it wasn’t burning it was still unbearably hot to the touch and Sylvia instinctively pulled her hands back. Smoke burned her eyes, causing them to tear up…although some of the tears might have been born of fear and pain. She couldn’t stop though. Not while Vincent was still trapped. She quickly took off her dressing robe and used it to shield her hands from the worst of the wood’s heat.