“Lucas, hurry. That crazy woman is out here.”
A young man, tall, lank, with hands the size of shovels, appeared at the door. “Now, Mama,” he said to the woman. “Why don’t you and Patsy go on to the house? I’ll see to Mrs. Russell. And thank you kindly for the dumplings. They was mighty tasty.”
The woman cast another worried look toward Emma then hurried away.
“I’m Luke Winchester.” The man wiped his hand down the side of his trousers before offering it to Matthew. “And you must be Matthew Tolivar.”
Grimly, Matt inclined his head. “News travels fast.”
“Yes, sir, it does. Especially when it concerns Emma.”
Matt bristled. “She’s not deranged.”
The stable owner nodded, his expression sympathetic. “I never said she was. But some folks in this town would disagree.”
“So I noticed.” Matt scowled at the departing woman and child.
“What can I help you with today, Mr. Tolivar?”
With reluctance, Matt reined in his angry thoughts. No use adding to Emma’s embarrassment. “I’ll be leaving the team here for a day, maybe a night.”
“The bay, too?” Luke asked, indicating Matt’s horse tied on behind the wagon.
“He’s for sale.” Matt jerked a thumb toward the wagon bed. “The saddle, too.”
Emma’s head shot up, and Matt read the question in her eyes. Why was he selling his horse and saddle?
“A fine piece of horseflesh.” Luke walked around the bay, lifting feet, checking teeth. Finally, he named a price.
“You’re a fair man, Winchester.”
“Yes, sir, I am.” He gave Matt the money, counting it into his hand. “I’ll take good care of your team, too. You can depend on it.”
“Much obliged.”
In the distance, a train whistle rent the air. Taking Emma’s arm, Matt bade Luke farewell and started toward the depot. With each step down the street, past the barbershop, past the dry goods store, past the apothecary, they were met with the same unfriendly treatment until Matthew felt his blood boil. The storekeeper, O’Dell, had called this a friendly town, but to Matt’s way of thinking it was infested with rattlesnakes.
He’d only known Emma two days and they’d known her for years. Yet not one of them, unless it was the liveryman or Maureen, had an ounce of compassion in them. He wondered how they gathered in that church and prayed with a clear conscience.
As they passed the general store where he’d first seen Emma’s sign, the shopkeeper’s daughter flew out the door and gripped Emma in a fast embrace.
“Emma, I heard. Is Mr. Tolivar the one, then?” Maureen O’Dell’s lilting voice talked about him as though he weren’t there. “I’d so hoped he was.”
Emma took her friend’s hands and together they danced in a circle around the boardwalk, drawing scandalized looks from passersby. Emma didn’t seem to notice. “The Lord is good, Maureen.”
“Aye, He is.” The Irish lass tossed her strawberry hair over her shoulder. Her green eyes settled on Matt as she issued a challenge. “And you’d better be the same, Mr. Matthew Tolivar, or you’ll be answering to me, you will.”
Again, Matt was amazed that news traveled so quickly, but he understood Maureen’s concern for her friend. Life hadn’t exactly treated Emma well, and if the town’s reception today was any indicator, she sorely needed his protection. “You have my word.”
“‘Twill have to do, I suppose.” Maureen looked none too convinced. “How will you be wed, with the parson so set against it?”
“We’re off to Dodge City on the next train.” Still gripping Maureen’s hands, Emma gazed up at Matt, gratitude in her face. “Matthew sold his horse and saddle for the tickets.”
Matt was not surprised that a woman as sensitive as Emma had quickly grasped his reason for selling, but he wasn’t prepared for the unexpected rush of pleasure her appreciation gave him.
“Well, God be praised.” Maureen looked at Matt anew. “You’ll do, Mr. Tolivar. You’ll do fine. Now be off with you. That cranky conductor suffers no latecomers, and I’ve me ma to tend to.”
But Emma wouldn’t leave without asking, “How is she, Maureen?”
Worry wreathed Maureen’s beautiful face. “She’s having a hard time of it. Usually by now the sickness is past and she’s fair glowing with health. But this baby is different, draining all the life out of her, he is.”
Matt’s gut clenched at the switch in conversation. A sick pregnant woman again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself think about it too much. He was a farmer now, not a doctor. Such things no longer concerned him.
“I’ll be praying for her.”
“You do that, Emma, darlin’.” Maureen released Emma’s hands and stepped back. “Ask Him to send us a doctor while you’re at it. The way this town is growing…”
To Matt’s relief, her words were interrupted by another blast of the train whistle. “Emma,” he said, “we’d better go.”
Amid a flurry of hugs and warm wishes, Matt found himself embraced by the exuberant Irishwoman. “I knew you were bringing good the moment I saw you,” she whispered.
Puzzling over the curious words, Matt took Emma’s elbow and guided her toward the depot…and toward a minister who would make them man and wife.
Chapter 3
The preacher wasn’t home.
During their delightful train ride, Emma had entertained Matt and two restless children with her songs and stories and frequent exclamations over the marvels outside the train window. Matt’s spirits were considerably higher by the time the train pulled into Dodge. Now he sat in the parlor of the Reverend Tobias Jefferson drinking coffee he didn’t want and listening to Mrs. Jefferson regale Emma with details of her own wedding thirty years ago in Boston.
“… And my dress, dear child, it was the loveliest thing. All satin and lace with tiny pearl buttons.” She paused, enraptured by the memory. “I still have it, you know, tucked away in a chest upstairs. My daughter wanted to wear it when she married, but Clara’s tall, and we couldn’t lengthen it.”
Emma, perched on the edge of the settee, touched the woman’s hand in sympathy. “You must have been so disappointed.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Jefferson sighed. “I always wanted to see it on another bride, but only a little thing like you or me could ever fit in it.” Suddenly she gasped then popped up from the straight-backed chair, her gaze measuring Emma as she walked a circle around Emma’s chair. “Emma dear, stand up.”
Clearly bewildered, Emma cast a glance at Matt then stood obediently while Mrs. Jefferson continued her assessment. “Yes…yes…I do believe it would fit. Your waist is every bit as tiny as mine was. And we’re almost the same height.”
“Oh, Mrs. Jefferson.” Emma’s hands flew to her cheeks. “You can’t possibly mean…you couldn’t want someone like me to wear your wedding gown.”
“And why ever not?”
Emma’s eyes found Matt’s. In an hour’s time, the crazy widow had thoroughly charmed the preacher’s wife, and now she didn’t know how to react to the woman’s kindness. He could see she wanted this. He could read the eagerness in her face. Not that it mattered one whit to him what she wore. After all, this was no love match, and not a soul would care one way or the other if they even got married, but after the ugliness in Goodhope, Matt wasn’t about to leave Dodge until Emmawas in his legal care. If, while they waited, the young girl within Emma wanted to play dress-up in a thirty-year-old gown, it was fine with him.
“I agree, Emma,” he said. “Why ever not?”
His approval seemed to be all she needed. With Emma-like enthusiasm, she embraced the older woman. “I would be so honored to wear your dress.”
Mrs. Jefferson clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, wonderful! This will be so much fun. Funerals, funerals. That’s all we ever have in this town, with cowboys shooting each other over everything from whose horse is faster to whose daddy was meaner. You’ll be so pretty in that dress. And w
e’ll weave a garland for your hair. And pick some flowers for the church.” Excitement seemed to emanate from her every pore. Suddenly she whirled around and eyed Matt’s shaggy hair and whiskered face. “You could use some sprucing up yourself, young man. It’s not every day a woman gets married, and she’d like to see that handsome face of yours, I’m sure.”
Surprised by her sudden attack on him, Matt dragged a hand over his prickly jaw. “I suppose I could do with a shave.”
“I suppose you could. The barbershop is right down Main Street. You can’t miss that red-striped pole.” With a flap of her hands, she herded him out the door.
As he settled his hat on his head and started down the street, his insides jangling, Matt wondered how the last hour had gotten so out of hand. This wasn’t what he’d bargained for, but then, nothing about the crazy widow had been.
When Matthew returned, his face smooth and stinging from the hot shave, he found Emma in the backyard with the parson’s wife and a black-suited man he assumed to be the preacher.
“Now you look more like a bridegroom,” Mrs. Jefferson said approvingly. “And your bride is all ready for you.”
The shock of seeing Emma dressed in lace with peach blossoms garnishing her long, flowing hair set his heart to thumping. She waited for him beneath the blooming boughs of a peach tree looking much more like a real bride than he’d expected. Martha had looked like this, radiant, hopeful. He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head against the torrent of emotion he did not want to feel, and prayed he’d never let Emma down the way he had Martha.
When he opened his eyes again, he noticed what he hadn’t seen before, and the sight erased all comparisons to his first wedding. An almost smile threatened his lips. Emma, with her dancing hair and her fancy dress, was barefoot, toes peeking out like a child’s, charming him with her sweetness. Peace seeped into him. Taking care of the crazy Widow Russell was the right thing to do. Hat in hand, he went to stand beside his waiting bride.
“Shall we begin?” the pastor asked, opening his Bible.
As the ancient words of faith were spoken, a hush fell over the little gathering, broken only by the hum of insects glorying in the spring. Peach limbs swayedabove them, releasing their sweet scent and an occasional shower of blossoms. A pair of robins flitted in and out of the trees tending a nest.
“Will you, Matthew, take this woman…?”
Yes, he would take her as his wife. He would look after Emma and work her land, hiding from his own memories and from the incessant call of medicine on his life. He would promise all that was left of him to Emma Russell, the orphan, the widow, the crazy woman. From this moment on, he’d look forward, not backward.
Gazing down at Emma’s upturned face, seeing the hope and trust in her eyes, Matt felt his throat fill and tighten with some unnamed emotion. Swallowing hard, he answered, “I will.”
In a whisper that barely reached his ears, Emma repeated her own vows, and while Matt pondered the odd feeling in his chest, the preacher pronounced them husband and wife.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Matt and Emma then exchanged equally startled expressions.
At that moment, a yellow butterfly found the flowers in Emma’s hair. Matt almost smiled. Emma Russell—he caught himself and nearly smiled again— Emma Tolivar, in satin gown and bare feet, with a butterfly in her hair, had such a strange effect on him. His chest expanded with a sense of satisfaction so profound that he thought he might indeed kiss his bride. But before he could, Emma once again surprised them all as she lifted her clear, sweet voice in a hymn of praise.
When the last pure notes of Emma’s song faded away, Mrs. Jefferson dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I felt God smiling down on us the entire time. Truly a match made in heaven.”
Matt shoved away the disappointment he’d felt when Emma avoided his kiss. After all, Emma had made it clear that theirs was only a marriage of convenience, and he was certainly in agreement with that. But in the last few years, he’d had few special moments to enjoy, and regardless of the circumstances, the vision of his beautiful barefoot bride would stay with him forever. Mrs. Jefferson was right. God must be smiling. And as he glanced down at his radiant new wife, Matthew Tolivar did the same.
Emma felt the effect of Matt’s smile all the way to her bare toes. With blue eyes twinkling above the flash of white teeth, her new husband was a devastatingly handsome man. After a stern reminder that theirs was a marriage of necessity, she commanded her fluttery stomach to still. She knew about marriage. If they were truly blessed, they’d get along, maybe enjoy each other’s companionship, and someday they might even share a kindly affection such as she’d shared with Jeremiah. But she had no false notions about love. Still, laughter was good for the soul, and Matthew needed to smile more. Out of gratitude for what he’d done, Emma made up her mind, then and there, to see that he did.
Chapter 4
Spring gave way to a scorching summer as Matt and Emma fell into a comfortable routine. They worked from predawn to nightfall, sometimes side by side, often apart. There was so much to do, so much that had gone undone. Matt felt the constant pressure of time, determined to get as much fence up as possible before the winter. With fencing, he could raise the thousand or more cattle that Jeremiah had left to roam the open range as well as grow plenty of corn and hay to keep them healthy through the fierce Kansas winters. With hard work, he and Emma could have a secure future, and he’d have no time nor need to think about his forsaken medical practice.
When evening came, he sat in the lamplight, exhausted, hot, and filthy while Emma bustled around getting supper on the table. He enjoyed the evenings, enjoyed watching her do the things a woman did—things a man never even thought of doing. And not a day passed that she didn’t do something that made him smile.
As though privy to his thoughts, Emma handed Matt his meal. A face stared up at him from the blue-flowered plate. Two slices of tomatoes formed the eyes. A triangle of ham served as the nose. Thick ovals of bread protruded like ears from each side. And a row of fried okra grinned up at him.
“What’s this?” he asked, a half grin tugging his lips.
With a saucy smile, she remarked, “That’s the look I’d like to see on your face more often, Mr. Tolivar.”
“What!” he returned in mock horror. “Red-eyed? With green teeth? Emma, you have a strange taste in men.”
Clearly delighted by the joking reply, Emma threw back her mane of hair, her joyous laugh filling the cabin. Some of Matt’s weariness lifted as he dug into his whimsical supper.
When he finished his dinner, Emma’s work-worn hands quickly removed the empty plate and set a piece of apple pie and glass of milk in front of him. It was too hot to bake, but Emma had perspired over the stove without a murmur of complaint as though she enjoyed preparing the foods he loved.
“Maureen came out today.” Settling into a chair with a pan of freshly picked peas, she began the tedious job of shelling them. He saw that her fingers were stained green, the nails chipped and ragged. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed the condition of her hands or seen her futilely rub lard into the cracked, dry skin. “She helped me pick these purple hulls.”
“Maureen’s a good friend,” he said, savoring the taste of cinnamon-rich apples. “I trust she’s doing well.”
“She is. Her mother’s having a very hard time, though.” Emma paused, resting her forearms on the edge of the pan. “I just wish there was something I could do….” She tilted her head to one side and smiled as though someone had whispered in her ear. “How silly of me, Jesus. As soon as You send us that doctor, we’ll know just what to do for Kathryn, and all of us can breathe a little easier.”
Guilt shafted through Matt like a knife. Poor Emma, praying for a doctor, and here one sat. His conscience nearly ate a hole through him.
“Maybe she should rest more, keep her feet up.”
Emma glanced at him, eyebrows raised in question. Matt shrugged, pur
posely nonchalant. “I knew a doctor sometime back. Heard him recommend cutting back on salt and pork and getting plenty of bed rest. She might try that.”
“Oh, Matthew, thank you. Maureen will be so relieved, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try.” Emma’s ragged little hands resumed their work. “If you’re still going into town for supplies tomorrow, I’ll send her a letter telling her so.”
A measure of relief settled over Matthew as well. He’d helped without revealing his secret, and now maybe he could stop thinking so much about the pregnant woman. Lord, will the torment never end? Will I never know peace again?
He swallowed another bite of pie, although the dessert now tasted as bitter as quince. Pushing the plate aside, he leaned his elbows on the table and studied the woman who sat across from him, reviled and scorned, yet filled with serenity. She deserved so much more than public ridicule and a loveless marriage to a man as empty as those pea shells. “Why don’t you go into town with me? Visit Maureen awhile. Maybe buy something for yourself.”
Her answer was always the same. “No.” She shook her head, smiling regretfully. “I wouldn’t want to cause trouble.”
Though he’d asked her a dozen times, other than the solitary walks she took through the fields and woods under cover of darkness, Emma refused to leave the farm. Having long stopped thinking she was a lunatic crazed by the moon, Matt suspected where she went on those early morning excursions, though she never told him. If he was right, the town’s behavior toward Emma was nothing short of hypocrisy.
“Jimmy O’Dell’s an ignorant fool,” he said gruffly.
“Matthew,” she scolded mildly. “He’s a good man, doing the best he knows how to take care of his family.”
Matt wanted to argue against the people who refused to give Emma a chance, but he knew better. Every time he broached the subject, she sidestepped him, saying something kind. He’d even heard her praying for them, one by one, as she went about her daily tasks. She was a better Christian than he’d ever be. And far better than the residents of Goodhope.
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