Prairie Romance Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Matt sighed, knowing that he would travel alone tomorrow.

  “It’s too hot,” he complained, drawing a hand down his gritty neck, “and I’m too dirty to sleep.”

  With a sudden, merry laugh that startled him, Emma plopped the pan of peas onto the table. She jumped up, dropped her apron over the back of a chair, and flung the door wide open.

  “Come on, then,” she cried. “I have a wonderful idea.”

  Having no notion of what he’d said to bring on such a reaction, Matt nevertheless pushed himself back from the table and followed her out into the moonlit night. In their short marriage, he’d come to expect such flights of fancy from his bride. And though others might consider her crazy, Matt found release in the joyful way she embraced each moment. He never knew what to expect, and somehow that added spice to each day.

  Once he’d found her lying facedown in the backyard and thought she was sick. She shushed him and pulled him down beside her to watch an ant carry a much larger beetle to its hole. Instead of the ant, he’d watched Emma and found the sight of her rapt expression, glowing golden eyes, and smooth tan skin utterly beguiling. He’d even considered kissing her again, but he’d refrained, remembering their wedding day. That night, he’d lain awake puzzled by the feelings she aroused in him and wondering at the odd sensation hammering in his chest.

  “Where are we headed?” he asked. Guided only by the moon and stars, Matt followed her flying hair and billowing skirts to the creek. Beating him there, the ever-barefoot Emma plunged into the cool water.

  “Come on. It’s wonderful.”

  Tired as he was, the water would refresh and clean him. And Emma’s delightful “craziness” would soothe his weary soul.

  As he sat on the rocky bank to remove his boots, Emma waded his direction. By the full moon, he could see she was already soaked, dress plastered to her body, hair streaming. She grinned impishly and flicked water at him. The cold drops felt shockingly good against his parched skin, and he barreled into the creek, splashing and flinging water. Emma laughed and returned fire, soaking him in seconds. Like two otters, they frolicked together, forgetting their aching muscles and tired bodies.

  “We should do this every night,” he said, shaking back his damp, shaggy hair.

  “What? This?” From a running start, Emma gave a shove, pushing him backwardonto his backside. Her laughter rang over the tree-lined grove.

  “You, dear lady, must be taught some manners.” As he groped for a handhold to hoist himself up, Matt made contact with something soft and slimy. Feeling like a schoolboy, he gripped the squirming frog and stalked toward Emma. With a squeal, she floundered toward the bank, but Matt’s much longer legs caught her. Holding her captive, he dropped the frog down the back of her dress.

  Emma danced around the creek squirming and yelping in mock terror. Her antics brought a chuckle to Matt’s lips. In another moment, he was laughing. At the sound, Emma yelped and jumped all the more, falling backward into the water, splashing and giggling in delight. Dislodged, the hapless frog croaked and bounded toward safer territory.

  Sides aching, Matt slogged over to help Emma up. His courtesy was rewarded with a sharp tug that brought him tumbling down beside her. They sat in the water laughing until they were breathless. When at last the silliness passed, Emma looked up at him, her face golden in the moon shadows.

  “Listen, Matthew.” The croak of frogs pulsated around them. “Even the frogs are laughing.”

  “Not the one I dropped down your dress. He’s sulking somewhere.” The silly answer surprised even him.

  With a featherlight touch on his arm, Emma said, “I like to hear you laugh, Matthew. And so does God.”

  Matthew Tolivar wasn’t given to fanciful notions, nor was he one to dance and cavort in the moonlight. The people of Goodhope would most likely think he’d gone as crazy as his bride, but none of that mattered one whit. He felt good—good in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time; a fact that puzzled him no small amount.

  The strange sensation in his chest returned, and though he was certain there was no room inside him for love, the feeling stayed with him for days.

  Bright and early the next morning, Matt hitched up the wagon, loaded it with Emma’s milk, eggs, and vegetables, and headed to town. He’d asked her again to go along, but to his disappointment, she had once again refused.

  “The scripture says if something we do offends our brother, we shouldn’t do it,” Emma had said without rancor. “My presence offends them, Matthew.”

  “That’s their fault,” he argued. But in the end, she’d stayed behind, waving him off with her ragged little hands.

  During the three-mile drive into town, Matt thought of all the hardship Emma had suffered and determined to try, once more, to make the people of Goodhope see reason. She was the kind of woman who needed people, and though the stubborn townsfolk didn’t know it, they needed her zest for life. He was a physician, a trained man of science, who’d lived with Emma for months now. Surely he could convince the people of Goodhope that she posed them no threat. And the best place to start was with her most vocal detractor—the storekeeper, Jimmy O’Dell.

  Five minutes into the conversation, Matt knew he was wasting his breath.

  “I reckon six sections of land made you an expert on lunatics,” Jimmy sneered.

  Angered by the insinuation and the man’s stubborn refusal to give Emma a chance, Matt was tempted to walk out without the supplies he needed, though it was the only general store for miles. Before he could, Maureen whipped through the curtained door, dragging two redheaded boys by the scruff of their necks.

  “Da, it’s the woodshed these two are needin’ today. Both of ‘em running in the house like wild goats, and Patrick here running into Ma and nearly knocking her over.

  “I didn’t aim to.” The accused poked out a defiant lip. “But Danny had a snake!”

  Jimmy O’Dell’s ruddiness deepened with anger. “You know your ma’s not up to such shenanigans from the two of you. Give ‘em to me, Maureen. I’ll set ‘em straight in a hurry if you’ll ring up Mr. Tolivar’s purchases.”

  Dragging the recalcitrant boys, the storekeeper banged out the door.

  Casting about for a reason to avoid discussing the pregnant woman, Matt spotted a squat white jar on a shelf above Maureen’s head. The rose-decorated label read Mrs. Parker’s Rosewater Ointment. “Is that any good?”

  Maureen took down the jar, opened it, and sniffed. “Aye, and it smells heavenly, too. See for yourself.”

  She stuck it under his nose, and the scent of roses enveloped him.

  “Emma’s hands …,” he started then stopped, embarrassed. “I’ll take it.”

  Maureen cocked her head to one side and stared at him thoughtfully. Then she pulled a bolt of soft green cotton from the shelf, her golden eyebrows arched in question. “She wouldn’t mind a new dress now and again either. This color was made for her, I’m thinking.”

  Emma loved pretty things, though, unlike the women in his past, she owned so few. Her hands needed tending, and there was no telling when she’d made herself a new dress.

  He gave a short, self-conscious nod. “All right, then.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Tolivar. You’re as transparent as glass.” With a twinkle in her eyes, Maureen laid the fabric on the counter, tossing in matching thread and lace. “And it’s delighted I am to see it.”

  While Matt grappled to understand her cryptic comment, a faint call came from the back of the store. “Maureen.”

  “Coming, Ma, in just a minute.” Brow puckering, Maureen shook her red curls and spoke to Matt in an undertone. “Six months gone and she’s puffy as one of Danny’s toads and weak as water gravy.”

  The worrisome symptoms filtered through Matt’s scientific mind. The woman needed a doctor’s care, but it wouldn’t be him. He couldn’t risk the pain of watchinganother life slip out of his hands. Not now. Not ever.

  His thoughts skittered to a stop w
hen Maureen spoke and he realized he’d been frowning toward the curtained doorway.

  “Don’t you be fretting now, Mr. Tolivar. The good Lord will provide. With Emma petitioning Him for a doctor, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see one riding into town just any day.” Hands and eyes busy with her figuring, she prattled on, unaware of Matt’s building anxiety.

  Sweat dampened his palms and his heart beat erratically. He needed to get away before he did something irrevocably foolish, like asking to examine the ailing Mrs. O’Dell. Concern for the pregnant woman choking him, Matt managed to gather his purchases, hand over Emma’s letter, and make a courteous departure.

  “My goodness, you’ve bought a wagon load,” Emma exclaimed, eyeing the bags of flour and meal, the rolls of wire, and the buckets of nails. “I’m certain Mr. O’Dell didn’t extend credit for all of this.”

  “It seems Mr. O’Dell is needing meat for his store, so I bartered a bull calf for this and more. He wants me to supply him all through the winter.” If there had been any other place to easily sell the beef, Matt never would have bargained with the likes of Jimmy O’Dell. Theirs had been a grudging agreement, brought on by mutual need.

  “Praise be to Jesus.” Emma ran her hands over the bags, exploring the wagon like an excited child. When she came upon the plain brown package, Matt had a sudden longing to see her reaction. “Open it,” he urged.

  Eagerly she released the twine and pulled the paper away. The pale green cloth lay on top.

  “Oh, Matt.” Her weathered hands caressed the cloth reverently. She lifted the material and held it against her. Maureen was right. The color captured the green flecks in her eyes and turned her hair the shade of ripe wheat.

  “Would You look at this, Jesus?” Emma cried, holding the fabric skyward. Suddenly she began to whirl, spinning, spinning until she became a gold and green blur in the summer sunshine. “Matthew, Matthew, Matthew,” she chanted, “you’re the kindest man on earth.”

  She was a balm for his weary soul, and he laughed to know he could make her happy with such a small gift. Truly it was more blessed to give than to receive, especially when the recipient reacted like Emma.

  Breathlessly she spun to a halt, still clutching the fabric to her chest. Delight shone on her face. Seized by the need to keep it there, Matt said, “There’s something else in that package, Mrs. Tolivar.”

  Back to the wagon she ran, exclaiming over the thread and lace until she came to the jar of Mrs. Parker’s Rosewater Ointment. Expression puzzled, she lifted it, turning the bottle in her hands, reading the label, glancing at her mistreated hands.

  Seeing her smile disappear, Matt wondered if he’d made a mistake. Was she embarrassed? Insulted? A flicker of anxiety passed over him, but it was short-lived.

  Slowly she uncapped the container, releasing the scent of roses. Eyes closed, she sniffed deeply, head tilted back. When at last she looked at him, tears shimmered above an angelic smile. “Never in my life have I owned anything so wonderful.” Swallowing convulsively, she whispered, “Thank you,” snatched up the green material, and fled into the house.

  That night, long after he’d given up and gone to bed, he heard her humming and murmuring to the rhythm of the sewing treadle. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips and the scent of roses in his nostrils.

  He dreamed he heard her, far off, praying. “I love him, Jesus,” she said. “Now what shall I do about that? Him, who should have a fine lady for a wife, one he could be proud of and take to church on Sundays. And here he is stuck with the village outcast, a worthless orphan. A crazy woman. How can I make up to him for all he’s done?”

  Straining upward against the dark pull of sleep, Matt wanted to say, “You’re the one who’s good. You’re the one who’s given me back a reason to live.”

  But he didn’t, of course. It was, after all, only a dream.

  The scents of coffee, bacon, and biscuits drifted into Matt’s consciousness, and he rose, chagrined that Emma had once again risen long before him. Darkness still covered the farm, though the rooster was singing his anthem. Bare feet thudding on the wooden plank floor, Matt washed and dressed then stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked blearily, slouching into a chair.

  Ever cheerful, she smiled and slid a coffee mug into his hands. “I’m far too excited to sleep.”

  Then he remembered the cloth and the perfumed ointment. A proud smile twitched at his whiskered face. “Did you sew all night?”

  In answer, she left the room, returning momentarily with a green garment that she held up for his inspection. “What do you think?”

  To his utter shock, the garment wasn’t a dress as he’d expected. It was a carefully crafted man’s shirt, as fine as any he’d ever owned.

  “But the cloth was for you, for a dress,” he protested.

  “There’s plenty left for that.” Amber eyes danced with eagerness. “Do you like it?”

  Fingering the soft cloth, Matt swallowed the lump in his throat. Would she never stop surprising him? Would she never stop thinking of everyone else first?

  “Ah, Emma, Emma.” He pulled her to him in what he thought was a hug of gratitude. In the next instance, he was kissing her. Her soft, sweet mouth parted insurprise beneath his, and an emotion far stronger than gratitude hammered in Matt’s chest. When he pulled back, stunned and breathless, a pair of luminous golden eyes measured him. She pressed trembling fingers to rose-tinted cheeks then did the unexpected once again.

  “How would you like your eggs?” she whispered then spun toward the stove, turning her back to him.

  Matt blinked, baffled at her response, baffled at the desire to kiss her again, and baffled as to why she was talking of eggs when his insides were twisted in a knot. She cared for him. He was certain. Why had she rejected his kiss?

  The answer struck him full in the heart. He hadn’t been dreaming when he heard Emma say she loved him. The words had been real. Emma loved him, and she knew he had no love inside to give. Guilt gnawed at him. He’d wanted to heal her brokenness, but he’d only caused her more pain.

  Chapter 5

  Even though the calendar said September, the prairie summer continued in full fury: hot and dry and unforgiving. Sweat bathed both people and livestock as an urgent need for rain pressed in.

  The kiss was not mentioned again, though Matt could think of little else. Now that the blinders were off, he saw Emma’s love in everything she did, and the burden of responsibility weighed heavily upon him.

  Late in the afternoon, a cloud appeared from nowhere, dark and heavy with rain. As the shade passed over, Matt and Emma glanced up, then at each other.

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Emma called from her back-bent position.

  Before Matt could reply, the sky opened and the blessed cool water gushed over the land. Emma squealed and straightened.

  “Rain. Wonderful rain.”

  As Matt watched, rain pouring off his hat, his wife began to twirl and spin, arms wide, face turned upward to the heavens.

  “Dance, Matthew,” she called, her voice full of joy and laughter. When he only stood with a smile on his face, she ran to him, gathered his hands into her small rough ones, and stood on his boot tops, dipping and swaying. Matt was caught up in her spontaneous delight, her joy too infectious to ignore. To his utter amazement, he wanted to dance and laugh. Emma grabbed his hand and pulled him, captivated, through the mud puddles, stomping and splashing. She could find more happiness in a mud puddle than most people found in their entire lives.

  Drenched to the skin, he pulled Emma close to him and looked into her eyes, the urge to kiss her again welling up inside him like an incoming tide. The rain tumbled from his hat onto her face, and she laughed all the more.

  “If the people of Goodhope saw us now, they’d say you’ve gone as crazy as me,” she declared, reaching up to swipe a smear of mud from Matt’s face.

  The cloudburst passed as quickly as it had come, and a rainbo
w split the sky in two.

  “Let’s chase it, Matthew. And find that pot of gold.”

  “Ah, Emma. Emma, you’re a delight. What makes you the way you are? A woman grown who dances in the rain and lies in the grass at night watching falling stars.”

  Her laugher ceased and a gentle, wistful sweetness settled over her features. “I thought you knew by now, Matthew.”

  He could see she was serious, so he waited, holding her close, feeling the combined heat and damp transferring from her body to his, smelling the scent of fresh rain against her skin.

  She laid a hand against Matt’s cheek and tilted her head to one side, eyes glowing.

  “When I was a child in the orphanage, there was no frivolity, no laughter. By the time Jeremiah took me in and taught me of Jesus, all the joy in me was gone. And then I had Lily. She could chase a butterfly for hours, clapping her tiny hands, falling, and getting up with a smile on her face.” Emma’s voice grew soft with longing. “Oh, Matt, she was my joy. So now I dance and laugh and sing and do all those foolish things for Lily.” Tears of remembrance filled her wide amber eyes. “I dance in the rain for Lily, because she never will.”

  With his own heart thudding from the poignant beauty of her admission, he finally recognized the truth. He’d come here thinking he was the healer, the man who could help the poor, crazy widow. But it hadn’t been that way at all. It was he who had been healed by Emma’s simple faith and her magnificent strength. She had given him back his joy. The truth had been banging at him for weeks, but now he had to tell her.

  “I love you, Emma.” Feeling her stiffen with shock, he held her all the tighter, kissing away a fat drop of rain clinging to her eyelashes.

  “Do you hear me? I love you, Emma,” he shouted, laughing anew at the shock on her face that matched the surprise in his heart. “Say you feel the same. I know you do.”