Jem remained seated in his chair, though some inner voice told him he should stand up because a lady had entered the room. Politeness dictated it, but he couldn’t seem to stir himself. He felt suddenly as solid as a statue in his chair, reluctant to move. He watched the interaction between Ray and Annie though, not bothering to hide his curiosity.
His daughter felt no such reluctance, for she jumped down from her seat and skipped over to Annie’s side. The puppy circled them both, madly wagging its tail.
“Pretty,” Mae declared. “Pretty hair.” At this, she turned her gaze on Jem, as if expecting him to say something appreciative too.
As if he could. Even if Ben weren’t sitting there judging him, how could he?
Jem mumbled something incoherent that hopefully passed as a polite comment.
Ben seemed equally struck dumb, applying himself to buttering a roll. He kept half his attention on Annie though as she drifted silently across the room and took her place at the lonely end of the table.
Should he say something about that? Jem wondered. Invite her down closer?
He opened and closed his mouth, uncomfortably reminded of the moment that had passed between them out back—that moment they’d stared at each too long. When she’d touched the back of his thumb and it had felt too nice.
Did he really want to feed anything into that?
Let her think theirs was any sort of true marriage?
A commitment of hearts.
As if he had anything left in him for that.
Instead, he smiled at Mae with a sense of grim determination, facing her petulant gaze, and said, “Time to eat, lamb. Take your seat.”
“I’m not lamb,” she said grumpily, as she flounced down at his right. The puppy perched like a sphinx beside her chair, as if waiting for any morsels that might drop to the floor.
Jem waggled Mae’s head playfully, tweaked the end of her nose, and said, “You’re a lamb to me. Now, Ray, what is that delicious smell coming out of the oven?”
“Roasted chicken. Potatoes.”
“That’s what I hoped.” Jem continued conversing with Ray about this and that for the rest of the meal. He ignored Ben’s probing gazes, Mae’s obviously put-on bad behavior, and especially Annie.
He forced himself not to look down her way. All he’d see was how shockingly pretty she looked in that red dress—the one that had been Lorelei’s—and he wasn’t prepared for that right now. Just how was he supposed to function with her walking around like that all the time?
EIGHTEEN
The next two weeks passed by so quick Jem barely saw them speed by. He spent long days on the ranch tending horses: exercising and training his own small herd, soaking what had turned out to be an abscess under Flora’s hoof, doctoring one of the ranch stallions that had a cut on its foreleg, and keeping an eye on that one pregnant mare, apparently a favorite of Ben’s that he babied. He kept himself available for any other small thing that came up too. Whatever was needed. After dinner each evening, he’d spin a quick story for Mae in the parlor before Annie settled her and Sugar down for the night.
While Annie was about that, he’d do his best to stay out of her path. Most times, he’d check on the horses one last time before returning to the ranch house for the night, whether he was needed or not, if he were being honest. He’d come here to work, he told himself repeatedly. There was nothing wrong with working hard, was there?
And there was nothing wrong with the fact that he preferred to spend any free moments he might have out on the front porch. By himself. Nothing wrong with that. A man certainly needed space to think and breathe. And it wasn’t like it was his job to entertain the woman. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that might entail. And any ideas that bubbled to the surface he immediately squashed. She didn’t need him spinning stories about his life, or whatever.
Besides, if she wanted company she had Ray.
Although, Ray did disappear into his rooms most times after dinner.
Returning to the house on one such evening, Jem had to acknowledge he was avoiding Annie. The problem was he still couldn’t stop thinking about that awkward moment they’d shared out back, the day they’d had to burn her dress. The way she’d touched his hand. Such a simple gesture. Why couldn’t he get that out of his head? Seeing her parading about in Lorelei’s dresses bothered him too—though “parading” was admittedly an unfair description of how Annie behaved. She was nothing but modest in all she did. Unassuming. Ever present. And so it continued.
This Friday evening, as on so many evenings, Jem again stood out on the porch, leaning against the railing. He looked out over the ranch and the mountains, soaking in the colors of the sunset and the quiet. The door creaked open behind him, but he didn’t turn, even when he heard the door close and the quiet sound of a footfall. Maybe it was Ray. Ray was a man who respected a man’s need for silence.
Couldn’t be Mae. She’d already be giggling and the puppy would have been along with her, scrambling and making noise. Besides, he’d left them both in bed fast asleep not ten minutes ago.
He doubted Ben wanted his company.
He didn’t quite know what to expect, so when Annie came up beside him, leaving about the length of a wagon between them, he lifted his brows.
She made no move toward him—didn’t make any demands on his attention at all—so he settled against the porch railing.
There was something soothing about a sunset. It sort of pulled you in, took hold of your eyes, and wouldn’t let go. Everything else seemed pale in comparison. It eased his troubled thoughts a bit, but even so something about the changing tones left him unsettled, sad even. It made him think about Lorelei and how she wasn’t here to see it with him. She’d loved this porch and the view of the mountains. He’d courted her right here, back in the days when he was paid to look after her father’s horses.
Courted the boss’s daughter.
It seemed so brash now, looking back, but he’d never once thought he shouldn’t.
He’d just done it. Even though she’d been the daughter of a wealthy rancher, and he’d still been making his way through university.
She was the first girl he’d ever given flowers to. Just some Colorado bluebells from her own land. But she hadn’t cared that she could have picked them herself. She’d lifted them to her face and buried her nose right into the petals. He’d never seen anyone so pretty. It was then that he knew she liked him too. Before that day, she’d ignored him. Probably because he’d been trying so hard to impress her—showing off his horse knowledge or performing some feat of strength. He’d even tried to charm her with some pretty compliments. It wasn’t until he really saw her that she’d started to really see him. Funny how that was.
And now the sky was turning toward the purples. Just like that.
Jem let the sunset lull him into a peaceful state. He was aware of Annie standing quietly down the front porch a ways. She too watched the view. In the shadows, he could only see the highlighted curves of her cheek and forehead, the tip of her nose, the gentle fall of her braid pulled forward over her shoulder.
He cleared his throat, and she glanced over at him.
“That there’s Pikes Peak in the distance.” He reached out to trace the outline of the smoky gray mountains with a sweep of his hand. “Did you know that?” He thought he detected a shake of her head. She may have held two fingers against her cheek, the side of her face closest to him. That was her no.
“And those big brick-red rocks out in front of them? They call them the Garden of the Gods.”
She inclined her head at that, interested. When he lapsed back into silence, she glanced inquiringly at him.
“No, I don’t know why they call them that,” he said, as if she’d asked the question out loud. “But I’ve always thought the name fit.”
She dipped her chin in recognition of that and leaned more fully into the railing. She looked comfortable and not scared of him in the least, which was pleasing. He didn’t want her ju
mping out of her skin whenever he moved. He didn’t know how long she’d stay with him, but he didn’t want her to ever feel he was a threat. He hoped she knew that. On the matter of how long she’d stay and if they’d be together forever like a real married couple... Well, he didn’t know what to think about that. He didn’t know what to feel.
Uneasy. Restless.
He tapped the heel of his hand against the rough wooden railing. Never had he felt equally torn by a desire to turn and run and a desire to stay put.
Staying put won out.
There was just something soothing about her quietude.
He’d never want to deny anyone—especially a young woman like Annie—the power of speech. But sharing this moment of quiet with her was...nice. Comfortable.
After a while, Jem eased back and glanced at Annie, wondering about this woman who was his wife. On paper, anyway.
Lorelei would have come out and immediately snuggled into his side. She might have been able to enjoy the view in silence with him for a spell of about five minutes, then she would’ve asked him a question like, What are you thinking? And not too long after that she’d have him engaged in plans for the future—some little project she had in mind.
Annie simply stared at the sky and mountains. She didn’t seem aware of his presence, though she must’ve been. She’d come out and joined him after all. What did she want?
Of course she couldn’t speak—not like Lorelei. So if she did have something to say, she’d have to—wave her hands or make symbols with her fingers.
What must that be like?
She couldn’t even write. That would have driven Lorelei mad. She’d constantly scribbled down her thoughts, written countless stories.
This woman couldn’t speak. She couldn’t write.
What must that be like? The thought repeated more insistently, startling him. The reality of her situation sank into him, as if he were taking on her burden.
Had she always been like this—from birth?
Had it been an accident?
Some sickness?
She could obviously hear and understand, so she’d somehow learned language from listening to those around her. She likely couldn’t read—how would that work? He remembered learning his letters with his mother—before she left him and Pa to fend for themselves. Had anyone ever taught Annie to read, even though she couldn’t write? It made his brain hurt to think about. He’d never much considered how children learned the things they did. It was only now, watching Mae, that he had some inkling of the miracle of every day: how she’d learned to crawl, take her first steps, those first words, how she mimicked everything... It was a constant wonder, when he stopped to consider it.
So, somehow, Annie had learned to understand what people were saying. A miracle.
But without speech it seemed only half a life. He wasn’t much of a talker these days, but when he was younger... He half smiled at the memory of himself as a boy of sixteen. He’d boasted and bragged. Looking back now, he could see it was because he’d been insecure, felt so worthless.
He’d spouted all sorts of nonsense, just for the pleasure of giving voice to his thoughts and feelings—mostly anger. And stupidity. It was a wonder Isaac Jessup, his logging boss back in those days, had put up with him. And Pop and Becky.
Who’d been there for Annie? From what little he knew, her mother must have been a prostitute. The preacher had said Annie had been “born in a bawdy house.” Something to that effect. And then she’d had a foster family. That meant she’d lost her mother at some point.
Like him.
As for her father, even her mother probably hadn’t known who Annie’s father was, given the nature of her...business. So Annie hadn’t known him, most likely. Safe to assume. She’d only known her foster father—a preacher. A man who’d “sold” her off.
Jem gripped the railing, heard the creak of his leather work gloves.
He glanced over at Annie. Her thick braid had fallen forward, obscuring a good part of her face. She still did that—sort of hid behind it.
He turned his attention back to the mountains, keeping Annie in his periphery.
“Who are you, Annie Ruskin?”
He spoke softly, but he must have startled her, because she jumped. She didn’t turn to face him, not immediately, so he thought maybe she wasn’t going to respond—however she could respond—but then she moved. She shook her head once, made a steeple with her two forefingers, and pressed them to her lips.
He puzzled for a moment, then it dawned on him. An “A.”
“Just Annie,” he guessed.
She nodded, still mostly hidden behind her hair.
Now that she was properly washed up, he could see that her skin was clean and young looking. She looked to bit over twenty—maybe twenty-two or -three?
He was just about to ask her how old she was when she pointed to herself, to him, and then to her ring finger.
Yes, they were married. He knew that, he thought, with a wry twist of his lips. Then he realized what she was saying.
“Annie Wheeler,” he said.
She gave him a small smile, acknowledging he’d gotten it right. That pleased her. And, to Jem’s surprise, it pleased him too.
“How old are you, Annie—Annie Wheeler?”
She huffed a laugh—not an ugly sound at all—then held up two fingers on each hand. As she did so, she angled herself slightly toward him.
What would Lorelei have thought of this? Him being the one to engage this woman—his new wife —in conversation?
She might have found it funny.
It was an odd notion and he shook it off, uncomfortable with the turn in his thoughts. It wasn’t so much that he was being unfaithful to her memory, not really, but it sure felt like it. Standing here with another woman. A woman who could never replace Lorelei—nothing against Annie—but how could she?
“So, you’re twenty-two?” he asked. “That’s what I thought.”
Annie pointed at him, tilted her head inquiringly.
“I’m—” he hesitated, at a loss for a second, because he hadn’t thought about it much lately. But it was August now so... “Thirty, almost thirty-one. My birthday’s next month.”
She lifted her brows, evidently wanting more. What day?
“On the seventh. The seventh of September.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together, a small action that made him think she was storing. Remembering.
Then she hesitated, bit her lip, and seemed to be searching the rafters of the porch roof for answers. She also appeared to be counting. She stopped, glanced at him as if pondering something, then her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t have looked more defeated.
And blast, if that didn’t make him want to try harder to understand.
“You’re counting something up?” he prompted.
She turned her head, looking at him fully for the first time. Her eyes widened.
It was like he was seeing her for the first time: the small oval face, big brown eyes—impossibly large in such a petite face—sooty eyelashes, and gently arched eyebrows. He’d call her hair a sort of gingery brown. It was secured in that one braid tracing her cheek and neck, falling well past her shoulders. It must’ve been quite long unbound, maybe even to her waist. A whole lot of hair for such a small woman.
And she wasn’t dingy at all. Not in the least.
She wasn’t tall like Lorelei. She didn’t have loose dark brown curls like the ones he’d once enjoyed playing with. Annie was...different. Not as pretty, but that wasn’t quite true. She was actually quite pretty. Sort of delicate, vulnerable—almost doe-like with those big brown eyes.
And, Lord help him, he noticed.
It couldn’t have taken more than a handful of seconds to take all this in, though time itself seemed to freeze up for a moment and then sprang free.
Wait, what had just happened?
Something had just happened. But what, he couldn’t rightly say.
He cleared his throat.
“That is,” he said, “are you counting days, maybe weeks?”
Her expression changed, almost like she was experiencing pain.
What had he said?
Her expression cleared almost as quickly, and she nodded. She brushed her fingertips across her eyes is if gathering her sudden emotion and wiping it aside.
It was incredibly moving, and Jem stood still for a moment. It meant something to her that he pushed past that moment when she was defeated and kept trying. A small realization, but it hit him like a blow to the chest. Struck some deep place within himself—maybe his soul. He wondered if God was trying to tell him something. Probably to wake him up.
Annie has something to say. Listen to her.
Something like that.
All right, all right. Jem gave in silently.
“It’s August fourth now,” he said, piecing together their conversation. “So my birthday is a few weeks away.”
She gathered her fingers into her palm, as if he’d handed her some small gift, something rare, and she’d received it gratefully.
Her lips curved into a smile.
She was pleased. The thought gave him a feeling of great satisfaction, as if he’d accomplished something important.
“When’s your birthday?” he asked, his curiosity piqued now.
Her face clouded, and she shook her head. She wiped the air away from her and held up empty hands.
I don’t have one.
The words came into his head as if she’d said them aloud. If she’d had a voice, he imagined a feminine voice to match her features—the sound of the petite young woman.
It was as real as if Lorelei had been standing there talking aloud. But not the same. Lorelei had her own voice.
And Annie has hers.
Jem didn’t care to dwell on that too heavily.
“Everyone has a birthday,” he said.
But I don’t. She made some small motion and tapped her forehead. I don’t know mine.
“Surely you celebrated with your foster family—you must have picked a day?”
The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) Page 13