It was a simple room, but clean. She could see some dust in the corners, but Jeb had obviously put some effort into cleaning the room out.
“It’s a very nice room,” she added. “I’ll be very comfortable here.”
“You can do what you want with it,” he said. “It used to be Peter’s room, but I cleaned everything out. He used to like being right next to the bathroom. There’s a door here”—he tapped on a closed door with a hook lock on it—“that goes straight into the bathroom for you, so if you wanted a bath, you’d have . . .” He cleared his throat. “Uh, privacy, I guess.”
“Thank you.”
It seemed like he’d put some thought into her comfort with the flowers, the access to the bath ...
“Where do you sleep?” she asked.
“Across the hall.”
“Oh.” She looked through the open door into the hallway. But his bedroom door was shut, and all she could see was darkness.
“I don’t have much more in my own room,” he said. “More mess, maybe.” He smiled at his own joke. “I’ll make an effort to clean up more, though.”
He pulled a pack of matches out of a pocket and put them next to a lamp on her dresser, then put her suitcase next to the dresser. “I forgot those.”
Leah looked around the room once more. She’d feel more at home once she unpacked her clothes and did a proper wash of this floor, but for the first time she was seeing some beauty in this place. Her bedroom would be lovely once she was done with it. And it would be hers ...
“I don’t want people to know about this,” she said quietly. “Sleeping separately, I mean.”
“I don’t have people visit,” he replied.
“I know, it’s just—” And in a rush, she realized that if people did visit, there was a chance of them spotting this sleeping arrangement and their secret would be out. “If people knew, they’d talk.”
“They already talk about me,” he said dryly.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Look, we aren’t married for love. We aren’t fooling each other, at least. But we might as well get everything we can out of this marriage, and you know as well as I do that we both will gain a lot socially by being married. You’ll be talked about less with me as your wife. People will stop bothering about the past so much if they have something new to chew over. And for me, I’m not the old maid anymore. But if people know about ... this—”
Jeb nodded. “Yah. I get it.”
“They’ll be talking about us again,” she said.
“And all we’ve gained will be lost,” he concluded.
“Yah.”
Jeb swallowed. “I wanted this farm, and that’s why I did this, but you’re right. I do stand to gain a lot more than just land with a wife like you.”
Leah felt her cheeks warm. Did he see more than a ticket to an inheritance?
“Like me?” Was she really fishing for compliments? But she wanted to know how he saw her.
“Yah. A pretty woman, but also smart. You teach school, so you must be, right? And you’re well-spoken. You sound ... polished.” He paused, then added gruffly, “And you’re moral.”
The last word gave her pause, especially because of how he said it. Moral. “I hope my brother’s ways haven’t reflected badly on me. I did my best in raising him, but I was doing it alone, and I think losing our parents was harder on him than any of us realized.”
“I know you’re a good woman,” he said. “I might stick to myself, but even I hear things. Or Peter heard things, and he passed them along.”
“Oh.” She smiled feebly. “That’s good.”
“I just appreciate that.”
“Thank you . . .”
“Whatever our sleeping arrangement, we have to be a team here behind closed doors, and out where people can see us.”
“A team.” Not a romantic view, but a pragmatic one. “We’re on the same side.”
An image of Rosmanda rose up in Leah’s mind—Rosmanda with that sad look on her face when she tried to give her advice about her wedding night. Leah would have to make up for that and show Rosmanda a happy and united marriage, because right now, all Leah wanted was to erase any doubts her friend might have. She’d said too much on her wedding day, and she wouldn’t make that mistake again. It used to be her reputation that mattered to her, but now it was theirs—their mutual reputation as a married couple. They reflected on each other.
“I’ll let you unpack then,” Jeb said, and moved to the doorway. “I’m glad you like it.”
She listened as Jeb’s footsteps creaked down the stairs toward the kitchen once more, and then she exhaled a long sigh. Her wedding night was past, and now it was just a matter of settling in.
She went to the window and picked up the vase of flowers. They were like delicate, purple slippers, and she lifted them to her nose to smell them. Then she went to the door and looked across the hallway.
There was his closed bedroom door, the metal knob gleaming in the low light. Leah hardly knew him, and yet here they were. She hadn’t seen him happy, or angry, or sad . . . so it wasn’t as if she’d had a chance to see him at his worst or his best, and standing in the doorway of this little bedroom and seeing the few feet between her bedroom and his, she was reminded of just how large and muscular this man was. A woman might dream of a strong husband like that, but did she really know what she was getting herself into? A bedroom to herself had seemed like a bit of safety, a way to remove herself from the physical obligations of this marriage—whatever they might entail ... she wasn’t even sure. But this room wasn’t quite the refuge she’d imagined either.
This was still a very small house. And his presence could be felt in every square inch of it.
Oh, God, let him be kind . . .
* * *
Jeb stoked the fire in the stove a little bit higher. He had a small pot of milk steaming nicely—enough for two. He made this amount out of habit, because he and his uncle used to drink their tea this way every night. It was boiled milk and three tea bags tossed in until the milk became a soft brown. This pot of milk wasn’t ready for the tea yet, though, and he stirred it for a moment with a wooden spoon to keep it from scalding.
Before his uncle’s death, Jeb used to talk with his uncle in the evenings, catching up on whatever news or gossip his uncle had gleaned. Peter had been a social man—he went to town, attended service Sunday, visited neighbors, lended a hand. His uncle’s heart attack had been a blow to more than Jeb.
Standing in the kitchen alone, a lump rose in his throat. If Peter were here, he’d be at the kitchen table with a copy of The Budget in front of him. He used to pore over the obituaries and wedding notices.
“At my age, my friends are either dying or their kids are getting married,” he used to say. “Either one is life-changing.”
Jeb glanced toward the table—wiped clean and empty of clutter. He pulled the envelope from his pocket again and pulled out the paper. It was already smudged with dirt around the edges from multiple readings while Jeb worked, and he looked down at the words again.
Peter always had liked a wedding....
Footsteps on the stairs drew his gaze, and he saw Leah standing there. She was still dressed, but her feet were bare now, and she came down.
“What are you making?” she asked.
“Milky tea.” Jeb tucked the envelope back into his pocket. “You want some? There’s enough.”
“Sure.”
He might as well get used to having her around in the evenings, because this would be their life. The pot came to a boil, and Jeb pulled it off the heat, then tossed in the tea bags and stirred.
“What was in the envelope?” Leah asked.
Jeb looked up, surprised she’d ask. But then, she was his wife now, so maybe he should get used to a little curiosity on her part.
“It was from my uncle,” he said. “He left it with the lawyer on the occasion of my wedding.”
“Oh. What did he say?” she asked softly.
<
br /> “He congratulated us,” he replied.
The rest of it hadn’t been meant for her. It had been for him. Leah nodded, and he continued to stir the pot as the milk grew steadily darker. Then he pulled out the tea bags, squeezing them against the side of the pot with a spoon, and reached for the sugar canister.
“I liked Peter,” Leah said. “I didn’t realize he was such a character, though. I mean, to include that kind of demand in his will . . .”
“He hid it well,” Jeb replied wryly.
“He used to send me a letter after I sent him a check for our rent, and he told me little things about Simon. Like, how he saw him at Sunday service, and how he dropped off some apples for Simon from his tree. Little details that made me feel better.” Her expression darkened. “He never warned me about the gambling, though.”
“He wouldn’t have known,” Jeb replied. He filled two mugs and carried them to the table. He pulled out a chair for her, then one for himself. “It might be a good idea to sit down and get to know each other a little bit.”
Leah slipped into the seat he’d proffered, and she took a sip of the tea. “It’s funny we’re doing this now.”
“Yah. But better late than never.”
“What do you want to know about me?” she asked quietly.
“Who are your best friends?” he asked. That was a detail he should know. Who would be coming over here to check on her?
“Rosmanda Lapp—obviously, because they hosted the wedding,” she said. “But she and I have been friends for about three years now. What about you?”
Jeb dropped his gaze. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“Do you have . . . any?” she asked hesitantly.
“I had my uncle. I moved in with Peter and his family when I was a teen, and Menno and I were a lot closer back then. We were like brothers, instead of cousins. Even when I got married the first time, Menno and I bonded over that. We got married the same year, so . . . But . . . things changed.”
“What changed?” she asked.
Jeb sighed. This had very quickly become about him, and he’d been hoping to hear more about her. But there was something about her soft brown eyes and the way she looked at him, half-hopeful, that made it hard not to answer.
“My uncle and I liked farming. Menno wanted to be a preacher, and he preferred woodwork. There was something about me and his father bonding that irked Menno. I don’t know. Things changed.”
“Jealousy,” she said.
“Yah, I suppose.”
“You can’t be blamed for someone else’s weak character,” she said.
Leah had sided with him—he noticed that.
“Do you have any other friends?” she asked.
“I keep to myself,” he said. “But you know that.”
“Yah . . .” She nodded. “That’s okay.”
“It’ll have to be,” he said, but he shot her a smile to soften the words. “It’s who I am. Anyway, what about you? I know your parents were killed in that buggy accident when you were a teenager.”
“Yah. A really hard time. I did my best with Simon, but . . .”
“Why didn’t you move in with extended family?” he asked.
“Because the only family I had was in another community, and they didn’t have much money, so we’d be a burden. I was already sixteen. I could work and take care of Simon myself. I decided to stay.” She paused. “What about you? What about your mamm?”
Jeb had known she’d ask again, and he dropped his gaze.
“Why didn’t she come to our wedding, Jeb?” she asked quietly. “Is it me? Am I not good enough for her, or—”
“She’s in Rimstone,” he said, cutting her off. “And no, the problem isn’t you.”
“Where I was teaching?” She eyed him curiously. “So close enough that she could have come . . .”
“It’s a little complicated,” he said, clearing his throat. “My mamm got pregnant as a teen with my sister. Mamm never would reveal who Lynita’s father was. So, when she got pregnant again with me . . . I suppose it solidified her reputation. I don’t have a daet. At least not one that acknowledges me.”
Leah’s expression blanked as she seemed to register that information, then she shook her head. “Your mamm was an Amish woman who . . .” She swallowed.
“Yah.” Did they have to say it out loud? Whoever had fathered her two kinner, he had reason enough to keep himself hidden. “Mamm raised us as best she could in the community, but it was tough. She was always that woman, and no man would marry her. I don’t know who our father is—or if we even have the same father. Mamm wouldn’t breathe a word. So when it was time to find my sister a husband of her own, she asked my uncle if he could give me a fresh start, too.”
“Do you see your mamm ever?” Leah asked.
“Sometimes. I take the bus out there every year or so and visit her. It can be hard to get away from the farm, though. I don’t have anyone to cover now.”
“Does she know . . . about me?”
“I didn’t write her a letter yet to tell her,” he said.
“Why?”
Because putting it down into words on paper had felt too much like hope. He said, “I didn’t know if you’d go through with the wedding.”
Leah was silent for a moment, then she nodded. “That’s understandable. Now that the farm is yours, will you ask her to come live with us?”
“She wouldn’t come,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Too many questions. We’d have to lie if we wanted to make up a new story to make her acceptable to a new community, and she won’t do that. So it’s better for her to stay where she’s known and she’s already earned some forgiveness over the years than start fresh in a new place.”
Leah sucked in a breath, and he watched her face. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she stared into her mug. What would that mean to her—would he be even more of a liability than she thought?
“What’s her name?” she asked softly.
“Ruth King.”
“Ruth . . . I didn’t hear about her in Rimstone,” she murmured.
“Good. That means the rumor mill has set her aside for the time being.” It was a good sign.
Jeb leaned his elbows on the table, and a moment of silence stretched between them. Abundance was his new life, and his mamm had prided herself on giving him that—something away from the shame of his parentage. How often had he wondered who his daet was? But his mamm wouldn’t say.
“No one knows about my mamm,” he said. “Except Lynita, of course. And her husband. So you don’t have to worry about facing that in the community here.”
“I should meet her, though,” Leah said, lifting her gaze to meet his.
Did she really want to? He frowned slightly. “In time.”
She nodded, then sucked in a breath. “More immediately, then, I want us to have friends.”
“You can,” he said. “I would never hold you back.”
“You’ve been married before,” she said. “You know how these things work. I can have friends on my own, yes, but now it’s going to be about couples getting together and . . . and . . .”
“And?” He looked over at her, waiting for her to spell it out.
“As a married woman now, it would help me with those relationships if we could have friends together,” she said, a little breathily.
“Leah . . .” He softened his tone. “I am who I am. I know this community means everything to you, and I can understand why even better now. It’s all you have.”
“It’s all you have, too!” she countered.
“But I don’t trust them.” He heard the bitterness in his own tone.
Leah fell silent.
“You can go out,” he added. “I’m not going to stop you. Have friends. Enjoy your new status.”
“There’s a game night tomorrow night,” she said. “It’s being hosted at Rosmanda and Levi’s place.”
“You should go,” he said.
&n
bsp; “It’s a couples’ night,” she clarified. “And we’re newly married. If I go without you, it will start questions.”
Jeb sighed. “I’m not good in groups. You should know that.”
“It won’t be that many people,” she said. “And we don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I couldn’t go without you either.”
Jeb pressed his lips together. Leah wasn’t asking for much—just an evening out with her friends where she could show that she was married. He got the farm, her brother would get out of debt, and what would she have? A scarred and inhospitable husband. It was a little early to be disappointing her.
“Fine. We’ll go.”
“We will?” A smile came to her face, and he knew then exactly why he’d agreed to this. It was for that smile.
“I’m not charming,” he qualified. “I don’t make small talk. I’m not exactly the life of the party.”
“You don’t need to be,” she said, picking up her mug. “I’m just happy we can go together. I’m quite easy to please, actually.”
“Are you sure?” he asked with a low laugh. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who’s easy to please.”
She looked back at him, frowning slightly.
“I know why I’m here, Jeb, and I’m satisfied with that,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I’ll be happy to be known as a married woman. That’s all. I’m not asking for more from you.”
Was this the secret to happiness—limited expectations? He watched as she rinsed her mug in the sink, and he wondered what he would tell his mother.
She’d sent him and Lynita to Peter to give them a better life, and looking at how his life had turned out, he had to wonder if his mamm had ever regretted her decision, at least for him. Because he sure had. For all he’d loved his mamm and wanted to provide for her, he’d also resented her for having shipped him away. He’d been all of thirteen—not half so grown as he looked. And Lynita had been a fiercely loyal sister, but she couldn’t be his mamm, too.
Let me stay with you, Mamm! he’d pleaded. You need a man around here. What are you going to do alone?
But the truth of the matter was, he didn’t want to be without her. He didn’t want to go live with some aunt and uncle he’d never met. He didn’t want to face his days without his mamm in them. And at the age of thirteen, staring at her with his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes, he’d never felt more desperate.
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