Unclaimed Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  “Bananas,” Angel said. “Have you ever had one?”

  Blessedly thankful the answer didn’t require thought, she nodded. “Oh, yes. Several years ago my aunts and I sampled them in London at a fair.” Her fingers went to the cameo broach at her neck. Aunt Theresa had purchased it from one of the vendors that day.

  “Do you like them?” Angel wanted to know.

  “Yes. They’re very good. But quite seasonal.”

  Angel frowned. “Seasonal?”

  “Yes, they aren’t grown in England. And they ripen quickly, making shipping them a grievous task, which means they’re not available year round.” Drawn by the expressions on both their faces, she moved to the table. “Why all the questions about bananas?”

  “Because Pa’s got a whole bunch,” Angel answered excitedly.

  Perplexed, Constance turned to Ellis. “You brought home bananas?” She bit the tip of her tongue, wondering if he’d catch how easily she used the word home.

  His smile was genuine and fresh as he nodded.

  Now utterly baffled, she asked, “How? Bananas couldn’t possibly make the trip all the way to Wyoming.”

  He reached down to the bag near his chair leg. What he lifted and then held up rather proudly was the ugliest, blackest banana she’d ever seen. The scent was familiar—it said the banana was well past its prime.

  “Oh.” She flattened her hands on the table top to keep the shivers from rippling her arms. Even the oldest banana off the ships had never looked so…distorted.

  The smile on his face faded. “They froze.”

  His obvious disappointment made her heart sink in a wave of compassion. “Oh,” she repeated. As if his explanation was sufficient, she quickly added, “I see.” She’d never seen bananas that had frozen, but she had seen ripe ones, and that was one ripe banana.

  “Probably ain’t good for much.” He dropped the fruit on the table. His tone sounded as flat and sad as the banana looked.

  “So we can’t eat them?” Angel’s joy had deflated, too.

  Willing to do anything to cheer them both, Constance pasted a positive smile upon her face. “I’m sure we can,” she assured, while searching the recesses of her mind. Creating soft foods for her Aunts during their illness had her mind rushing about, but the blackened fruit lying on the table mocked her. She picked it up, flinching at the mushiness beneath the thinning skin. Unwavering, she thought aloud, “Perhaps a pudding. You like pudding don’t you?”

  Angel shrugged. “Can’t say as I’ve had pudding.” She turned to her father. “Have I?”

  He shrugged.

  Constance took in the way the two of them seemed to shy away from the once-exciting banana. “Well, that settles it. Tomorrow we shall have banana pudding.” If the bananas didn’t completely rot between now and then.

  “How many bananas does it take to make pudding?” Angel asked as Constance was wondering exactly how she’d make a banana pudding.

  “I’m not sure.” Holding the smile that wanted to slip from her lips—a recipe still wasn’t coming to her—she turned to question Ellis, “How many do we have?”

  His cheeks were once again bright red as he glanced to the sacks by his feet. Constance stepped around the table. She hadn’t really noticed how large the bundles he’d carried in were, but now was rather overwhelmed to see they were half the size of one of her trunks. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she peered back at the black banana in her hand.

  “Give or take one or two, I’d say right around a hundred.” The self assured, confident tone Ellis usually spoke with had disappeared. He sounded more like a guilt-ridden schoolboy.

  “I see.” She sounded about as confident as a bird with fins. Her fingers tensed, which caused the bruised and battered banana skin to split. Mush ran between her

  fingers.

  Ellis started chuckling. Shaking his head, he ran one hand through his hat flattened hair, and laughed harder. “I’m sorry, Constance. I don’t know why I let Link talk me into the buying those things. I’m sure the pigs will eat them.”

  Her ears sang at the way he said her name, and his ability to find humor in the situation touched her heart. Afraid the ability to speak might leave at any moment, she assured, “From what I’ve seen of Link, the man has the gift of gab, and most likely left you little choice but to buy them.” Recalling how Aunt Julia had enjoyed eating berries that were past their prime, Constance moved to the cupboard and took down a bowl. This was her chance to prove to Ellis he’d made the right choice—not only in bringing home the bananas but in bringing her home, too. Please, Aunt Julia, if you’re up there and listening, don’t fail me now.

  She peeled the banana and plopped the mushy guts into the bowl. Then poured a small amount of cream in the bowl and sprinkled a touch of sugar across the top. After she retrieved a spoon, she set the bowl in front of Angel. With her heart thudding and her fingers crossed, she said, “Try that.”

  With a pensive look, Angel peered at Ellis.

  He glanced up at Constance. Hope had her too stiff to do much more than nod once.

  Ellis lifted a brow, but then nodded to Angel.

  After sniffing the spoonful, Angel took a bite, and then another before she said, “Mmm, that’s good. Try some, Pa.”

  Constance let out the air locked in her lungs, but it stalled again when Ellis grasped the spoon.

  He scooped it full and slid it between his lips. “Mmm,” he said. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Smiling, he gave the spoon back to Angel.

  “You want some, Constance?” Angel offered her the spoon.

  Constance took the spoon, willing her trembling fingers to not drop it. Ellis’s approval had her trembling with glee. As the cream-covered fruit rolled across her palate, she wondered if it was what tasted so good, or if there was just a hint of Ellis left on the spoon. Her cheeks flamed at the thought, and she chased the notion away as fast as it entered her mind. “That settles it.” She handed the spoon back to Angel. “The pigs will not get the bananas.” Meeting Ellis’s grin, she added, “But I’m sure they’ll enjoy the peelings.”

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Ellis crawled between the sheets of his bed, his head throbbed and his throat was on fire. He’d managed to control the fit of sneezes playing havoc inside his nostrils until he’d closed the bedroom door. What did he expect traveling mile upon mile in the freezing wind? He reached for the handkerchief he’d set on the bedside table and plastered it across his face moments before another attack left him gasping for air.

  Pulling the covers over his shoulders and shivering from tip to toe, he closed his eyes, hoping by morning the worst would be over. At least that’s what he thought he hoped, whereas actually, his mind had floated downstairs to when he’d been laughing and eating cream-covered bananas with Constance and Angel.

  The warm thoughts heated his body and made a smile form on his chapped lips. He’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh. Not the rough and rowdy joking that happened with other men, but the soul-ripening happiness that occurred when cradled in the shelter of home with loved ones. That type of laughter instilled a peaceful, yet tremulous joy deep in one’s heart.

  It was also the type he hadn’t known he missed until he experienced it again. Angel had missed it, too. She certainly needed Constance, and it was his duty as a father to assure she got what she needed, come Hell or high water.

  His lids grew heavy, yet he wondered if he could keep Constance from learning about her inheritance. As his mind had a way of looking at things from all angles, he realized he couldn’t keep the information from her. That wasn’t the type of man he was, nor wanted to become.

  She seemed happy here. He saw it in her eyes and in that enchanting little smile that floated over her lips as soft and gentle as a butterfly floats from flower to flower.

  A shudder rippled him as another sneeze tore through his system, and the sneezing fit that followed shook the bed. Afterward, exhausted, he slept, but the chill in the room woke h
im several times. Shivering uncontrollably, he huddled deeper beneath the covers, sneezing and wiping at his nose that wouldn’t stop dripping. When dawn etched against the windows, he crawled from bed, sweating one second, freezing the next, and aching from head to toe. With great effort, he dressed and left the room.

  Not even the scent of coffee brewing penetrated his plugged nostrils. Soft noise said Constance was in the kitchen, and that was enough to draw him in.

  “Good morning,” she greeted as she turned from the stove, cup in hand. Her face grew somber and she rushed across the room. “Goodness, Ellis, you look—” setting the cup on the table she pulled out a chair, gesturing for him to sit “—terrible.” She brushed a hand to his forehead.

  Her fingers, ice against his sizzling skin, made him sigh at the cooling relief the touch provided. In all honesty, he wanted to lean against her, just absorb her tender kindness, knew it would make him feel better. Chiding himself for the childish thoughts, he picked up the coffee cup.

  “Oh, no,” she took the cup from his hand. “You’re burning up.” She hurried across the room, and a second later was back, handing him a glass. “Cold water is what you need.”

  He opened his mouth to offer a word of appreciation, but the flames in his throat stalled the vibration of his vocal cords. The water helped cool the inside of his mouth, but pain seized his throat muscles when he tried to swallow.

  She took the glass from his hand. “That’s it. Back to bed for you.”

  He shook his head, forced out, “Chores.”

  “You have a bunkhouse full of men who are perfectly capable of doing all the chores.” She wrapped a hand around his arm. “Up you go. Back to bed.”

  The thought of lying down, if just for a few minutes, was so enticing Ellis didn’t argue. She helped him up the back stairs, and it took all of his strength not to lean too heavily on her. His bed was like a beacon in a storm. He fell deeply into the mattress, groaning with both pain and relief. A brief moment of clarity entered his mind, telling him she was removing his boots and then his shirt, and that he was too weak to stop her or enjoy her assistance.

  Fog, thick and heavy, floated over the thoughts, and something cool and damp covered his forehead. Relaxing into the mattress, Ellis welcomed the oblivion bearing down.

  Dreams came, vivid and real. Christine round and plump as Angel grew to full-term in her belly, and the two of them greeting their tiny daughter for the first time. Other firsts came, too, Angel’s first tooth, her first steps and her first pony. The visions grew dark then, turning into those he never wanted to recall. Christine in agony as the doctor worked to turn the baby. His wife and infant, cold and still in the pine box.

  He fought, but the nightmares were uncontrollable, coming at him from all directions. Only an outside force—a steady, soft voice whispering in his ear—slowed their onslaught. When the voice left, the nightmares returned. And so it went until he begged the voice to stay. To never leave.

  It assured him it wouldn’t.

  Dreamland overtook him again, and this time they were exciting, dazzling visions of two people sharing their lives, their love. They chased each other through the spring fields dotted with daisies, kissed each other and teased and kissed some more until they were rolling across a downy-soft bed with great abandonment, flesh on flesh, lips on lips. Her kisses and caresses were wild, taking as well as giving, leaving him gasping for air as an all-encompassing and burning desire built between them. He buried his hands in her long, black hair and his heart soared seeing the love glimmering in her blue eyes.

  Panic-stricken, Ellis wrenched himself out of the dream so quickly it was a moment before he knew where he was. Who he was. The dream, so real he was swollen and hard, screaming for release, hadn’t been him and Christine, but him and Constance.

  Staring at the ceiling, watching the tiny shadows made by the flames in the fireplace, he sought betrayal, wanted to feel the painful ache of infidelity. Nothing came. The shadows above were too dim, too gentle. Needing something bold and feral to ignite the bitterness he sought, he turned to the window, wishing for the raging blizzard that had attacked with bitter winds earlier in the week.

  The curtains were drawn, giving no solace to his body begging for the fulfillment the dream promised. He turned to where a picture sat atop the dresser. Light wasn’t needed for him to see the image preserved forever in the photograph. Christine had been reluctant to have it taken, saying it was a foolish waste of money, though she’d been adamant about having several of Angel taken.

  A cherished love spread across his chest. There were so many memories he treasured, would never forget no matter how many years separated them from the present.

  Ellis begged the need throbbing in his veins to dissolve. The dream, the desires it left behind were interfering, overriding the void he’d come to trust in. As he lay there, with the intimate cravings storming, an indulgent perspective overtook him. It was as if someone had laid a patch over the hole inside him—the one left by Christine’s death—like they would mend a tear in a canvas tent.

  His throat swelled. “No,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from the photograph. “I’m not through loving you.”

  The flames in the fireplace sputtered, as if caught by a gentle wind, and the shadows on the ceiling danced with renewed brilliance. He closed his eyes, knowing it was Christine and that she’d heard him.

  The door opened, and he feigned sleep, not wanting anything to disturb the solace of Christine’s intervention. When a hand, soft and gentle, touched his forehead, he damned his heart as it skipped every other beat.

  “Thank heavens.” Constance’s whisper was so soft he barely heard it, but that didn’t stop his body from reacting. It was a battle to keep his breathing low and slow with the way his blood, still heated from the dream, pulsed against his skin and the intensity in other areas increased to mammoth proportions.

  The tinkle of water sounded and then a damp cloth floated over his forehead, barely touching, yet leaving the skin refreshed. “You had me scared,” she whispered, and he strained to hear more. “I’ve lost too many loved ones, couldn’t bear another.”

  The cloth brushed his cheeks next and his chin and neck. “But, I knew you’d survive,” she continued. “You’re so big and strong. Too powerful for something as mundane as a cold to get the best of you.”

  Her words and caress had his heart pounding, and her sweet, heady scent filling his nostrils heightened the already raging desires sweeping his body. He dug his hands into the bottom sheet when the cool cloth went lower, swiped across his chest and dipped toward his abdomen.

  “You had me scared though. Very, very, scared.” She ran the wet cloth from one side of his rib cage to the other.

  He was about to snap, about to grab her hand, when the cloth stilled, sat on his stomach as she whispered, “What would we do without you?”

  Fighting the urge to pull her down and kiss her was like battling the weather—useless in so many ways.

  “There, now.” She pulled the top sheet up to cover his chest and tucked it beneath his chin. “Sleep and heal.”

  Ellis, still trying to keep his breathing even, highly doubted sleep was in his near future, but remained prone. He did, however, lift one lid, watched as she stirred and banked the fire, but snapped the eye shut when she turned. Moments later, unprepared, his breath caught as her lips pressed tenderly upon his brow. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, “you’ll be as good as new. I promise.”

  He held his breath until his lungs burned, but still her lips lingered on his forehead. It happened then, just as he’d feared, his resolve snapped. The air in his chest left with a gush, and his hands, as uncontrollable as his breathing, caught her face. Like magnets, drawn to each other by natural pulls, their lips met, momentarily, sweetly, softly, then separated.

  For a split second it was as if he was in limbo, wondering if the kiss had happened or not. Then a charge shot through him and their lips met again with an urgency he�
�d never experienced. His fingers dug into her hair, held her face against his as the kiss bestowed even more excitement than the dream had promised.

  He couldn’t get enough, and when he shifted, just wanting to slide his hands down her back, she escaped his hold.

  Ellis shot up, stared at the door closing and searched for an ounce of sanity, but that too must have left him.

  * * *

  Constance tucked a clump of hair behind her ear and dumped another cup of flour into the bowl. Her eyes glanced first to the dwindling pile of black-skinned bananas and then to the back stairs. It had been an hour since she’d checked on Ellis. Several since his fever had broken.

  She wrenched the spoon through the batter, forcing her hand to stop trembling and her mind to focus on what she was doing, not on what she’d done. It was only supposed to have been a soft peck on his forehead, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how it had turned into a kiss that she’d never forget. It had to have been the fever. People did strange things while feverish. Ten minutes after the kiss, when she’d sent Angel in to check on him, he’d been sound asleep.

  She stirred faster. At least he had an excuse. She didn’t. She was as healthy as a horse—as the saying goes. His illness had come on fast, and his body had responded, spiking a fever that forced the sickness to run its course quickly, and she’d taken advantage of his feverish state.

  He’d recover now that it had broken, and her only hope was that he’d have no recollection of the kiss, or how she’d sat by his side, whispering for him to relax, and wiping his brow with a damp cloth for a good portion of the day—long after he’d asked her not to leave and she’d promised she wouldn’t.

  Still stirring the batter, she plopped onto a chair. Here she was again, worrying about herself when it was him she should be concerned about. A fever was a good thing. If it hadn’t come upon him, then she’d have had the right to be concerned. Neither Aunt Julia nor Aunt Theresa had had fevers prior to passing, which had been disconcerting. Running a temperature was the body’s natural way of fighting.