by Susan Wiggs
She finished the wash and emptied the basin out the back. A thick slide of ice had formed on the spot where she threw bath and wash water and the sight of it reinforced her feeling of confinement.
Shivering from cold, she went over and over in her mind what Tom had said about her ordeal with Philip. A rape. Could it be? In Tom’s well-worn Bible, she read and reread Deuteronomy, pouring over the accounts of rape she recalled from Bible study class. Slowly her mind came to accept the idea that Philip had indeed violated her, that it was more than possible. Amnon, who had raped his sister, was the son of King David. Horrible things happened in the best of families. But knowing that her betrothed had assaulted her was scant comfort.
Compelled by a burst of angry energy, Deborah worked the morning away. For the midday supper, she fixed a stew with tinned tomatoes, wild rice and a fish Tom had caught through the ice. Her skill at cooking improved every day, though the resources were limited. She surprised herself—and probably Tom as well—with her creations.
In the early afternoon, while she was busy folding clean clothes and making up the beds, Tom came in from the cold, bringing the scent of snow and pine with him. From her room, she could hear him stomping the snow off his boots. The dog scrabbled inside and headed for his bowl.
“Something smells good,” Tom called out.
“Your dinner. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She tucked the corner of the blanket under the mattress and smoothed her hand over the surface. It was hard to believe there had been a time when she’d had no idea how to make a bed.
Bemused by the thought, she stepped into the main room and felt her jaw drop. In the middle of the room was a very small pine tree. Candles set in jar lids adorned the branches, the little flames casting a magical glow over the room.
“Merry Christmas,” he said gruffly.
She was speechless for a moment. Then she felt a smile that started inside and spread like sunshine to her lips. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I figured you wanted to forget, but wouldn’t be able to.”
How was it that this man knew her so well? She had a strange sense about him. He might be wild and unconventional, but he would not hurt her. He was a stranger, but he knew the secrets of her heart better than anyone she had ever met. He was a rough man of the woods, but his strength was something she could rely on. It was an odd thought to be having about a man who had held a gun pointed at her father’s head.
“It’s quite a surprise,” she said self-consciously. “I’ll get your dinner.”
“Thanks,” he said, hanging his coat on a peg.
She ladled up two plates of fish stew. “You must be hungry, being out in the cold all morning.”
They had warm cider with their meal, eating in silence as had become their custom. If they spoke for any length of time, it so often degenerated into an argument. She wanted to tell him about Christmas in Chicago and ask him what the holiday had been like with Asa. But she was afraid of prying. It was his first Christmas without Asa, and she didn’t want to cause him pain.
After they finished, Deborah took the dishes to the basin. When she turned back to the table, she saw a good-sized bundle at her place, wrapped in hopsacking secured with an awkward bow of baling rope.
She frowned, immediately suspicious. “What’s this?”
“A Christmas present.”
She stared at him. He looked as if he wanted the floor to swallow him.
“For me?” she asked stupidly.
“Reckon so. Go on, open it.”
Her hands trembled as she tugged at the rope. “I didn’t get you anything.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. She had grown accustomed to the unexpected boyishness of that rare smile, so incongruous in his rugged face. “I don’t need any presents, Princess.”
She removed the rope and hopsacking, and let out a soft, involuntary gasp. “Oh, my. These are beautiful.” She felt a thrill of pleasure as she held up the most perfect white fur mittens and fur-lined boots she had ever seen. She plunged her hand into one of the mittens and shut her eyes, savoring the silky heat. The rabbit fur was softer and warmer than down, sewn in a double thickness with painstakingly small stitches.
She opened her eyes. “Where did these come from?”
“I made them,” he said simply. “Do they fit all right?”
She unlaced her shoe and slipped her foot into the boot. It felt heavenly, soft and snug around her foot and ankle, the leather sole creating a sensation as shockingly pleasant as walking barefoot through warm sand. She put on the other boot and then the mittens. “They are perfect, Tom.” She swallowed past a sudden swell of tears in her throat. “Simply perfect.” How foolish, she thought, to get so sentimental about these simple gifts. She had received diamonds and pearls without flinching, and here she was getting all teary-eyed about a pair of rabbit boots. If she wore something like this in Chicago, she would be laughed out of town. But Chicago was very far away. And no one was laughing now.
“Good.” He bent and took her foot between his hands, pressing it to his thigh.
Instinctively she stiffened.
“Easy, there. I’m just going to lace them up for you.” With slow, deliberate movements he laced the boots moccasin style with long leather cords.
A heated fascination took hold of Deborah. It wasn’t something she could control—or deny. The way he touched her made her wonder about touching him.
Oblivious to her thoughts, he held out her cloak and put on his own. “I want to show you something.”
She hesitated before going outside. She had often wished to take a walk, but had always believed she’d freeze before she took ten steps. Now, with Tom, it seemed possible. Anything seemed possible.
Another surprise awaited her there. “Oh,” she whispered, her breath misting the cold air. “You made a path.”
He had cleared a long, narrow walkway from the bottom of the porch leading to the woods and the marsh and the lakeshore. Smokey raced outside, leading the way. Tom held out his big, mittened hand as she came down the stairs, and without thinking about it, she put her hand in his. Through his thick mittens and hers, she felt a pleasurable current of reaction. As soon as his fingers tightened around hers, she realized what she had done, and self-consciously took her hand away.
But she was smiling as they headed toward the woods. She could walk with ease along the path, her boots and mittens keeping her deliciously warm. She tilted her head to the cold sunshine and let her eyes be dazzled by the blue of the sky.
The woods resembled a crystal palace. Frozen branches formed an archway over the path he had cleared, and when Deborah stepped beneath the arch, she imagined a touch of magic. Though it was only late afternoon, the sun rode low in the sky, spreading pinkish fronds over the path. The carpet of snow glinted like diamonds. Icicles dripping from the trees refracted sunlight into rainbow hues that spilled across the pure white ground. The occasional chitter of a pine siskin or the clack of the birch branches in the wind only served to magnify the muffled hush of the winter world.
Caught up in a state of quiet wonder, Deborah walked along the newly cleared path with her face raised to the forest ceiling. A feeling of tranquil reverence filled her with awe. “I used to go to church on Christmas to see and be seen,” she said, whispering for no reason she could name. “But this feels grander than any cathedral made by man.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever been inside a cathedral.”
“You are in one,” she said, turning in a slow circle with her face lifted to the lacy canopy of the forest. “On a day like this I can believe a savior was born. I mean it,” she said, trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. Her voice sounded loud in the hollow stillness. “Thank you,” she said. “For all of this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But I feel guilty. I didn’t get anything for you.”
“Sure you did. A good meal, and it appears you did the washing.”
&n
bsp; Remembering the reason for the big wash, she bit her lip, feeling hideously awkward. “Perhaps there is a gift for you,” she said. “Well, not that exactly. But something you might…want to know.”
“Yeah?”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Her cheeks burned with a wildfire of mortification as she stared at her soft leather boots, the white lining so thick and abundant it showed at the tops. “This morning I…discovered that I cannot possibly be with child.”
He stood silent for so long that she forced herself to look up at him. He wore a grin from ear to ear.
“I take it that’s welcome news to you,” she said.
“Oh, yeah.” He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a pain in the ass, Princess, but the idea of you being pregnant was even worse.”
She bristled, ready to feel insulted, but somehow couldn’t summon any anger. Even his careless, blunt use of the word “pregnant” didn’t offend her. He had made Christmas special despite their hardships, and she had made him happy by settling a very large worry. For a few moments they simply stood grinning idiotically at each other. “So it appears,” she said, “that I made my big confession for naught.”
He sobered. “Not so. A bad thing happened to you. Telling someone can’t undo what happened, but you’re not carrying the burden alone.”
His words struck her like a revelation. She felt a lightness of heart that had not been there in weeks. The deep wounds caused by Philip had created a frightening dark place inside her. Tom seemed determined to drag her back into the light. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Doing what?”
“Making Christmas into a holiday for me. Helping me to sort out what happened with Philip. Why?”
He looked uncomfortable as he picked up a handful of snow and packed it into a ball. “Because forcing you to come here was a big mistake. I wanted revenge against your father, and I should have stuck with that. I never should have dragged you into it.”
“So you’re acting out of guilt.”
“Appears that way.”
“I see.” She started walking again, moving slowly along the path so she didn’t miss a thing. The shadows lay deeper here, colder. She caught him regarding her oddly. “You must not feel guilty on my account.” And as she said it, she realized what she wanted. She wanted his kindness because he liked her, cared about her, not because he regretted the rash act that had saddled him with her for months. The distinction shouldn’t matter but it did.
“What a complicated arrangement this has become,” she commented. “Things were so much easier when I was just a simple hostage.”
He tossed the snowball at the marsh, startling a flutter of crows. “Woman, you were never simple.”
She went to the edge of the marsh and surveyed the scene. A gloss of thick ice covered the surface, and the wind had swept it nearly clean of snow. At the fringes, reeds poked up through the ice and ripples of blown snow, and tiny black birds flitted in and out of the brittle wheat-colored plants.
“Have you ever ice skated?” she asked.
“Yeah. There wasn’t much else for kids to do in the winter. You?”
“Of course. There are skating parties in Lincoln Park every winter.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever made a party of it.” He glanced at the deepening sky. “We’d best get back.”
They walked at an unhurried pace, surrounded by silence. The only sound came from the dry squeak of the packed snow beneath their feet. When they reached the house, Deborah was amazed to look down and see that she was holding Tom’s hand. She didn’t even remember taking it.
Discomfited, she let go. “Thank you again.”
“Merry Christmas, Princess.” He took her by the shoulders and brushed his lips over her brow. Warm breath. Soft lips. Not at all like that kiss on the boat. And then it was over. He stepped back, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t look at me like I’m the big bad wolf. It was just a kiss.”
“But…but…”
“Here, I’ll show you again.” He rested his hands lightly on her arms and bent down, this time kissing her mouth. Warm breath. Soft lips. She shut her eyes and felt an unusual, pleasurable heat inside her, and she leaned forward to deepen the contact. No thinking, she told herself. Just feeling. The stubble of his cheeks. His cool lips, quickly warming themselves against hers. The firm, sure grip of his hands on her shoulders. And then there was a jolt of remembrance, and she reared back.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice low and rasping with panic. “Don’t do that.”
He regarded her calmly, but with implacable resolve. “I’m not him,” he said. “I’m not the bastard who attacked you. You’re not going to tar me with that brush.”
“I know that, but…I just don’t like it,” she said, her voice quavering over the words. She walked briskly toward the house. “I don’t like being held, kissed—”
“You don’t just like it, honey,” he said. “You need it. Maybe I’m not the one you need, or maybe I am, but you need to learn the pleasure of being close. You can’t be afraid of all men just because one attacked you.”
“Why? Why must I learn to like being…close?”
“Because…just because,” he said impatiently. “Without that, what’s the point of anything?”
She tried to disregard her yearning to trust what he said. She couldn’t let herself believe him. She had believed Philip, and he had wounded her in the worst possible way. How could she ever trust in her own judgment again?
“I don’t know what to say to you.” She moved past him and went into the house, savoring the warmth of the stove and the sight of the little tree looking so cheery on the hearth. “I never know what to say.”
He laughed, stamping the snow from his boots. “You’re doing a damned good job in spite of yourself, because you talk plenty.”
“That’s not what I mean. You speak of things so casually and with such candor. It’s disconcerting.” She stroked the incredibly soft fur of her new mittens. “The thing I fear most is that I cannot judge things for myself. I was going to marry Philip. I was about to step blindly into the arms of a man who abused me, if your assessment is correct. Do you blame me for being cautious?”
“Look,” he said, “it’s not your judgment that’s faulty. Remember the mail boat skipper? You were right to balk at going with him. He’s no good. And you were all set to marry Ascot because everybody around you convinced you that it was the proper thing to do. All your life you’ve been told what to think and say. You never had to think for yourself.”
“What do you know of my life?” she asked, both hurt and startled by his perception.
“I have eyes. I bet if you’d let yourself make up your own mind, you never would have agreed to marry him in the first place. Now you can think what you want,” he said, holding a flame to the candles to relight the tree. “Say what you want. You might surprise yourself.”
And whether she wanted to or not, Deborah thought about his kiss. She thought about the solidity and the softness and the taste of him. She thought about those first delicious, magical moments when she had forgotten to be afraid.
She took that notion to bed with her and held it close within the warmth of her body. Before drifting off, she caught herself smiling in wonder and picturing Tom Silver, lighting the candles on the tree, his big, rough face softened by the tiny flames. In the middle of the bleakest, coldest winter she could imagine, he had given her Christmas.
THIRTY
Though the routine of their days settled into a predictable rhythm, Tom sensed an undercurrent that had not been there before. By taking her in his arms and kissing her, he had crossed an invisible barrier, and now there was no going back.
The fact was, he wanted to go forward. He wanted to touch her more, kiss her again. He wanted to make love to her, to feel her naked against him, to whisper the thoughts that slumbered in his heart. But that wasn’t all. The worst thing was that making love to her wouldn’t be enough
. He wanted to be with her always. Wanted to see the years change her face and the color of her hair. He wanted the contentment he felt when he walked into the cabin and found her reading a book or sewing by the fire.
He was crazy in love with her. And it wasn’t the kind of thing that was going to go away.
At first he thought he could ignore it, maybe hide the insanity behind the things that he did—shooting a pheasant for the supper table, getting up extra early to put hot water in the basin, keeping the path clear so she could take a walk each day, fixing a lamp to the wall behind her chair so that she could see better to sew or read. But the need to be closer to her ate at him, and he kept getting tantalizing signals from her that maybe she wanted the same thing. Sometimes he’d catch her watching him, and she’d smile briefly before looking away. It wasn’t much, but it made him suffer with a lust more powerful than he’d ever felt before.
He knew he and Deborah could never have the lifelong love his heart craved, but that didn’t mean they had to ignore each other until the thaw.
Coming in on a clear midmorning in January, he carried his latest project, which he set on the table with a cake of paraffin wax.
“What are you doing?” Deborah asked, picking up the wax. “What is all this?”
“Ice skates.” He took the wax and started polishing one carved wooden blade. The skates were crude but sturdy, and once waxed, they would glide smoothly across the ice. Deborah watched in keen interest as he waxed them, then measured out a leather strap for each one.
“Ready?” he said.
She didn’t have to be told twice. She hurried to put on her cloak and boots and mittens, and tied a muffler snugly under her chin. Tom grinned at her eagerness. She didn’t complain much about the tedium of the short winter days and long nights, but her eagerness meant she was probably bored much of the time. She had a spring in her step as she went out the door. He banked the fire and followed her outside, the skates dangling from his shoulders.