by Jillian Hart
“Let me get that, ma’am.” Mrs. Dickson wiped her wrinkled hands on her apron and reached for the coffeepot Sophie was also reaching for on the stove.
“Thank you.” Sophie dropped her hands, nervously tucked in the back of her skirts and sat across from him.
“Nice morning.” John stirred his coffee while the housekeeper served them fried bacon and eggs.
“Um-hmm.” Sophie reached for her napkin and tucked it onto her lap. Her lacy blouse, frilly from the top down, clung to the swell of her bosom, and he was reminded of how beautiful she’d looked, naked in the moonlight.
He swallowed hard and bit into his bacon.
“Will you be needing me anymore before church, ma’am?”
Sophie’s forkful of eggs froze in midair. “Huh? No…no. Please do go about your tasks the way you normally would. I’ll be able to look after myself, thank you.”
The older woman tapped the back of her coiled white hair and frowned. “Thank you, ma’am.” She swooshed out of the room in her heavy skirts.
“She doesn’t want you to squeeze her out of a job.” John smeared marmalade on his slab of rye bread.
Sophie looked up at him directly. “I see. Is that—is that what she thinks?”
“I pay well and she lives conveniently nearby.”
Sophie fingered her cup and saucer. “Then I’ll try hard to pretend that nothing’s changed around here.”
“Plenty’s changed.” He looked at her with great amusement. “After last night.”
“I think you need to go to church.” Matching his heated gaze with a steady one of her own, she bit into her toast as if challenging him to reply.
He chuckled under his breath. “Better be careful. That’s the dangerous way you looked at me when I was locked between your—”
She uttered a gasp of shock and stopped him from finishing. It only made him smile more. After a pause she dabbed her lips with her napkin and sashayed out of the room as if she knew he was watching her hips sway with every enticing step.
An hour later, as they sat side by side in the front pew of the congregation, John had a quiet opportunity to think more carefully about things. Obviously they were matched well in the bedroom. No problems there, on a physical level. He couldn’t ever foresee getting enough of her. Even the scent of her skin as she leaned over to reach for the hymnal made him want her.
But…something deeper still nagged at him. He realized it wasn’t easy for her to walk into a strange town and marry someone she’d met only days before, but was it any easier for him?
There was an awkwardness between them, despite the intimacy they’d shared last night.
Part of it had to do with him. The only other time he’d come close to marriage was in Kansas when he was a love-smitten boy, engaged to Sally Ann Beuford next door. Unfortunately she hadn’t thought so highly of her promissory vows, because he’d caught her half-naked in the cornfield with one of his best friends.
No amount of pleading on Sally’s part had been able to erase the vision from his mind. And as for his best friend, well, the punch to the jaw that John had delivered had said it all.
Quietly and completely John had withdrawn. Within two weeks he’d left to seek his fortune in Texas. Working on the cattle ranches for years had honed his muscles and his resolve that he’d make something of himself one day. When the opportunity to join the gold rush in the Klondike had come, he’d left with all his savings, determined to open his own livery stables.
Hard work and perseverance had gotten him through the painful reminders of his doomed love affair.
Was that what was required here, too? Hard work and perseverance to prove to his new wife that he was worthy of her love and respect?
The minister stopped speaking, the sermon over, and the congregation filed past John and Sophie to the outdoors, where they congratulated them on their new vows.
John ran his hand down her spine, guiding her through the crowd, allowing his hand to linger longer than necessary at the warm curve of her back.
The simple touch was enough to arouse him. When they returned to their home, he followed her into the kitchen.
“I suppose Mrs. Dickson won’t mind if I prepare a snack of biscuits and stew?” Sophie walked to the kitchen counter and pulled out a wooden chopping block.
John reached for Sophie’s hand on the butcher knife. “She gets Sunday afternoons off.”
Sophie let the knife go and patted the counter. “I see.”
Standing behind her, John pressed his torso along her back, enjoying the lovely feel of her behind pushed up against his front. He dipped his head and kissed her neck. Heavenly warm skin met his lips. He inhaled the downy softness, bringing his hands up along her hips, at her waist, and upward along her ribs to the front of her blouse, over her breasts.
She moaned softly in approval, cupping his hands with her own as he undid the buttons of her blouse.
Still behind her, he felt the rise of his blood pressure, the pounding through his arteries, the heat that flushed his skin, the rip of muscles that came to life.
When her blouse was undone, he searched for the top of her corset that could barely contain the size of her breasts, rewarded as they spilled into his hands.
With one hand he caressed her nipples, heard the pleasing sounds of her increased breathing, and with the other he pulled up the back of her skirts.
“That’s quite a bit of fabric,” he murmured into her ear.
He was met with soft laughter. And judging by the way she pushed out her hips, an invitation to go farther.
Running his hand over her pantaloons, he pulled them down and reached bare, splendid thighs.
He could hardly restrain himself as he gently slid his hand between her thighs, groaned at the wetness he found, then pulled back to slide off his own pants.
When he was naked, his erection so hard that he felt he’d explode before he could even please her, he slid inside her.
She leaned over the counter, while he still held her breasts between his hands, loving the feel of her, the way she arched her back and urged him to go deeper.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured softly, pressing her hands over his on her nipples and digging back against his shaft as if she couldn’t get enough. “Faster, please.”
“Well, I must abide my new wife.”
Sophie giggled at his comment, in between her moans, then they got so caught up in the love act that they spoke no more. For the second time in twenty-four hours they climaxed together, and when it was over, he wished they had more to say to each other. She quietly cleaned up in the bathing room of their bedroom, then said she was going to visit the nurses who were due back from their medical trip this afternoon.
The next time John spoke at any length with Sophie was the following morning in the livery stables, as he and his stable hand, Edward, were checking over a stagecoach just delivered by ship and due to go out on the trail next week.
John was tightening the nuts and bolts underneath the carriage, lying on his back, when Sophie’s pointed black boots appeared beside his head.
“Can I speak with you for a moment, John?” Her shoes tapped on the pounded dirt floor, and he knew in a flash what she had to say wouldn’t be good.
Chapter Eight
Sophie was beside herself with worry as she waited for John to slide out from under the painted red stagecoach. Not even the pleasant sight of the newborn calf, walking outside the huge opened doors of the stables with its mother, could calm her.
Sophie shifted in the stale air. Dry straw bit at her nostrils. She lifted her heavy obstetrical bag and set it on the stall boards.
John’s torso appeared, then his face. He jumped to his feet, towering over her, while she tried to forget about the intimacies they’d shared over the past two days to focus on solving the very big problem she had on her hands.
Dressed in blue denim from head to toe, he brushed straw off the sleeves of his massive sh
oulders and indicated they walk toward the open back doors where no one else was within earshot.
She bobbed her head around his chest, looking for Edward. The man was oiling the wheels of the stagecoach and not paying any heed to her arrival. His long dark hair brushed his shoulders. His youthful face was skewed in concentration.
John followed her gaze. “What is it?”
“A problem with one of your staff.”
“Who?”
“Edward.”
“What in tarnation has he done?”
“It’s not what he’s done. It’s what he’s not done. By coming to you, I’m hoping you can arrange for him to take time off work to be with his wife.”
“Callie’s in trouble?”
Sophie nodded. “She’s…she’s got dark circles under her eyes and has no energy. Yet she insists on doing the wash and cleaning the house and baking when she should be resting.”
John stared at her intently. The curves of his cheeks hardened. Sunlight streamed in around them, lighting the left side of his profile. “What else, Sophie? What else are you worried about?”
She looked down at her boots, her skirts rustling around the straw. “She’s not listening to my concerns about her need to rest. Neither of them are. Callie nods and says the right things, but as soon as she sees something that needs to be done around the house, she goes ahead and does it.”
“Shouldn’t you be having this discussion with him?”
Sophie rubbed the back of her neck and appealed to his sense of reasoning. “I tried this morning. Right after breakfast. He gave me some noncommittal replies, then promptly came to work. Callie’s at home right now scrubbing Mason jars and making beds.”
John’s blue eyes softened. “Some women are active right till the end. You sure she’s just not the normal kind of tired?”
“I’m sure.”
His lips tightened with resolve. “Then come with me.”
John led her quietly to Edward’s side. They came in behind him. The young man held an oilcan in one hand, a rag in the other as he wiped down the stagecoach wheel. He glanced up at John. “I’ll repaint her this afternoon. Same shade of red, like you said. I’ll go to the mercantile and see if they can come close to matchin’ the color.”
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea. I’ve got other men who can do the painting. Maybe you should spend the day with Callie.”
Edward lowered his oilcan to the ground and got up very slowly. He gazed at Sophie with distrust. “How am I supposed to earn a livin’ for my new wife and child if I take time off?”
Sophie took a step closer. “All that comes secondary to her health.”
“None of the nurses seem to be worryin’ too much about Callie. We dropped by the clinic yesterday and had them check her out.”
Sophie drew in a big breath. They’d wanted a second opinion, she gathered, and she tried not to take it personally. But for some reason she thought of her father and his parting words that she’d never be strong enough to deal with what was necessary in medicine. The potential heartache and pain. “I value the opinions of those nurses, but I’m an expert in the field of maternity.”
“In what? A year’s time? How long have you been at this?”
“I’ve been studying for over eight.” Her late husband’s sister had given Sophie notes and textbooks and told her real-life accounts of problematic pregnancies. Sophie had gone out with Belinda, secretly, for the past two years and helped her with actual deliveries. “I have to tell you, Edward, if your baby delivers at seven and a half months, he or she will likely be too small to survive.”
John stood beside her and didn’t budge. He crossed his arms and looked point-blank at Edward.
With a mumbled exclamation, Edward tossed his rag beside the wheel of the stagecoach and walked out.
“I’m alienating everyone in town,” Sophie murmured.
John cupped her shoulder. “When you know in your heart you’re doing the right thing, stick to your guns.”
It was a kind thing to say. She tried to remember it over the course of the next week as Callie stayed in bed and Edward did the housework. He grumbled a lot when Sophie came over to check on Callie, but Sophie tried to ignore his complaints.
“I’ll take care of his paycheck,” John told her the following Monday, a week to the day she’d ordered Callie to rest. “Don’t worry about that.”
“Thank you.” But it wasn’t easy to bear Edward’s disgruntled looks the following morning as Sophie did her check on Callie.
Callie sat up on the mattress in their bedroom in the back of the house. Her disheveled hair lay in swirls around the shoulders of her nightgown. Edward sat in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, big boots tapping the wooden floor.
Sophie put her stethoscope away. Heartbeats of both mom and the unborn baby sounded strong and steady. “Those dark circles aren’t fading. Are you eating enough?”
“I try, but it doesn’t go down easy. Edward has been such a godsend, cooking and fussing over me.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Sophie, trying to remain cheerful, trying to ignore Edward’s frustrated glance in her direction. His first child, yet he had no patience to set aside the time that needed setting aside. She understood he was much like the new Thoroughbred John had bought—strong and muscular and built for moving.
For the following days, in her quiet evenings with John, Sophie came to life after dinner. She enjoyed the time they spent together making love, wondering if she should bother him with tales of her working day and wishing he’d open up to her more about the minute details of his daily workings at the stables.
“Hard day at work?”
He nodded as he stirred his coffee one morning.
“Did you get the stagecoach painted?”
“Pretty much.”
“How about the new calf? How is she doing?”
“Feeding like an elephant.”
He confided more in his men, it seemed to Sophie. Two days later she had a couple of hours off from helping Victoria at the clinic, so she rushed home for lunch. Eager to invite John to join her, she stepped into the livery stables to locate him. He was sitting in the office behind his desk, talking with Hugh, his best man from the wedding. Hugh had his arm wrapped around a pretty young woman with a sharp blue hat.
“You’ll warm up to each other,” said Hugh. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“How can you compare a mail-order bride to a normal one?” asked the woman. “There are shortcuts to marriage, but no shortcuts to love.”
“Yeah,” said John, opening up a ledger and running a pencil down the columns.
He was talking about her. In the most private of terms. What else had he confided to people she didn’t even know? Sophie’s heart rippled with hurt. She blinked and swallowed past the lump in her throat as she made her way back to the house alone.
There are shortcuts to marriage, but no shortcuts to love.
What did that mean? John didn’t love her. He hadn’t actually said the words, but he had agreed with that woman. A woman who didn’t even know Sophie.
Sophie stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom. The rays of the sun shone past the hanging chandelier, candles unlit, casting sharp shadows on the wall.
“You getting up, Sophie?” John called from the stairs.
“Coming!” She scooted out of bed, feeling guilty for lingering when she had so much work to do, and with John already leaving. The thud of the door thumped up the stairwell, reminding her she was alone with Mrs. Dickson, who was likely heating porridge for Sophie and brewing a fresh cup of coffee.
Sophie didn’t have time to languish over breakfast, as she rushed out to check on Callie. A quick exam, likely finding nothing unusual, then possibly a visit to a new patient, a young woman who’d apparently arrived yesterday off the ships, several months along with a new husband and new dreams for a better life.
Sophie sighed as she knocked on Callie’s door. Dreams for a better life. H
ow easy that was to mentally conjure, yet so difficult to actually create.
No one answered the door. Sophie knocked again.
Still no answer.
“Edward!”
Things were as quiet as a field of corn.
Sophie whirled around. The livery stables were quiet, too, at least from the outside. No one walking on the boardwalk. Could Callie be outside at the laundry line?
Before she went to look, Sophie tried the handle of the door. It opened. Her obstetrical bag banged against her knees as she peeked her head inside. “Callie?”
A moaning coming from the bedroom made Sophie’s breath leap. She ran through the foyer to the bedroom.
Callie lay on the floor, nightgown bloodied at hip level, completely still.
Sophie dropped to her knees. “Callie?”
No response. Lips pale. Eyes closed. Breathing, thank God, but in a strange panting sort of way. Was she pushing?
With a quick examination, Sophie noted the obvious. No limbs broken. No outward signs of distress. The bedsheets were rumpled, and it appeared that Callie might have slipped as she’d tried to get out of bed.
“Edward,” Sophie called, hoping he might be in the house. “Edward!”
No one came running.
Sophie didn’t want to move Callie until she figured out exactly what was wrong, in case she caused more distress.
But with a groan of fear, Sophie looked at the bloodstain on the flannel nightgown and knew, in her gut, that the baby was in trouble.
Whipping out her stethoscope, Sophie checked for a fetal heartbeat and timed it to her pocket watch. Yes, thought Sophie with a moment of triumph, still there and steady. But a touch on the fast side at 198, above the usual range of a baby’s resting heartbeat. Which meant the baby was in distress. But it might be a normal type of distress, as in possibly on its way down the birth canal.
Sophie reached for Callie’s wrist. Her heartbeat was fast, too. Thready and weak.
There was a pool of sticky liquid on the floor, indicating Callie’s water had broken. It should be clear, though, with no streaks of blood. Blood loss would explain a weak pulse.