“Of course.” After a few minutes of silence, Hildy asked, “Did he do this to you, Mariah?”
Chapter Eight
Confused, Mariah rested the spoon in the bowl. “Do what?”
“Hit you?”
Mariah frowned, considering the question at length, still not making heads or tails of it. “No one hit me, Hildy. Who did you mean?”
Hildy’s expression changed from worry to embarrassment. “I just thought…maybe your husband…maybe Wes…. I know men get angry sometimes. Forget I said anything.”
Wes had definitely created problems by coming here, and he infuriated her at every turn, but…She remembered his immediate concern, the way he’d run for ice and protectively tried to help her up. He’d been nothing but kind and concerned. Mariah turned her gaze on her cousin. “Why would you ask that?”
Hildy stood and smoothed the covers over the end of the bed. “I don’t know. None of us know him. I just…I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking, I guess.”
“An empty bottle sprang out of a rack and hit me. Wes ran for ice and showed genuine concern. He took me to town to get stitches and brought me home. Don’t let there be any speculation of anything different, Hildy, please.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry.”
“Did someone suggest that he hit me?”
“No.” She twisted her hands together again. “Mariah, I’m sorry. Forget I asked. Please.”
“It’s all right, Hildy. It’s okay.” Mariah reached for her cousin’s hand. She couldn’t bear the worry on Hildy’s face. “I’m not mad at you. Come on.”
Hildy’s hand trembled.
Growing up they’d been as close as sisters. Friends, confidantes. But that had changed after Hildy married Philo. Hildy had transferred her attention to Henrietta. Hildy’s mother, Clara, was Henrietta’s sister. Mariah figured that Hildy had assumed the tasks of childcare and helping Henrietta because the work made her feel useful, and she felt more comfortable here.
Hildy had lost two babies during difficult pregnancies, and the grief and loss had taken a toll on the once-animated and lively young woman. She came to the big house almost daily, though occasionally she suffered such bad headaches that she stayed home for a few days.
“It’s okay,” Mariah told her again and looked directly into her eyes.
Hildy managed a weak smile and dashed away a tear from the corner of her eye. “Finish your lunch. Your mama made you custard, too.”
Mariah napped briefly before Hildy brought John James to see her. He stared at her with a frown creasing his forehead. “You won’t die will you, Mama?”
“I definitely won’t die.” She took his hand and reassured him. “I’m going to be around to see you grow up and have your own children. Come give me a hug.”
He crawled up on the bed to wrap his arms around her neck and hug her gently.
“I’m just fine. The stitches and this ugly bump make my head look worse than it is.”
He drew away to look at her. “Does it hurt?”
“I had a headache, but it’s better now. Go with Hildy now and work on your arithmetic. You can come back after supper.”
He obediently took Hildy’s hand and gave Mariah a smile as they left the room. She closed her eyes and tried to rest again, but sleep didn’t come.
She wasn’t used to inactivity, so the work that needed to be done remained in her thoughts. She wondered how many bottles had been lost, and if the bottling had continued as soon as the mess was cleaned up. A knock sounded on the door and Wes spoke her name. She was actually glad to hear his rich, deep voice.
“Come in!”
He stood hesitantly inside the door without closing it all the way. “Your mama said you’re doing fine.”
“She sends Hildy up every ten minutes. The poor girl’s exhausted.”
“She’s fine. I just saw her heading home with a basket of dinner for her husband.”
“Well, what happened when you got back to the brewery?”
“The glass had been cleaned up. Gerd asked me to stay and give them a hand making sure the conveyors were working right.”
“How many bottles were broken?”
“A hundred or so, best guess.”
She shook her head. “Anything wrong with the machinery?”
“Doesn’t look to be. Once we started up the engine again, everything ran smoothly. Marc thinks a bottle might’ve settled in the trays at an awkward angle and shot out on the turn.”
“Maybe we need someone watching them until we figure out a guard of some sort.”
He stepped forward. “They talked about a shield around the chute.”
“Good.” He’d obviously bathed and dressed in clean clothing. He kept a supply in the bathhouse out back, like the other men. His russet dark hair had been combed into damp waves. “Have you eaten?”
“No. I came to see you first.”
It pained her, but she swallowed her pride to say, “Why don’t you fix us plates and we’ll eat together?”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, ma’am. Be right back.”
Ten minutes later, he entered the room with a laden tray. Mariah had dressed in a printed shirtwaist and plain skirt and now sat at the tiny table near the window. It wouldn’t hold the tray, so he removed the plates and set them down.
Her mouth watered at the rich aroma of the golden-brown quail and stuffing. Sliced carrots and mashed turnips accompanied the fowl.
“Nobody cooks like your mama,” he said with a grin. “I’ve never eaten like this in my life.”
“Hello?” a soft voice called. Faye entered with a pitcher of beer and two mugs. “You poor thing. That’s quite a nasty bump you got there. Do you have a headache?”
“It’s better, thanks.”
“John James is eating with Paul and Emma.” She poured them each drinks, then left the room with a rustle of skirts.
Wes waited for Mariah to take a bite before he picked up his fork.
Studying him, Mariah tasted the perfectly roasted fowl. All of her opinions had been shuffled and redealt. So far he hadn’t given any of her suspicions substance. Wes had, in fact, been exceedingly kind and generous. He’d backed off every time she rejected him. Today he’d shown genuine concern for her well-being and safety.
He’d been assigned to one of the most difficult jobs at the brewery, and hadn’t murmured a complaint. When he spoke to her about his job, his talk was about what he was learning, and his tone relayed a sense of accomplishment. Other men had quit that job after the first week.
None of that excused him coming here under false pretenses, but she couldn’t fault him for today. Garnering courage, she set down her fork and used her napkin. “You were helpful when I got hurt today. I’m grateful.”
Surprise was evident in his dark eyes. He finished chewing a bite and swallowed. “I know how hard that was for you to say.” He shrugged. “I just did what anyone would have done.”
Looking into his eyes made her uncomfortable. The connection dredged up confusion and hurt and a dozen other conflicting emotions she had been incapable of dealing with. But she forced herself to look. To feel. She’d hidden from herself and her life situation for so long that it actually felt good to face something head-on.
“You make me feel trapped.” There. Honesty.
He set down his fork. Pursed his lips for a moment. And then he nodded. “I admit I didn’t think this all the way through. But I’ve been straight with you from the beginning. I’m not complicated or mysterious. You can probably see right through me if you look.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never had a family. I never knew my mother or father. When I read John James’s letters, that need to belong to someone came back to me so strong I couldn’t see past it.”
She said nothing. She wasn’t insensitive to the fact that if he’d truly been raised in an orphanage, he’d had a difficult childhood. But the fact didn’t excuse him from the liberties he’d taken in coming
here. She picked up her fork and he did the same. For several minutes they ate in silence.
She didn’t want to sound accusatory, so she kept her voice questioning to ask, “Did you ever stop to think maybe you weren’t doing this for John James at all, but for yourself?” Assuming his story was true, she asked, “Maybe you wanted someone so badly that you imagined he needed a father in his life. You needed him more than he needed you.”
Calmly Wes took a long drink from his mug. He set it down and wiped his lips. When he looked at her again, his eyes shimmered in the lantern light. “It’s plain he has a lot of people who love him and see to his needs. He has a big, loving family.” His voice lowered. “A wonderful mother.”
Mariah didn’t know why his words made her chest ache.
“And maybe I did need him more. But he needed a father. Every boy needs a father.”
“Plenty of boys grow up without a father.”
“But I had the ability to change that.”
Which took them right back to the fact that it was a lie. But they’d been over that before, and arguing again wasn’t going to change his mind. She knew that well enough.
They finished eating. While Wes was gone taking their dishes downstairs, John James arrived with his horses and played on top of the coverlet. Felix found a spot he liked on the rug and napped. Mariah unfolded a quilt and made herself comfortable. This time she dozed.
Sometime later, she woke when Wes returned with a book bound in green leather. She couldn’t make out the gold lettering.
“What are you reading, Papa?”
“I found a copy of Mark Twain’s book, The Prince and the Pauper, on the shelves in your study room. Do you know it?”
John James shook his head.
“Marc sent for it when it was published last year.” Mariah fluffed a pillow and got situated. “I don’t know that anyone besides him has read it.”
John James looked up hopefully. “Will you read it to us?”
Wes glanced at Mariah, who nodded in response.
He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s take Felix outside first.”
When they returned, Wes pulled the rocking chair closer to the bed and seated himself.
“How’s your leg?” she asked.
“I’ll get some ice later.”
“Pull over the chest for your leg.”
He did so, propped his foot, and opened the book. The story began with the telling of a poor boy who was born in London. When Wes read that the Canty family didn’t want their son, John James frowned. But as the story progressed and a rich family and all of England wanted their new son, his expression changed to one of interest.
As the chapter progressed, Mariah enjoyed hearing Wes’s compelling deep voice. John James’s expressions were priceless. He eventually lost interest in his horses and propped his chin on his fists to listen.
It was as natural as eating and sleeping to let her imagination slide an unfamiliar direction and picture the three of them as a real family. So far Wes doted on the boy, helping him with his arithmetic at night and telling him stories when prompted. And it was plain that John James thought Wes was the best thing that had happened since the sun was set in the sky.
It was also natural to resent the fact that she had taken care of John James since infancy—nursed him, nurtured him, seen to his care and education, but now the outsider that showed up out of the blue garnered his adoration.
The other thoughts were more pleasant, so she allowed herself to pretend for a moment that Wes truly was John James’s father and her husband. Had it been true, they would probably be living in their own house. She would have known him for years, and everything about him would be dear and familiar.
Or would it?
Sometimes she noticed the couples in her family—Wilhelm and Mary Violet, Gerd and Betz; Annika had married Robert only a year ago—and she wondered about their relationships. She speculated about relationships anyway. What did any of them have that she didn’t already possess? She had people to support her, share responsibility for her child, to spend time with her. But obviously there was more, or the whole man and wife issue wouldn’t have been around since Adam and Eve.
The more part—the husband part—was where her thinking got a little shaky, and where the idea lost any appeal it might have held. She didn’t want someone telling her what to do. She certainly didn’t need someone who expected more of her than she was able to give. There was more that went along with the title of wife, like physical involvement that held no interest or fascination for her. Like emotional intimacy that would rob her of her independence.
She’d observed engaged couples, newlywed couples, even long-married pairs like Marc and Faye. She’d sensed the undercurrent of romantic involvement, seen kisses and touches that made her uncomfortable—and curious.
Anything beyond that wasn’t even in her daydream. Nor did she want it to be. She would never put her future in a man’s hands.
John James’s eyelids drooped and he lowered his head to the mattress. Wes closed the book. “I’ll take him to bed.”
She nodded. “Will you lift him and bring him close for a moment?”
Wes gently rolled him over, maneuvered him into his arms, then sat on the edge of the bed where she touched John James’s head and kissed his cheek.
She threaded his fair hair away from his handsome forehead and pressed a kiss there, as well. She glanced up to find Wes’s dark tender gaze on her. An odd tingling sensation started in her stomach and fluttered up to her chest. For a few seconds she had difficulty catching her breath.
Perhaps she did have a more serious head injury; maybe she was going to pass out. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she noticed that disturbing divot in his upper lip, the smooth skin of his jaw and the scent of his shaving soap. The sensation of falling caught her off guard, and she couldn’t draw enough air into her lungs.
Wes dipped his head and shoulders forward, as though leaning protectively over John James’s sleeping form, but in the next moment his intent became disturbingly…alarmingly clear.
He meant to kiss her.
Chapter Nine
She couldn’t turn away, couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t do anything except experience the rush of heat and longing that warred with helpless panic. For a moment, she felt she really might faint.
He leaned closer, so close that she smelled his hair and felt his breath against her chin—and then he covered her lips with his. The contact was a warm, soft touch she hadn’t anticipated. A reckless sensation that sent her nerves skittering and her heart pounding. If she wasn’t fainting, then this was real. But how could it be?
Mariah had never been kissed this way. She’d never been kissed by any man other than her father and brothers. Wes was no comparison!
Goodness, if this kiss was anything like the ones her sisters and cousins shared with their husbands, she could almost understand their fascination. Perhaps it was because John James separated them or maybe because Wes’s hands were occupied with his bundle, but the rush of panic she anticipated never developed.
She parted her lips, only enough to taste him, not enough to make him think she liked this, and eased a little further into the magic of the moment.
Wes hadn’t meant to kiss her. Of course he’d thought about it before. It was difficult not to think of kissing her. She had the softest-looking lips and the prettiest mouth he’d ever seen. Every time they were alone, thoughts of kissing her invaded his mind. Along with the sobering thought that she couldn’t stand him. He’d been impetuous, but as of yet she hadn’t landed a fist on his chin.
Why not? She resented him. She took every opportunity to point out the fact that he didn’t belong here.
Why was she kissing him back?
There it was. First the slightest movement of her lips beneath his, a whisper of expelled breath, almost a sigh, if he hadn’t known better, and a soft acquiescence…
Maria
h.
Oh, she was tough, this woman. Tough as nails. Stubborn. Resistant. But at this moment she seemed yielding and responsive. Of course he was taking unfair advantage of the situation. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have been this compliant—this agreeable—this sweet.
With regret and more than a heaping portion of fortitude, Wes ended the kiss.
Mariah’s eyelids fluttered open. It took a few minutes for recognition to register behind her blue eyes. Recognition and shame. What was she ashamed of?
He straightened. “I’ll tuck him in.”
He carried John James across the hall. Maneuvering the boy’s noodlelike arms and legs out of his clothing was a challenge he’d never faced, but after several awkward attempts, he managed the task and got him situated on the bed with the covers tucked around him.
He hadn’t given Mariah a chance to react to that kiss. Maybe he’d been a little apprehensive about what she’d say or do. Maybe he’d been more than a little apprehensive about what he’d say or do. She took every opportunity to rebuff him. He couldn’t blame her, but still it wounded.
He hadn’t intended to lean in like that and kiss her, but when he’d been so close…close enough to smell her fragrant hair and glimpse the vulnerability in her delicate features, it had just happened.
He glanced over at Paul, already sleeping soundly, and then extinguished the lamp. Needing a few minutes to compose himself, he took a step back and settled on the nearby chair. Both of the boys’ beds were draped with down coverlets. Thick woven rugs covered the floor. Low shelves under the window held an assortment of toys.
In the darkness, Wes’s gaze touched on each of their slight forms. His thoughts traveled back over twenty some years to his childhood. To the long, stark room where he’d slept at the foundling home.
Bedtime had been a dismal affair, especially in winter when the children bundled in their threadbare stockings and union suits and still weren’t warm. A shrilling bell had clanged in the hallway, notifying them when it was time to undress and get into bed. It had rung again, the signal that they’d best be lying down.
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