The Heavenly Surrender

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “So, am I to understand that Brevan never courted this Amy?” Genieva asked, staring at Jenny.

  “Never,” Mary confirmed.

  “Still…it’s the men like Brevan…the handsome and lustful ones who are, more often than not, responsible for the fatherless children in a town,” Bertha grunted.

  “Actually, that’s not true. Isn’t it more often the older, more established business-type men who begin to think themselves better than others, deserving of more, that leave a trail of poor desperate women with fatherless children in their wake?” Genieva suggested—pointedly looking to Bertha. She knew Bertha Baumgardner’s husband had been mayor before his death.

  Brenna stifled a giggle, and another elderly woman drew in her breath abruptly.

  “A man’s being handsome does not instantly mean he is lustful,” Mrs. Fenton added. “More often it is the women of a town—the ones who blame him with lust—that are envious at not having him themselves. They’re the ones who brand him as lustful.”

  Genieva looked up to Jenny, whose eyes smoldered like cinders at her. She sat between the other two girls that had been at the store, each of whom raised their eyebrows and looked expectantly at their friend.

  “She’s right,” another woman whose name Genieva had forgotten added. “Brevan McLean is probably the most upstanding citizen in this community. And it does make a woman wonder at the other citizens in it who would suggest such a thing at his wife’s bee.”

  Genieva smiled at the woman—noticing the guilt and glumness apparent on every face save Jenny’s.

  “Come now, ladies. Let’s enjoy our time together. Actually, I’m very flattered that so many of you would find Brevan so attractive that you would assume any woman would be unable to resist him. And, I assure you, I realize now that we are wed you will cease to slander my husband’s good name…knowing full well I would never slander any of yours. As for poor Amy…I believe there are almost always extenuating circumstances in these situations, and perhaps we should all be more forgiving and less judgmental.” Genieva resumed her stitching. “Now, do tell me….is it always this dry here? Or is it just particularly so this year?”

  

  “Humble pie! That’s what they call it here, it is, Brevan!” Brenna laughed later that evening.

  “Sí, Sí!” Lita exclaimed, laughing so heartily she doubled over with the weight of her mirth. “Humble pie. The most humble ever baked!”

  “You women,” Brian chuckled. “Just a bunch of cacklin’ old crones, ya are.”

  “You’ve done us proud, Genieva. They’ll not lock horns with you again for some time, I reckon,” Travis added.

  Brevan, however, sat solemn—appearing to be not in the least amused.

  “Come now, brother Brev,” Brian addressed him. “Don’t ya find it amusin’? To see the look on Bertha Baumgardner’s face alone would’ve been worth havin’ yar toenails torn out for!”

  “Amy Wilburn deserves far more sympathy than this town or the likes of all of you give her, for that matter. She’s a poor soul led astray by some charmer among us, she is,” Brevan growled.

  “But we’re not makin’ light of poor Amy’s situation, Brevan,” Brenna assured him. “It’s quite the opposite, it is. For that matter, Genieva nearly championed her.”

  Brevan shook his head and looked to Genieva, sitting solemn and without mirth herself.

  “I’ll say this for ya, I will,” he began, “ya’ve got your wits about ya, and yar dealin’ with those gossipin’ hags today deserves more notin’ than anythin’ else ya’ve done thus far, lass.” He shook his head as he stood and stretched his arms out at his sides. “I’d not spend an afternoon with them to save me own life.”

  “Ya look beat with a broom, Genieva,” Brenna observed aloud. “It’s best ya be gettin’ to bed. ’Twas a long and tedious day of it. And before ya go…have ya shown that quilt we labored over so long to yar husband yet?”

  “Oh,” Genieva startled. “No. I haven’t.” Her bones and muscles ached as she went to her room and removed the quilt from the place she had laid it at the foot of her bed. It really was a beautiful piece of work. It held red and green squares and shapes of apples and leaves—a truly beautiful quilt.

  “You see, Brevan,” she said as she held it out for him to view, “it really is lovely, after all.”

  “It be a nice quilt,” he bluntly responded. “’Twill keep ya warm this cold winter.”

  “Now, brother Brevan,” Brian chuckled as he walked quickly toward the door, “I thought that be yar own job!” And with a barrage of laughter, he jaunted out the door followed closely by his wife, sister, and brother-in-law, who all bid good night to Genieva.

  Genieva smiled as she watched the couples disappear into the darkness—their playful conversation and laughter echoing on the breeze.

  “He’s a bleedin’ idiot, that one,” Brevan grumbled, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

  “I think he’s a breath of fresh air,” Genieva sighed, turning toward her room.

  “Well, he’s been already inhaled, lass.” The annoyance in Brevan’s voice was so obvious that Genieva turned to look back at him. She found he stood angry before her. “Ya’re strapped with the stale stench that’s left in the family…namely Brevan McLean…the grouchy, philanderin’, slave-drivin’ Irishman!” he bellowed. He stormed past her and down the hall, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.

  Genieva tenderly folded the quilt—placing it in the linens trunk at the foot of her bed. She studied its crafted beauty one last time before closing the trunk’s lid, noting how uniform all the stitches were, how tastily red were the apple pieces, and how the tiny cloth bees seemed to buzz—their soft noise humming in her mind. But as she closed the lid, her sweet thoughts vanished, replaced once more by uncertainty. Brevan had defended Amy Wilburn so vehemently. Was there truth, in fact, to the rumors? She shook her head, trying to dispel the disloyal thinking. Brevan was an honest, moral man. She was certain of it. She wouldn’t have married him if her instincts had told her anything different.

  But as she climbed into her squeaky yet comfortable bed, she wondered again how she had ever managed to find herself in such a position. She was not a farmer. She had no knowledge of farming. She was not a wife. And she had no knowledge of how to go about being married to a man, living with him day in and day out, and pretending everything was as normal as ever. She thought of her family, and a rush of guilt flooded her body. It had been a selfish act. Or had it merely been an act of independence?

  Brevan nearly tore the shirt from his back as he removed it, angrily storming across his bedroom. Why? he wondered. Why was his name forever slandered, dragged through the dirt, whenever a scandal was about town? Why wasn’t the finger pointed in the direction of the true and responsible culprit?

  Amy Wilburn. He’d never given the girl the time of day—though he’d always been polite to her. Never had he given cause for gossip in her direction where he was concerned. Yet he pitied her—for he sensed the situation was not exactly what it appeared to be.

  Exhaling a heavy sigh, he put a hand to his forehead.

  And that poor lass in the other room. Poor Genieva, he thought. He was angry all over again for what the old and young biddies of the town had put her through. He knew she must doubt his honesty, his chastity. She hardly knew him from Santa Claus! And he’d snapped at her so. She was undeserving of it. After all, Brian was a jester—a freshness to any conversation. He’d been tired and taken offense at her complimenting his brother. Inhaling a breath of determination, he opened his door and marched out into the hall. Not pausing to knock, he pushed at the door to Genieva’s room, barging in. He nearly laughed aloud when he saw her clutch the blankets to her throat—sitting prim and pristine in her bed.

  “I’m apologizin’ for snappin’ yar head off, I am. I shouldn’t have been so vexed,” Brevan stated.

  “It’s fine. You’re tired. I took no offense,” she responded. He knew she had taken offense.
Still, he had apologized, so he nodded and turned to leave.

  “Good night, lass,” he mumbled over his shoulder.

  Brevan McLean’s conscience hit the pillow clear and guiltless.

  Genieva raised her hands to her face. They were still trembling as she sat upright in her bed. Oh! How he’d startled her! She had not expected him to enter so abruptly and unexpectedly—not to mention so improperly attired! Still, she smiled as she recalled the expression donning his face upon entering. It reminded her of an expression a child might own had he been confessing to stealing a cookie from his mother’s cookie jar.

  What a different sort of man he is, Genieva thought, snuggling down into her bed once more. He was so serious, and so determined, that it nearly manifest itself as a flaw in him. But Genieva sensed a mischievousness or playfulness beneath the surface. He had, after all, apologized for snapping at her, therefore proving he had some conscience at least.

  Chapter Four

  Nearly two weeks had passed—two weeks since Genieva had married Brevan. With each day and night, Genieva began to enjoy the routine of her new life more and more. She had eventually adjusted well to rising before the sun and retiring long after it had set. She found she slept more soundly than she had ever before.

  Lita and Brenna were frequent visitors. Genieva looked forward to each time they were near—for they shared wonderful conversation and laughter and confided in and encouraged each other.

  On this particular night in mid-April, the couples met for dinner at Brenna and Travis’s. Afterward, as Genieva stood at the kitchen sink drying the plates Lita handed to her from the rinse bucket, she noted how absolutely secure she felt—how thoroughly happy. Lita and Brenna giggled together at some humorous story of Brian’s first attempt at fixing a loose shingle on the roof, resulting in his finding himself somehow flat on the seat of his pants in the dirt. Genieva smiled at the humorous story but also at the pure delight of her friends. Her attention was drawn to the conversation of the three men sitting on the front porch steps. She could hear the comforting lull of their low, masculine voices as they talked, and every now and again a wisp of their conversation was audible to her.

  “I’ve got to get that field plowed this next week, I do,” Brevan sighed. “Me corn is gonna be late gettin’ in if I don’t.”

  “Ya’ve had other things…distractin’ ya, ya have,” Brian chuckled. “Not that I blame ya now.”

  “Nothin’ is distractin’ me. Just the fact that Travis had to run off and marry Brenna, and Lita marry you, ’tis all. I’ve been havin’ to break in the new help, I have. It’s put me behind in me schedulin’.” Brevan’s explanation was followed by a yawn and another sigh.

  “How do ya do it, Brevan?” Travis asked.

  “How do I do what?” Brevan asked in return.

  “How do you…how do you keep your hands off the woman?” Travis explained.

  Genieva set the plate she had been drying on the counter, leaning forward in order to hear better. She briefly looked to Lita when the woman’s elbow met with Genieva’s ribs. Lita and Brenna were both listening intently as well—Lita arching interested eyebrows and nodding at Genieva—an indication she should keep her attention on the conversation going on outside.

  But much to the ladies’ frustration, a sudden breeze wafted through the open kitchen window—sending the wind chimes hanging just outside it dancing and tinkling with their piped tune.

  “How irritatin’,” Brenna grumbled when the next sound to sail on the breeze was the sound of all three men chuckling lowly and speaking in quiet voices now.

  “I am sure he nearly ties himself to his bedpost to keep away from you, Genieva,” Lita whispered, winking with delight.

  Genieva shook her head and forced a smile. “I can assure you, Lita…I am no temptation to Brevan. And anyway, he is far too busy with his work to have time to even think of anything else.”

  “Oh, he’s a good one at pretendin’, he is,” Brenna whispered. “But I’ll tell ya this, Genieva McLean…Brevan is the most powerful man I’ve seen in me life when it comes to self-control. But even he’ll break sooner or later and then…” Brenna shook her head and winked. “Well, ya’ll have yar hands full, ya will. I hope ya’re up to it.”

  “Sí!” Lita agreed. “It will throw you for a big fall the first time Brevan gives you his…beso…” Lita looked to Brenna inquisitively. “Beso?” she asked.

  “Kiss,” Brenna interpreted.

  “Sí. The first time he kiss you, Genieva…you will fall hard,” Lita finished, smiling with great certainty.

  Genieva stared at Lita—suddenly very curious. She had not missed the reprimanding glare Brenna directed toward the beautiful Mexican woman.

  “Of course…this is what happened the first time Brian kiss me, you see.” Lita stammered. She cast her gaze down toward the sink and resumed rinsing the dishes.

  “I see,” Genieva muttered. Then, shaking her head to dispel the suspicions forming in her mind, she added, “But I don’t fall easily, Lita. And I’m further assured I’ve nothing to fear where that circumstance is concerned anyway.”

  “Oh, mí hermana, it is nothing to fear. I promise you,” Lita assured her sincerely, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  Clearing her throat, Brenna rather abruptly changed the subject. “Um…I hope the two of ya are prayin’ for rain, I do. I don’t want to be carryin’ bucket after bucket of water from the creek to water the gardens again this year.”

  “Híjole! That was terrible last spring,” Lita agreed.

  The men erupted into laughter once more, and Lita and Brenna continued to discuss the lack of rain. But Genieva’s mind was elsewhere. Lita seemed far too sure of herself when it came to describing the effect of Brevan’s kiss on a woman. Surely she was only judging from her experience with her own husband. After all, it was only natural to assume the brothers would share many common characteristics.

  Still, as she and Brevan walked home at dusk later that evening, she found herself looking at him differently—pondering unthinkable possibilities. Had Lita been speaking from experience? She fought to drive the name of “poor Amy Wilburn” from her thoughts as well. To drive away the words handsome rogue, dashing philanderer.

  “What?” Brevan asked as she continued to stare at him as they approached the house at last.

  “Pardon me?” Genieva inquired.

  “Ya’re starin’ at me like I’ve some creepin’ crud about me,” he grumbled. “Have I broken out in the pox?”

  “No,” Genieva admitted. “How ridiculous.”

  “What then, lass?”

  “Nothing. I…I…” Genieva stammered. They stood at the front door to their house, and Brevan opened it, motioning for Genieva to enter. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Upon entering their home, Brevan reached over his head and took hold of the back of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion. The first few times Genieva had witnessed his now predictable habit of stripping off his shirt upon first entering the house each evening, her eyes had nearly bulged and exploded from their sockets. For the sight of his astounding physique had promptly caused Genieva further anxiety and discomfort. A man should not have the ability to inflict such nervous stress upon a woman, she told herself over and over. Yet he did unnerve her terribly, and the past weeks had only proved to Genieva that the fact would escalate with time.

  “And what were ya three little witches cacklin’ about over dish doin’ this evenin’?” he asked as he went to the sink and worked the pump to draw water for his hands and face.

  “Ever so much more interesting things than you three were,” Genieva said.

  “Really, now,” he chuckled. “Well, the lads were askin’ me tonight how it is that I manage to keep me hands from ya, Genieva,” he stated. “Were ya answerin’ the same question where I’m concerned?”

  Genieva’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “No!” she gasped. “Of course not!”

  “Ya don’t find me tempti
n’ then, lass?” he asked.

  “I…I…I…” she stuttered. She was entirely astounded at his presumptuous remark.

  “Hhmm. That’s disturbin’ news, it is.” He turned toward her, glaring, and added, “But it makes us even, doesn’t it?”

  “It would seem so,” Genieva mumbled. It was entirely too hurtful to hear it from his own lips—to hear he had no interest in her. Oh, she knew it well enough—but to hear him say it—it cut woundingly into her soul.

  “Aye. It would,” he agreed as he turned toward her. “I’m lackin’ a hand towel to dry with, Genieva,” he complained, walking to her with hands dripping wet.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll go get…” she said, turning from him—grateful for a reason to escape his further hurtful, verbal inflictions. But he reached out and took hold of her apron, spinning her back around to face him. Drawing it up from her skirt, he dried his hands thoroughly on it—all the while glaring down at her.

  “Ya look tired, Genieva,” he pronounced. “Ya should put yarself to bed, ya should.”

  Genieva brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and sighed. “I am tired. I work hard here, you know,” she reminded him rather curtly.

  “That ya do, lass.” Then much to her disquiet, he reached out and rested his powerful hands at her waist. “Now, which bed are ya plannin’ to put yarself in then?”

  “Mine, of course. What do you mean?” she asked. Her eyes widened—her mouth gaping open as his insinuation struck her fully. As she felt him slowly begin to pull her body closer to his, she placed a tentative index finger against his chest in a gesture of stalling him.

  “What a horrid thing to imply, Brevan. Especially when…when…”

  “When?” he prodded.