This was mindless lust compared to their prior love-making, but Janice no longer cared about the difference. She had her husband back, and she would make everything better again. She had to. She held him and let him use her body and cried when he surged deep inside her, releasing his passion but leaving hers unsatisfied. She knew what she was supposed to feel now and missed it, but she had given Peter some peace. He rolled over and slipped into a sound slumber.
She lay there awake awhile longer, feeling his seed seeping from her. It had been foolish of her to allow this. What if the fever took him and she found out later she was pregnant? How would they live if she couldn't work?
But her heart had set on the tiny child that might be forming inside her already. She wanted Peter's baby, and she wanted to savor every minute of its growth as she hadn't with Betsy. So she would have to make Peter live, if by sheer strength of will alone.
She rose with the dawn, washed and dressed, and went to see about breakfast. She left the door open behind her in case he woke.
* * *
Peter thought the smell of bread baking woke him. Barely conscious, he lay there feeling so hollow he thought it would take a trainload of food to fill him. But oddly enough, he felt satisfied.
As he gradually gathered his senses and realized he was warm and dry and sleeping on a cloud, he also realized he was waking without the painful erection that had brought him out of slumber every morning for months. There had been days when he had almost been tempted to give up and go after Janice rather than suffer this denial one minute longer. It wasn't easy to find water out here, but he'd managed to find a cold stream to drown his lust in. He didn't think a cold stream had left him as satiated as he felt now.
He felt warm and satisfied, and now that he noticed, the undeniable scent of sex lingered on the linens. Hell, what had he done? Linens. He was sleeping on linen.
Peter pried his eyes open and stared at the log roof overhead. He recognized the peculiar knot in the log to the right side of the bed. He was in his own house. And there were sheets on the bed. And bread baking.
Cat? That couldn't be. He'd heard back in town that Catalina had run away with some salesman some months back. She'd left the petticoat he'd bought for her eons ago as a parting present. He didn't know why she'd left it, if she meant to throw it back in his face and taunt him with it, or if she merely meant to pass it on to the next woman who came here. He never did have much luck at understanding women. Except Janice. Janice never left him guessing.
Janice. Peter winced and tried to will himself back to sleep. He'd failed her. He'd left her stranded, without a nickel, without any means of support. And now it seemed as if he'd indulged himself with another woman. He'd never be able to explain it to her. He would have to take some of the gold they needed to pay off the loan and go back to her to try to explain.
His head hurt too much for explanations at the moment. Not that he'd been able to think of any over these last months when it became apparent that the gold either wasn't there in any quantity or was inaccessible. He'd just kept chipping away at the mountain, hoping hell would open up and swallow him. He'd gambled their future away. There was no other way to look at it.
His stomach rumbled loudly. He didn't know if he dared get out of bed to see who was in the other room. For all he knew, Catalina had come back. Surely no other woman would crawl into bed with a naked man. The idea of betraying an innocent lady like Janice with a whore repulsed him, but that was scarcely the worst of his sins. He'd have to face up to the rest of them sooner or later.
Peter tried to sit up and keep the covers around him at the same time, but he was weaker than he thought. His head spun as he looked around for his clothes. The quilt kept slipping downward as he balanced at the edge of the bed, and he shivered.
Lost in concentration, he didn't see the sprite materializing in the doorway until a childish voice called, "Janice, Uncle Peter's awake!"
Half naked and shivering, he nearly fell backward at the sound of that voice. Betsy was standing in the doorway.
The bread baking had new meaning. He was home.
With surging joy, Peter glanced around and noted the curtains on the windows, the clean towels on the washstand, and the rag rug at his feet. He was home.
His wife was here!
Chapter 32
Janice appeared in the doorway, and Peter didn't think he'd ever seen a more lovely sight in his life. Her loose braid was on the verge of self-destructing, there were deep shadows under her luminous eyes, and flour covered the stained apron she wore to protect an old gown even he could tell was beyond mending. She looked like an angel.
"I don't think I've earned heaven," were the only words Peter could push from his tongue. The room began spinning, and he toppled like a tree.
Janice caught him before he fell, pushing him gently back to the mattress, pulling the covers up around him.
"I'll warrant you haven't earned heaven, either," she murmured as she tucked the covers in. "And you'll not gain it now if I have anything to say about it. Die on me, and I'll follow you into hell, Peter Mulloney."
The words were more anguished prayer than harsh recrimination. Peter smiled foolishly at the ceiling. Even angry, his wife didn't turn her back on him. She'd be even angrier soon. His smile faded. She'd turn her back when she learned he wasn't going to be wealthy after all.
She kept her part of the bargain. He'd failed royally.
"I have some broth heating. Can you sit up a little?" She tried to tuck pillows behind his back.
Peter contemplated starving himself to death rather than tell her they were still broke. For himself, it didn't matter so much. He could always make a living. But he didn't want to see the disappointment and fear on Janice's face. And he didn't want to be around when she walked out on him. He'd rather die than see her walk out.
He knew he was feverish and not thinking clearly. He looked up to see Janice hovering anxiously, her face pale with worry. He couldn't do that to her. He would have to go back up the mountain.
Obligingly he attempted to return to a sitting position. His gaze fell on Betsy, and with a hoarse voice he didn't recognize as his own, he inquired, "Nightshirt?"
Janice threw a glance over her shoulder, shooed Betsy from the room, and bent to kiss his forehead when he sat up. It was then that Peter realized why he'd felt so satisfied upon waking this morning. A brief glimpse of his fevered dreams returned to him, and he reached to stroke the rounded breast not inches from his face.
"I love you," he murmured mindlessly, pulling her down to him.
She stiffened, resisting, then sat down on the side of he bed and rested her head on his shoulder for a minute. Peter clasped his arms around her and held her there, not daring to ask the hows and whys of her presence, only grateful that it was so.
He must have slipped from consciousness again. In his next moment of awareness, Janice was attempting to pull the nightshirt from his saddlebag over his head. He struggled into it and felt too weak to lift his head when they were done.
Peter didn't remember much of that day. He sipped at heavenly warm broths and demanded hot bread that he could barely swallow. Cool hands bathed him when he grew feverish and covered him when he got cold. He turned away from the water she offered but drank it eagerly when she laced it with liquor. He found the chamber pot and knew life was returning to his body. He knew it even more when darkness fell and he waited with undisguised anticipation for Janice to come to bed.
He fell asleep before she could climb in beside him.
He woke again in the wee hours of dawn. He leaned back against the inviting pillows, feeling his erection making a tent of the heavy covers. Beside him, his wife slept soundly. He couldn't bear to wake her. She looked as if she hadn't slept in weeks. Besides, he had about as much strength as a newborn babe. He would wait for the need to subside.
It didn't. Peter tried to tell himself that they couldn't afford to have babies yet. Janice worried herself sick about having
children and not being able to raise them. But his body had this overwhelming urge to procreate, and the woman he wanted to be mother of his child lay just beside him.
Of course, the urge driving him right now had little enough to do with children. If they came along, that was fine. But his goals right now were a little more short term. He wanted the bliss of release inside his wife's body.
He also had this crushing need to know if she wanted him. Janice was an odd duck. She hadn't wanted to be married, hadn't wanted to go to bed with him, hadn't wanted any of those things he desired. But she had responded when coaxed. It would be nice to know that she had learned to desire him as he desired her, that the money wasn't important anymore, but that was asking a lot.
So Peter tried to ease his position and go back to sleep, but his efforts failed. He ached. He ached all over but mostly he ached in the one place that Janice could satisfy. He turned slightly and tried to cup her against him. She squirmed and tried to break away.
And then she woke. He could sense it though she didn't reveal it openly. He touched her breast, stroking it through the flannel gown. She tensed but didn't move away. Peter loosened the ribbon and fed his hand into the opening. The touch of her warm flesh sent a jolt through his loins that practically left him gasping. She arched to give him better access.
The nipple puckered willingly beneath his fingers, and he couldn't be patient. He pressed her down against the mattress and bent to suckle at her breast. She gave a cry of pleasure, and he was lost.
She returned his kisses with increasing fervor. Peter relished their intensity. He lay back and rolled her over so he didn't waste his strength. She kissed him back, then sought his chest to return the pleasures he had given her. He choked back a cry as she bit at his nipple. He had to have her soon or burst from trying.
"Janice." He caught her mouth and kissed her again, hen dragged her off the bed and on top of him. "Make love to me," he demanded, or begged, he wasn't certain.
She didn't seem to know what he wanted, but he wasn't slow to show her. He pulled her gown up until he found the soft warmth of her, felt the moisture there, and guided her to where he needed her. He could sense her uncertainty, but Peter couldn't wait any longer. He caught her hips and pressed downward. She cried out in surprise and sank down on him.
That was all he wanted. He could have easily lived that way, feeling her warm woman's flesh surrounding him. But then she moved a little, and it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He surged upward and felt her tighten around him and he didn't want to be anywhere else.
She rocked against him, eager to learn her own pleasure, finding it and sharing it with him at the same time. Their double explosion rattled Peter to his bones and left him drained, but he couldn't let her go. He turned over and held himself inside her.
"Don't leave, Jenny," he murmured into her hair. "Don't ever leave."
It was a reference to more than their current physical intimacy, but Janice had no way of knowing that. She curled into the strength of Peter's embrace, relaxed with his legs entwined with hers, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again, it was full day. The bed beside him was empty and cold, but Peter could smell heavenly scents coming from the miserable fireplace that was his kitchen. That's when he knew what he had to do.
He didn't flinch at the thought. There came a time in a man's life when he had to make a choice. He could wander the face of the earth seeking some elusive rainbow, or he could settle down and make himself a home. He was going to do the latter.
His clothes lay folded on a chair beside the bed, all neatly laundered and ready to wear. He used to have a closet full of clothes and a manservant to care for them. He hadn't appreciated what he had then, but he appreciated what he had now. Who he had now. He had a woman who would travel to the ends of the earth to make a home for him. The least he could do was give her the very best home he could provide.
Peter dressed slowly, uncertain how long his strength would last. He no longer burned with fever, but he wasn't exactly himself. Part of him was completely recovered, though. Just thinking of how Janice had made love to him last night made him hard. He had some difficulty buttoning the denims.
The spinning in his head steadied as he sat on the side of the bed. Fastening the last of his shirt buttons, he stood up slowly. When he didn't immediately fall back down, he took a step toward the door. And another.
Peter leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to admire the sight of Janice bent over the cooking pot, her face flushed with the heat of the fire, golden tendrils of hair clinging to the graceful line of her neck. Even in rags she was a beautiful woman. He might be courting real trouble when he dressed her in evening gowns, but she deserved the best.
He didn't see Betsy in the room. The tightening in his loins returned full force, but he restrained himself. First he had to let Janice know that he wouldn't let her down.
He cleared his throat, and she swung around. The smile she gave him warmed Peter clear through the middle, but the flush flooding her cheeks as their eyes met roasted him to the bone. He had made his imperturbable schoolmarm blush.
"Something smells awful good, Jenny," he managed to say, lifting his shoulder from the doorjamb and walking toward her.
She looked flustered. "It isn't much. I've not learned to cook well over a fire yet." She sent him a look of concern. "Shouldn't you still be in bed? I can bring you breakfast in there."
He caught her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'm a new man, madam. And it's all your fault."
She gave him a quick hug, then backed away shyly, as if she had been overly forward. "Well, sit down, and I'll pour you some coffee."
Peter didn't let her escape. He caught her waist and held her, forcing her to look up at him. "I imagine it's snowing farther up the mountain right now. We'll have to get out of here before we're snowed in. Did Townsend leave any of that gold here?"
Janice nodded toward some cloth bags in the corner by the fireplace. "He went to find a doctor for you. I don't know when he'll be back."
Peter counted the bags and sighed in relief. Townsend had left all of them. "We'll catch him on the trail or in town. There's enough there to pay our debts, but that's about all. I'll have to borrow some of it to get us back on our feet again."
She looked relieved. When he released her, she pushed him gently toward the plank bench that served as chair for the table. "Gage looked like a fine town. I wonder if they need a schoolteacher?"
Peter sank down gratefully. He wasn't as strong as he would like to be. He sipped at the coffee she handed him before answering. "They can find one without our help. I mean to take you back to Ohio."
Janice swung around and stared at him in disbelief. "Ohio? Why would we go back there?"
He had thought she would be relieved to know they would be returning to civilization. Maybe she didn't understand. He tried to explain. "So I can go back to work for my family. And you and Betsy can be with your family again. We might have to live with my parents for a while until I can save enough for a home of our own, but that house is big enough to hide a regiment of soldiers. We'll get along fine."
Janice looked as if she wanted to test his forehead for fever again. She rubbed her hands nervously in her apron, then returned to frying potatoes over the fire. "I thought you could borrow the money and start up a little store here. I could help with the bookkeeping and such, and even Betsy can help with the dusting and keeping the shelves stocked. If I can find a teaching job, we would get by just fine."
Irritated that she didn't seem to comprehend what he was offering her, Peter set his cup down. "I'm not going to become some dried-up little store clerk whose wife has to work to pay the bills. I told you I'd take care of you and Betsy, and that's what I mean to do. We'll go back to Ohio, and you'll not have to work at anything but keeping yourself pretty. You'll have gowns like Georgie's. Betsy can go to a good school and have art lessons."
Janice swung around and glared at him.
"I like working! And I don't want to go back to Ohio. Neither do you, if you'll just admit it. Don't be foolish, Peter. We'll make our own way just fine right here."
This time, he slammed the cup down and glared back at her. "We'll make our way just fine, I'm sure, with you working your fingers to the bone and dressing like a ragpicker's wife while Betsy scrubs and dusts. That's not how I mean to take care of you. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. We're returning to Ohio."
Janice stripped off her apron and threw it at his feet. Putting her hands on her hips, she glared up at him when he stood to tower over her. "You can go to Ohio if you like. I'm not going back there to have people point at me and make fun. My sister works in your damned store, Peter! So does her husband. Shall I have them come over and visit us wearing their best store clothes, their cheap cottons and celluloid collars, and introduce them to a company of your friends and relations in their silks and laces and fancy cravats? What will that make me look like? And how will it look to their friends when they hob-nob with the boss's wife? Any promotions they earn will look like favoritism, no matter how hard they work. It won't do, Peter. I never liked it back there. I'm staying out here where people recognize me for the work I do and not who my family is."
Furious now, Peter grabbed her arms and held them pinned to her sides before she could brush him off and escape. "I don't give a damn what people think! It will take years out here to make enough money to keep you properly. What happens when children come along and you can't work? How will we pay a doctor when they get sick? I'm not letting you lead that kind of life again."
Janice struggled against his hold. "Don't I have any say in this? What about what I want?" When she couldn't free herself, she glared up at his obstinate expression. "Is this the kind of husband you mean to be then? It only matters what you want? Am I to have no say in how we live at all? I'm just supposed to bake your bread and dress your children and open my legs when you want it?"
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