She watched him for the next few days, noting the hours he spent in the shop with Abe and Sammy, noticing that he started humming under his breath at odd hours and waking up each morning with a mysterious smile playing around his mouth. What is going on?
Was it Fanny Moreland?
And then late one afternoon after a marathon session of cutting leather pieces out of prime cowhide shipped from Texas, Lance volunteered to walk down to the mercantile for a tin of tea and a bag of sugar she needed. He was gone over two hours, far longer than the purchase of tea and sugar would take, and when he returned it was almost dark.
And that’s when she figured it out.
He smelled…sweet. In fact, she thought, gritting her teeth, he didn’t smell like tea or sugar or anything else at the mercantile; he smelled of cologne. Her stomach clenched. A woman’s cologne!
She caught her breath as a sharp pain stabbed behind her breastbone. And this time it had nothing to do with broken ribs.
At supper that night Lance wrestled with something that had been bothering him for days. And nights. Marianne was exhausting herself working all day in the shop cutting out leather and then working half the night stitching on the supple calfskin linings. It was meticulous work, involving silk thread and curved needles, and it kept her bent over her work until Abe finally ordered her to quit.
She looked pale and drawn in the evenings, but she steadfastly refused to lie down and let him cobble up some sort of supper for the two of them. The most she would let him do was stir up some corn bread and grind the beans for coffee. Tonight he watched her lift a pot of stew from the oven and cut the corn bread he’d made into squares, and suddenly his breath caught. She looked more than just tired out; she looked worried and preoccupied.
“Marianne?”
She ladled out some stew and set a bowl in front of him, dished up some for herself and sank on to her chair with a sigh.
“Marianne, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes. Well, no. I’m just tired, I think. Not discouraged, because the shop is doing so well, just…tired. Orders are pouring in faster than we can fulfill them and our bank account is overflowing. If I had any energy I would be dancing and singing.”
He released a long breath. Her dream of owning her own business was certainly coming true, largely because she wasn’t afraid of hard work. Marianne was as different from frivolous, self-centered Fanny Moreland as lilies from locoweed.
Every single time he walked into the mercantile, Fanny launched herself at him. He was beginning to suspect she spent hours prowling the aisles just waiting for him to show up so she could accost him. Carl Ness had taken to warning him of her presence by cutting his gaze toward whatever aisle she was lurking in.
Two things bothered him about Fanny. First, she pounced on him the minute he walked in and persisted in sidling up too close. And second, she wore a particularly cloying over-sweet scent that made his eyes water.
But he couldn’t stop visiting the mercantile; Marianne was so worn out that to save her strength he volunteered to walk over to the mercantile and get whatever supplies they needed.
Now he gazed across the supper table into his wife’s tired eyes and wondered what else he could do to make her load lighter. It was a delicate matter; Marianne didn’t like to accept help. She didn’t like to admit defeat, either. She would work herself to death at this rate, and he was more concerned about her than the shop.
“Marianne, we need to talk.”
“Oh?” she said in a weary voice. “What about?”
“Something I’m worried about.”
Marianne deliberately set her spoon aside. “Worried? What are you worried about?”
She could barely meet his gaze. Oh, God, was Lance going to confess why he came home from town smelling of a woman’s cologne? She clenched her hands in her lap and waited.
His eyes met hers, and she caught her breath. They were such a clear blue, the color of the sky on a summer day, and they were looking straight into hers with absolutely no hint of anything hidden in his gaze.
She had known Lance for four years before they married. She knew his work habits, his preference for chocolate cake, even his unfortunate brush with the law. She thought she knew everything about him. There was no hint of guile in his eyes. Deep inside she knew there wasn’t a single dishonest bone in Lance Burnside’s body.
All at once she realized something. A woman either trusted a man or she didn’t. And she trusted Lance.
She ran one trembling finger around the rim of her coffee cup, and he reached across the table to take her hand. “You’re looking at me funny,” he said, in a quiet voice.
“Yes, I guess maybe I am.”
“Some reason?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth.
Lance frowned. “You gonna tell me what it is?”
Her smile broadened. She rose from her chair, walked around the table and settled herself on her startled husband’s lap. “No, I’m not.”
Then she bent her head and gave him a long, passionate kiss that left them both short of breath, and any thought of needing to talk was lost.
*
After work the following afternoon, Marianne slowly plodded up the long hill to Dr. Dougherty’s home.
“Mrs. Burnside,” the physician said with a smile. “What brings you here?”
Short of breath after her long walk, Marianne could only puff and follow the doctor into his office. He sat her down on his examination table, and when she could talk she explained.
“Last night my husband gave me a hug and I felt a funny pain in my chest. Surely my sore ribs should be healed by now?”
“They should be,” he acknowledged. “Show me where it hurt.”
She pointed at the center of her chest, and when he gently pressed, she sucked in her breath. He whipped out his stethoscope and bent over her.
“Breathe in. Out. In again.”
She complied, and after a moment he straightened. “Your ribs are healed, Mrs. Burnside. What is causing the pain might be your breastbone. I was afraid it had cracked when you fell off that horse, and it looks like I was right.”
“Cracked!”
“It’s a common injury resulting from a fall, especially for slim, small-boned women such as yourself. There’s no cure but time.”
“Could that be why I feel so tired all the time?”
“Tired?”
“Yes. Very sleepy.”
“Hmm. Anything else?”
She thought a minute. “Sometimes I feel dizzy, just a little bit, but enough so I have to sit down.”
The doctor had her lift away her shirtwaist, and once more he bent over her with his stethoscope. Then he had her lie flat on the examination table and applied the horn of the instrument everywhere, her neck, her back, her chest, even her abdomen. Finally he helped her to sit up, folded up the stethoscope and smiled.
“What is wrong with me?”
“Besides your cracked breastbone?” he said with a grin. “Absolutely nothing.”
“But…but I feel so strange sometimes, especially in the morning.”
His grin widened. “Um-hmm. That’s not surprising, Mrs. Burnside. You’re going to have a baby.”
Marianne gasped. “A baby? That’s not possible. I can’t be having a baby.”
“Why is that?” the doctor asked.
“Because…because my husband and I have only had… I mean, Lance and I have had only one, um, encounter, and that was weeks ago. In early July.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Suddenly she felt as if she was going to faint. “Really? Isn’t that…unusual for a couple to, uh, conceive that way?”
“Nope,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not unusual. You’re just lucky.”
Marianne floated out of the physician’s office and down the hill in a rosy haze. A baby? A baby! Oh, my. Oh, my heavens! In the spring, Dr. Dougherty said. End of March or early April.
She could scarcely believe it. She wanted to rush home and tell Lance right away. She wanted to tell everybody right away!
She gazed up into the leafy branches of the maple trees arching overhead. How beautiful the world was! The soft summer air felt velvety against her skin, and it smelled delicious. Bees buzzed in the gardens she passed, flitting from rosebushes to honeysuckle vines. The sweet scent teased her nostrils.
Part of her looked forward to the challenges coming up, to making Collingwood Boots even more successful; part of her felt inexperienced and uncertain.
My lord, could it really be true? She would be bringing a child into the world! Her child. Lance’s child.
She turned the corner and drew near the shop entrance, her heart swelling until she felt it would burst and shower her with stars. When she stepped through the door, Abe looked up, and without a word she flew to his side and smacked a kiss on his leathery cheek.
“Well, now, honey-girl, what’s that for?”
“I’m just happy, Abe.”
“Any partic’lar reason? Ya look all glowed-up, like a Christmas tree.”
She avoided the question. She wanted to tell Lance first. She had a big, big surprise for him. She bit her lip. Or she would have when she worked up the courage to tell him. In the meantime, Collingwood Boots had orders for twenty more pairs of boots, so she’d better give herself a good shake and concentrate on fulfilling their business obligations.
“Where is Lance?” she asked.
“Gone to Gillette Springs. Took Sammy’s mare to deliver four pairs of boots to Sam Northcutt at the mercantile.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Marianne. Lance won’t be back ’til tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she said again. All at once she felt like crying. She must have looked odd because Abe sent her a sharp look.
“You okay, honey-girl? Ya look like the Christmas tree done collapsed.”
For a moment she couldn’t answer. Then she sucked in a steadying breath, squared her shoulders and tried to smile. “I left some stitching undone on a pair of boots, Abe. I’ll just finish it up now.”
Ignoring his puzzled frown, she moved past him to her worktable, opened the box of awls and needles and bent to snip off a length of waxed silk thread.
But she found that no matter how hard she concentrated on making small, even stitches, she couldn’t stop smiling.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lance urged the mare to pick up the pace, but the animal seemed to have other ideas. It was too hot to insist, so he lowered his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes and resigned himself. Dust swirled over the road, and the sun was brutal. If he hadn’t had a special reason for making this trip to Gillette Springs to deliver these boots, he wouldn’t have volunteered to go.
But he did have a special reason. Gillette Springs was the county seat, and in the courthouse lay the deed to the blue house on the tree-lined street in Smoke River that he wanted to give Marianne.
It was a huge gamble. Maybe she wouldn’t like the house. Maybe he should have consulted her before stuffing four hundred dollars in his saddlebag, along with the four pairs of boots for the mercantile owner. Maybe he…oh, what the heck.
He studied the sea of yellow wildflowers in the meadow bordering the road. When he returned tomorrow he’d stop and pick a big bouquet for Marianne.
By the time he arrived in Gillette Springs it was past suppertime. The mercantile was still open, so he delivered the boots to Sam Northcutt, collected the payment, and listened with pride when he overheard Sam talking to a customer. “These here Collingwood boots are the finest boots I’ve ever sold.”
Grinning, Lance went off down the main street to the Emporium Hotel where he ordered steak—not as perfectly grilled as Marianne’s—and fried potatoes—not as crispy as Marianne’s—and finished it off with a slice of peach pie—not as sweet and flavorful as Marianne’s. Suddenly he missed her so much he wanted to saddle up Sammy’s mare and ride all night to get back to her.
He paid the bill and was halfway to the stables when he realized he had to visit the courthouse, and the courthouse wouldn’t be open until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. A rock dropped into his belly. If he wanted to buy the blue house he’d have to stay overnight as he’d planned.
Well, hell. He breathed out a long sigh. I guess nothing worthwhile ever comes for free.
In the morning he walked from the hotel up the broad steps of the imposing red brick courthouse and bought the pretty blue house in Smoke River for Marianne.
*
Late that evening Lance rode into Smoke River with a huge bouquet of yellow wildflowers clutched in his hand and the deed to the house on Maple Street safely stowed in his vest pocket. He stood quietly in the doorway of Collingwood Boots and watched his wife add up a column of figures, take a sip from the mug of coffee Abe had just set on her desk and go right back to the account books. Single-minded as always, she didn’t even look up.
His throat tightened. His Marianne wasn’t working hard just for the business she’d always wanted to own. She was doing it for Abe, and for Sammy. And for him.
I guess this is what love is really all about. Giving things to each other you can’t even measure.
A rush of joy flooded through his tired body. He couldn’t wait to tell her about the house!
*
Marianne woke with a start to find Lance standing beside the bed, offering her a cup of coffee he had obviously just brewed.
“Wake up, honey. I have a big surprise for you.”
“Oh?” She sat up and reached for the coffee. “I have a big surprise for you, too,” she said. Suddenly she felt shy and uncertain about how to tell him about the baby.
He sat down beside her and smoothed her hair. “You’ll have to get out of bed to see your surprise, Marianne. It’s…outside.”
“Outside? Where outside?”
He didn’t answer, just gave her an enigmatic smile, so she gulped down her coffee, handed him the empty cup and tossed back the quilt. “Let’s hurry!”
He laughed. “You’ll cause a sensation in town wearing that nightgown.”
“Oh!” She disappeared behind the folding screen and emerged moments later wearing a calico skirt and a matching shirtwaist. In her hair she stuck a few blooms from the bouquet he’d brought her yesterday, and pulled a red crocheted shawl about her shoulders.
“I’m ready, Lance. I want to see the surprise.”
They waved goodbye to Abe and set off toward town. When they reached Maple Street, Lance slipped her hand into his.
They ambled along the tree-lined street until she suddenly pulled him to a stop.
“Oh, Lance, look! What a pretty house! And the garden, with all those pink roses and that blue morning glory… I’ve never noticed it before.”
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just the kind of house I’d like someday.”
“Want to see inside?”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Well, yes, but surely the occupants would object?”
“It’s empty,” he said.
She studied the arbor over the front gate, then the wraparound porch with roses twining through the white-painted trellis. “It’s just beautiful, Lance. I wonder who owns it.”
He turned her toward him. “If you kiss me, I’ll tell you who owns it.”
“You mean right here in public, where everyone can see us?”
“Yeah. Right here.”
Her cheeks turned pink, but she stretched up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. “Now, tell me. There is something special about this house, and I want to know who owns it.”
He traced his forefinger down her cheek. “You own it, Marianne. That’s your surprise. The house belongs to you.”
Marianne’s head went all swirly. Oh, surely she wasn’t going to faint! She grasped his arm to steady herself. “Oh, my. For a minute I thought you said… Surely you don’t mean that I…that we…own t
his house?”
He said nothing, just stood smiling down at her.
She drew in a long, steadying breath. “Lance, w-would you like to know what your surprise is?”
“My surprise? I’d forgotten all about it. Is it as surprising as me buying a house?”
“Um, well, yes. In fact, it might be even more surprising.”
His eyebrows went up. “Yeah? What could be more surprising than owning a house?”
She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “How about filling that blue house with a family?”
“What? Oh, sure, that’d be nice someday, but—”
“Not someday, Lance. Now. We’re going to have a baby. Around March or April.”
He stared at her so long she wondered if she’d forgotten to button up her shirtwaist. “A baby?” he said in a stunned voice.
She nodded.
“Did you say March?”
Again she nodded. “Or April.”
And then right there on Maple Street, in front of everybody in Smoke River, Lance Burnside wrapped his arms around Marianne Collingwood and kissed her thoroughly for a very long time.
And on the very first day of April, on a day when the sky was so blue it brought tears to both Marianne and Lance’s eyes, Lauralee Eleanor Burnside opened her tiny mouth and made the most beautiful sound her proud mother and father had ever heard.
*
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Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Page 24