Julianne MacLean

by Prairie Bride

  A sick feeling crept into Briggs’s stomach. “He wrote to you?”

  “Yes,” Martha answered for Sarah. “He wants her to come back, but we shouldn’t be surprised. Who wouldn’t want her back?”

  Briggs barely heard what Martha was saying. All he could do was stare at Sarah, whose gaze was shifting about.

  “Thank you for delivering the letter,” he said to Martha, never taking his eyes off his wife.

  “My pleasure.” Martha stood with them for a moment, but when nothing was said, she smiled awkwardly and walked back to her husband.

  Without looking Briggs in the eye, Sarah turned toward the house. “Coffee’s on if you all want to come inside.”

  “Where do you want the horses?” Frank asked. “In the stalls or the pen?”

  Briggs had to search his mind for an answer. “In the stalls, I guess.” The boy began leading them one at a time into the barn. When Briggs turned around, Sarah was going into the house. He wanted to trust her about who had written the letter, but at the same time he wanted to take a look at it for himself.

  Martha hurried in behind Sarah. He would have to wait.

  He hated himself for assuming that Sarah was keeping something from him, but how could he help it? She’d been so vague about her past, and even now she seemed nervous about something. He hoped the letter wasn’t from who he thought, and he hoped this wasn’t the beginning of the end.

  With her heart racing like a runaway wagon, Sarah pulled open the door to the dugout and hurried down the steps. She fixed her gaze on the letter on the table. Was the stove still burning?

  Just before she could reach for the envelope, the door squeaked open. Sarah whirled around, expecting to see Briggs, but it was Martha with Mollie in her arms. “Shall we set the table?” Martha asked.

  Sarah tried to breathe normally. “Yes. I was just going to do that.”

  Martha set Mollie down. “Why don’t you play with your doll? I have to help Mrs. Brigman.”

  Sarah glanced at the letter. She had to hide it.

  With the pretext of clearing away the flowers, she picked up the cup, set it on the windowsill, and stuffed the letter into her pocket. First chance she got, she would toss it into the stove.

  Briggs and Frank swung the barn door closed. They walked together to the little dugout, Shadow at their heels. Once inside, Briggs paused on the bottom step, inhaling the delectable scent of freshly baked bread mixed with coffee and spices.

  Sarah stood at the stove stirring the supper in the cast-iron pot and humming quietly. He stared at the back of her head with its loose bun of raven-colored hair, and noticed his palms had become clammy. What if her lover had asked her to come back? How would she feel about that?

  He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away to see Howard lighting his pipe in the far corner. Mollie was sitting on the floor playing with a ragged old doll. It was the scene of his dreams—a house full of loved ones.

  Briggs took the last step down and tried not to think about the letter and what it might mean. It might not even be what he thought. Maybe the letter was as she said—from her employer.

  “Smells good,” he said, removing his hat and setting it on the nail keg by the door. “What is it?”

  “Rabbit stew,” Martha replied. “Howard caught it special for tonight.”

  “Much obliged, Howard.”

  Howard held his pipe in one hand, looping the other hand through a suspender. “Well, that fool rabbit leaped right in front of my wagon on the way back from town. Stopped and stared at me like he wanted to treat me to dinner.”

  Everyone laughed. “Howard has always been rather lucky that way,” Martha said to Sarah. “Animals seem to fall over themselves trying to get in line to be his next meal.”

  Sarah laughed, but Briggs noticed that the usual sparkle in her eye was missing.

  Frank proceeded to tell every last yarn about his pa’s good fortune with a rifle while the ladies served up the meal. They all ate the delicious stew, laughing and going on about Briggs’s comparatively poor luck when it came to hunting.

  After supper, the ladies cleaned the kitchen, while Howard, Briggs and Frank sat outside watching the sun streak the sky with pinks and purples. They listened to the clanging of dishes inside while talking about their plowing, and when the sky finally grew dark, they started a small fire in the center of the yard to warm their hands against the evening chill.

  “What’s this?” Martha asked, appearing unexpectedly behind them. “We clean the dugout until it sparkles, and you want to sit out here with the snakes?”

  Howard reached for his wife’s skirt and pulled her onto his lap. “I picked out a star for you, my dear. We’ve been waiting for you to come out so we could show you.”

  “No, we haven’t!” Frank piped up. “We were talking about butchering the pig!”

  They all broke into fits of laughter, except for Frank who didn’t see anything funny about it. The hysterics were just dying down when Sarah came out of the house holding Mollie’s hand. When she reached their little gathering, Briggs stood and offered his chair to her. She nodded politely and sat down, lifting Mollie onto her lap. Briggs sat on the ground beside her.

  “How ’bout some music?” Howard asked.

  Frank sat up on his heels. “Yeah, Pa! Play something good!”

  Martha rose from her husband’s lap to let him stand, then took the chair for herself. “He’s been itching to play that thing ever since we got here.”

  Frank fetched the fiddle from the case, handed it to his father who cupped it under his chin. “Any requests?”

  “Play ‘Buffalo Gals’!” Frank hollered.

  “‘Buffalo Gals’ it is.” He touched the bow to the strings and filled the night with music. The children leaped to their feet to dance, hooking arms and skipping in circles.

  Briggs laughed as he watched their faces light up like a hundred candles burning at once. He glanced up at Sarah. He wanted to be alone with her. How could he enjoy all this when he needed to ease his mind?

  “Play ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’!” Frank suggested, when the first tune came to an end. Howard quickly drew bow to strings again and started up anew. Mollie giggled and leaped onto Briggs’s lap, and he promptly squeezed her in a bear hug, growling at the same time.

  Frank reached for Sarah’s hand. “Come dance with me, Mrs. Brigman!”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her out of her chair and looped his arm through hers. Briggs watched his wife skip around in circles with young Frank, her face alight with joy, her skirts flapping as her feet came off the ground. Despite everything, how could Briggs help but smile, too?

  When the song finally ended, Sarah flopped into her chair, panting and laughing at the same time. “That was wonderful!” she said to Frank, who stood in front of her, still holding her hand, waiting for the next song to begin.

  “Come and sit with me, Frank,” Martha said. “Give Mrs. Brigman a chance to catch her breath.” Frank went obediently to his mother and climbed onto her knee.

  “How ’bout I play something for the newlyweds?” Howard suggested, rubbing his chin.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Sarah said, but her protest went unheard. Howard played “Lorena,” a haunting ballad, and Martha began to sing, her voice as deep and rich as the dark sky above. The sounds floated upward with the crackling sparks from the fire.

  Briggs whispered into Mollie’s ear and gently set her onto the ground.

  He stood and held his hand out to his wife. She looked up at him, hesitated briefly, then let him guide her to her feet. Briggs led her away from the fire, placed his hand on her waist, and stepped into a fluid waltz. The night closed around them, drowning out the fears locked in his heart, while only the sad sound of the fiddle and Martha’s voice remained. Briggs squeezed Sarah’s hand gently while he led her through the dance, admiring her lightness as she followed without falter.

  When the last note floated up to the stars, Briggs r
eluctantly stepped back. He still held Sarah’s hand, however, and they stood facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “Play something good now, Pa!” Frank called out.

  Briggs let go of Sarah’s hand. She lowered her gaze to the ground and sat down.

  Within seconds, lively fiddle music struck a new mood and the children leaped up to dance. Briggs, all too aware of the melancholy place he’d just been, sought to yank himself out of it by pulling Martha out of her chair. Sarah clapped her hands while the rest of them danced around the fire.

  They laughed and hooted, but for the remainder of the evening, Briggs never quite recovered from the affection he’d felt while dancing with his wife.

  When midnight came, Mollie fell asleep in Martha’s arms. “It’s time to go,” she whispered to Howard, touching his hand, preventing him from lowering the fiddle bow for another song.

  Howard rubbed his chin. “I suppose you’re right. My arm’s about to fall off.”

  Everyone giggled. “Thank you so much for calling on us,” Sarah said, rising. “I can’t remember ever having so much fun. We must do it again soon.”

  “We will.” They exchanged hugs and goodbyes. After loading their family and belongings into the wagon, the Whitikers left Sarah and Briggs standing side by side outside their door, waving as their neighbors drove off into the night.

  Soon all was quiet. Briggs was finally alone with his wife.

  “Shall we go in?” he suggested, letting his hand rest on the small of her back.

  She glanced up at him, all smiles gone. “You go ahead. I’ll put out the fire.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t be silly. You worked hard today. I’ll make sure it’s out completely.” She reached forward and brushed his hair away from his forehead.

  They stared into each other’s eyes in the dark until Sarah swept her lashes downward, then she walked toward the roaring bonfire. Briggs watched her go. He had the most uneasy feeling, but wanted more than anything to trust his wife.

  After hesitating for a moment, he turned and went inside.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sarah sat down in front of the bonfire and felt inside her pocket. The letter was still there, and she reconsidered what she was about to do. If she burned it, wouldn’t Briggs wonder why? Paper was a valuable commodity on the prairie, and for her to be so wasteful…

  Oh, if only Martha hadn’t mentioned it!

  She sat in the chair, staring at the yellow flames, wondering if it would be better to simply tell Briggs the letter was from Garrison. Then she could rip it up in front of him to prove she didn’t want to go back.

  But what if he asked to read it? I know you love me. You said so in your vows.

  Dear Lord, she would have to confess everything.

  She looked at the house with growing dread. She hated keeping all these secrets from Briggs, but she couldn’t put him in danger, either.

  Besides that, what would it do to him if he knew? Their relationship had come a long way in the past little while, but not far enough to handle anything like this. He would be angry and probably devastated. She couldn’t bear to think of it.

  Oh, if only they had been married longer. Surely, in time, when their rocky beginning was a distant memory, Briggs would be more forgiving. She would tell him one day, when Garrison was no longer a threat. By then, the marriage would grow stronger and it would be able to bear the weight of this news.

  But not now. Not until Garrison was in jail.

  Sarah looked up at the black sky and made up her mind. She would burn the letter. Now. If Briggs asked to see it, she would tell him she used it to light the stove and foolishly hadn’t considered keeping the paper for future use.

  Sitting at the table and fiddling with a spoon, Briggs didn’t like what he was thinking. He just couldn’t stop being suspicious, could he? Why had Sarah been so bent on putting out that fire, and why had he let her do it alone?

  Growing more and more impatient, he went to the dark window and cupped his hands to the cool, clean pane. Sarah was sitting in one of the chairs, staring up at the sky.

  It shamed him not to trust her, but he had to know what she was doing. He crossed the room, climbed the steps and pushed open the door. Its creaky hinges drew Sarah’s attention. The fire illuminated her face, and he saw a flash of panic. She quickly dropped what must have been the letter into the fire. It sparked and crackled, then disappeared.

  Sarah stared at Briggs from across the yard. Seconds passed. They felt like hours. All she could do was wait for the other shoe to drop.

  He walked toward her, his face tense with anger. Or was it disappointment?

  “What did you burn? The letter Martha brought?”

  Sarah nodded, her heart sinking.

  “It wasn’t from your employer. Was it?”

  “No.”

  She saw his jaw clench. “Why did you burn it? Weren’t you going to tell me who it was from?”

  “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “Should I be? You didn’t encourage him to write, did you?”

  “No.”

  He glanced at the fire, still crackling loudly, the flames quivering in the wind. “What did it say?”

  “It said he wanted me back. That’s why I burned it.”

  Briggs glared uncertainly at her.

  “I was going to tell you….”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  She stood and moved toward him, but he stepped back. She halted, then took a deep breath and breached the space he’d tried to keep as his own. “I had to wait for Howard and Martha to leave before I could talk about it.”

  He considered her answer, then kicked dirt over the fire and smothered it. “You say he wants you back. Doesn’t he care that you’re another man’s wife?”

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders, panicking, not sure how to answer that.

  Briggs’s expression hardened. “Does he even know you’re married?”

  The truth was, Garrison did not know, but Sarah was afraid to say anything more.

  Briggs grabbed hold of her arms and squeezed. “Does he?”

  Fear was rioting within her. Briggs had never been rough with her, not even on their wedding night, but she’d seen enough in her recent life to know where a man’s anger could lead. She frantically shook her head.

  “Why not? You just ran off without an explanation?”

  “I didn’t see any need to give one.”

  Briggs let go of her and turned away. He kicked more dirt onto the dying fire. “Well, I hope if you decide to vacate our arrangement, you’ll at least tell me when you’re leaving.”

  “I won’t be leaving you, Briggs.”

  “You haven’t given me much reason to believe you.”

  Briggs turned away from her and walked toward the house. Desperate to make things right, Sarah picked up her skirt and followed. Once inside, Briggs sat down at the table and cupped his forehead in his hand. The little house was silent.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  “The question is, what are you going to do?”

  “I hardly think the choice should be mine.”

  “Why not? You’re the one with the lover back in Boston. If you want to go to him, I’ll survive. I only wanted help around here. I can find someone else.”

  Sarah felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “You have to believe me. I was going to tell you about the letter eventually. I hadn’t meant for you to find out like this.”

  “I’ll never know for sure, will I?”

  Sarah knelt before his chair. “Please, Briggs, you have to believe me. I don’t want to go back to him. I know it’s hard for you to believe, after what happened with…” She stopped herself.

  “After what happened with what?” he asked, his tone accusing.

  “After what happened with Isabelle.”

  Briggs sat staring at her as if she had slapped him.

 
“Just because she left doesn’t mean I’m going to leave, too.”

  “Who told you about that? Martha?”

  Sarah nodded. “She had to tell me. I needed to know why you were so angry with me.”

  “I thought you knew why. Because you married me while you already had a man in Boston. Did you tell her that? Did you tell her how you’d kept that from me?”

  “No.”

  Briggs pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  Sarah sat back on her heels, feeling suddenly defensive. “I’m not the only one keeping secrets, Briggs.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the trinket under our bed.”

  “What trinket?”

  She could tell by his eyes that he knew exactly what she was referring to. “I found the necklace you said you sold.”

  The color drained from his face. He glanced at the bed, as if he were trying to imagine her moving it aside to look through his private things. “When?”

  “Today.”

  “Sarah, that necklace doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Then why did you lie to Martha about selling it?”

  It seemed as if he didn’t have an answer.

  “The worst part of it all,” Sarah continued, “is that you were going to let me sell my mother’s pearls to get us through the winter while you didn’t even mention you had something worth even more. You were going to find work somewhere else and leave me here alone. Why?”

  He reached out and touched her hand. “I wasn’t going to let you sell those pearls.” He was silent for a long moment. “I didn’t know you knew about Isabelle.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Sarah, I was going to marry her. I never took the way I felt about her lightly. That’s why I couldn’t sell the necklace right away. Then you came, and things got busy, and…” He looked at her, his eyes accusing. “Maybe you could stop loving someone on a whim, but I couldn’t. My heart doesn’t work like yours.”