by Jodi Thomas
“Are we alive?” she whispered, feeling relief rush through each cell of her body. Alive. Both of them. Together.
She noticed for the first time the long scar that ran along his cheek in front of his ear. Without thinking, she touched it, gently tracing the line of it down to his jaw. He mirrored her action, cradling her jaw in his palm. They searched each other’s eyes, both knowing that the moment was precious, that life was precious. In that gaze, she met him as an equal, not hesitant or afraid, but daring as she had never been.
Unwilling to let the moment pass, she leaned toward him, stopping only when she could feel the warmth of his lips close, but not touching. She searched his eyes, but he only watched her, letting her choose. Refusing to wait or wonder, she closed the distance, pressing her lips against his.
It was pure reaction—they both knew it—to the fear and the excitement, joined with a joy of still being alive and, on her part, a spinster-wish to be more than she was. The kiss was perfect, sweet, and tender, then growing in intensity each time their lips pressed together.
When the kiss ended, her hand found his, neither of them willing to let the moment go. He sat up, surveying the area next to them, then rose, helping her out of the ditch and onto the road. The tornado had brought hail and wind, but little rain.
“It’s cold,” she said without thinking, as her breath misted white.
He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her body into his side.
They stood together, surveying the damage. Tree branches lay all around them, along with other debris, papers from a lawyer’s office from a town some forty miles away, and a man’s hat. But, other than a thick stick thrust through the carriage wall, the carriage itself, tucked against the hill, appeared relatively unscathed. None of the boxes or trunks appeared to be missing, a testament to Asher’s extra care at tying them down.
“We were lucky,” he said, nodding her attention to the distance where the damage was far more severe. There, trees lay toppled from their roots. Those still standing were entirely stripped of their remaining leaves. In the gaps where the trees used to be, the sky appeared a cold gray-blue.
“A twister’s unpredictable. If you’re right in its path, you’ll be singing in St. Peter’s choir unless you can get underground. But if you’re out of its path—even by a hundred yards—it’s as good as living in the next county.” He paused, removing a leaf from her hair. The storm seemed to have made him garrulous.
Her hand still gripped his tight. She relaxed it, thinking Asher would release hers as well. But he didn’t. Instead he turned to face her, his gaze meeting hers.
“That was a mighty fine kiss.”
“I . . .” Suddenly shy, she forced herself not to look away. She struggled for words. “I don’t typically kiss—I mean I’ve never kissed—I mean, not a man I’ve just met. I understand we’re stranded, but . . .”
“I wouldn’t call us stranded.” He continued to study her face, his eyes smiling, even though his mouth hadn’t yet figured out how.
His mouth, his lips, continued to invite her, and she felt herself rise on her toes. He pulled her into another kiss. This one spurred not by fear, or relief, but by pure desire. She kissed him in return, allowing herself another taste of him, his lips so sweet, and his embrace so thrilling. Her insides warmed to his touch, and she let herself ignore all the reasons why she shouldn’t kiss him again.
But soon her internal monitor won over her fledgling desire. When she pulled back, he let her go.
“You could have hobbled the horses,” she said, still somewhat dazed by their kisses.
“They deserved a fair chance of surviving. If we’re lucky, they won’t have gone far.” He whistled once, twice, three times.
Eugenie half expected the horses to come galloping back over the rise, responding to his call as easily as she had to his kisses. But nothing happened.
She followed him to the coach. There, Asher pulled a box from under the seat, dislodging her book, which had been tucked safely on top of it. The book fell to the ground, narrowly missing a puddle. Grateful it hadn’t been swept away with their quilt, she picked it up, cleaning its cover with her skirt, then clasping it to her chest.
Asher, watching, shook his head as if she were a strange creature. Then, opening his box, he loaded a revolver and shot into the air three times in quick succession.
“Why did you do that?” The cold bit through her clothes, and she tightened her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Well, we have to decide whether to walk or to wait.” He opened the carriage door, his hand inviting her to enter. “But we should eat first, and there’s no need to shiver out here when we have more blankets inside.”
“Wait for what?” She stepped to the open carriage door, but she was too short to pull herself in neatly. Before she could ask for the stairs, Asher’s strong hands encircled her waist, lifting her up. She slid across the seat, as he climbed in behind her.
“Horses.” He pulled the door shut, then rolled up the carriage windows near him. She followed his lead with those on her side.
“I’ve never known a man to train his horses to return to gunshots. Isn’t that dangerous?” She wanted to nestle close to him, to feel his warmth, but she kept her distance. Before she could consider kissing him again, she needed to know more of his character and opinions.
“I suppose we’ll find out.” He held out a heavy blanket. “This should warm you up. Surviving a storm usually leaves me plumb tuckered out.”
“Tuckered?” She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
“Tired, exhausted, depleted.” Asher stretched a second blanket out over their legs, his hand brushing her knee. “Fatigued, wearied, worn.”
The excitement over, she felt exhaustion envelop her with each word.
“You sound like Roget’s Thesaurus.” Shaking off the spell of his voice, she unlaced her boots, then curled her feet up under her.
“We had a copy when I was young. My brothers and I made a game of it, picking a word, then seeing who could remember the most synonyms.” Asher’s face shuttered. Silently he removed his gloves, then held his hand out for hers. She caught a glimpse of shiny, puckered skin on the backs of his hands. Old burns, and bad ones.
As he laid out their gloves carefully on the seat before them, she searched for some topic that could bring him back from his memories. “A thesaurus,” she repeated. “And to think my mother wrote that you were a man of few words.”
His barked laugh surprised and delighted her.
“Depends.” He gave her a sly wink, warming the inside of her chest. “I have plenty to say to the right person.”
Eugenie felt suddenly happy in his presence. Her mother—indiscreet on many topics—was tight-lipped where money was concerned, so Asher likely knew nothing about her inheritance.
“Besides, your mother’s got enough words of her own.” Asher lifted a basket from beneath the forward seat. “She doesn’t need anyone else’s, much less mine.”
Eugenie laughed out loud. “Most people find conversation with my mother delightful.”
“It can be. But it’s rarely a conversation. Mostly your mother likes to have an audience.” His fingers brushing hers, Asher handed Eugenie a packet of cotton tea towels all folded together.
“My uncle Ian says Lilly is happiest when she’s holding court. All she needs is a few adoring admirers and someone to torment.”
“Torment.” He laughed, a full, deep laugh, and she liked the sound of it. “That’s the perfect way to put it.”
“Does she torment you?” Eugenie leaned forward, breathing in the enticing smells of Mrs. Jones’s cookery.
“No, Lilly leaves me be. But she likes to torment my business partner.” From the basket, Asher lifted out fat heavy-paper packets filled with various foodstuffs.
“Did he not pay her adequate court in the beginning?” Eugenie unfolded the cotton tea towels, keeping one and handing the other to Asher. “She does expec
t a certain amount of deference.”
“Rafe finds your mother a curiosity.” Opening the packets, Asher revealed slices of salt pork and venison roast, biscuits, butter, jam, and several thick slices of yellow pound cake.
“Lilly would hate that.”
“Oh, she does, but Rafe makes the most of it.” From the bottom of the basket, he removed several glass jars, their lids sealed with wax, and a single apple.
“What’s a plum got to do with exhaustion?” Eugenie picked up the apple, wondering what Asher would think if she made a joke about Eve tempting Adam in the Garden of Eden.
“A plum?” Asher looked at the apple, confused.
“You said plum tuckered out.” Eugenie set the apple on the seat. What was it about this man that made her wish to be daring? Perhaps she’d make the joke another time.
“Ah,” he said, almost grinning. “Plumb is an adverb, not a fruit.” He buttered a biscuit, then stuffed it with pork. “Plumb answers the question ‘How?’ as in ‘How tuckered out are you?’ ” Eugenie watched his hands, their movements surprisingly elegant.
“An adverb?” She inspected one of the jars filled with liquid. Seeing tea leaves resting at the bottom, she broke the seal and drank deeply. “A thesaurus and a grammar book. Were those odd books for a boy on the frontier?”
“My father only allowed useful books in the house: the Bible, the Farmer’s Almanac, and a set of Carey and Lea’s Encyclopedia Americana he won in a poker game.” With his toe, he tapped a box sitting underneath the seat in front of them. “Perhaps that’s why I collect books for Mrs. Cockrell’s circulating library when I travel.”
“Mrs. Cockrell?” Eugenie, suddenly wary, studied his face for signs of affection but saw nothing in particular.
“She owns the St. Nicholas Hotel where your mother lodges.” He placed the sandwich on one of the large linen tea towels and held both out to her. “She’s our most famous citizen, owning the saw mill, the grist mill, and both the ferry and the bridge across the Trinity River.”
“Would she mind if I read her books while we travel?” Eugenie accepted the sandwich, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand. The spark of energy was still there.
“I can’t see why anybody’d mind.” He leaned forward, filling another biscuit for them both.
The sound of thunder rolled across the sky, and Eugenie flinched.
“There’s often a storm after a twister.” Asher wiped the frost from the window to look out, then nodded to the magazines. “Why don’t you find us some game to play while we wait? It’ll take your mind off the storm.”
“Not another tornado?” Eugenie wrapped her arms around her belly, as the rain pounded on the carriage roof.
“Not likely at this point, but I’ll watch.” Asher held out another biscuit, but Eugenie, suddenly no longer hungry, refused.
The thunder rolled closer, lightning flashing just a few seconds behind.
Eugenie’s stomach twisted. She was uneasy but unwilling to show it, so she affected a light tone. “Tell me one book that has shaped how you view the world.”
Asher studied her face, as if he’d never seen a creature like her. She added quickly, “We can discuss the weather and hide in ditches only so often before it fades as a form of entertainment.”
“You are an odd woman.” Asher shook his head.
Eugenie’s heart deflated a bit. Jeremy had said as much oh-so-publicly at the Moreton ball when he’d broken their engagement. But, as Judith had taught her, she raised her chin and met Asher’s criticism. “You are not the first to say it.”
“Ah, but I might be the first to mean it as a compliment.” His eyes never left her. “Few women—even those born here—would have weathered a tornado with as much sangfroid as you.”
“I’m not sure which word in that sentence amuses me most,” Eugenie quipped. “Weathered for an experience with weather or sangfroid from a Texas Ranger.”
“We aren’t all rogues and rustlers. Some of us have even read a book, once or twice, if the print’s not too small and there are enough pictures to justify the time.” He was teasing her. She could tell now, and it pleased her. Teasing suggested he had a regard for her “odd” mind.
“Then tell me what book you have found most significant?” Her heart felt lighter. “One with big enough print and plenty of illustrations to justify the reading, of course.”
“If I agree, you must do the same in return. And neither of us may make fun of the other for their choice.”
Eugenie nodded, wondering who had “made fun of” him in the past for his reading.
“Then I’ll be honest with you. Until about five years ago, I would have said John Milton’s Paradise Lost. But then a friend gave me a copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and it has proved a book I can’t forget.”
“That’s an odd pairing. Why Paradise Lost?” She leaned forward, intrigued. Perhaps he would prove more like Garrand Kent, after all. Someone she could trust with her ideas and hopes and dreams.
“It’s all about ambition and authority, free will and human love. Satan wants to rule, even if the only place he can rule is hell. God gives Adam and Eve free will, even if it’s the free will to make the wrong choice. But, in the end, Adam chooses the love and companionship of Eve over living in paradise. The two leave Eden hand in hand—‘the world all before them’—to make their way in the wilderness together.”
A flash of lightning drew her attention to the window.
“ ‘To lose thee were to lose myself . . . Thou to me are all things under heaven, all places thou,’” Asher recited in almost a whisper, but with such great feeling that Eugenie felt the sentiment resonate deep in the center of her chest. Sadly, when she looked to him, he was looking out the window, not at her.
“And Stowe?” She shifted the conversation, hoping to hide that she’d thought he was speaking to her, not quoting Adam’s speech to Eve.
“Though Stowe examines slavery, at the heart of her book, she addresses the same issues as Milton. Some settlers believe themselves to be new Adams in a new Eden, with authority to rule the land and the peoples already in it, and the ambition to match.” He looked away from the window directly at her. “They build their prosperity on the backs of the many. And our only hope of redemption is in loving our neighbors.”
“Stowe says that?” She studied his face, so honest, so open.
“In a way.”
When she’d asked what book mattered to him, she’d meant it to be a game, a diversion from the weather. But his answers revealed the soul of a just man. And if that were the case, she owed him a glimpse into her own.
She’d intended to choose an unobjectionable book, something a bit witty, a bit wise, the sort of book one could have as a favorite, without revealing too much of herself or her heart. As a spinster, she’d gained the privilege of telling the truth. But too often the price of her honesty was loneliness. She hadn’t had a friend outside of family or servants in a long time.
What could be the disadvantage of being honest to Asher? He seemed to have the makings of a friend, but if she were mistaken in his character, it would be only the loss of a brief acquaintance, not long lamented. If he disliked her choice of book or her reasons, their journey might be uncomfortable, despite their promises. But the journey would end, and they would part, and soon after she’d leave Texas forever. That allowed her a certain freedom. She decided for truth, perhaps even for a little challenge.
“Since you altered the game to choose two books, I’d like to choose an author rather than a single work.”
“It’s our game.” He winked. “We make the rules. We change them.”
“Then I choose the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her works praise women who choose their own paths, even when those paths lead outside of the roles society has established for them. Yet she doesn’t exclude the possibility of love, believing it to result not from choice or habit, but from a mystical connection of souls.”
He
said nothing, merely studying her face, his own unreadable. Suddenly uncomfortable, she hurried on, “By that I mean—Browning means—that our souls are winged, and two humans fall in love when the tips of their souls’ wings touch. ”
“Ah, yes: ‘How do I love thee, let me count the ways.’”
He quoted the first line of Browning’s Sonnet 43. But instead of being pleased, she felt disappointed. It was the one line everyone knew and quoted, even those who had never read a line of Browning. If Asher thought—like them—that the line was a bit of poetic fluff and romantic gibberish, how could she explain what Browning meant to her? She looked away, watching the rain. When she looked back at him, he was still watching her with those deep green eyes that caught her breath.
After a moment’s pause, he spoke, “ ‘I love you to the depth and breadth and height that my soul can reach when feeling out of sight . . . for the ends of being and ideal grace.’” It was the next sentence of the poem.
Her surprise mingled with a sort of joy. She hesitantly, cautiously, quoted the next line: “ ‘I love thee to the level of every day’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.’ ” She studied his face for a reaction.
“ ‘I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.’ ” His eyes never left hers.
“ ‘I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.’” She paused, and the coach grew quiet.
Neither finished the poem. The intensity of his gaze caught her breath. In that silent moment, feeling the beat of her heart quicken, and the arc of attraction pulse between them, she could believe that the wing-tips of their souls touched.
He reached out and brushed a fallen curl behind her ear.
After a few moments, she found her voice again.
“I first read Barrett Browning for her love poems. But her political works changed the way I saw the world: her opposition to child labor in ‘Cry of the Children,’ to the repression in the corn laws in ‘Cry of the Human,’ and to slavery in the ‘Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point.’ She encouraged me to act against injustice, though I must admit my first efforts weren’t quite successful.”