A Bride for Keeps (9 page)

Julia tossed her biscuit toward a bunch of robins and swiped at the crumbs on her
skirts. “No.”

Rachel reached over and squeezed her hand, stopping her attack on the biscuit particles.
Scooting over, she hugged her from the side. “I know Everett. You’ll be just fine.
I’d never have matched any woman with a man unless I would have happily released my
own daughter into his care.”

Julia watched him in animated conversation with a short, stocky man. His flash of
a smile was so charming. So like Theodore’s. She groaned. “I shouldn’t have married
him.”

Rachel squeezed her tighter. “Even people madly in love get a little frightened at
the lifelong commitment.”

Without a care for propriety, Julia unbuttoned the collar bent on strangling her neck.

After clearing her throat, Rachel grabbed her hand. “I have to apologize.” Rachel
squirmed. “I never should have meddled in Everett’s affairs.” She turned and smiled.
“But I so badly wanted you to come. I’m glad I interfered this last time for selfish
reasons. I’m sure you two will find your way.”

Rachel pulled a package from her basket. “A wedding present.”

“This last time”
? Julia took the slim package. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did.”

Julia tore off the white wrapping paper and exposed an embroidered housewife, stocked
with needles and thread. “Ugh. Sewing.”

Rachel laughed. “Like marriage, you’ll get better at it as you go along. I’ll come
over and help you finish your dress. And I’ll teach you the rest of what I know, but
my guess is you’ll be plenty occupied with mending. A bachelor’s wardrobe is hardly
ever in good condition.”

She took in a deep breath. Mending Everett’s clothes. So many things she hadn’t even
thought of, though they should have been obvious.

Like her name being Mrs. Julia Cline.

She glanced across the yard to see Everett watching her. His eyes looked sad. He bit
his lip and turned his attention back to the men patting him on the back and laughing.

If he didn’t hurt her, she’d most likely hurt him.

Everett pulled into his homestead, his wife at his side. A strange, unsettling thought—his
wife. He’d wanted one for years, and now that he had one, it felt odd.

Her eyes had avoided his after the service, and Julia had looked so pale when he’d
helped her onto the wagon that he’d decided to let her talk first. But she never had.
He stopped the oxen in front of his shack, and before he could say a thing, she started
climbing off the wagon. He clambered around to her side before she hit the ground.
His hands betrayed him by trembling at her tiny waist, as if he were a boy caught
stealing from a store’s penny candy jar.

Though her feet touched the ground, he couldn’t make his hands let go. It was no sin
to have his hands wrapped around her. She kept her eyes level with his chest, and
he was glad she wasn’t tall enough to look straight into his. She wouldn’t like what
she saw there. The boning under her shirtwaist felt strange and somehow totally absorbing.
His arms struggled, then finally succeeded, to let go.

She peeked up from under her bonnet, a stain of red clouding her cheeks. “I’ll go
inside.”

He swallowed and moved to pull her trunks from the wagon, his hands tingling with
the sensation of the shape of her waist impressed upon his palms.

She disappeared through the front door, which still hung loose on its broken leather
hinge. Why hadn’t he fixed that? Looking over the rest of the cabin, his shoulders
slumped. How unworthy of her. But after the locust plague of ’74, it had taken longer
than he’d hoped to afford the lumber for a new house.

Not that this shack wasn’t one of the better ones around these parts. At least it
wasn’t a soddy, dripping mud every rainstorm. His other brides had come from poor
backgrounds, and he’d expected they’d be content with a glass window and a cookstove
for a while.

Hefting her largest trunk, he followed Julia inside. She’d seen his tiny house before
agreeing to marry him, and he couldn’t do anything about it now. He set her luggage
on the table and quickly brought in the other two, then swiped the road dust off the
trunk’s tops. “I’m afraid we don’t have room to store all three of these in here.
You’ll need to choose what you want to keep in one trunk. I’ll store the other two
in the barn.” How different this must be for a city woman. Would throwing her beautiful
dresses out with the animals be enough to send her fleeing?

“All right.” Her hands clenched tightly in front of her as she stared at the bed,
the single bed.

So sure the marriage wouldn’t happen, he hadn’t even prepared for her arrival. How
would he handle tonight? How would she?

He should have done this whole marriage thing conventionally.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got animals to feed, and well . . . plenty
of work to be done.” He slapped his hat onto his head. “Like always.” He headed for
the barn, but turned his head before stepping outside. “I’m, uh, grateful for you
coming and helping me. Thank you.”

She nodded and then sat on the bed, hugging herself. He closed his eyes. She needed
someone to reassure her everything was all right. But somehow, he was certain it couldn’t
be him. He’d give her time alone. God knew he needed some.

In the barn he shed his jacket and went to work. The novelty of her beauty would wear
off, and soon his natural desires would subside. But how long would it take? Could
he keep himself busy enough that he wouldn’t be thinking of her every hour? Thinking
how she was only steps away, but far out of his reach? He chucked a forkful of hay
and drove the tines into the compacted dirt floor.

The vision of her large eyes in a china-white face as they stood before the preacher
floated before him. Why did she have to be so attractive? The memory of her lips quivering
after he’d kissed them floated before him. Why did she have to taste so good?

Why oh why had he agreed not to touch her?

After he disappeared from sight, Julia relaxed and surveyed the room. An errant curl
dropped into her line of sight. Her hair must look awful. She rummaged for her mirror
packed at the bottom of her trunk, but stopped halfway through the pile and smiled
her first real smile of the day. Pulling her hat off, she yanked out all her hairpins.
A simple hairdo would suffice on a farm. No need for perfection and style or worrying
about how she looked. She fashioned her hair into a simple bun and took another look
in the mirror. Would
Everett mind? Even if he did, being less attractive would be a good thing right now.

She changed out of her fancy dress, found her cap, and placed it over the bun. Tying
the strings under her chin, she fingered her jam-packed trunk and wondered where she
could put the contents of the other two. No wardrobe. No shelving. No other rooms.
Where did Everett keep his clothing?

The interior of the cabin was serviceable, but not homey. Cookstove, washstand, bedstead,
table, two chairs, and two sawed stumps for extra seating. A small cupboard above
the stove provided the only shelving in the room. Could she get used to this unsightly
house? She shrugged. Better than the Stantons’ barn.

She looked in the last possible spot—below the bed, a strange contraption of boards
wedged high in the wall with one stout post anchoring the corner. Two dusty trunks
and a pile of linens were crammed underneath. She dragged the linens out, some folded,
most threadbare.

The smaller trunk was the easiest to grab first. She unlatched the top and leaned
it against the bed frame. A bit of unease filled her while rummaging through his things,
but this was her home now. She’d be expected to take care of his stuff.

Mostly Everett’s clothes, crammed in haphazardly, many in need of mending. Matches,
soap, and a few other sundries sat along the side.

She shoved the first trunk back and tugged out the larger one.

A sneeze tore through her as she wiped the dust off the top. After wiping the grime
off the brass plate with her apron, the faint etching of the initials AGG appeared.
Whose trunk was this? His mother’s perhaps? She unlatched the case. On top of the
contents lay a white linen tablecloth with grapevines embroidered on the edges.

She stood and spread the fine cloth over the table. This dreary cabin could use all
the help it could get. Smoothing it with her hand, she scowled. “Needs ironing.”

She returned to her knees to see what else might be of use. A large flowered piece
of fabric turned out to be a woman’s ruffled nightgown.

Odd.

A chemise, bonnet, drawers . . .

Why did Everett have a woman’s unmentionables stuffed away under his bed?

Two work dresses, a coat—a whole store of women’s effects. At the bottom lay a beautiful
quilt of white, pale blue, and orange. It looked and felt new.

Sitting on the bed, she ran a finger over the beautiful even stitching on the blanket’s
wedding ring pattern. Bending over, she dropped the lid of the trunk back down. AGG.
There would be no reason for him to have saved his mother’s clothing down to her stockings.

At the picnic, Rachel had mentioned she’d messed with his affairs one last time. What
did that mean? Had he lost a wife? Yet most of the items looked new. Julia had only
worried about hiding her past, but what was his? So focused on feeling certain she
could trust him to act according to her wishes, she hadn’t asked him anything about
himself. The pain and sadness in his eyes at the church picnic—had that not been directed
toward her, but toward this AGG woman? Maybe that’s why he said nothing on the way
home. He was so still, she hadn’t wanted to disturb him.

Julia wasn’t sure she wanted to know who these things belonged to, wasn’t sure she
should pry—might lead him to ask his own questions. Would he compare her to this woman
from his past? Of course he would. Her fingers fiddled with
the jewelry at her throat. She’d never measure up to a woman who had become his wife
in every sense of the word.

Maybe she could get him to talk without saying a thing. Having the quilt spread over
his bed and the tablecloth on the table would give him the chance to explain when
he saw them. Would it embarrass, irritate, or grieve him to have these things lying
about?

Not wanting to see the feminine garments any longer, she repacked the clothing and
shoved the trunk under the overhang of the quilt. Her largest trunk would have to
remain at the end of the bed.

Her mind and body itched for something to do besides think. She gathered cleaning
materials and started scrubbing. She finished scouring the floor, washing the windows,
and beating the tick before her stomach told her it was time for dinner. After a simple
meal of leftover chicken and bread was prepared, she called out to Everett, but he
didn’t come, nor was he in the yard or barn. She should have asked him what hours
he kept before he left.

An hour later, she threw the scraps into the chicken yard. The moon blazed white in
a sea of purple and pink, yet Everett had yet to return.

Would he bed down in the barn? It wasn’t right for him to give up his bed for an animal’s
stall, but she didn’t want to think about what would happen if he didn’t. The one
bed was excessively narrow. Why hadn’t he told her when he’d return or what he expected?
Was he regretting his decision as much as she was?

The only thing she could work on in the dim lantern light while she waited was his
mending. Her muscles ached to recline, but the straight-back kitchen chair did not
oblige. Her eyes strained to keep tabs on her stitches as she darned her first sock.

No telling how her patch job would look until the sun rose, but she continued until
the toe felt serviceable. A few lonely stars hung in the deep navy sky peeking in
through the single windowpane.

She threw the sock in tomorrow’s laundry pile. Her back screamed for relief, and her
eyes had been at half-mast for the last hour.

Was sleeping on his bed appropriate? Lying across the soft quilt, she enjoyed stretching
the muscles in her back. If he didn’t bed down in the barn, he could wake her when
he returned and tell her where she should sleep. Let him make the decision. She didn’t
want to talk about it.

Everett rubbed his black horse’s neck. “Good night, Blaze. I can’t stay outside any
longer.”

All afternoon and evening he had worked hard. Off in the fields, the barn, the spot
where he would build the new house—all to stay away from the cabin. But the flicker
of the lamp through its window both called to him and repelled him.

A lump stuck in his throat. No more dawdling. He didn’t feel right making his wife
sleep in the barn like she had at the Stantons’. And he wouldn’t be caught sleeping
in a stall if a neighbor came by for help. As he had every few minutes of the day,
he imagined sleeping next to her, waking next to her. He couldn’t handle that.

He grabbed the old straw tick he’d just finished restuffing and marched to the house.

Of course, he knew what the opinion of some men in town would be about his sleeping
on the floor. They’d laugh at him for not taking what was rightfully his. He couldn’t
deny
the temptation of the idea. Though a piece of paper joined them as man and wife, nothing
else of substance connected them. What was she really like? Everett gnawed on his
lip. He hadn’t worked on building a relationship with her, believing she wouldn’t
stick around.

But she had. Yet no love existed between them. Not even friendship.

His fault.

The broken door made little noise as he closed it. A soft snore permeated the room.
Julia’s frame lay catty-corner across the bed. Her shoes were still on, their tiny
soles poking out from under several layers of skirts.

Her face looked weary, though she was sleeping soundly.

He dumped his tick in the corner and made his way over to her. Squatting beside her,
he tried to remove her shoes, but the little buttons stymied him, so he left them
alone. He wouldn’t be able to slip his pillow out from under her without waking her.
She’d bunched both under her head.