Jane Goodger (20 page)

In the days that followed, their life took on something of a routine. When she could get away from Enrique, Agatha made it her mission in life to teach Amelia how to be a proper Texas woman. Though she could not leave her husband for long hours, she did stop by the store frequently, and took the time to show Amelia something vital each time.

Amelia now knew how to make a proper bread dough, though she could not figure out why her bread was not quite as good as Agatha’s, and a pie crust.

“I can open a bakery,” Amelia said, after pulling out a not-too-burnt peach pie from her oven.

Boone was kept busy with his practice, something not unusual when the ranches ended their drives. Amelia would spend her time in the store, or practice her new domestic skills. It was all a novelty and rather fun. She’d always been a bright and willing student, and with her usual optimism, she tackled even the most mundane tasks with a certain amount of pleasure.

Though Amelia already knew she had to designate certain days to wash and iron clothing, she had no idea how to operate a washing machine. In her world, soiled clothes appeared once a week, cleaned and ironed and hung, and she’d given very little thought to how they came to be this way. She knew, of course, that someone was doing something, but all she’d really concerned herself with was making sure everything happened like clockwork.

Agatha had done the washing and ironing for Boone and Carson, but with a capable woman in the house, those household duties now fell to her. Fortunately, Agatha immediately understood that Amelia needed instruction.

“I never knew everything was so much work,” Amelia said, cranking the washing machine’s handle and making Agatha laugh.

She was determined to show Boone she could handle any task he gave her, even if it meant reddened hands and broken fingernails. Even if she missed her old life and going to parties and playing cards late into the night and singing along with her cousins as she played the piano.

It was only after hanging some sopping clothes on a windy September day that she broke down for the first time, showing the first crack in her rather thin veneer of sanguinity. She hated domestic work. She didn’t want to be a servant. She wanted to play her piano and sing songs with her cousins. She desperately missed the cool ocean mist that blew up from the Irish Sea. She looked down at her hands, hands that she used to protect with soft kid-leather gloves for her daily ride through Meremont’s pristine grounds, and saw a sight she did not recognize. And then the wind blustered, pulling all but one clean white shirt onto the dusty ground.

“Oh,” she shouted dismally, and quickly scooped up the shirts, as if picking them up fast enough would stop them from becoming a muddy mess. “Bloody, bloody, bloody hell,” she shouted. She stared at the ruined shirts and looked around, instantly aware that she’d sounded nothing like the lady she was. But no one, save the cat, had heard her outburst. Her throat aching from unshed tears, Amelia emptied the water from the washing machine, filled it, added soap and started turning the lever to move the machine’s agitator. Agatha had commented on how lucky she was to have such a modern machine.

“Bloody nasty machine, if you ask me,” Amelia said, thinking that if she was going to be a washer-woman, she might as well talk like one.

When she was finally done and the clean shirts were securely on the clothesline, Amelia smiled, feeling rather chagrined about how angry she’d gotten over a few dirty shirts. Maggie’s words came back to her: “You’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it.”

For the most part, her life was far better than she’d thought it would be. But there was a joy missing, one that she longed for but didn’t know how to find. Since the night of Boone’s dream, they hadn’t made love, hadn’t even touched, and she wondered if he were somehow unsatisfied with her. It was almost as if he were avoiding her. Perhaps when they had children she would feel more content, she would feel more like this was home.

She heard Paula calling and realized that Boone must have gone out and locked the store. Thankful to be pulled away from her domestic chores, she went through the house and opened up the store, smiling as she let her friend in.

Strangely, Paula was smiling, too.

“I’m just brimming with gossip,” she gushed.

Since Amelia’s marriage, Paula had spent quite a bit of time in the store, especially when Boone was out on calls. She would follow Amelia around as she floundered about her new chores, offering advice and some help, though she had almost as little experience with domesticity as Amelia did. Paula had grown up with servants, and as the wife of a banker, she had live-in help. Amelia would have liked to have said this didn’t bother her one whit, but she was terrifically honest, and had to admit it did niggle at her a bit.

“Let’s go out to the courtyard,” Amelia said. “Would you like tea?”

“Just a glass of cool water is fine.”

The two women settled themselves before Paula said another word. She leaned forward, her eyes shining with excitement. “Do not tell a soul, and I do mean everyone, but a Dallas businessman has been meeting with my husband and it looks as though we’re going to have us an oil drill right here in Small Fork.”

Amelia shook her head, not quite knowing the significance of such a thing.

“Why, goodness, that means schools, a church, electricity, and a theater are sure to follow,” Paula said, her lively blue eyes dancing with excitement. “Henry Wilfred was drilling for water on his ranch and he found oil instead. That was ten years back or so and nothing much ever came of it. This Dallas man has been going around looking for good places to drill for oil, and he’s heading here next month.”

“So it’s not definite that he’ll find oil.”

Paula’s eyes lost a bit of their glitter, and she looked at Amelia as if she personally was responsible for whether or not the man stayed and found gallons of the stuff. “No, but at least it’s hope,” she said sullenly. “In Nacogdoches County they found oil, and within just a few months they had to build a school.”

“I hope that does happen,” Amelia said, feeling strangely detached from this discussion of future schools and theaters. She still hadn’t wrapped her mind around the idea that Small Fork was her home forever.

“Hello, ladies.” Boone walked to the fountain and splashed water on his face, and Amelia couldn’t stop the sudden desire coursing through her. My goodness, the man simply walked in front of her and she could picture him doing all sorts of shockingly wonderful things to her.

Paula gave her a warning look for Amelia to keep mum about the oil, and Amelia nodded, hoping her friend would assume her flushed cheeks were from the warm afternoon.

“We were just talking about all the marriages in these parts lately,” Paula said with forced cheer.

“Were you,” Boone said, sounding a bit strained, studying Amelia’s face carefully.

“Why first you two, then your brother. I was telling Mr. Brentwood just last night that if we’re going to have so many weddings, we should see about having a proper church and a regular preacher. Baptist, of course.”

Amelia stopped listening after Paula said the word “brother,” and she noticed that Boone had become extremely still. “I’m sorry,” she said, plastering a pleasant smile on her face. “Who did you say got married?”

Paula looked at her as if she were crazy. “I know it’s only two, but still…”

“Boone and I, and…” Amelia prompted.

“Why, Dulce and Carson,” she said, as if Amelia had gone quite daft. “Of course, I’m not sure if we can count Carson and Dulce because they didn’t technically get married in Small Fork, but they’re both from Small Fork, and…” She stopped, looking from one to the other, finally realizing that she was the only one excited about the news.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” she asked, looking mortified.

“Not at all,” Boone said smoothly.

“I mean, I had heard rumors about…” Paula clamped her mouth shut, her cheeks flushing. “Certainly you knew they got married,” she finished weakly.

“Of course, we knew,” Amelia said, her smile still intact, and Paula brightened immediately, making Amelia question the other woman’s intelligence. “In England, you see, elopement is simply not the thing, not at all. I must say, if I were to elope, my family would cut me off entirely. You have far more liberal views about such things in America, and I shall have to get used to that. I know they’ve held a tendre for each other for quite some time. We’re happy for them, truly.”

Amelia refused to look at Boone, absolutely refused. For it was quite apparent that he hadn’t been surprised by this news and had allowed her to be blindsided.

“I didn’t know that about England,” Paula said, leaning forward, glad to be getting a bit more gossip. If ever there was a woman oblivious to the rather obvious nuances going on around her, it would be Paula Brentwood.

“Dulce and Carson have loved each other for years, or so I’ve heard,” Amelia said, as if telling the other woman something in great confidence. “I really don’t know Carson well at all, you see.” This was true, at least. “My stop here was intended to be brief, if you recall, and if I hadn’t been waylaid by my thieving maid, I never would have been
forced
to stay until my brother arrived.” She hoped Boone caught the rather unsubtle anger in her tone.

Paula beamed at the two of them, apparently oblivious. “And what a good thing you did, for you fell in love with our doctor. So romantic.” There was absolutely nothing but sincerity in those words. “Speaking of husbands,” she said, standing up, “I believe I need to go home and feed mine. And also rescue him from our son, who no doubt is begging that he be allowed to count all the money. Like father, like son.”

“I’m so glad you stopped by,” Amelia said, standing as well and walking with her friend to the front of the building. As soon as Paula started walking across the dusty street to the bank, Amelia whirled around, only to find herself staring directly at her husband.

“I was going tell you.”

Amelia lifted her skirts and stalked by Boone without a word, her face set. Then she turned. “Do not follow me.” Of course, he did.

Boone didn’t know what to do or what to say, but he followed his angry wife anyway. He’d known the news that Carson had married Dulce was going to upset her and was waiting for the right time to tell her. Like when they were old and gray.

She was in a right tizzy right now, stalking away from him, her skirts lifted just enough so he could see her ankles, which made him smile. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about ankles, or how pretty they were, or anything but how mad she was that Carson had gone off and married another woman just days after claiming he never wanted to get married. She ought to be angry, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she stomped around in a snit for a while.

He couldn’t help it—he felt glad Carson was married—and he wasn’t going to apologize for that. He’d expected her to be angry, but he truly, stupidly hadn’t expected the tears he saw running down her face.

“How could he?” she asked him, her blue eyes huge and filled with a sadness that struck him like a hard blow to the gut. “He told me he didn’t ever want to get married. He told me that was why he couldn’t marry me. And then…” She swallowed, and stopped, as if knowing what she was saying was like a knife to his heart. Boone truly hadn’t thought she still loved Carson, had thought his brother’s mean treatment of her had made Amelia, if not love
him,
at least hate Carson. Apparently, he’d been wrong. She still obviously loved Carson, and damn if it didn’t hurt.

Amelia sat down at the edge of the fountain, overcome by grief, and buried her face in her hands. Something in Boone came to a grinding halt, that hope he didn’t even know he’d been holding on to that she would ever love him. Oh, he could please her. He could make her scream in pleasure. He could make her come.

But he couldn’t make her love him.

“I’m sorry, Boone,” she said, her voice muffled, and as always, kind. But at that moment, he didn’t want her kindness. He wanted her to stop crying, to stop loving a man who didn’t deserve her love. “It’s just that it was such a surprise. I hardly expected it, you see.”

He thrust a handkerchief into her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, still not looking at him, her voice watery. “You must think me a proper watering pot.”

Boone just stared at her, not feeling sympathy or love or even anger. He felt nothing. Or at least, please God, help him not to.

When she glanced up at him, she must have seen something in his eyes, for she looked away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice wooden.

“I suppose it was because I didn’t want to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That you still love him.”

She started to protest, but stopped. And he wasn’t sure if she stopped because he was right or because she’d realized there was no point in arguing.
Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me. Tell me.
He could hardly breathe from the cruel hope that still stirred inside him.

“I’d be a fool to love him.” She sounded bitter.

“Then I guess you’re a fool.”

Amelia sat for a long time at the fountain, staring at Boone’s clean shirts blowing in the breeze. She’d hurt him again and felt sick, for if there was one person on this earth she didn’t want to hurt, it was Boone.

She ought to tell him she was sorry, that she loved him, and she would hope he’d believe her and they could go on with their lives. It shouldn’t matter that she did not love him, not quite, not yet. In truth, she didn’t know how she felt. She
should
love him. She
wanted
to love him. But she knew in her heart she didn’t. Not yet.

Amelia did not know if there was something missing in her, some sensible bit that would guide her in the right direction when it came to men. Carson did not deserve her love, and yet she’d given it to him. And though she was quite, quite certain she no longer loved him, the pain she’d felt upon hearing he’d married Dulce was unexpectedly stunning.

Why should it matter if he married a dozen women?