Spring for Susannah (12 page)

“Everyone's afraid the first time, no matter how long they know each other.” He shot over her prevarication, his accuracy flustering her more than his touch.

“You're afraid?” Hard to believe. Jesse radiated confidence. He was sure of his place in the world, his relationship with God, the future.

“Men talk,” he told her in a matter-of-fact tone. “Especially in the army when they're without women for so long. Coarse, rough talk. Short on facts, long on brass.” He pulled her tighter, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. “I'm beating around the bush. Yes, I'm afraid. I don't want to hurt you, do anything to make you more shy of me. I'm afraid of doing something wrong, making you think I'm no good.”

“I wouldn't know the difference.” No, that didn't sound right. “What did you tell me? Forget about the ‘shoulds.'”

Jesse cupped her face, his fingers rubbing the back of her head. “Susannah,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble. “Yes, I wish we'd met a long time ago too. I've been needing you.” He danced her to the lamp and blew out the flame. Moonlight softened his profile. “Wish I weren't so mule-faced, so you'd look me in the eye and know it's me and not some other fellow.”

“There is no other fellow.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat, like coughing with his mouth closed. Step, step, turn. His breath warmed her cheek and tickled her ear. “Ready?”

She was not ready, perhaps never would be. But refusing him now would only postpone, not cancel, her part in this arrangement. Might as well get it over with.

Not trusting her voice, she nodded. Jesse swept the dress over her head and back into the trunk. He took in a sharp breath. “So beautiful . . .”

He picked her up and laid her on the bed. The new straw of the mattress gave off a fresh, sweet smell.

Concentrate on Jesse,
she reminded herself. His nightshirt dropped to the floor, then his weight settled gently on her.

Chapter 11

Hallelujah!

T
hat was it? That was the pain a wife must endure, a woman's lot to suffer? It was hardly worth worrying about. Especially since Jesse seemed to enjoy it. Maybe she could make him happy after all. Susannah lifted his arm from her waist, and her skin caught as if his body heat had adhered them together.

As she slipped into her nightgown for her morning trip to the outhouse, she caught a salty smell, a tang not her own. Jesse left his scent on her. She was a married woman in every sense of the word, no longer a virgin. She took inventory, trying to pinpoint the difference, finding only a vague sense of unwinding, like a pocket watch marking the passage of time.

Cold dawn air sent Susannah hurrying back to the soddy. She shivered by the stove, stirring a dried corncob into the coals.

“I'll warm you.” Propped up on one elbow, Jesse turned back the covers.

Susannah closed the oven door. Beside the bed, she found Jesse's nightshirt. She set it beside him. His hand shot out and clasped her wrist.

“No need for shyness anymore.”

The strategy she had adopted, focusing on the third button of his shirt, was ill suited for his present state of undress. She stared past him at the tufts of dry grass delineating the sod bricks. He rolled upright, bringing his face directly in front of hers. Susannah glanced down, then with a catch of her breath, back to his face.

“That's one way to get you to look me in the eye.” His smile changed to an expression of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Her shivering increased.

Jesse maneuvered her into bed. Her body, in direct opposition to her mind, relished his warmth, settling into the curve of his body. “I'll make it easy on you; you won't have to look at my ugly mug.” He drew the blanket to her chin, tucking it around her goose-bumped arms. “You're still afraid of me.”

“No.”

“Susannah, I don't mind if you disagree with me—in fact, there's times I wish you would—but we'll do better if we're honest with each other.” His cheek rubbed the top of her head.

“Yes.”

“Am I that different from Matt? He's pretty easy to be around.” He massaged her icy toes with the sole of his foot.

“For you maybe; he's your brother.”

He went up on his elbow again. “Matt was always the most outgoing, most sociable of all of us. Made friends like—” Jesse snapped his fingers. “Within a week of the first day of school, he had the teacher eating out of his hand. I took many a licking from schoolmasters who didn't believe little Matt could be any trouble. And secrets! He knew the whole town's business. Had the War gone on any longer, he could have been a spy because everybody confided in him.” He tilted his head, trying to peer under her eyelashes. “Everybody except you.”

“Yes.” She found a new focus point, the cleft of his chin, stubbled with walnut-brown whiskers.

He collapsed onto his pillow. “You've seen a score of pastors come and go. Surely you felt comfortable with one of Matt's predecessors.”

“Not really.”

“Your gentleman callers?”

“No.” There hadn't been any. Time had not erased the hurt of being passed over in the friendship and courting arena.

Jesse stroked her upper arm, making deep circles in her muscles with his fingertips. “What about Ellen? You and Ellen had some good talks. You felt comfortable around her.”

Susannah shrugged. “I guess so.”

He leaned his chin on her shoulder. “Are you scared of everybody, the whole world?”

“I haven't met everybody.”

“All right. Forget everybody and try to make friends with just one person: me. I don't like having my wife shy of me, especially when I've given her no reason.”

He was right. He hadn't given her a reason. He'd been gentle and patient. A better husband than she had hoped for. “I'm sorry.”

He pulled her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Especially after last night. Oh, woman. I can't even begin to say . . .” He stroked her hair. “Let's do it again, right now.”

She caught his hands raising her gown. “In the daytime?”

“Yeah!” Jesse tugged at the ribbons, untying her neckline.

“But it's not—” She stilled his hand.

“Not proper? Who says? Remember, no ‘shoulds' out here.”

“Not even a ‘should' about being on time for church?” Beneath her hand, his fingers flexed, working her buttons loose.

“They'll understand. I had to wait for them last year.”

“What about the oxen?”

Jesse exhaled. “Oh, all right. We have all winter to play. One more kiss—”

He dropped his mouth onto hers. One arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other cradled her head. The quick peck lengthened into a full-blown, breath-stopping kiss. He prolonged the kiss and began to touch her in ways that would undoubtedly lead to a reprise of last night. She jabbed him in the ribs and wriggled out of bed.

“Hey, can I help it if I can't get enough of you?”

While Jesse dressed, Susannah concentrated on rolling out sourdough. As he left to picket the oxen, he turned and gave her a long look. “Someday, Susannah, you're going to trust me, you're going to want me to touch you. Hope I live long enough.” The door closed with a firm thud.

Was he right? Could she want him?

Susannah hesitated at the top of the bluff.

“Even prettier than last week.” Jesse winked.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Will they know? Will they be able to tell what we've done?” She focused on the yellow leaves dotting the cottonwoods.

“They think we've been enjoying married life ever since you got off the train.”

She glanced up. “Yes, but this week you are . . .
grinning
.”

“I never felt so good!” He reached for her, then froze as a wail pierced the morning. “Sara!” Jesse raced for the big tree. Susannah followed as fast as her cumbersome skirts would allow. How could such a loud noise come from such a little person?

Hollow-eyed, Ivar yawned at them. “All night, no sleep.”

The baby gasped, then let loose with another long cry. Perspiration stuck her white hair to her beet-red scalp. Even Marta propped her head in her hands.

Handing his guitar to Susannah, Jesse picked up the baby. He kissed her forehead. “No temperature. When did she eat last?” he yelled over the extended howl.

Ivar collapsed onto the blanket, plopping his hat over his eyes. “Not long ago. She refuses more.”

Jesse slid his hand under her dress. “Don't slap me for being forward, Sara. Just checking your diaper.”

Ivar tossed his hat at Jesse, whacking him on the knee. “Of course she's dry. We half been parents long time. Veterans.”

Ignoring the neighbor whose faced flushed as red as his daughter's, Jesse cooed to the infant, “Three months, Sara. You'll never get a job with the Northern Pacific if you stay ahead of schedule. The wine, please.”

“Don't you get my baby girl drunk, Mason.”

Marta poured a glass of wine and Jesse dipped his little finger in. He swabbed the white nub protruding from her lower gum. The infant blinked, then clamped down. Her crying ceased. Four adults sighed with relief.

“Teething,” Jesse explained.

Ivar rolled upright and took his Bible in his hands. “You half a scripture for everything, my friend. What verse for this?”

Jesse cradled Sara on his knee. “Proverbs 31:6.”

Ivar flipped the pages, then burst out with a snorting laugh. “‘Give wine to those of heavy hearts.'”

When their laughter subsided, Jesse continued, “The real lesson is in the Gospels. People brought their babies to Jesus so He could touch them. Not just see Him, not just hear Him. Not have Him wave a magic wand over us. But touch. We are made to touch and be touched.”

Susannah lowered her head to hide her reddening face. He was talking about her, to her.

Jesse looked down at Sara. Her fingers daintily uncurled as her sleep deepened. “There's still power in touch.” Jesse nodded at Ivar. “One of the ways Jesus touches us is through His supper.”

Ivar conducted the sacrament in Norwegian, handing flatbread and plum wine around their tiny circle. First-century communion must have been like this, Susannah thought, a common cup passed among people who knew each other. Definitely preferable to a church filled with strangers.

The discussion during lunch centered on the upcoming trip to town. Agreeing to meet at dawn Wednesday, they parted.

From the ridge top, Susannah watched Marta and Ivar disappear into the crimson-tinted grass. “How did you figure out she was teething? You knew just what to do.”

“Second oldest of ten, an uncle many times over. I've picked up a few tricks.”

“Such as pulling a sermon out of thin air?”

He grinned.

“I'm amazed,” Susannah said. “Your brother spends his week locked away with a bookcase full of references.”

“What's he do that for? He's got plenty of kids to write sermons on.” Jesse adjusted his guitar strap and they headed for the homestead. “What'd you think of the message?”

“Good.” She slowed, putting space between them.

“Right.” He broke off a grass stem, popping the seeds off with his thumb. “I don't know if it's because of the banker or some other reason, but you don't like to be touched.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn't have to.” He turned and reached for her.

Reflexively she stepped back, realizing her mistake a second too late. “I'm sorry.”

“Next week's sermon is on apologizing too much.” He grabbed her elbow, compelling her to walk with him. “Where do you like to be touched? Are your feet ticklish? Does it feel better if I touch you easy or a little more?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you like your kisses wet or dry?”

She lifted her shoulders, more of a jerk than a shrug. How was she supposed to know, when his kisses comprised the full extent of her experience?

“Exploring unknown territory. Lewis and Clark, Stanley and Livingstone, Susannah and Jesse.”

Yes, he had the intensity and vision of an explorer. If only he would choose a less personal subject, say British literature or steam engines. But he would not be diverted. He caught her peeking at him. Her words choked out like food gone down the wrong way. “Are you . . . will you tell me . . . what you like?”

“Nope, Sacajawea. Got to blaze our own trail.”

The flutter in her chest returned. She crossed her arms over her middle so he wouldn't see it. “What if I do something wrong?”

“Was there a wrong route to the Pacific? No. Different routes, different scenery. First exploration starts now. Do you like to hold hands this way or the other?” He pried her arm away from her body and joined hands, first fingers interlocked, then palms together.

“Either.”

“Speak up, girl. Did you say ‘neither'?”