The Bridegroom (17 page)

“But you have shadows under your eyes,” Millie said.

The aunts were dressed, and they’d pinned up their hair, but both of them were clearly worn out. Doubtless, they would pass the day polishing things and worrying.

“We’ve all been through a great deal,” Lydia said. She appreciated the aunts’ concern; they loved her, after all, looked to her to head the family, now that Nell was gone. “I’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”

With that, Lydia headed for the door, made it off the back porch and partway to the side gate before Helga caught up to her.

“Those shadows under your eyes,” the housekeeper said, “have nothing to do with Mrs. Rowdy Yarbro and
everything
to do with Gideon. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Lydia sighed. There was no telling how much Helga knew; she was a master spy. Having no intention of discussing her marriage with Helga
or
the aunts, but not wanting to speak sharply to someone who had always been kind to her, Lydia said, “Helga, you
must
stop fretting and fussing over me. When you worry, the
aunts
worry—you know that.”

“I can’t help it,” Helga said unhappily, looking as though she might actually break down and cry. And since this was a phenomenon Lydia had never witnessed, the possibility distressed her. “I shouldn’t have helped that young rascal steal you. Sure, you’d be married to Jacob Fitch, if he hadn’t stepped in, but that’s something you could have gotten used to, given time. You’d still have your own house, your belongings, if I hadn’t interfered, and so would Miss Mittie and Miss Millie.”

Lydia smiled, touched Helga’s plump shoulder. “I don’t miss my belongings, Helga, and as much as it surprises me, neither do the aunts, apparently. They have the Washingtons’ vase, and their letters, and that seems to be enough.”

“There
was
Mrs. Lee’s china platter,” Helga mourned.

“It was broken years ago,” Lydia said. “As you are well aware. They just pretend it’s still tucked away in the dining-room cabinet because that’s what they’re comfortable believing.”

Helga gave a sniffly little laugh, nodded. “I want you to be happy, that’s all. I want that so much, sometimes I think I can’t bear it. When Gideon came along, I was so sure—”

Lydia silenced her friend with a kiss on the cheek. “We can’t be sure of anything in this world,” she said. “Except for good friends and the love of God. Haven’t you told me that yourself, a hundred times?”

Helga sniffled again, nodded again. “I suppose I have.”

Lydia held Helga’s shoulders a moment longer, anxious to reassure her. “I must go to Lark and the baby,” she said. “Sarah probably sat up all night, and she’ll need to rest.”

Helga swallowed. “Yes,” she agreed with resignation.

That settled, Lydia set out for the other side of town.

She walked briskly, and with purpose, and found the fresh morning air a tonic after a difficult night, reaching the Yarbro’s back door within a few minutes.

Sarah was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when Lydia entered.

“How are they?” Lydia asked, in an anxious whisper. Then, noting Sarah’s weary eyes asked, “How are
you?
”

“Never mind about me,” Sarah said. “A few hours of sleep, and I’ll be fit for anything the devil throws in my direction. Lark is still weak, but she’s able to nurse little Miranda. At the moment, it’s
Rowdy
I’m concerned about. Once Wyatt gets here, I’m going to ask him to take charge of his brother.”

Relieved at the news about Lark and the baby, Lydia smiled at the image of anyone, other than Lark, “taking
charge” of Rowdy Yarbro. “Miranda,” she said. “What a lovely name.”

“It was their mother’s—Rowdy’s and Wyatt’s and Gideon’s, I mean. I never knew her, unfortunately—she died when Gideon was born.”

Lydia, setting aside her shawl and handbag, keeping only the book, stopped to look at Sarah. “Gideon never told me that. That his mother died in childbirth.”

Sadness overtook Lydia as the knowledge sank in, though it shouldn’t have. After all, it had happened a long time ago, and there were a
lot
of things Gideon hadn’t told her.

And never would, probably.

Sarah seemed to be looking deep into Lydia, the way Lark had always done. “Lydia,” she began, and then stopped, and then began again. “Lydia, are things—
all right
, between you and Gideon?”

Lydia blinked quickly, so she wouldn’t cry. “It—it was a marriage of expediency,” she finally said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “An arrangement. As such—”

“Rowdy told Wyatt what happened down in Phoenix,” Sarah broke in, “and Wyatt told me. He said you were going to marry some man against your will and Gideon put a stop to it, and there had to be a wedding or he’d have gone to jail—”

Lydia’s eyes widened. This was the first she’d heard about anyone going to jail.

Seeing her expression, Sarah groaned. “You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know,” Lydia confirmed.

“Oh, Lydia,” Sarah said, coming to her, taking both her hands.

Had Lark not needed her, and baby Miranda, too, Lydia would have stormed out of that house, gone straight to
the mine, climbed down the shaft if she had to, and demanded an immediate explanation from Gideon.

“Tell me why Gideon would have been arrested, Sarah,” she said evenly. “If he hadn’t married me.”

Before Sarah could answer, however, Rowdy appeared on the kitchen stairs, carrying little Marietta piggyback.

“Sarah,” he said, sounding more like his old self, but still wan, “go and lie down somewhere, try to get some shut-eye. I’ll do my best to keep the kids quiet.”

Sarah hesitated, gave Lydia an apologetic glance, nodded to Rowdy, and left the kitchen through an arched doorway.

Rowdy came the rest of the way down the stairs, set Marietta gently on the floor to play.

“Sit down,” he told Lydia gruffly. “Please.”

“Lark—”

“She’s fine for now,” Rowdy said.

“I’m three,” Marietta interjected cheerfully. “And I have
two
sisters now.”

“Indeed you do.” Lydia smiled, taking a seat at the table.

Rowdy joined her. “I thought Gideon would have told you by now,” he said. “The U.S. Marshal down in Phoenix was prepared to file kidnapping charges against him. In fact, there will be a pair of deputies on the doorstep anytime now wanting to know if you came to Stone Creek and married Gideon willingly.”

“Jacob went to the
U.S. Marshal?”
Lydia whispered, her head spinning.

“Yes.”

“And if I told these—deputies—that Gideon forced me to leave Phoenix and marry him, they would arrest him?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Rowdy said solemnly, watching her very closely. “And the marriage would be annulled, if that’s what you wanted.”

Sending Gideon to prison was unthinkable, of course.

And yet, for one moment of vengeful temptation, Lydia considered doing just that.

In the next, she dismissed the idea.

Clasping her hands together in her lap, she lowered her head, too mortified to meet Rowdy’s gaze because she was afraid, if he looked into her eyes, he’d see that for the merest fraction of a heartbeat—

She started slightly, but did not pull away, when Rowdy reached across the table and clasped her hand, squeezed it briefly before letting go. “Do you love my brother, Lydia?” he asked, very quietly.

Lydia bit down hard on her lower lip. She wanted a life like Lark’s, even after what she’d seen the woman endure, a life like Sarah’s—a loving husband, babies of her own, a real, true home.

Could she have those things with Gideon?

Surely not. He’d already told her he didn’t mean to stay in Stone Creek.

Still, she could not deny Rowdy an answer, because he’d asked so gently, as though he really cared.

Wretchedly, she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I love Gideon.”

“But?” Rowdy prompted, still gentle. It touched Lydia deeply that, after all he’d seen Lark go through, all the suffering that had caused him, he genuinely wanted to help.

“He doesn’t love me in return,” Lydia managed, in such a small voice that Rowdy leaned forward a little to hear.

Playing on the floor, Marietta recited, “He doesn’t love me in return.”

“Hush,” Rowdy told his daughter, without looking in her direction. “I’m sorry, Lydia—she’s like a little parrot. Repeats everything.”

“She’s a darling,” Lydia said, and began to cry. “I wish I had ten like her.”

Rowdy chuckled at that. “Be careful what you wish for, Lydia Yarbro. Because you might just get it.”

Hearing someone address her like that, by her married name, affected Lydia in an oddly profound way. “Lydia Yarbro,” she repeated brokenly.

“That’s who you are, isn’t it?” Rowdy asked, his voice husky. “And why do you think Gideon doesn’t love you?”

“Because—because he’s leaving town,” Lydia said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

“What?”
Rowdy asked, not only surprised, but angry.

“He told me so yesterday morning,” Lydia admitted, because she was in too deep now to go back.

Rowdy muttered a swearword, shoved splayed fingers through his already-mussed hair.

Marietta repeated the curse, beaming.

Lydia laughed, through tears, and got to her feet. “I’ve said too much,” she told her brother-in-law. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go up and see Lark now, and—and the baby.”

Rowdy nodded. “I suppose he’s at the mine?”

“Yes,” Lydia said on her way to the staircase, stooping to pat Marietta’s golden head as she passed. Pausing on the first step, gripping the newel post, she added, “Please don’t say anything to Gideon, Rowdy. Promise me you won’t.”

Rowdy pushed back his chair, rose. “I can’t do that, Lydia. I can’t make a promise I know I won’t keep.”

Lydia closed her eyes, once again wishing that she’d held her tongue.

When she opened them again, Rowdy was bending down, scooping Marietta up into his arms. Without a word, he left the room, probably taking his little girl to join her sister and brothers, in some other part of the house.

After a moment spent recovering her composure, Lydia climbed the stairs and walked along the hallway, let herself into Rowdy and Lark’s bedroom.

Lark was sitting up, with pillows at her back, holding an impossibly small bundle in her arms. Although she was still very pale, when she smiled she looked almost radiant. “Come see your new little niece, Lydia,” she said. “Miranda Jane Yarbro, this is your aunt Lydia.”

Lydia’s throat tightened with a fresh rush of emotion. She’d never been anyone’s “Aunt Lydia”—until she married Gideon. Like someone in a daze, she approached the bed, sat down carefully, so she wouldn’t jostle Lark, and accepted the tiny bundle.

Miranda was perfect, though hardly larger than a doll. As small as that bundle was, Lydia realized, it consisted more of blankets than baby.

Holding that child, Lydia felt such a terrible and hurtful yearning that she could not catch her breath.

Downstairs, someone turned the doorbell, loudly, insistently.

Lark frowned at the sound.

Lydia barely paid it any mind—she was absorbed in little Miranda, noting her every feature—unbelievably small fingers, complete with nails, a pert little nose, blue eyes with gossamer lashes. She had a shock of dark hair that would probably turn fair, and her ears—her
ears
. They were like tiny pink seashells, thin enough to see through.

The clamor on the front stairs finally distracted her from the baby, but barely. Carefully, and with a nearly overpowering reluctance, she handed the child back to Lark just as Hank burst through the doorway.

“Aunt Lydia,” he said. “Papa says come quick!”

For the briefest moment, Lydia thought someone had
come bearing word that Gideon had been hurt—or worse—at the mine. Hank immediately disabused her of that notion.

“Well,” he said, his gaze connecting briefly with his mother’s, “maybe he didn’t say ‘quick.’ But there are men downstairs, and they have badges and round hats, like Sam O’Ballivan wears, and they want to see you.”

Lydia cast a glance at Lark, who was frowning in concern. Rowdy probably hadn’t told her that the deputies were on their way, given all they’d both had to cope with over the past twenty-four hours.

Standing, Lydia smoothed her hair and her skirts. She would tell the men that she’d left her home and Phoenix willingly, married Gideon Yarbro without coercion of any kind. And they would go away.

It was really quite simple.

But when she followed Hank down the stairs and into the front parlor, she nearly fainted on the threshold.

Jacob Fitch rose from a wingback chair and turned, smiling, to face her. “Enough of this foolishness, Lydia darling,” he said. “All is forgiven, and I’ve come to take you home.”