The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) (13 page)

***

At Isaac’s words, Becky let go the breath she was holding.

“Mmm,” she mumbled noncommittally. Never mind the hours she’d spent flushing out that wild pheasant, then cleaning and cooking it. Isaac assumed his father had brought the game, which neatly solved her problem of having to explain where the meal had come from. She smiled vaguely and ducked her head so he couldn’t see the guilty blush that was warming her cheeks.

Seeing her husband’s eager expression had made all the work worthwhile, but part of her wished to take the credit for her skill with a gun, in her ability to provide a hearty meal for the towering, hungry man at her side. Well, humility was a virtue, right along with patience, and Isaac would scarcely approve of her toting a gun and riding bareback through the forest.

After they’d seated themselves at the table and Isaac had polished his plate—twice—Becky rushed to clean up, her eagerness to please spilling out in restless energy. She could do this. Her double life would simply have to remain a secret.

After dinner they sat for a while. Isaac pored over his ledger, and Becky sewed an edge around the new cleaning cloths she was making from some scraps of fabric she’d brought in her trunk. She felt at peace sitting there with him. The silence in the air was a comfortable, companionable one, and even though she didn’t much like sewing, she found the task satisfying tonight. Relaxing.

Isaac yawned and stood, tucking his notebook under his arm. “Goodnight.” He backed toward the potato-sack curtain. “Gotta get up early and milk the goat.”

“Isaac,” Becky said, looking up at him uncertainly, “I know we got started on the wrong foot, but I want you to know I want to be a good wife for you.”

He swallowed at that and pulled on his collar.

“I— Thank you. Well, goodnight.” He gave her a brief solemn nod and ducked behind the curtain.

Becky stared across the room, as if by looking she could bring him back out to talk to her. How could she ever become a wife in truth when he ran off every night? A married couple shared a bed. How long would Isaac choose to sleep alone? He hadn’t seemed to understand her little hint about being a good wife either. She couldn’t possibly ask him straight out if he ever intended to make theirs a real marriage. Could she? She shrugged. This was only the second night he’d slept out here, so perhaps she should simply wait and see. Surely he couldn’t hold Jack over her head forever? She walked slowly into the room at the back.

Much later, after lying awake for over an hour, Becky couldn’t shake the feeling that her marriage was in trouble. Maybe she was being foolish. They barely knew each other, so maybe they just needed more time to get to know one another. But when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of running after an elusive dark-haired man—a man she desperately needed to catch, but who stayed out of reach.

***

A little over a week later, Isaac headed out to the lean-to as he did every morning. As usual he pondered over his life in these early morning hours, when all was quiet and tinted with a muted blue. The mountains rose up all around him, and as he crossed the clearing, he felt like he was the only person in the world in that moment. Except he was all too aware that he
wasn’t
the only person in the world. Rebecca was always on his mind. What was he to do about her?

Pop continued to stay with Brody. Except for dropping off the occasional bird he’d brought down, he kept to himself, perhaps hoping that in time everything would work itself out. Isaac suspected that was his father’s hope anyway. He wanted grandchildren, he’d said. Rebecca had said early on that she wanted children too. It seemed like he was the only one standing in the way of their plans.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want children. He actually liked children—the few he’d been around—and had always thought he’d be a father someday. He might have pursued finding a wife earlier, but the business had consumed him. It took a lot to build something from the ground up, and he’d put his all into it.

Perhaps it was pride standing in his way now, but the idea of taking Rebecca as a true wife while her heart still belonged to another... Well, it didn’t sit right. It didn’t sit right at all.

The lean-to was chilly and not for the first time, Isaac considered boarding it up proper and calling it a barn. He sat on the stool and began milking the goat, all the while mentally preparing for the worship service they planned to go to later that morning. The scriptures he’d read first thing that morning were fresh in his mind, and his prayers kept returning to the problem of Rebecca. One inner voice urged him to send her back home, but another voice spoke of commitment. He’d said vows before God to love and keep her till death do them part. Those weren’t words he was willing to dismiss lightly.

“What’s her name?” His wife’s voice was suddenly in his ear, quite close.

Isaac jumped. The goat bleated at him.

“Sorry, girl.” He patted her side and resumed milking her with slow, careful hands. He glanced over his shoulder toward the subject of his thoughts.

Rebecca stood watching him, leaning over the rail and peering in at them with curious eyes. He was surprised to see her out this early. She usually left him to his morning chores, and most times he’d get back inside the cabin and find her preparing breakfast.

“What’s her name?” she repeated.

“Name? The goat?” He looked at the goat dumbly. It was a goat. He’d never gotten much further than that. She gave them a daily supply of milk, but other than that she was generally a nuisance. She liked to butt down the stall door. And whenever she got loose, she’d eat what few vegetables he was able to grow in the summer. She also liked to nip at his shirts and underthings when he hung them out on the line. If he was lucky. Most times she’d tug the whole line down and drag it through the mud.

“Yes, the goat,” Rebecca said, a pleasant-sounding smile in her voice. “Don’t tell me she hasn’t got a name?”

There was something nice about hearing a woman’s voice in the morning. It reminded him a little of when he was young, and his mother had chatted with him in soft tones while they ate breakfast. As if speaking too loud would jar them too quickly out of whatever dreams they’d had the night before.

Rebecca’s soft voice put him much in mind of those times.

“All right. I won’t.” Isaac focused on his milking.

“She doesn’t have a name?” Rebecca pressed. “How can you have an animal that doesn’t have a name?”

“Never gave it much thought. She’s good for milk, but other than that she’s nothing but trouble, always munching on the laundry.”

“Well, then I think your choice is clear. Either you call her Milky or you call her Trouble.” Her teasing tone brought a reluctant smile to his lips.

“Well, then, if I have to choose, then I guess she’s Trouble.” The real Trouble was standing behind him, her elbow propped against the top of the rail, her chin cupped in one dainty hand.

“Can you show me how to milk her?”

He glanced back at her in surprise.

“I can do it. I know I could.” She looked so earnest, like she really wanted to try.

He scanned her doubtfully. He could see the outline of her skirt through the gaps in the stall door. That silly hooped skirt she was wearing would take up nearly a whole stall.

“...and that way,” she continued, her tone half practical, half tempting, “I could milk the goat in the morning, and you wouldn’t have to get up so early. I could feed the chickens too.”

Her offer brought to mind their conversation from about a week or so ago. He knew she was curious about their sleeping arrangements, but if he slept with her, his commitment to her would be doubly binding.

It was too complicated. And it wasn’t something he felt comfortable talking about with a lady. And especially not with her. It just didn’t seem proper somehow, even if she was his wife.

The truth was she was just his wife on paper.

“Would you show me?” She was persistent—he’d give her that.

He stood and swept an arm out toward the stool. “Be my guest.”

She unlatched the stall door and swung around the edge, somehow pressing her wide skirt through the narrow opening. Lifting the hem slightly, she managed to seat herself on the low stool, her skirt making a wide circle around her like a fabric-covered birdcage of some sort. With a little laugh, she gazed up at him with expectant eyes. He gave her a nod, and she turned back to the goat purposefully. He was reminded of the women he’d seen once as a boy in a newspaper office, their fingers poised over their typewriters. Where had that been? San Francisco? It was so long ago, he couldn’t remember.

After a moment, Rebecca placed her hands gingerly on the goat’s teats and pulled. When her effort produced nothing more than an irritated bleat from Trouble, her face scrunched up in disappointment.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“Like this.” He crouched beside her and covered her small hands with his, showing her the proper amount of pressure and rhythm to produce a steady stream of milk.

“I did it! I mean, we did it.” Her bright smile nearly knocked him over.

He stood abruptly and brushed hay from his trousers.

“Practice a while,” he said. “I’ll go stoke the fire in the stove.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cabin, turned, and trotted toward the front door, calling himself a fool to put any weight in her beautiful, bright smile. The woman loved another man—he’d do well to remember that.

***

As Becky carried the full bucket of milk to the kitchen, she felt a tiny thrill of accomplishment. She’d proved she could still play the lady while helping Isaac with the chores. The silly dress was a hindrance she’d gladly do without, but images of the perfect Melody waltzing through Sullivan’s Grocers in a lovely white dress reminded Becky of her purpose.

Living on a mountain had seemed strange at first, but she’d come to love the crisp air. She loved the view outside too. It took her breath away whenever she looked at it. It truly was the most amazing place. The only things she missed about living in Pepperell were the trappings of comfort: readily available food at the grocers, hot running water, a tub... And she missed her mother and Rachel, some nights rather dreadfully. Did they miss her too? she wondered. Did anyone in town miss her? Did Jack?

She shouldn’t even think about him. It was wrong now. She was married. She had Isaac. Somewhat.

Today was Sunday. Back home, her family was probably getting ready for church, if they hadn’t gone already. The difference in time was still a puzzle she hadn’t worked out. The previous week, Isaac had conducted a short private service for just the two of them, but today he was taking her to the logging camp. It had been an adjustment being all alone so much, even though back home she’d spent quite a bit of time escaping town and riding China through the farmer’s fields. But it was different not to see anyone at all—except for Isaac, of course—and his father, who occasionally stopped by to check in on her. Mr. Jessup—or Sam, as he liked her to call him—was a nice man. He made her laugh.

While preparing breakfast, she stole glances at the potato-sack curtain serving as a door to Isaac’s room. She heard water swishing and the sound of metal tapping against ceramic, telling her he was shaving.

He’d left his big black Bible open on the table this morning. Having spent the last week with him, she was starting to learn his routine. He’d get up before dawn to read the Bible. After that, he’d go out to the barn to milk the goat. While he was gone, she’d start on breakfast and eagerly read from the Good Book, knowing he’d return any moment to set the milk bucket next to the basin. She’d never had her own Bible. Papa had jealously guarded the family Bible, preferring to choose the passages he wanted to preach to them each evening before dinner. So it was a treat to read it herself every morning. After Isaac returned with the milk, he usually took his Bible back to his room, emerging moments later ready for breakfast and a day’s work at the logging site.

This morning, she’d joined him in the barn to help with the milking, and she’d been glad to find the Bible still out on the table when she returned to the kitchen. Maybe she could read a little while she waited for her flapjacks to cook through.

He’d marked a passage with a scrap of paper, and she read the words, “To obey is better than sacrifice...”

With a frown, she pushed back a strand of hair hanging in her eyes and tucked it into the knot at the top of her head. Of course. What else would a man be reading who was chafing against his duty?

And right now his marriage to her was Isaac’s duty.

Becky pursed her lips thoughtfully as she flipped the flapjacks to brown the other side, determining as she did so to make the best of things. At least this morning they’d be spending the whole morning together, she realized with a hopeful little smile.

What was a logging camp like? She had nothing in her experience to form a picture of the place. A giddy feeling quickened her heartbeat at the opportunity to venture past the confines of the cabin and its immediate surroundings. Except for the times she went out hunting, she generally kept to her promise to stay close to the cabin, not wanting to risk another run-in with a grizzly.

Though she’d been tempted to explore beyond the stream many times, Isaac’s warning to her every morning to stay near the cabin reinforced her commitment to her promise. She couldn’t very well nod at him and go off and do exactly the opposite of what he asked. Her conscience bothered her enough as it was for riding off on Siren to hunt fresh game, but as long as she was careful, and as long as Isaac gave his father the credit, she didn’t see the harm in it. They’d run out of venison sausages several days ago, and—at least this way—she could keep those wretched beans in the sack.

All her thoughts fled as Isaac pushed through the curtain and walked toward her. He certainly looked handsome with his face freshly scrubbed and shaven, his skin smooth-looking and tanned from hours in the mountain sunshine. The ends of his damp hair curled against his neck. As he stopped beside her, she felt small and delicate—an unfamiliar feeling that wasn’t altogether unpleasant.