Vows (6 page)

 
When the kiss ended her heart was plunking along as restfully as if she'd just awakened and stretched from a long nap.

 
"Charles, I must go in now," she said.

 
"No, not yet," he whispered, holding her arms.

 
She dropped her chin so he wouldn't kiss her again. "Yes … please, Charles."

 
"Why do you always pull away?"

 
"Because it isn't proper."

 
He drew an unsteady breath and released her. "Very well … but I'll plan on Sunday then."

 
He walked her to the door and she felt his reluctance to leave, to return to his empty house. It brought to Emily a nagging sense of guilt for being unable to conjure up the feelings he wanted of her, for being unable to fill the void left by his family, even for finding disfavor with his mustache and beard when other women, she was sure, found them most appealing.

 
She knew when he paused and turned to her that he wanted to kiss her again, but she slipped inside before he could.

 
"Good night, Charles," she said through the screen door.

 
"Good night, Emily." He stood studying her, banking his disappointment. I'll win you over yet, you know."

 
As she watched him cross the porch she had the deflating feeling he was right.

* * *

Upstairs, Edwin was reading to Josephine from
Forty Liars and Other Lies
by Edgar Wilson Nye, but he knew her mind was far from Nye's humorous depictions of the West.

 
"…leading a string of paint ponies along an arroyo where—"

 
"Edwin?" she interrupted, staring at the ceiling.

 
He lowered the book and studied her anxiously. "Yes, dear?"

 
"What are we going to do?" she whispered.

 
"Do?" He set the book aside and left his cot to sit on the edge of the big bed.

 
"Yes. What are we going to do from now until I die?"

 
"Oh, Josie, don't—"

 
She gestured to silence him. "We both know it, Edwin, and we must make plans."

 
"We don't know it." He took her pale, frail fingers and squeezed them. "Look at what happened to Stetson."

 
"I've been here well over a year already and by now I know I won't be as lucky as Stet—" She broke into a spasm of coughing that bent her and made her quiver like a divining rod.

He bolstered her back and leaned close. "Don't talk anymore, Josie. Save your breath … please."

 
The racking cough continued for a full two minutes before she fell back, exhausted. He brushed the hair away from her sweating brow and studied her gaunt face, his own weighted with despair at being unable to help her in any way.

 
"Rest, Josie."

 
"No," she mouthed, grasping his hand to keep him near. "Listen to me, Edwin." She struggled to control her breathing, taking deep drafts of air, building her reserve for the words ahead. "I'm not going to get downstairs again and we both know it. I scarcely have the strength to feed myself—how will I ever handle house chores ag—again?" Another cough interrupted momentarily, then she went through the struggle again, recouping her strength before finally continuing: "It isn't fair to expect the children to do my part and care for me, too."

 
"They don't mind, and neither do I. We're getting along just f—"

 
She squeezed his hand weakly. Her sunken eyes rested on his, begging for his indulgence. "Emily is eighteen. We've put too great a load on her. She'd rather…" Josephine stopped again for breath. "She'd rather work at the livery stable with you and she needs more time to study if she's to complete the course from Dr. Barnum. Is it fair of us to expect her to be housekeeper and nurse, too?"

 
He had no answer. He sat stroking her blue-white hand, staring at it while regret filled his throat.

 
"I believe," Josephine added, "that Charles has asked her to marry him and she turned him down because of me."

 
He couldn't deny it; he was certain that what his wife said was true, though Emily had never admitted it to either of them.

 
"She's a good girl, Edwin, devoted to us. She'll help you in the livery stable and me in this house until Charles grows tired of waiting and asks someone else."

 
"That will never happen."

 
"Perhaps not. But suppose she wanted to say yes right now—don't you see that she should be caring for her own house … her own children, instead of Frankie and you and me?"

 
Despondent, Edwin had no answer.

 
"Edwin, look at me."

 
He did, his face long with sorrow.

 
"I am going to die, Edwin," she whispered, "but it may take … some time yet. And it will not be easy … on any of you, least of all Emily. She should have … the right to say yes to Charles, don't you see? And Frankie still needs a woman's strong hand, and this house should be cared for … and meals cooked properly, and you … should not have to take turns hanging laundry and frying fish … so I have written to Fannie and asked her to come."

A bolt of fire seemed to shoot through Edwin's vitals. "Fannie?" He blinked and his spine straightened. "You mean your cousin, Fannie?"

 
"Do you know any other?"

 
He sprang from the side of the bed to face the veranda door and hide his heating face. "But she has a life of her own."

 
"She has no life at all; surely you can read between the lines of her letters."

 
"On the contrary, Fannie has so many interests and … and friends, she … why, she…" Edwin stammered to a halt, feeling his blood continue to rush at the mere mention of the woman's name.

 
Behind him Josephine said softly, "I need her, Edwin. This family needs her."

 
He spun and retorted, "No, I won't have Fannie!"

 
For a moment Josephine stared at him while he felt foolish and transparent, by turns. All these years he'd hidden the truth from her and he would not risk her learning it now when she had so much else to suffer. He forcibly calmed himself and softened his voice. "I won't have Fannie put in the position of having to say yes, just because you're family. And you know she would do just that, in a minute."

 
"I'm afraid it's too late, Edwin … she's already agreed."

 
Shock drained the blood from his face. His fingertips felt cold and his chest tight.

 
"Her letter arrived today." Josephine extended a folded piece of stationery. He stared at it as if it were alive. After a long silence he reluctantly moved toward it.

 
Josephine watched the color return to his face as he read Fannie's reply. She saw him carefully attempt to mask his feelings, but his ears and cheeks turned brilliant red and his Adam's apple bobbed. Watching, she hid the regret begotten by years of marriage to a man who had never loved her.
Edwin, my gallant and noble husband, you will never know how hard I tried to make you happy. Perhaps at last I've found a way
.

 
When he'd finished reading, he folded the letter and returned it to her, unable to hide the reproof in his eyes and voice. "You should have consulted me first, Josephine." He only called her Josephine when he was inordinately upset. The rest of the time it was Josie.

 
"Yes, I know."

 
"Why didn't you?"

 
"For exactly the reason you're displaying."

 
He slipped his hands into his rear pockets, afraid she would see them trembling. "She's a city woman. It's not fair to ask her to come out here to the middle of nowhere. The children and I can handle it. Or perhaps I could hire someone."

 
"Who?"

 
They both knew women were scarce out here in cowboy country. Those of eligible age remained single very briefly before taking on their own husband and house. He would find no one in Sheridan willing to hire on as nurse and housekeeper.

 
"Edwin, come … sit by me."

 
Reluctantly he did, studying the floor morosely. She touched his knee—rare intimacy—and took his hand. "Grant me this … please. Set the children free of the burdens I've brought them … and yourself, too. When Fannie comes, make her feel welcome. I think she needs us as badly as we need her."

 
"Fannie has never needed anyone."

 
"Hasn't she?"

 
Edwin felt a tangle of emotions: fear as great as any he'd ever known, matched by unbounded exhilaration at the thought of seeing Fannie again; pique with Josie for putting him in this ungodly position; relief that she had at last found an answer to their domestic turmoil; a sense of encroaching duplicity, for surely he would practice it from the very moment Fannie Cooper set foot in this house; resolution that, no matter what, he would never desecrate his marriage vows.

 
"Where do you intend to put her?"

 
"In with Emily."

 
Edwin sat silent for a long time, still adjusting to the shock, trying to imagine himself lying in this room on his cot night after night with Fannie across the hall.

 
There was nothing he could do; she was already en route, even as he sat with his stomach quaking and his leg muscles tense. She would arrive by stagecoach within the week and he would pick her up at the hotel and pretend he had not kept her memory glowing in his heart for twenty-two years.

 
"Of course I'll be cordial to her, you know that. It's just—"

 
Their eyes locked and exchanged a silent acknowledgment. Fannie's coming represented so much more than the arrival of help. It represented the first in a series of final steps. Always until now they had lived with the delusion that one day soon Josephine would awaken and feel revived enough to take up her duties again. That life would return to normal. Upon Fannie's arrival they would lay that idea to rest with the same darkening finality as the knowledge that this woman—this wife and mother—would herself be laid to rest in the foreseeable future.

 
Edwin felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He doubled forward, covering Josie's frail torso with his sturdy one, slipping his hands between her and the stacked pillows. He rested his cheek upon her temple but dared not press his weight upon her. She felt like a stranger, bony and wasted. Odd how he could experience such deep sorrow at the difference in her emaciated body when he'd taken so little pleasure in it while it was plump and healthy. Perhaps it was that, too, which he mourned.

 
Dear Josie, I promise my fidelity till the end—that much I can give you.

 
She held him and pinched her eyes closed against the pain of losing him to Fannie, wondering why she had never been able to welcome his embrace this effortlessly during her hale years.

 
Dearest Edwin, she 'II give you the kind of love I was never able to give—I'm sure of it.

Chapter 3

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^
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E
mily was in the tack room at the livery stable the following day when Tarsy Fields came flying in like a kite with a broken string. "Emily, have you
seen him yet!
He's absolutely
gorgeous!
"
Tarsy was given to flamboyant gestures, exaggeration, and general excess of enthusiasm over anything she liked.

 
"Seen who?"

 
"Why, Mr. Jeffcoat, of course! Tom Jeffcoat—don't tell me you haven't
heard
of him!"

 
"Oh, him." Emily made a distasteful face and turned away, continuing her preparation of a linseed-meal poultice for Sergeant's foot.

 
"Did he bring his horse in here?"

 
"We're the only livery in town, aren't we?"

 
"So you
did
see him! And probably met him, too. Oh, Emily, you're
soooo
lucky. I only passed him on the boardwalk as he was coming out of the hotel, and I didn't get a chance to talk to him or meet him, but I went inside and found out his name from Mr. Helstrom. Tom Jeffcoat—what a name! Isn't he absolutely
dazzling
?"
Tarsy clasped her hands, straightened her arms, and gazed at the rafters in a surfeit of ecstasy.

 
Dazzling? Tom Jeffcoat? The man with no sleeves and no manners? The know-it-all bounder who was setting out to ruin her father's business?