Читать книгу Montana Bride - Jillian Hart - Страница 9

The bed ropes creaked beneath his weight. She felt the mattress dip. Fear skittered through her and she held her breath. She tried to close out the memories of the nights when Jed had roughly pulled her into his arms. She drew in a shaky breath listening to the sheets rustle and feeling the mattress shift as Austin stretched out on the bed beside her.

Just don’t forget to breathe, she told herself. Relax, it hurts less that way. This was the price to pay for being a man’s wife. She thought of the cold nights huddled in the barn so hungry she could not sleep. She thought of the babe growing within her. You can do this, she thought. It will be over before you know it.

“I’ve got an early morning.” His buttery baritone rang softly as the bed ropes squeaked again. The lamp went out and darkness descended. “The livery opens at six.”

“I’ll be sure and have breakfast ready for you.” Yes, concentrate on what needed to be done tomorrow. That would give her mind something to focus on. Preparing breakfast, taking stock of the pantry and planning her meals for the day. Don’t notice he’s moving closer.

“How has your morning sickness been?” His big hand lightened on her shoulder and she jumped.

“F-fine.” Think about the curtains. With pretty little ruffles around the edge. She braced her body, every muscle drawing tight. Yes, those curtains would look so nice in the front room. Cheerful.

“Willa?” His voice rumbled through her thoughts, like a lasso drawing her back. His iron-strong form lay a few inches from hers, so close she could feel his body heat on hers. Terror struck, making it hard to breathe.

She blotted out what she knew was to come. The roughness, the pain, the humiliation, his weight holding her down until he collapsed on top of her. Her first wedding night rolled back to her like a nightmare. The innocent girl expecting love and romance died that night, too wounded to even cry out. At least this time she knew what was coming. She knew what marriage was about.

“Willa?” His voice gentled. “Darlin’, you’re shaking the entire bed.”

She was? “I’m s-sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s good for you or the baby to be this upset.” His hand left her shoulder to brush a strand of hair out of her face. A tone she’d never heard before rang low in his words. It was soft and warm and it made her turn to face him. “I take it your first husband wasn’t a gentle man?”

“No. Jed drank far too much for gentleness.” She laid her ear on the pillow, making out Austin’s face in the darkness—the tumble of his hair, the line of his jaw and the curve of his chiseled mouth. His eyes were black pools with depths she could not read.

“What was your first day married to him like?”

“He was a stranger, too.” The words rushed off her tongue, impossible to stop. Maybe it was easier to talk in the night, where she felt hidden. “I answered his advertisement in the territorial newspaper.”

“This isn’t your first time as a mail-order bride.”

“No.” She swallowed hard, thinking of the girl who’d kept staring at her left hand, a new bride wishing for a wedding ring. Maybe one day, that girl had thought hopefully, still seeing only blue skies ahead. “I had such dreams of a happily-ever-after. Jed had written a charming letter and I was immediately smitten. He seemed so funny and confident, he made me laugh and I thought, what a nice way to go through life alongside a man with a good sense of humor. But his humor lasted as long as it took to reach his farm.”

“What happened then?”

“He ordered me down from the wagon, gave me the reins, told me to put up the horses and fix him supper.” She could still remember standing in shock in the scrubby grass by the leaning ten-by-ten shanty, with the reins dangling in her hands. “He took a bottle of whiskey from the wagon bed and shut himself in the shanty. He drank his way to the bottom of the bottle by the time I had supper on the table.”

“I see.” He reached out again to touch her cheek and rub away the remains of her single tear. “He was a drunk.”

“He was a mean drunk.” She remembered setting down fried salt pork and potatoes on the rickety table in the light of a single battered lantern. It was dark, the ride from the stage stop where the church was had taken much of the day and she’d been still desperately clinging to her illusions.

Maybe he doesn’t drink like this very often, she’d thought, filling two tin cups with water. Maybe once he slept off the whiskey he would be back to his charming self.

I don’t want no water, woman. He’d knocked the cup away from his plate and stood up to slap her cheek. Hard. Get yer lazy ass out the door and fetch me another bottle or I’ll teach ya who’s boss.

“He was abusive to you.” Austin’s voice cut into her thoughts, leading her out of the past and the remembered sting against her face.

“After a while I became numb to it.” Her throat knotted up, refusing to feel all that it had cost her to learn to cope with Jed’s cruelty. “I learned to be grateful for the good days when he was more himself.”

“I see.” The darkness polished him like sculpted stone, accentuating his handsome looks in a powerful and masculine way. Silence settled between them and he loomed beside her, big and strong. He was brawnier and larger than Jed had been; there was no way she could stand up against Austin’s physical strength. She’d also learned the hard way fighting only made the inevitable worse.

Why hadn’t he moved toward her? Fear and dread knotted together in her chest, making her shiver harder. The bed ropes creaked with tiny squeaks in rhythm to her quakes. She could not stop them. She gritted her teeth, willed her muscles to relax while nausea swam in her stomach. The waiting was killing her.

“Do you know how long I’ve been reading women’s advertisements for husbands?” Instead of grabbing for her, his mellow baritone broke the stillness. Instead of wrenching up her nightgown, he levered himself up on one elbow. “A year and a half. I started regularly perusing them, wondering about the ladies who were looking for marriage. Several caught my eye, but I never acted on any of them. Not a one.”

She wanted to ask why but the words wouldn’t come. Cold beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and rolled down her face. She needed all her strength to stay in that bed with him and not bolt to her feet and start running. Memories pulled her backward into the past, where she’d been a naive bride turning on her side to go to sleep. No one had told her what a husband would demand in the dark of night so she’d been unprepared when Jed had risen over her in bed and grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, reeking of whiskey and anger.

Don’t you dare close yer eyes on me, woman. Yer my property now. He knocked her onto her back and ripped her knees apart. You’ll do as I say.

“Why did you write to me?” She shook away the past and focused on the question, hating how small her voice sounded in the night, how lost in the dark. She felt small next to him. He seemed to shrink the walls of the room and take up every available inch on the bed. The memories of Jed haunted her as she watched Austin’s face move in the darkness. He furrowed his brow, and the corners of his mouth went down.

“There was just something about your written words that caught me.” Honesty rang in his voice. “Something about you stuck with me long after I’d put the newspaper down.”

“I seemed desperate.” No, there was no doubt about it. “I was desperate.”

“No, that’s not what stayed with me.” Low and soothing, that baritone, mesmerizing enough to ease some of her fear away.

Did she dare hope that when he reached out for her and pressed her to the mattress with his body weight, that he wouldn’t be as rough as Jed had been? She blocked out that ghostly memory haunting her, of that old terror and helpless and tearing pain that left her sobbing. She died that night and every night he’d forced himself on her. A wife’s duty, she knew, but she dared to hope now that maybe Austin wouldn’t hurt her as much.

“I’d be cleaning stalls at the livery or pounding a horse shoe at my forge and I’d think about you, alone and pregnant.” His confession came closer as he eased a few inches nearer. “You didn’t go on like a lot of women about your virtues or your beauty. You didn’t make promises. You didn’t try to seem too good to be true. Your honesty touched me.”

“It did?” That seemed an odd reason to her. “You could have had a more beautiful wife.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You are plenty beautiful enough for me. If I’d known you were homeless and living out of a barn, I’d have answered faster.”

“I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me and the—” She hesitated, her burdens weighing heavily on her. “And the baby.”

The baby. What kind of mother would she make with her heart gone and worn away? “What if you hadn’t chosen my advertisement? I don’t know what would have become of me.”

“That’s over now. This is your home now.” He leaned in, the bed sheets rustling, the mattress dipping, the bed ropes groaning with his movements. Her pulse slammed to a stop.

This is it, she thought. Austin might be kind for a man, but he was still a man, with a man’s appetites and strength. The act of marriage was terrible for a woman and she screwed her eyes shut. It would be best if she didn’t have to look at him. If she could think hard on shopping for fabric for the curtains. There might be plenty of choices in material in a town like this. The mercantile looked like a big store and she might be able to find a pretty calico or maybe something with daisies on it …

“Good night, Willa.” His kiss brushed her forehead as soft as a whisper. That was all, just one kiss and he moved away. The sheets rustled and the bed dipped as he settled onto his pillow to sleep.

She opened her eyes, staring unblinkingly into the darkness, waiting. Waiting for what, she did not know. For him to launch at her, to manhandle her into submission, to force himself on her until she sobbed with humiliation and pain? That the moment she relaxed, then he would surprise her cruelly the way Jed might do.

But minutes passed by, measured in the faint muted ticks of the clock in the front room. Austin’s breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep and she dared to watch him. Dark hair tousled over his forehead, he expelled air in quiet huffs. Austin was so big he took up more than half the bed, but he hadn’t hurt her.

He hadn’t done it.

Tears burned behind her eyes with the memories of a long string of nights of misery and pain. The hopelessness as Jed’s wife had wrapped her in a thick cocoon on that first wedding night, when she’d been too wounded and shamed that not a single tear would come. She’d lain awake half the night, too hurt to move and felt the girl she’d been wither away and all her hopes for happiness with them.

Love did not exist. It was a falsehood, a story told to girls so they would want to get married in the first place. A lie to trick them into a life of servitude and bleak survival, trying to make the best out of a bad situation.

But at least she knew her married life here would not be as hard as it had before. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks and tapped onto the pillowcase, tears of relief and gratitude she could not stop.

The poor gal sounded real sick this morning. Austin shrugged out of his coat, scattering snowflakes to the wood floor. The fires crackled in the cookstove and hearth as he hung up the coat, wincing in sympathy as he heard Willa retch once more behind the closed bedroom door. Following his sister’s advice, yesterday he’d left a clean chamber pot in easy reach of her side of the bed. Hating that she was ill enough to use it now, he stepped into the kitchen to fix his breakfast. Let her go back to bed, he thought, and rest up after that.

He put coffee on to boil and filled the teakettle. The scrape of a door opening surprised him. Willa stood in the threshold, white-faced and shaky, in a faded and patched blue dress that was so old it was hard to see printed flowers on the calico.

“Good morning.” He set the kettle on the stove. “You don’t look as if you ought to be up.”

“I’m fine.” A dark lock of hair escaped her neatly plaited braid and swept across her forehead. She looked too beautiful for that poor sad dress and too young to be a wife twice over. Not a lick of color could be found in her ashen face. Halfway to the kitchen she stopped, placed a hand on her stomach and swallowed hard, perhaps debating a dash back to the chamber pot.

“You don’t look fine, darlin’.” His bride. His chest swelled up at that thought. He crossed over to pull a chair out at the table.

“I just need to get a little tea.” Big blue eyes avoided his, but she hesitated at the chair he’d drawn out for her. She studied it for a moment, as if considering it, before slipping onto the cushion.

“My sister gave me an earful about expecting women.” He resisted the urge to tuck that stray lock of hair behind her ear or to give her shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. “That’s why I’ve already got the kettle on.”

“That’s good of you, Austin.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. The sorrow in her eyes got to him. No woman, especially one so young, should have eyes like that. As if she’d known a world of sadness. In the full light of morning, he could see her clearly, more than he’d been able to in the lamplight last night.

She was hardly more than a girl, a young woman who ought to be sewing on her hope chest and giggling with friends her own age about fashion and parties and attending her final semester at the schoolhouse. Tenderness wrapped around him, making her sorrow his.

“If I don’t treat you right, my sister will have my hide.” He chose humor and put distance between them, when he wanted to move closer, and lifted a fry pan from a bottom shelf. “Evelyn may be smaller than me, but she can enlist the help of my brothers’ wives and as a combined force, they outnumber me.”

A hint of a smile curved the corners of her mouth. Sagged in the chair, she was wrung out and weak. He set the pan on the stove and cracked an egg on its rim, thinking of Evelyn standing in this very kitchen giving him the what-for on pregnancy.

“A man just can’t understand,” Evelyn had said, one hand on the small bowl of her stomach barely visible beneath her skirts. “The babe wears on you. The sickness takes you over and drains everything from you those first few months. You make sure to let her rest when she needs it and fix on doing for the both of you. At least until she’s back to her strength in around her fourth month.”

“I’ll do my best,” he’d promised.

“Even then, you help out with the housework.” Evelyn gave him a piercing look. “You don’t want her to regret marrying you. You’re lucky she’s settled for the likes of you.”

Remembering her laughter, he shook his head, cracked a final egg and gave the mixture a stir. Scrambled eggs and toast might be nice to go along with Willa’s tea. The kettle whistled, he whisked it off the stove and poured steaming water into Ma’s old teapot.

“I can take over now.” Willa stood at his elbow and took charge of the spatula he’d abandoned in order to pour her tea. She stood so close he could see the soft porcelain texture of her skin, the luxurious curve of her lashes and the contour of her Cupid’s-bow mouth.

A mouth made for kissing.

A bashful rush of desire ebbed into his veins as he watched her, heart pumping. He drank in every movement she made stirring the eggs—the sweep of her arm, the turn of her wrist, the placement of her slender fingers on the wooden handle—and was amazed by the sight of her in the soft gray morning light. Lamplight found her, drawing gleaming ebony highlights in her dark hair and kissing her face with a golden glow.

His bride. He still couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t quite known what to expect when he’d written his proposal to her and enclosed a train ticket in the envelope. All he’d known at the time was a deep abiding commitment to her he couldn’t explain and the soul-deep hope that because she needed him so much, she might love him more than all the rest—the way he wanted to love her.

He swallowed hard, set the kettle on a trivet and debated trying to talk Willa out of possession of that spatula. For a wee bit of a thing, she looked determined to hold her ground and he remembered her words last night, how doing the dishes had been important to her to prove her worth to him.

Darlin’, you don’t need to prove a thing, he thought, a ribbon of tenderness wrapping around his heart. Just being here was enough. He left her at the stove to unwrap the loaf of bread Evelyn had baked for them. As he sliced, bread knife in hand, he had to admit it was fine sharing the morning with Willa. Her presence changed everything. There would be no more empty mornings spent alone in his cabin. When he came home from work tonight, she would be here to greet him. His long span of lonesomeness had come to an end.

“Evelyn said to make sure you had toast in the morning.” He moved to her side to open the oven door. He liked the sound of her petticoats swishing as he knelt to place the slices of bread on the rack. “She also brought ginger tea to help settle your stomach.”

“That was mighty thoughtful of her.” When Willa spoke, her dulcet alto held him like no other voice ever had. “And thoughtful of you. I can smell it steeping.”

“Here, let me hold the plates for you.” He closed the door and stood, intending to whisk around her but something stopped him. The sight of the ridge of bones along her back. Through the thin cotton of her dress he could count her vertebrae, the poke of her shoulder blades and the faint hint of her ribs.

She wasn’t merely too thin, as he’d thought when he’d gotten a good look at her in the church. She hadn’t been only homeless living out of a barn, but she’d been hungry, too. Very hungry. His hands fumbled with the plates, nearly dropping one. He swallowed hard, hating the circumstances Willa had endured.

But no longer, he vowed, as he watched her load one plate with the bulk of the fluffy scrambled eggs. He would move mountains to provide for her. No wonder her big blue eyes shone somberly. Everything he learned about her broke his heart.

“Is that enough for you?” Her gaze found his, and the look on her face asked a deeper question, one he understood somehow without words.

“Just fine,” he said. “Fact is, I hate eating my own cooking. You could be the worst cook in all the world and I would still be grateful for you in my kitchen.”

“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have taken such care not to burn the eggs.” A hint of humor played along the edges of her lush mouth, just a hint, before a flush of embarrassment crept across her cheeks.

“I highly appreciate that you didn’t.” He winked at her, hoping to make her bashful, hesitant smile bloom into something more.

She lowered her eyes, as if self-conscious, and concentrated overly hard on adding the small remaining portion of eggs onto the second plate. The promise of her smile faded and she seemed to retreat into herself. He tried not to be disappointed. He remembered how hard she shook last night, fearing his touch. The last thing he wanted was to think about what had been done to her by another man, one who’d married her and failed to cherish her.

“Oh. No.” She set the spatula down in the pan with a thunk, covered her mouth with both hands and her eyes widened. She looked a little green around the edges as she spun, racing toward the bedroom. Her skirts swished, her patched shoes beat against the floorboards and the door slammed shut behind her.

He was alone again.