Authors: Joyce Wright
Chapter Seven
“I can’t believe you want me after the way I behaved today,” he said. Had her shoveling cost her the baby? He didn’t know how she felt about it, but she looked so weak and drawn that, regardless of whether the miscarriage was for the best or not, he didn’t want her to be ill.
“Can you eat? I’ll heat up the stew you made; it’ll be good for you”
She shook her head. She didn’t want anything. Feeling helpless, he continued to hold her petite body in his arms. After awhile, she fell asleep, but he didn’t let go of her. He didn’t know what he felt for her; he knew it was too early for love to have grown, but he felt something in his heart. He didn’t want to lose her. Was that how love started?
She stirred in sleep, murmured and pleaded for someone to stop. He relaxed his hold on her, thinking that his grip was confusing her and making her think back to something unpleasant. He couldn’t understand most of what she said, but she uttered a man’s name in a voice that trembled with fear. Jack realized that he might not know exactly what had happened in Oklahoma, but he knew enough to figure it out.
It was dark when she awoke. Jack had kept the candles in the room lit and the fire burning so that she wouldn’t be cold or frightened. She stirred in his arms and opened her eyes. “Jack, I’m sorry.”
“That’s the first time you didn’t call me ‘Mr. Carruthers’,” he told her.
“I think of you as Jack,” she said drowsily.
“Can I get you something to eat? Maybe the broth from the stew?”
“I’ll get it later.”
“You’ll stay in bed,” he said firmly, but not angrily. “I’ll bring it to you. Hush, just rest. Stay in bed and stay warm.”
He heated up the stew over the fire and then ladled spoonfuls into the bowl that remained on the table as a reminder of the afternoon’s failed lunch. When he brought the bowl into the bedroom, Etta was sitting up in bed, the pillows behind her. She still looked frighteningly pale.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned. “Lean back, I’ll feed you.”
“I don’t need to be fed!” she said indignantly.
“Yes, you do or you’ll make a mess.” But his smile took the sharpness from his words.
He started with the broth and then fed her spoonfuls of the meat and potatoes. She ate several bites, but then shook her head to indicate that she didn’t want any more.
Jack realized that he hadn’t eaten in a long time, and the stew smelled too good to waste. So he began eating it himself. He’d nearly finished the bowl when he realized that Etta was watching him, a faint smile on her wan face.
“It’s good,” he said.
“I like watching you eat,” she told him.
“I like eating.”
Etta smiled. “I like cooking.”
“I don’t want to lose you. I know I’ve been an ass and I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. No other man would have married me.”
“It’s hard to say what any other man would do. I don’t want any other wife, though.”
“I should have told you from the very beginning. Instead, I made it all worse with my silence.”
“Who’s Thomas?”
He saw the fear transform her face into a captive of her memory. “How do you know about him?” she whispered.
“You said his name when you were sleeping. Is he the father? Was he the father?”
“Thomas was my brother-in-law. He married my sister when I was ten. Our parents had died just before she married Thomas, so she took me in. She died in childbirth, but Thomas said I could stay with him and mind the other children. He remarried when I was fourteen. His new wife was often ill and it was up to me to see that the work was done. I was an orphan, I had nowhere to go and I was grateful to have a home. I tried to be of use to them but his wife said I was a burden. Thomas didn’t say much. Then she was . . . she conceived, and it was hard on her. She had to stay in bed. But I was there and I didn’t mind doing her work. I was grateful---“
“You are the gratefullest woman I’ve ever met,” he interrupted.
“I had nowhere to go. But it was becoming difficult. Thomas was different. He wanted . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I can guess what Thomas wanted,” he said, his jaw clenched.
“I saw your advertisement for a bride, and I thought Texas would get me far enough away from him. I tried to keep it a secret, but he found one of your letters and demanded to know what I was up to. When I told him, he said he would help me. I told him that you were sending money for the ticket but he said I would need money for the trip. He told me to meet him in the barn; he’d give me money to help me with the trip but he didn’t want Louisa---that’s his wife—to know.”
The tears were beginning to fall again. He held her close, burying his lips in her soft hair, waiting until she was ready to continue. “I didn’t want to come to you empty-handed and I didn’t want to be a burden. So I met him. He didn’t have money to give me, and after what he did, I wouldn’t have taken it. He—he told me not to tell anyone what he’d done, that no one would believe me. So I stayed and waited; I didn’t know what to do. Thomas was angry at me; he began to strike me whenever I did something wrong. It didn’t matter if he didn’t like the way I cooked the chicken for Sunday dinner or if I dressed one of the children in the wrong clothing. I was afraid but I had nowhere to go. I think Louisa knew or guessed what had happened; she became worse to me than she had been before. Then your money for the stagecoach came. I was lucky that no one saw your letter. I packed what I could take with me and I left that night.”
“I’d like to go back there and show him what Texas men do to cowards who force themselves on women,” Jack said.
“No. I want to forget him and everything that happened. I knew when I left that—that I might be—there was a baby, but I didn’t know what to do, there was no one to go to and I just couldn’t stay there. I decided that I’d tell you when I arrived. I didn’t expect you to be so kind.”
“I wasn’t very kind these past two days. You haven’t had much of a honeymoon.”
“You didn’t have much of one either,” she said, blushing. “Jack?”
“Hmm?”
Holding her this close in his arms, he could feel the curves of her body. Her hair was tantalizing soft. And yet, he could keep his desire at bay because she needed his strength right now, and needed it a lot more than she needed his passion.
“I want to be a wife to you when I’m healed from this. I want to be a good wife.”
“Etta, from what’s happened since we were wed, I’d say you give more promise of being a good wife than I do of being a good husband. But I swear that I’ll do the best I can to measure up.”
Chapter Eight
The winter finally ended, but the spring thaw that came brought early warmth. The corpses of the cattle that had died in the winter were covering the ground on ranches throughout Texas, their bodies rotting as the cold gave way to warmer temperatures. Big Jim estimated that he’d lost most of his herd. He didn’t have the will to start over, he said. He was taking his family to California. He was planning to sell his land; he was thinking that maybe he’d sell to one of those outfits in Europe.
“He says he’s going to try his hand at farming,” Jack told Etta that evening.
Etta sliced bread from the loaf she’d baked and handed the platter to Jack.
“What about us?” she asked. “What should we do?”
Jack hid a smile. She didn’t think of herself as a burden anymore. Etta was no longer the sad little orphan girl who felt that she owed it to others to make herself useful. She was a hard worker who did justice to the cabin he’d fixed up for them both to live in. It had been a grueling winter, but she’d realized that she was a wife and a partner to Jack and they worked together. Her cooking and sewing, her singing while he played the guitar in the evening, her thoughtful responses when he told her about the decisions they would need to make, all combined to make this the marriage that he’d hoped it would be. The marriage was complete and there was no more turning away from one another in bed.
It had taken time for her to understand that passion did not include violence and that Jack would never do to her what Thomas had done. But their lovemaking had introduced her to the man who was, even at the height of his desire, still tender and considerate. His kindness gave her a confidence that she had lacked before. She even had begun to flirt with him in the mornings after the night had been an affectionate one. His patience and gentleness had given her comfort and eased her fears. Their gratitude for each other’s tenderness and consideration was balanced by a willingness to freely accept what the other offered, knowing that it was love that made the transaction whole.
“I don’t know. I’ve got some money saved up. Got a good bit, actually. If you want to move, we can do that. What do you think? This is a decision we need to make together.”
“I want to be with you, wherever you are,” she said. “Where else would I be?”
“I didn’t mean for you to move away from me,” he teased. “But we have to decide what to do.”
“Would Big Jim sell you the ranch?”
He’d been pondering that himself but hearing her put a voice to his thoughts was both jarring, because it was as if she’d read his mind, and reassuring, because theirs was a marriage of true minds.
“He might. I reckon he’d give me a fair price. It’ll take time to build up the herd again. Money would likely be tight. There’s no guarantee that we won’t have another bad winter, or another drought in the summer. It won’t be easy.”
Her eyes danced. “You’d have to hire a trail boss as good as you are. That might be hard, too.”
“You’re making fun of me,” he said, grinning. He liked her sense of humor and discovering that she had one was one of the delights of being married. She had a smile on her face most of the time, which made coming home a pleasure.
“No, I just wonder if the new trail boss will have as fine a mustache as you have.” She reached over to brush away the bread crumbs that had gotten caught in his mustache, her fingers lingering to gently touch his lips.
“Impossible. I won’t hire a trail boss who has a mustache like mine,” he announced, holding his fork in the air as if it were a scepter. “Knowing that my wife has a fondness for mustachioed men, I’ll only hired on clean-shaven cowboys.”
“You should talk it over with Big Jim,” she said, ignoring his foolery and returning to the subject. “I’m sure he’d sell to you. If he’s leaving Texas, he’ll want someone he trusts to continue what he started, even if he is planning to leave the cattle business. I know that those big European outfits are gaining more and more land, but I’m not sure that Texans are happy about that.”
“Texans don’t much like intruders,” he admitted. “Especially intruders who take over from far away. People will always want beef, though and that means there will always be cattle ranchers. I know times are changing, but I don’t see Texas welcoming a lot of intruders into the state.”
“Are we intruders? I’m from Oklahoma and you’re from—where are you from, anyway? You never have told me.”
“You never asked. I was born in Illinois. I went west to mine for silver when I was eighteen. I had a little luck, made a little money and got out before I lost it. Found myself in Texas, along with the other lunatics, desperadoes, scoundrels and wastrels. But I ended up being one of the lucky ones. I found gold in Texas and she’s sitting right across the table from me now.”
**THE END**
The sun was only just beginning to rise, peeking through the clouds and bathing the manor in a soft pinkish-orange. The streetlights were not yet doused, shining a vivid yellow through the dim morning haze.
Clara Ollerton groaned as she turned over in her bed, shockingly red hair sprawled out messily over the white pillow. The sound of the early-morning buzz met her ears; her sister laughing, a door slamming closed, someone walking in the hall.
“Clara! Hurry up, would you dear? There is something very important I must tell you!”
Pushing herself up, Clara stared at her door for a moment, mulling over her mother’s words. Something important - whatever could that be? Her mother Edith rarely had time for either of her two children, only speaking to them when it was absolutely necessary.
“Clara! Hurry up!”
With a groan, Clara drew back the sheets and stood up, feet meeting the cold wooden floor. “Just a moment!” she called back as she dug out simple green dress from the wardrobe. While her mother and sister had servants to help them dress, Clara preferred the privacy of doing it herself.
Within minutes she was downstairs, still wrestling her vibrant hair into a knot at the back of her skull. Her sister was already at the table, clad in a much lovelier blue dress with her hair loose. It was quite clear Jessie had inherited their mother’s prettiness - while Clara had the strong jaw and deep-set eyes of her father.
“There you are, Clara. Why do you never come when I call? I swear, none of my children ever care to listen to me.” Edith rolled her eyes, waving a pudgy hand dismissively.
“You said there was something important?” She looked evenly at her mother, who sat at the dining table.
Edith paused her pottering to turn to Clara, one hand on her thick hip. “I did. Jessie, go and check on our maid Maria; make sure she is doing as she should.”
“Mother, I-”
“Jessie, do as I say.”
With a huff, the eldest Ollerton daughter pushed back her chair and strode out, casting the two women curious looks before softly closing the door.
“Mother,
what
is this all about?” Clara sat down, pine green eyes narrowed in confusion. Her mother was certainly making an issue of this, sending Jessie into another room like that. “Is there something wrong?”
Edith sat across from her, resting her hands gently on the table. “No, nothing is
wrong.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Your sister Ruby was married last year, Pauline the year before.”
“I fail to see how that relates to
me,
mother.”
“If you would quiet long enough for me to explain, I would.” Edith clicked her tongue, folding her arms. “You have a possible suitor - a Duke, no less! Your father and I believe it would be best for you to meet soon, to see if you may be a match.”
Clara opened her mouth to speak, heart skipping - only to close it again without saying a word.
“What do you say? It is about time you start thinking about a family of your own.”
“I have never considered it, not yet. Why have you arranged this without my knowledge?”
Edith laughed, shaking her head. “You are my
daughter,
I know you better than you know yourself. If I do not do these things for you, they will never happen.”
Clara didn’t
want
a suitor - she had never thought about a family, a husband,
children.
When the time came, she wanted to marry a man who loved her - not some Duke she hardly knew.
“He is the Duke of Somerset, Clara. He has money and status - for our families to combine, it would bring good fortune on us.”
Clara stayed silent, regarding her mother through thick eyelashes. “So this is a marriage of convenience?”
“Yes, as are many marriages. Your father and I married for the same reason.”
Clara’s heart thudded as she clenched her fists, willing herself to be calm. Anger did no one any good, especially if that anger was aimed at Edith. “When are we to meet?”
Edith beamed, seemingly mistaking her daughter’s anger for excitement. “Saturday. He is to come here to meet with you.”
She simply nodded, feeling the anger cool to a thick pit in her stomach. She should have expected this of Edith - she had married Pauline off two years ago to the son of an Earl, and when Ruby had become engaged to a wealthy Scottish man the next year Edith had been overjoyed.
"Mother I... I fear this is not right for me. I do not wish to meet this Duke, nor do I want us to court.” She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.
“You will feel differently when you meet him. He is a charming man and I believe your marriage will be perfect for you.”
Clara shoved her seat back, launching herself to her feet with her hands slamming against the wooden table. “No, this is right for
you.
All you care about is money and status - but I do not!” She sucked in a breath, feeling tears sting the corner of her eyes. “Please, mother, listen to me. Cancel this arrangement.
“I certainly
will not.
You will do as I say, Clara - and you will meet the Duke of Somerset this Saturday as planned.
Clara stifled a yell running a hand through her hair. Edith did not want to listen; she only cared for herself and her own ideals. As calmly as she possibly could, Clara straightened herself and turned to the door. “You cannot tell me what to do, mother. I
will not
allow you to control my life.”
With a deep breath and not another word, Clara strode from the dining room, skirts swishing madly around her ankles.