Lynna Banning (13 page)

His ice-cold fingers closed over hers. Good heavens, he was as frightened as she was!

She sneaked a surreptitious look at the tall man beside her. The softly looped silk ascot at his throat shuddered in rhythm with the pulsing vein visible beneath the tanned skin of his neck.
His heart, too, is pounding with apprehension at the step we are
taking.
Her gaze moved to his jaw. A muscle worked as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

“.and repeat after me. I, Jonathan Edward Callender.”

Jonathan’s lips opened. “I, Jonathan Edward Callender, take thee, Erika Maria Scharffenberger.”

The minister blinked

“Is correct, my name,” Erika whispered.

“…to be my lawful wedded.”

She looked up at Jonathan, watching his mouth move as he repeated the vows. His eyes reminded her of the soft gray mist that sometimes rolled over the oat fields in Schleswig. He looked directly into her face, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

His voice went on, low and steady, reciting the words that would bind them together for life. But his eyes shone with moisture.

Was he thinking of his dead wife? Remembering another wedding?

“…for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.”

When he finished, he did not return his gaze to Reverend Yard, but stood holding her hand in his, his beautiful, soft eyes searching hers. Erika’s heart leapt, and a humming began inside her head.

His thoughts are not on Tess. He is thinking of me! Dear Lord in heaven, I shall surely die of joy!

From somewhere far away she heard a voice call her name.

“Erika? Erika, repeat after me.” Reverend Yard waited until she acknowledged his request. She nodded and felt Jonathan’s hand tighten on hers.

“I, Erika Maria Scharffenberger,” she began. The rest was a blur. All she knew was that Jonathan looked straight into her eyes as she said the words, and sweet, lazy warmth crept from her toes to the crown of her head.

Jonathan saw Erika’s dark blue eyes widen as Reverend Yard spoke her name a second time. It was time for her vows. He squeezed her hand as she began.

“.to have and to hold from this moment.”

Her clear, quiet voice carried the words to his brain and then straight into his heart. She pledged her life, her self, with such calm dignity he wondered at it. Earlier he’d thought she was frightened, or perhaps nervous. Now she spoke her wedding vows with quiet conviction.

“.for better or for worse.until death.”

His breath stopped.
Not death.
He willed himself not to let the word register, not to think about losing anyone, ever again. Especially not Erika.

Cold terror washed through his belly. He would watch over her, guard her, keep her from harm no
matter what. Nothing must hurt or threaten her. She would be safe with him. She had to be.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Reverend Yard smiled down at them.

“Dr. Callender, you may kiss your bride.”

J
onathan cupped his hands around Erika’s shoulders, felt her body heat through the thin sleeves of ivory silk. Her flesh shifted under his fingers, a delicate ripple of tissue over bone. She raised her face, her lashes fluttering closed, then opening again when he made no move. She tensed, waiting.

An expectant hush fell over the congregation. He took a single step closer to her and bent his head, brushing his mouth over hers. It was but a whisper of flesh touching flesh, but he felt it to the core of his being. She smelled of roses and warm sunshine, and when her breath wafted against his lips, his heart caught.

A pulse throbbed in her throat. An overwhelming, possessive joy swept through
him.
She was so alive!
And she was his!

Deep inside he heard a silent voice cry out for
what she offered. Borne outside of himself on a surge of male instinct, he kissed her again, his senses inflamed, his lips hungry, insistent, imprinting the soft, tender mouth under his with his soul’s desperate need.

Shaken, he stepped away from her and met her gaze. He expected shock, even outrage at his assault. Instead, her shadowed eyes held his in a look of recognition.

God in heaven, she was no simpering innocent, as Tess had been on their wedding day, but a woman full-blown, aware of herself. Aware of him.

An odd humming began in his brain, and in the same instant he became conscious of his heart slamming in irregular cadence against his ribs. He opened his mouth, and then Erika smiled at him.

My God, she is exquisite!

The thin wail of a child—his child, he realized dimly—pierced the quiet, and all at once the congregation came to life.

Reverend Yard leaned forward and spoke over the buzz of voices. “Congratulations, Dr. Callender, Mrs. Callender.” He reached out a thin arm and gently turned Erika and Jonathan to face the pews.

People filled the aisle, surged toward them. Instinctively Jonathan secured Erika’s hand on his arm and together they moved forward, through the crowd.

Erika tightened her fingers on the soft material of Jonathan’s coat sleeve. It was done.

Her mind whirled with images—the minister’s ruddy, beaming face, shiny with perspiration in the sweltering church. Mrs. Benbow dabbing her eyes with a white lace handerchief. The baby’s cry, quieting now as Theodore Zabersky gently rocked the wicker carriage with one hand.

And Jonathan beside her, his heartbeat so strong she could feel it thudding against the back of her hand where it pressed his rib cage. She tightened her fingers on his arm.

At his side, she moved into the swirl of bodies, some sweaty, some perfumed, all pressing close to wish them well. Dazed, she clung to her husband, her thoughts still caught up in the kiss he had given her a few moments ago.

Oh, the memory of his mouth tentatively touching hers, then descending again with a questioning hot, sweet urgency. She would never forget it. Never.

Her body had felt warm and cold all over. Inside, something insistent, something glorious she had never experienced, began to unfurl.

Jonathan greeted the well-wishers, shook hands, spoke in low, measured tones, while Erika struggled to focus. Slowly he steered her through the throng toward the church door.

“Oh, my dear, you do look lovely!” Tithonia
Brumbaugh enfolded her in a bosomy embrace. “Why, you’re shaking like a leaf! All brides are nervous, I know. I remember my own wedding day. And Jon, you’re shaking, too!”

“No doubt it’s the heat, Tithonia,” Jonathan replied.

“Now, come along, you two. The Presbyterian ladies have laid a lovely spread and there’s to be dancing as well. Unlike the Methodists—” she cast a look of superiority at Reverend Yard “—we Presbyterians don’t consider dancing a sin. Quite the contrary. Why, at my own wedding.”

Erika lost track of Tithonia’s reminiscing as Jonathan drew her out the church door and down the single wooden step. “I am
not
shaking,” he said in a low voice.

“Of course not,” Erika agreed as they headed for the church hall across the street. But she knew the truth. His steps were as unsteady as hers, and underneath his black frock coat his heart pounded against his ribs. The knowledge brought her a strange sense of power. Whatever the reason, no matter how logical his protest, she knew that Jonathan Callender was affected by her.

When the crush of the receiving line on which Tithonia Brumbaugh had insisted began to ease, the first thing Erika became conscious of was Theodore Zabersky’s violin. The lilting melody of “My Bonnie
Lies Over the Ocean” rose in the crowded room and in an instant couples were swooping about the waxed and polished plank floor.

Madison Lander lugged his accordion to the comer where Mr. Zabersky stood, and soon another young man joined them on his guitar. With surprise, Erika recognized him from the Sunday-evening Methodist services. Whitman Vahl. Whitman’s fiancee, Mary Zabersky, belonged to the Presbyterian quilting circle.

Jonathan tried to disengage his hand from the grasp of the last guest through the line.

“I’m right glad for you,” Rutherford Chilcoate said, pumping the doctor’s hand up and down once more.

Jonathan wrenched his hand free, and to keep the medicine vendor from capturing it again, slid it around Erika’s waist.

“Thank you, Rutherford.”

“My pleasure, Doc. My very great pleasure.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “By the way, you got anything stronger here than Mrs. B’s Presbyterian punch? I see they don’t mind dancin’, but serious drinkin’ seems beyond the pale.” He drifted off to inspect the refreshment table, and suddenly Erika found herself alone with her husband.

Tongue-tied, she gazed around the room. Tithonia bounced in the arms of her husband as another waltz
floated on the warm late-afternoon air. The mayor’s wife had a tendency to lead, Erika noted, but the mayor placidly allowed himself to be herded this way and that

Plump Jane Munrow sat on the sidelines with Mary Zabersky, her stiff back pressed against the wall. Mary’s young man, tall, rugged-looking logger Whitman Vahl, was absorbed in his guitar playing. Beside Mary, Susan Ransom squirmed in her peach sprigged muslin dress and expectantly eyed young Nate Ellis.

The tables groaned with pies and iced triple layer cakes. Mrs. Benbow bent over the assortment, a cake knife in one hand. A few yards away, Gwendolyn Shaunessey languidly rocked the baby carriage with one long, thin arm, a wistful look on her face as she watched the dancers.

“Are you hungry?” Jonathan asked.

The thought of food made Erika’s stomach clench. “I—No, I could nothing eat.”

“Would you like to dance, then?”

Dance! Move about on the floor with Jonathan’s arms around her? She felt she might die of happiness.

“Oh, I, well, yes,” she blurted. “Let us dance.”

Jonathan bowed slightly and extended one hand. “Mrs. Callender?”

Dizzy with the heat in the crowded church hall, Erika hesitated.
Is this really me?
she wondered
through a haze of joy. Plain Erika Scharffenberger, who sailed to a new country in the bowels of a ship and set off for the West with twenty dollars in her pocket? Who spoke no English but came anyway because she wanted to be an American?

Now she lived in Plum Creek, America, in a large, gracious house with many windows. She had never seen such windows—panes and panes of sparkling glass with lace curtains! And she was mama to a beautiful baby girl and. She caught her breath as her heart lifted under the tucked silk bodice.

And wife to Jonathan Callender. She resisted the urge to pinch herself.

Was it possible all this had really happened to her in a few short months? It seemed unreal, as if some kind of enchantment had been cast over her. She half believed she would waken at any moment and find herself back in Mrs. Benbow’s kitchen, stirring cream into her tea.

“Mrs. Callender?” the man before her repeated. Eyes gray as a dove’s wing sought hers. “Would you care to dance?”

Afraid to speak, Erika placed a trembling hand in Jonathan’s and felt his warm fingers close over hers.

“It’s a waltz, I believe.”

Waltz? Polka? Schottische? It hardly mattered, so frozen were her feet in the buff-colored shoes. She felt like a fairy-tale princess, but her body refused to
play its part. Slow and stiff, she moved in the circle of Jonathan’s arms like a mechanical doll.

One, two, three…one, two, three.
She concentrated on the forward—and-back pattern of steps as Jonathan guided her about the room. A half smile played on his lips, but his eyes, which never left her face, held a stillness Erika could not fathom. His expression did not change even when another couple inadvertently bumped into them. Jonathan took advantage of the nudge to draw her closer.

“Please,” she whispered. “I warm easy.”

Jonathan chuckled and eased his hand back to its original position.

The violin took up the strains of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” and the dancers scrambled into a line for a reel. Jonathan led her off the floor, but he kept his arm protectively about her waist. She didn’t mind that. It was the other, being held close to him, that made her head swim.

While the other guests clapped and stomped through the set, Erika wondered at her husband’s serious demeanor. When the reel concluded, the accordion began a slow rendition of “Beautiful Dreamer,” and Jonathan pulled her to him.

Caught close, she moved as if in a spell, conscious of his arm about her waist, his starched shirtfront brushing the tips of her breasts. Suddenly aware of the heat building in her belly, she backed away.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured.

She felt her face and neck flush, knew her cheeks flamed. “N-nothing.”

But something stirred inside her, and in that instant she recognized a growing unease. She was enclosed on all sides by the life she had accepted by becoming Jonathan Callender’s wife. She was surrounded by the people of Plum Creek, by the four painted walls of the Presbyterian social hall, by the looks and knowing smiles of Tithonia Brumbaugh and the ladies of the quilting circle who eyed them with curious glances.

She was even surrounded by Jonathan! That thought triggered a new, even more disturbing one.
In a very real way, my life is no longer my own.

Her husband’s arm tightened. “Erika? What is it?”

“I like dance me loose,” she whispered. “Otherwise, cannot breathe.”

Instantly he widened the circle of his arms and drew away. “Better?” With a low chuckle, he watched her face.

Erika nodded. “Better, yes.”

But still she could not breathe. Air pulled in and out of her lungs in uneven bursts, but try as she might, she could not control it. She felt she would suffocate with all these people encircling her, the hot,
flower-scented air pressing in on her, the music pulsing in her brain. Her vision dimmed.

Jonathan caught her as she crumpled. Scooping her up in his arms, he strode toward the doorway, his bride’s floor-length veil billowing behind him. Tithonia Brumbaugh’s voice faded as he elbowed his way outside.

“I swooned myself at my wedding. You remember, don’t you, Plotinus? You said how pale I looked and the next thing I knew.”

On the porch, Jonathan cradled Erika against his chest and gently blew a puff of air into her face. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“You fainted,” he explained. “Don’t be frightened, it’s all right now.”

She rested her head against his chin and drew in a shuddery breath. “First time,” she whispered. “Never happen before. Was like dying!”

Jonathan watched her, hiding his relief. “Too much excitement, perhaps. Or too much hot air.”

Erika choked back a laugh. “Is joke, correct? Americans very fond of ‘hot air.’ Missus Mayor, Dr. Chilcoate selling medicine-all hot air.”

Jonathan laughed out loud. One thing was certain-while they might not live together as man and wife, with Erika Scharf as his partner, he was never going to be bored!

“Shall we return to the lion’s den?” Amusement tinged his voice. “Or would you rather—”

“Yes, please!” Erika interjected. “I would rather some brandy.”

Surprised and oddly pleased, Jonathan carried his new bride to the buggy waiting by the roadside. When he had settled her on the tufted leather seat, he retraced his steps inside to pay a quick visit to Tithonia, thanking her for the reception. Climbing aboard the buggy, he lifted the reins and snapped them over Daisy’s neck. The wheels crunched as the vehicle lurched forward.

In silence they sat side by side in the wicker chairs he’d placed on the veranda, sipping generous dollops of brandy Jonathan had splashed into two china teacups. Twilight ebbed into dusk and then evening. Stars floated overhead like luminous diamonds, and in the deepening quiet, snatches of music and laughter floated from the Presbyterian church a block away.

The heat inside the house was still unbearable, Jonathan realized. When it was full dark, he went to the kitchen and cobbled together cold roast beef sandwiches for their supper, bringing them out to the veranda on a tray with tall glasses of chilled coffee. They ate with napkins spread over their laps to catch the crumbs.

Jonathan heard the grandfather clock strike ten. Mrs. Benbow appeared at the gate, bid good-night to Ted Zabersky and wheeled the baby carriage up the walk. Since they were shadowed on the south side of the wraparound porch, the housekeeper did not even glance in their direction but lifted the sleeping child out of the buggy and disappeared behind the front door screen. Her slow footsteps echoed until he heard the slap of the Dutch doors into the kitchen.

Jonathan had never known a woman to remain quiet as long as Erika did. The gossamer wedding veil bundled to one side, Erika sat unmoving while fireflies darted about the yard and crickets scraped in the darkness. After the sandwich and a second brandy, his nerves began to settle. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until the muscles of his back and shoulders began to unknot.

The lights winked out in the upstairs windows at the Zaberskys’ house next door. In the soft blackness Jonathan’s attention was caught by the sound of breathing—Erika’s and his own. Theirs was a curiously intimate sharing, he thought. So unlike being with Tess, who never ceased moving, gesticulating, talking.