Dorothy Garlock (26 page)

“With a small, soft pillow in her hands?” Ana’s voice hardened.

“Good Lord!”

“She had a mad look in her eyes, Mr. Jamison. I believe that she’s dangerous.”

“Good Lord!” he said again. “I don’t know what to do about her!” He planted his elbows on the table and massaged his temples with long blunt fingers. When he looked across at Ana, he didn’t attempt to hide the pleading look in his eyes. “Don’t go. I’ll do everything I can to keep Esther away.”

The look on his face tugged at Ana’s heartstrings. She reached across the table and placed her hand on his warm naked forearm. It was the first time she had voluntarily touched him. He thought the walls of his chest would collapse.

“Are you sure this is what you want? Esther is your sister. I’m almost a complete stranger to you. I’m not asking you to choose between us. If I take Harry to Dubuque, you’d be welcome to come see him anytime.”

“You’re not a
stranger
!” he said hoarsely. “You’re my wife. Don’t go. Say you’ll stay.”

In all his life, Owen Jamison had never begged anyone for anything. He had not even pleaded with his father when he thrashed him so unmercifully with the buggy whip. But he saw his life stretched out before him, bleak and lonely. The words had boiled up out of that imagined eternal purgatory. His heart was a hard ache beneath his ribs as he struggled to bring air into his lungs.

Surprised by his passionate plea, Ana stared into his beseeching and ferocious eyes while something strange, unfamiliar and hot jabbed at the core of her femininity.

“All right. I’ll stay.”

The softly spoken words were like water to a thirst-crazed man. The relief was so great that he could only look at her and nod his head.

“But maybe I should put off selling the house in Dubuque for a while.”

“You think to leave later?” His hand moved and held hers in a tight grip.

“If it should become necessary that Harry and I leave here, Mr. Jamison, we’d need a place to go,” she said kindly.

“It will not be necessary for you to leave. Ever!” he said emphatically. “Make a list of what you want out of the house, and I’ll write to the banker. He’ll send your things. This is your home now.”

“There’s no hurry about that.” Ana pulled her hand out from under his and stood. “Now that that’s settled, I have something to ask you.”

“And I have something to ask you.”

Her back was to him. His eyes feasted on the sight of her sunny hair, like a golden halo around her head, the contours of her curving back, and the soft roundness of her hips undisguised in the narrow skirt. Even without the tight band of her apron, her figure was like an hourglass.

Ana turned and stared into Owen’s blue eyes. Once again they were clouded with worry. She should be making plans to leave, to get as far away from his crazy sister as possible. Why was she staying? The earth seemed to be standing still as she looked into the cobalt blue eyes looking up at her. She felt suddenly that she and Owen deeply knew each other, that there was a bond between them that seldom existed between a man and a woman. The bond was Harry, of course, her common sense told her.

“What do you want to know, Mr. Jamison?”

“Why do you call me Mr. Jamison?”

“Well . . . it’s your name.”

“My mother always called my father Mr. Jamison as if she were a servant instead of the lady of the house. You’re not a servant here, Ana.”

“Would you rather I called you Owen?”

“Only when you’re comfortable doing so. Now what did you want to ask me?” he asked with a tremor in his voice as if he expected to hear something he didn’t want to hear.

“Do I have your permission to bring the furniture from upstairs down to the front bedroom? If I take my things out of my trunk, there is no place to put them.”

“You can arrange the house any way you like.” His shoulders relaxed. “I told you that it was yours.”

“I understand the front room was your mother’s. I thought maybe you wished her things to stay in it.”

“My mother has been dead for twenty years. If you wish to use the furniture upstairs, Soren and I will exchange it for you.”

“Thank you. It will give me more drawer space for my things and Harry’s.”

“We’ll do it when we come in for dinner.”

Owen pulled his eyes reluctantly from hers and went out, his heart dancing to a strange exciting beat.

*   *   *

Warm spring winds dried the fields quickly and the planting continued. The men worked from dawn to dusk, even on Sunday. One more week of good weather, Owen told Ana one evening, and the crops would be in. As the days passed, they fell into an easy, comfortable routine. Owen and Ana rarely talked, though Soren and Uncle Gus gave them plenty of time alone. Work and caring for Harry was a good way for Ana to avoid Owen, Ana decided almost immediately after their talk about Esther.

While the men toiled in the fields, Ana worked in the house. She cooked tempting, filling meals, washed the clothes, and cleaned, even to washing the windows with a mixture of warm soapy water. The shiny-clean result was well worth the back-breaking work. For the first time in years the windows in the parlor were opened to let in the fresh air.

Carpets were hung on the line, beaten with a wire rugbeater and the floors scrubbed before the carpets were put down again. The furniture from upstairs had fit wonderfully well in the front bedroom. Ana put her things in the lower bureau drawers, Harry’s in the top. Owen carried the empty trunk to the storage room upstairs. A clean white sheet served as a spread for the bed, Ana’s shawl became a scarf for the table.

In the evenings after the supper dishes were done, Ana lit the lamp in the parlor and knitted on the cap and coat she was making for Harry. The first few evenings she sat alone while Soren and Owen sat at the kitchen table. Then one evening, shortly after she heard the screen door slam telling her Soren had left the house, Owen came to the parlor. He sat on the faded upholstered loveseat and thumbed through a well-used mail order catalog.

Terribly conscious of the big, silent man, Ana tried to concentrate on her knitting, tried so hard that she tilted her head toward the light and her brows furrowed.

“You’re frowning.”

His softly spoken words broke the silence. As Ana lifted her eyes, they slammed into brilliant blue ones. Her stomach quivered and her heart picked up speed.

“I wasn’t aware of it.”

“You should do that in the daylight.”

“I’ve knitted for so long that I could do it blindfolded. I want to finish this for Harry. Then I can make something for the church to sell at the celebration.” She had difficulty filling her lungs and talking at the same time. Her heart seemed to expand and her head felt light.

“What will you make?”

“Stockings and mittens and caps.”

“All of that in such a short time.”

“I can make a stocking in an evening.”

“Do you have the yarn?”

“Yes, I brought it with me thinking I’d have time to work on an order for a store in Dubuque.”

He studied her face. “You’re working too hard.”

“Pshaw! I’m used to housework. I still haven’t worked in the garden.”

“Uncle Gus will take care of it. Soren and I will help him hoe weeds.”

“But you have so much to do.”

“Soren, Uncle Gus and I can do in an hour what it would take you a couple of days to do. We’ll take care of the garden.”

“I want to do my share of the work,” she said stubbornly and glanced at him. He was looking at her so intently that she almost forgot to breathe.

“Taking care of the house and the baby is enough.” He spoke in a voice that brooked no argument.

“I’d like to plant some flowers in that hollow stump by the cellar door and a climbing rose vine at the end of the porch.”

Bowing her head over her knitting, she tried to analyze the look in his eyes. It could only be described as a
hungry
look! Was this the night he would come to her bed? She hoped not. Oh, God, she hoped not. It wasn’t time. She wasn’t ready to accept her stepdaughter’s lover . . . yet.

It was a cozy scene, the two of them sitting in their parlor. The thought came to Ana as if she were clinging to the ceiling looking down at them. They could be a happy, loving couple who chose to be together because it was unbearable to be apart. Instead they had been bound together out of necessity, out of her obligation to Harriet, and out of his desire to raise his son.

“When will you cut the wheat?” Ana asked after frantically searching her mind for a safe topic.

“In another two weeks. I’m hoping Foster will be here by then.”

“Foster? Is he the one who helps you during the harvest and sleeps in the barn?”

“Foster Reed. I’ve known him all my life. His folks had a farm north of here.”

“Isn’t he sort of a . . . vagabond?”

“Yes. I guess you could call him that. Some call him a bum, a worthless drunk.”

“Tell me about him.”

Owen glanced up as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. There was no sign of condemnation on her calm, beautiful face. When Foster’s name was mentioned, the usual reaction was blatant disgust.

“He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. He can fix anything from a steam locomotive to a windmill. When he’s sober, which isn’t often—” he glanced up to see how she reacted to that “—he can read something one time and recite it back word for word. Or he used to be able to. Soren thinks drink has befuddled his brain.”

“So he’s drunk most of the time?”

“As long as he has money. He works in the iron foundries until he has enough money to stay drunk for a few months.”

“What a terrible waste.”

“You don’t have to worry. While he’s here, we keep all the spirits locked up.”

“Oh, I’m not worried. Has he always been this way?”

“No. It’s all because of a woman.”

“Women. The root of all evil,” Ana said softly, teasingly, but Owen didn’t smile.

“In this case—yes. Foster had loved her all his life. Just before he left for the war, he married her. He was only eighteen. He was gone for a year and came home with an ear shot off and blind in one eye. His wife was big with another man’s child.”

“Oh, the poor man. What did he do?”

“He almost went out of his mind. He knocked her down the stairs. She lost the child and almost died. When she recovered, she ran off with her lover, a whiskey drummer. They were on a steamer that blew up and sank in the river. All aboard were lost.”

“Poetic justice.” Ana said softly, tilting her golden head to the light.

“It’s what I thought. It all happened twenty years ago. Foster is only thirty-nine but looks sixty. He has spent half of his life grieving over that woman, and she wasn’t worth the tip of his little finger.”

“Poor man,” Ana said again. “I’ll fix up one of the rooms upstairs for him.”

“Are you sure you want him in the house?” Owen asked, his compelling eyes on Ana’s face.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Gawdamighty no! He’s one of the gentlest men I know and pleasant company when he’s sober.”

“I’ll fix a room for him upstairs,” she repeated, then added. “There’s plenty of room up there for Soren and Uncle Gus too.”

He looked at her for so long that she turned her eyes back down to her knitting and waited for him to say something. When he did, it had nothing to do with what they had been talking about.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have a porch swing.”

She sent him a pleased smile. “Oh, yes. I’ve always wanted a porch swing.”

“I can make one. I’ll cut oak slats from some of the pieces I had left over from the kitchen cabinet I’m making.”

“You’re making a cabinet for . . . our kitchen?”

He smiled and years dropped from his face. Her heart raced.

“If you want it. If not, I can sell it down river.”

“Owen Jamison! What do you mean . . . if I want it? One of the ladies I worked for in Dubuque had a kitchen cabinet with a flour bin, a pull-out breadboard and even a place for the rolling pin. It was as handy as a button on a shirt. Everything I needed to make anything at all was within easy reach. Of course, I want it. I never thought I’d have one.”

“I haven’t put the legs on it yet—”

“—When can I see it?”

He laughed. It was a low sound of pure pleasure.

“I need to know how high you want the table top. There’s no need for you to break your back bending over it.”

“Oh. That’s one thing about Mrs. Fitzgerald’s—the table top was too low.”

“I’ll need to know if you want a row of brass hooks along under the top shelf, or if you’d rather have small drawers—” His voice trailed. Because she was looking at him squarely, he lost his train of thought in the golden depth of her smiling eyes.

“I’ve always wanted a kitchen cabinet with a flour bin.”

“It has one. It’ll have a salt box on the side and a pull-out breadboard.”

“A tilt-out flour bin?” she asked as if the prospect of one was overwhelmingly wonderful.

“Yes,” he said, feeling incredibly happy. “I lined it with tin so it would be mouse-proof.”

“Well . . . forevermore. Imagine that!” A trill of pleased laughter burst from her as she gazed at him in a breathless hush of appreciation.

He wasn’t prepared for her enthusiasm or the pleasure he saw on her perfectly beautiful face. Her eyes were warm and full of smiles, her lips laughing.
All because of a kitchen cabinet.

He had offered to make one for Esther. She had not wanted one in the kitchen. He remembered her saying that “what was good enough for Mama was good enough for her.” This wonderful laughing creature was beaming because of the cabinet. He still hadn’t quite grasped the fact that she was his wife.

It was incredible. How had this miracle happened?
I now pronounce you man and wife.
How binding were the words? Yet they were only words. Ana was still as far from him as the day she arrived. A pain of regret pierced his heart. He longed to go to her, hold her, take comfort from her and give comfort in return. Not yet. The time wasn’t right. He didn’t want to merely slake his thirst on her body. He wanted more, much more. He wanted her to want him, confide in him her thoughts, dreams, to come to him with love in her heart. He wanted to hold her all through the night, her slender naked body against his. He wanted to love her, protect her, cherish her.