Dorothy Garlock (28 page)

“But the land must be used,” she finished for him.

“Yes, the land must be used. It’s been used by Jamisons for more than seventy years. Someday it will be Harry’s.”

“Maybe someday you can hire someone to farm so you can spend your time here, making beautiful, lasting things. Would it pay?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly she laughed. The musical sound filled the shop and his heart.

“If I had my say, you’d not sell one single piece. I’d want them all—for Harry,” she added quickly and looked away, her cheeks tinged with sudden color. She clasped her hands together in a grip that revealed her nervousness.

He looked at her for a long intense moment as her blush deepened. Tall and slender, with that crown of glorious hair, she was like a goldenrod—fragile, yet strong. Warmth and beauty surrounded her like an aura. Owen longed with all his heart to lean into that aura and be one with her, but he knew for the moment that he had to be satisfied basking in her admiration.

“I’ve got some things in William’s Furniture Store in Dubuque,” he said, his mouth and his brain working independently of each other.
You’re like a bit of sunshine, a drink of cool water. You’re so wonderful to look at.

“You do? That’s the most expensive store in town. Rich people on the bluff buy their furniture there. Oh, shoot! I wish I’d known. Not that I could afford to buy,” she added hastily, “but I could have looked.”

“You didn’t know me then.”

She laughed again. “You’re right. They wouldn’t have been as important—” Her voice trailed into nothing.

“I’ll make your porch swing out of this after I finish the cabinet.” Owen sensed her embarrassment and pulled a long piece of white oak from crosspieces he had fastened to the walls to keep the lumber off the floor.

“Where did you learn to make such beautiful things?”

“Here and there. I worked for a year with a furniture maker in Davenport.”

After a brief silence they spoke, both at the same time. “We’re going to have bread pudding for supper,” Ana began as he said, “I’ll be in as soon as I wash up—”

“No hurry. There’s at least another hour of daylight.”

As she returned to the house, Owen leaned against the door frame and watched her cross the yard. She moved smoothly, her skirts swishing around her ankles, her head riding proudly on her slender neck. Good God. If not for Harriet, he would have never met her. It had to be fate that first brought Harriet to him and then this wonderful slip of a woman.

Of late, his longing for her knew no bounds.

Soon he would have to tell her about Harriet. What would her reaction be? Would it be easier for her to accept him as her husband, or would she despise him all the more for his deception? He had waited for her to get settled in, to think of this as her home.

“You liar,” he murmured aloud. “You’re waiting until you’ve heard that her house is sold. You think she’ll stay if she has no place to go back to.”

And, dear God, what was he going to do about Esther? Owen felt the raw edges of pain when he thought of his sister. He had to get things settled with Esther before he could even think about finding happiness with Ana. He made almost daily visits to the Knutson farm. At times Esther seemed perfectly rational and at other times she would look right through him and refuse to communicate at all.

Jens was becoming difficult. Owen suspected Procter was urging the old man to get rid of his wife. Lily was spending too much time taking care of her. Esther had slipped away from them one afternoon and crossed the field to her old home. Owen had intercepted her before she reached the house. Lord, how he hated to tell her she couldn’t go in. She didn’t understand at all. The look on her homely face had ravaged his heart.

*    *    *

The days that followed Ana’s visit to the woodworking shop were peaceful, if not entirely happy. Owen and Ana spent an hour in the parlor each evening. They talked, but tension lay beneath the calm surface. Each night he planned to reach out and take her hand as she passed him on her way to her room after her nightly visit outside. Each night the fear of her rejection caused him to rub his sweating palms against his thighs, growl “goodnight” and head for the porch to sit alone for another hour before he retired to his room.

Saturday night after the supper dishes were washed and put away, Ana brought a washtub into the kitchen and filled it with water for her weekly bath. She looked forward to this hour of privacy behind closed doors and blanket covered windows. She bathed, washed her hair and rolled it in a towel. Dressed in a clean nightgown she went to her room, leaving the tub of water in the kitchen. The first time she had attempted to empty it, but Owen had told her in a tone that brooked no argument to leave it to him.

Sitting on the side of her bed, Ana dried her hair and brushed it until it was a damp, shimmering mass hanging down her back to her hips. The chore didn’t keep her from thinking about how she became undone by just knowing Owen’s eyes were on her. She could feel them all the way down to the tips of her toes. What irony, she thought painfully, that she would have these feelings for the man who had seduced her young stepdaughter.

The question of what was keeping him from coming to her was constantly in her mind. He had said he wanted more children. He certainly wasn’t going to get them by staying out of her bed. Did he think she was too old? She looked down at her breasts. High and firm, the nipples poked against the cotton nightdress like large, hard pebbles. She pushed against them with her palms and yearned with all her heart to be a beloved wife—not just a wife, a wife loved by her husband and family.

The thought that had been in the back of her mind for weeks came forth.
She wanted her husband to come to her and love her with his body as well as his heart the way Alessandro had loved Ramona in Helen Jackson’s novel.

Guilt swept over her like a prairie fire.

Ana put her hands to her cheeks, disgusted with herself for her wanton thoughts. Dear Lord. She was lusting after her son-in-law. But he was her husband too, a voice inside her cried.

Moving swiftly, she blew out the lamp and groped her way to the bed where she lay for a long while listening for the sound of Owen’s footsteps crossing the hall to his room. A few short weeks ago she had not known he even existed. And because of his chance meeting with Harriet, she was here. After she got to know the man, she realized he was kind and gentle beneath his gruff facade. It was impossible to hate him and even possible for her to be . . . fond of him. Her practical mind rejected the word
love.
Love was for young, starry-eyed girls. Women her age were lucky to be provided for.

Ana turned over on her side and stared into the darkness. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. A small voice in her head whispered,
I’m not bad because I want him. I’ll not be taking anything from you, Harriet.

Ana wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but she was aware of waking up when the door between her room and Owen’s creaked. Her eyes flew open. She saw his darker outline against the night. He stood hesitantly for the space of a dozen heartbeats. Ana forgot to breathe. Finally he moved. Without a sound to break the stillness, he crossed the room and stood beside the bed. His chest was bare, the skin much lighter than that on his face and forearms. Ana was still, all breath suspended in her body. She looked up at him, waiting.

His knees bumped the bed. The hands hanging at his sides clenched and unclenched.

It was the longest moment of Ana’s life.

“Ana?” His voice was whisper-soft, but she heard it all the same.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No. I just . . . I just—”

“Yes?”

Owen pulled back the cover and lay down beside her. It was so sudden she had no time to move to the other side of the bed. His weight caused the mattress to dip and she rolled against him from shoulder to hip. With great suddenness he was holding her against his rock-hard body, his face in the curve of her neck.

“I had to come.” The words wrenched out of him were filled with pain and longing. “The nights have been hell!” His voice was choked with the harsh sound of desire. “I just want to hold you. I’ll do nothing more . . . I swear it.”

His bare skin surprised her with its smoothness and its hardness. His only clothing was something soft that covered him from his waist to his knees. Ana had never been so close to another human being with so little between them. His arms wrapped her to him with unbridled need, crushing her breasts to his chest so tightly that it was difficult for her to breathe. She could feel the virile hardness of the body pressed to hers. Even though there was no question of her rejecting him, shock made her stiff as a board.

As if suddenly aware of his strength, his arms loosened. He moved his lower body away from hers and cradled her to his chest reverently.

“I’m sorry . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you so tight.”

“It’s all right. I’ll not break.”

A sudden flood of tenderness overwhelmed her and her hands glided over the firm muscles of his shoulders and back and around to the silky down on his chest. She wanted to touch every part of him. His body answered the movement of her hands with a violent trembling.

“Nights are hell!” he growled. “Knowing you’re on the other side of that door is . . . driving me . . . crazy.”

“You could have come. I’m your wife.” Her senses reeled. This was like a sweet dream.

“I want more than a body for sex,” he muttered fiercely against her cheek.

She pushed against his chest. His arms dropped away immediately. She moved her head so that their noses were inches apart. His heart thumped angrily against her palm, his warm breath fanned her lips.

“What do you want?” she whispered shakily.

“I don’t know if I can put a word to it.” His hand rested on her hipbone.

“Try.” Her hand moved to cup his cheek, her thumb stroked the dent in his chin that she had longed to touch. He had shaved. His skin smelled of soap and his hair was damp.

“Oh, Ana, I’m not good with words.”

“Yes, you are! Yes, you are,” she crooned. “You can tell me.”

“I want . . . I want to sleep with you, hold you in my arms every night.”

“You can. It’s your right.”

“To rut on your body like a stallion in heat?” His voice was angry. “Oh, God!” His voice lowered to a mere breath. “I want to give you . . . my heart, my s-soul.”

“You can. You can—”

“No. No, I can’t. There are too many things you don’t know.”

“Then tell me. I know you were kind to Harriet. Did you give your heart to . . . her?”

“Good Lord, no! Harriet was a child, a pitiful child.”

“You didn’t love her?”

“I felt sorry for her.”

“My word!” Ana moved until no part of her touched him and turned on her back. “You ruined my stepdaughter’s life. You got her with child because you felt sorry for her?” Her low-toned voice was heavy with hurt and accusation.

“I didn’t get her with child. My brother, Paul, did.”

“What?” Ana’s head rose up off the pillow as the cry was wrung from her lips.

“Harry is Paul’s son.” Owen’s hand moved onto her arm just above the elbow as if he had to hold her to keep her from flying off the bed.

“Why did
you
marry her?”

“It’s a long story.” His hand stroked her arm.

“We’ve got all night.”

^“
L
et
me hold you.”

His deep voice was strained. He was tense, his fingers rigid where they lay on her arm. Even in her distressed state, Ana was aware of how very gentle he was being. He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders. With his other hand he turned her toward him. It didn’t seem possible that such a giant of a man could be so gentle.

“Why didn’t you tell me Harry wasn’t your son?”

“Come here. Please—” Unhurriedly he pulled her against his side, ready to release her if she protested. When she came willingly, he settled her head on his shoulder. “I promised Harriet I wouldn’t tell. I was going to tell you after the funeral, but then things seemed to . . . get mixed up.” Whether by intent or by accident, his hand rested on the side of her breast and he stopped talking.

“Start at the beginning,” Ana breathed. Her heart was soaring like a bird on the wing. The rest of her tingled as if she were being pricked by a thousand needles.
He had been Harriet’s husband, but not her lover!

“Paul left home a few years ago. He and Esther got along like a cat and a dog. As I look back on it now, Esther was acting strange even then.”

“Hindsight,” she murmured.

“I’m not very observant. I see that now.”

“Where did Paul go?”

“Chicago, New York, that I know of. He had the money I paid him for his share of the farm.”

“He was in Dubuque last fall.”

“Yes. I heard he had been there when I went down to collect money that was owed to me. I fear he’s taking his pleasure where he can get it and to hell with the consequences.” He captured one of her hands, pressed it to his chest and held it there. They lay quietly except for the thump of his heart against her palm.