The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) (29 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

I
t hurt everywhere.

Annie didn’t know why or how. But it hurt everywhere all at once.

Those words.
You don’t just throw people away
. They hit her unexpectedly, taking the wind out of her. They shouldn’t have, but they did.

All her life—all her life—she’d felt like a throw-away. The Throw-Away Girl. Her mama left her. Left her on a trash pile. How? How could someone—a
mother
—leave a child Mae’s size alone like that? Alone. Discarded. Afraid.

And now, it seemed the crying wouldn’t stop. Felt like it might never end. It hurt. It hurt all over. She was dimly aware of a blanket tucked around her shoulders. Of Jem crouched beside her, his arm around her, stroking her upper arm, her shoulder, the small space between her shoulder blades. A comforting touch. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know what was inside her. What her heart felt.

Squeezed.

Crushed.

Cracked open.

And she could hardly tell him. Couldn’t tell anyone. She’d never emptied out all that pain. And pain left unattended just grew and grew and grew. It got all hard and burrowed in deep. Somehow bigger, yet infinitesimally small all at once. So confusing.

And she couldn’t
breathe
.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to tip forward onto the rug.

Days could have slipped by, and Annie would have never known. Her thoughts spun until they could spin no more. Her heart still ached, but it was useless now to curl up into a ball and try to forget. Life had to march forward. She had to get up.

Jem seemed prepared to spend the whole night crouched beside her, the foot of his bed within reach, simply offering his comforting presence, having no idea what was wrong with her.

It meant so much. But now some unset time had arrived. There was no chime, no alarm. It was simply over. She was done. She’d had enough.

She moved to stand and immediately Jem loosened his hold. She held his hand fast against her shoulder, keeping him with her as she rose to her feet.

He allowed her touch, perhaps humoring her. She didn’t mind if he was. She simply stood and he stood with her, slightly behind her, locked in that loose embrace. For how long she didn’t know. With her free hand, she brushed her fingertips over her face.

There were no tears to wipe away. Her face was dry. Her eyes. Her cheeks.

How could there be no tears? It seemed she’d been crying for hours. But if there had been any tears, they were gone. There was only slow breathing now, the awareness of each calming flow of air in and out, the weight of Jem’s arm and his comforting warmth, the thud of his heart against her ear.
Thump thump
.
Thump thump
. A steady beat that was calming in itself.

He smelled like his bath—some masculine, woodsy-scented soap, maybe sandalwood. Beeswax too... A candle? Or perhaps balm.

She breathed his scent in, closing her eyes briefly. He smelled so good. She wanted to always remember it. How this felt, leaning against him. She wanted so much to say something to him, to speak aloud, clearly, as he might speak to her.

He was silent so long, she wondered if he forgot that, even though she couldn’t speak, she could hear.

“You all right?” Jem asked finally, in this sort of cautious way, like she was a soap bubble that might pop and the crying would start up all over again. Her strange tearless crying. His voice sounded roughened, a bit like someone waking up in the morning, as if he’d been the one upset and not her. He bent down, as if trying to get a look at her face, and his beard tickled the sensitive skin at her temple.

Annie nodded against his sleeve, not looking up, not loosening her hold on his hand. His beard was softer than it looked. That was about all she could manage to think.

“Do you”—he paused—“want to stay with me tonight?”

She slipped her thumb over the back of his hand, over the back of his thumb, testing his skin, marveling at how smooth it was, with just a dusting of fine hair.

“Annie?” he asked, pulling back, turning her toward him. “Look at me.”

She didn’t want to, but she lifted her chin. There was no reason not to, after all, except her nose was probably red. Her eyes were probably red and puffy too.

“I don’t mean for that—” He tilted his head toward the bed, where the quilt had been pulled back invitingly. There were two pillows fluffed up, waiting for two heads to rest against them in sleep. “For...you know. But I thought you might not want to be alone tonight.”

She looked away, anywhere but at him, suddenly shy. Her face was probably all red now from her neck all the way up into her hairline. She wasn’t used to being spoken to about such things. Especially not by a man. And even though she and Jem had shared intimacies, that didn’t mean she wanted them aired openly. She didn’t care for them to be alluded to in any way at all.

“I wish I knew what to ask you,” Jem said with a sigh. He made an attempt to sign as he spoke, which she found endearing. “I wish I could ask you what’s wrong. I wish we could
talk
. And I know you wish it too. Can you sign any of it?”

Sad
, she signed to him.

“Well, I could see that.” His mouth tipped up on one side, showing a dimple in his cheek.

She huffed out a laugh, surprising herself.

“Who are you, Annie—really? Where are you from? How did you get here?” He waved his hand, encompassing the room, the ranch house, the land cloaked in darkness, the paddocks, stables, rolling hills, and apparently all of Colorado.

I’m me
, she signed earnestly.
Annie
.
You know me
.

“Not enough.” He scratched thoughtfully through his beard—a beard she now knew was much softer than it looked, at once prickly and silky smooth. A beard that invited her touch. Not that she dared.

He continued, “Do you think you could type well enough to tell me a bit more about yourself? I want to know. I want to know what happened to you and why you’re so sad.”

Annie backed away, without truly realizing she was retreating from him and from his question.

“Now, Annie,” he said, his arms falling to his sides. He looked ready to reach out and pull her back any second.

She stopped herself and glanced toward the study, where she knew Lorelei’s old typewriter sat on the desk—
her
beautiful typewriter now. The door was open a crack, but she couldn’t see inside. No lamp was lit within. It was a room that had held so much intrigue for her, such mystery. It had practically pulled her into it. She’d seen that fascinating contraption and wanted to press the keys. She’d been so entranced she’d forgotten to watch Mae.

And Jem had
given
it to her.

But now, in this moment, with him looking at her so seriously, the greatest reluctance welled up inside Annie. Her fingernails bit into her palms. Why—why now—did she want to run as far away from that device as she could get? Or bury herself under Jem’s covers and belt both pillows around her ears to block the sound of his question.

Which seemed so odd. She felt so odd.

“Would you try?” he asked, taking her hands in his and tugging her closer. “Would you try at least a little?”

His eyes were so accepting. He wasn’t demanding that she do anything impossible, just type a few sentences. Tell him every awful truth about her. He didn’t know. How could he?

He couldn’t know the truth about her. Not everything.

She protested, uttering a ragged
J
sound since she couldn’t sign his name properly. She tried to tug her hands free. He wouldn’t let her go.

“Please?” he said.

She glanced toward the study door, not moving.

He let her look. His hands on hers were less a vice and more an embrace, his fingers entwined around hers. His gaze patient but insistent. He wasn’t going to give up. If she didn’t say yes tonight, he was going to ask again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

She sighed.

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

She pulled her hands from his grasp, and this time he released her, his expression expectant. He’d evidently only let her go because he thought she needed her hands to make the appropriate signs of her agreement.

She nodded again, melting a little, and signed
yes
, a motion much like her fist nodding. That was how she’d remembered it in class.

He smiled his approval, telling her without words how very pleased he was that she was making this effort for him. It was quite disarming. This man—how did he know how to wind her around his little finger? And yet somehow she felt as if it had been her own choice. He strode toward the study door, and she held out a hand to stop him.

Not now
, she signed.
Not now
.

“Better now,” he said, motioning toward the small room, an action obviously meant to encourage her to follow.

Tomorrow
. She made a motion like the passing of the sun over the horizon.
In the morning.

“It’ll help you sleep,” he insisted, taking her by the hand and pulling her along behind him until they both stood inside the dark quarters. Soon, he had a couple of lamps lit and a sheet of paper rolled into the machine. He held the chair for her, and she sat, letting out a disgusted little grunt.

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Nothing you say will surprise or shock me,” he assured her, although he couldn’t know what he was saying. What her life was. “Or make me feel anything different about you.”

Annie waved him away, her jaw stiff. The episode in his bedroom—where she’d cried her tearless pain—had left her nearly spent. She couldn’t argue any more. She couldn’t do much of anything. She set her fingers on the typewriter keys, but didn’t start to type until he’d backed away into the bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.

She didn’t start until she was alone.

She didn’t stop until the sun poked its head up over the horizon.

And then she slipped into meaningless dreams, her head collapsed onto her folded arms on the desk. She woke to the sound of Jem behind her, reading aloud.

White pages filled with neat black type lay strewn across the desk surface, pages and pages of paper. Had she really written all of that? Her hands felt cramped, so perhaps she had.

What exactly had she said? How much had she revealed? Too much, she feared. Possibly everything. She’d certainly written enough.

* * *

All I remember of my mama was the smell of sweat and liquor. Old liquor. Dried up on the floor near where I slept. It was in that place, where the men came for the ladies. You wouldn’t call them ladies.

My mama was one of those “you wouldn’t call them ladies.” I won’t spell the words they called her. Bad names.

I remember she was soft too, sometimes.

Her hair.

Mostly I remember one night. The night she left me.

Jem stood just inside the small study, reading Annie’s words aloud at first, but then continued silently, not believing what he was reading. Though he’d already guessed some of Annie’s life, to hear it in her words—all the stark details of her abandonment—was heartbreaking. She’d been Mae’s age. It didn’t bear thinking about.

His sweet little Mae...left alone.

Annie, left alone.

Annie, who couldn’t speak up for herself even now.

After a while he had to sit down, so he gathered up the last handful of pages from the desk and floor where they were scattered and returned to the bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed with the papers in his hands, making order of them.

He was aware of Annie rising to follow him, how she was reading over his shoulder, her eyes going wide as if she were reading it for the first time. As if she’d forgotten what she’d written. She had her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she worked it fretfully as she read. She peeped over at him occasionally, but he didn’t let on that he noticed.