A Bride at Last (35 page)

She took a towel and dried her hands. “I’m sure Rachel wouldn’t mind me telling him a story first.”

“Not Rachel. Silas.”

She stopped rubbing her hands against the towel and strangled it instead. “Oh.” With nearly useless fingers, she hung up the towel, then reached behind her waist to fumble with her apron strings. “I can’t imagine why he’d come all the way out here since—”

“I bet you can once you get a look at him.” Everett gave her an all-encompassing, handsome grin, as if her nerves amused him.

Hurrying to avoid any questions from the boys, she deposited her apron on a chair and walked through the door Everett held open for her.

Silas paced on the other side of his wagon, head down, hands clasped behind his back. Surely his agitation didn’t bode well.

She stopped at the front of his cart and waited for him to pivot.

When he turned, he caught sight of her, and his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but not a frown either. “Good afternoon, Kate.”

“Likewise.”
Except not really.
Her back ached after cleaning all morning, and now her stomach threatened to visit Julia’s misery upon her as well. “Is Anthony all right?”

“Yes.” He walked straight to her, as if he meant to plow her over, but he stopped short and reached into his pocket. “I came to give you enough money to cover your lost school-year salary—what I cost you.” He pulled out a thick, clipped square of bills. “Two hundred dollars.”

She closed her eyes and all the muscles in her body threatened to give up. She reached for the side of the wagon. Two hundred dollars was more than adequate, but goodness, she’d let herself hope.
Stupid.
Had he felt nothing for her?

She shouldn’t have let herself feel anything the times she’d thought of him, looked at him, imagined what being loved by him might’ve been like. She tightened her grip on the wagon’s sideboard to keep from walking away without his money.

“Is that enough?” He held the cash out between them. “I’m sorry I expected you to fend for yourself when I was responsible for your predicament. That was wrong of me.”

“Yes, it’s enough.” She couldn’t open her eyes to look at him. “But I thought you didn’t have enough to even hire me.”

“I sold a parcel of land to my neighbor, Mr. Thissen.”

“Sold?” She had to look at him now. “But you took so much pride in your spread; you had plans for it all once you got everything back in order.”

“Well, yes. But I had no other way to get enough money to make things up to you without depleting my savings.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to the corner of an eye, hoping the pressure would keep her emotions at bay.

“But I have something else I hope you might consider.” He placed the money on the wagon’s seat, then leaned over into the back and hefted a small crate over the side. Inside the box lay a single dark bottle propped in a corner.

She frowned. “What is it?”

“Wine. A man who once lived near me gave this to me after Lucy and I were married. Can’t remember what year he said it was, but he’d brought it from Scotland and was saving it to celebrate his firstborn son, but he’d only had girls.” Silas smiled. “He gave it to me for my first boy, but of course, I didn’t know about Anthony.” His countenance lost its happiness for a second. “That was before the state’s prohibition.”

Did he expect her to want wine instead of money? Surely not. The idea was laughable, but he didn’t look like he was trying to be cheeky. “Did you bring this for me to pour out?” Surely he could’ve given the bottle to someone else instead of driving two hours to have her do it.

“No.” His laugh was little more than a huff. “I’d been keeping this because I never truly believed I’d conquer my addiction. Maybe I still don’t. So since I expected to fail at staying sober, I’d figured I’d keep this to enjoy someday.”

She swallowed and wrapped her arms about herself. Was he here only to confess to someone in an attempt to take weight off his shoulders? “Are you certain you don’t want me to pour it out? Think of Anthony.”

“I am thinking of him.” He stared at the wine bottle in the crate but didn’t take his hands off the box. “I’ve quit drinking plenty of times, as you know, but I never had enough faith to believe I could stay sober. After Thanksgiving, I considered my reasons not to marry you, and I remembered this bottle.”

Not
to marry her.

“I’d forgotten about it and went to the barn to hold it again.”

“Holding it’s not good for you.”

“I didn’t have much of a problem this time, since I was thinking of you and Anthony. As I rolled it between my hands, I prayed God would help me stay sober.”

He set the crate down between them on a patch of dirt. “Then I realized I was viewing your past the same way I viewed mine, believing that caving to our weakness was inevitable. I believed someday you’d run again, because I believed someday I’d drink again.” He pointed to her worn boots. “Anthony says you only run in your old boots.”

She hooked the toes of one foot behind the heel of the other. “Yes, they’re the best for it.” What did that have to do with anything?

“How long have you had them?”

She shrugged.

“Since before you jilted the first fellow?”

“Yes.” She’d never had money to spend on anything but necessities.

“I still think of drinking almost every day, Kate. Whether I dream of sipping moonshine, or I suddenly recall the bottle of aged wine in the barn, or get a random memory of how a good whiskey burns, the desire doesn’t seem to leave. It might grow weaker, but I’m not sure it’ll ever go away, so I can’t promise I’ll never drink again, even though I wish I could.” He shifted his weight. “Do you think about running a lot?”

She relaxed her grip on the wagon. Hadn’t she just anchored
herself to keep from running away without his money? “Sometimes.” She’d never thought of running as an addiction, but it was certainly a bad habit, a knee-jerk reaction to situations turning sour. “I guess I couldn’t completely promise anyone I’d never leave when life got difficult.”

He nodded as if that was a good answer. Days ago she’d have been certain he’d have considered that the worst possible answer.

He smoothed his beard as he drew his fingers down his jaw. “My other fear—if I were to marry again—is that I wouldn’t be able to shake the dread of being abandoned physically or emotionally. I worry I may never feel free enough to love a wife as much as she deserves, to love her with no reservations. So I decided to give you this.” He poked the crate forward with his toe. “I . . . I do want to marry you, Kate. Not because Anthony wants me to, but because I realized this week that I want to risk loving you, though I’m afraid to.”

“Love?” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“I might not love you as much as Will does Eliza or Everett does Julia—not yet, anyway—but I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t love you as long as I let myself. I’ve actually been rather certain you’d steal my heart and run away with it. So I closed myself off the second I had an excuse. I was so hurt when Lucy left, and I didn’t feel nearly as much for her as I already do for you.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground between them. “To save myself from pain, I kept myself from joy as well. It felt safer to deal with the wilderness.” He huffed and looked out over the Clines’ hay fields. “I’d always thought the Israelites were stupid for wanting to go back to Egypt when the Promised Land was . . . well, promised. But it seems I’m not that much smarter than them.”

She swallowed, but he seemed intent on turning himself inside out before her, so she held her peace. Her heart softened as
she watched him struggle for more words. When Silas Jonesey decided to talk, he clearly did a thorough job of it.

His cheek twitched, but he’d yet to turn and look at her. “When you told me about your past, I figured you’d ruin my future like Lucy had, but as I held that bottle yesterday, I realized she hadn’t ruined my future. She gave me a son and led me to you. God worked good from the bad—for what other way would I have met you?”

He turned to face her, his eyes piercing, his throat seemingly trying to swallow a lump. “But if I’ve lost you . . .” He closed his eyes, his whole body tense. “It’s my fault, not God’s. I didn’t trust Him with my future, and when I realized you couldn’t promise me that you’d stick around and ensure me lifelong bliss—”

“I sure don’t sound like the most desirable bride when you put it that way.” She could have pointed out that she hadn’t run these past few weeks—but was that because she’d been trusting God regardless of the outcome or because she’d been stuck?

“And I’m not the most desirable groom. That wine bottle indicates how easily I could fail you. So all this to say, I want to shed my fears and not pin my hopes on a person—as I hope you will too—but rather trust God for the future He wants to give us.”

She clasped her hands together, her gut shaking again. So did he want to marry her or not? “What am I supposed to do with the wine?”

“It’s yours, a symbol of the risk you’d take if you marry me, but also that I commit to vanquishing that stronghold. You and Anthony are worth fighting every vice I have. But I figure if you’re willing, and if you thought God wanted you with us, then you could add your boots to the crate.”

“But I don’t have another pair.” She cringed at her hasty response. “I guess that’s like giving up a good wine.”

“You don’t have to do it.” He let out a steady, controlled breath. “But I figured we could hand the symbols of our weakness over to Reverend Finch as a way to commit to keeping our flaws from undermining our vows. . . . If we were to wed, that is.”

To hand over her boots and promise to never, ever run . . . Why wasn’t she giddily saying yes? She’d wanted him to propose again, but what if none of her dreams about marrying him turned out as she’d imagined? What if he did start drinking again? She’d refused to marry Jasper because of his drinking. She’d been beaten by her brother-in-law when he was drunk.

“Please don’t decide right now, Kate. I want to know you’ve thought everything through. But no matter what, I don’t want the wine back, and here.” He picked up the money and held it out for her.

She stared at it. “What if I don’t choose the money?”

“It’s yours to do with as you please. Either way.”

“Either way?”

“It’s for you, especially since I made such a mess of things . . .”

When she didn’t reach for it, he shrugged, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. “God tried to bless me with you, yet I pushed you away. I care for you too much to tie you to a man who’d do such a thing unless the promised land God wants for you has me in it.” He moved closer and placed the money in her hand, wrapping her fingers around the wad of cash with his own. “And if that promised land isn’t with me, you could get there with this.”

He trailed a finger down the side of her cheek, his lips pressed together to form a stressed smile, his eyes a mixture of sorrow and warmth. “I wish I hadn’t let you down. I wish I could promise I’d never do it again.” His thumb ended up on her lower lip, his eyes lingered for seconds, maybe minutes, and
then his hand dropped. “No matter what you decide, would you pray for Anthony, at least?”

She felt herself nod, but she couldn’t get her lips to move. She was doing well enough to breathe.

He let his gaze run over the features of her face as she tried to think of something worth saying. But what could she say that had been thought through with the care and time he asked her to put into an answer? “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile, and his gaze dropped to her mouth again, but before she could step closer, he turned and with one stride, grabbed the wagon’s side and swung himself up into his seat. He put a finger to his brow in good-bye and called for the team to giddap.

In minutes, he disappeared into the untamed prairie.

She stared after him, head whirling. For all her pining, what if she’d been grumbling through a wilderness of her own making, forcing her way toward a promised land that didn’t exist?

Chapter 22

With a groan, Silas yanked out the huge sandstone he’d been digging around for the past few minutes. He pushed the hair from his face, but the malicious wind only threw dirt into his eyes. Though his lips and cheeks were already chapped, he had to clear this field. He needed it arable by spring to make up for the land he’d sold—because of course, Mr. Thissen hadn’t wanted this overgrown section cluttered with rock.

The frosty wind blasted Silas again and would have toppled him if he were a few pounds lighter. He kept his head down and feet planted until the gust weakened. Days like this were never pleasant for working, but with Anthony at school, he hadn’t enjoyed sitting at home sharpening knives in silence. His mind kept wandering to Kate, to what he should have said yesterday, or what he shouldn’t have—

“Silas.”

He looked around, but saw no one. And now he was imagining her voice even out here. The wind blew more grit into his eyes. Blinking and rubbing, he turned his back to the wind. Time to give up and find something to do in the barn. He marched home, blowing warm air into his icy hands.

If he walked fast enough, maybe his heavy breathing would shut off his brain.

Was there any man who could propose to a woman worse than he? Why had he talked about himself as if he were some terrible wretch? He wasn’t Richard Fitzgerald or even Ned Parker. Thinking back over yesterday’s proposal—where he’d basically told her there was no hope he’d remain sober—how could he expect a positive response?

And why hadn’t he told Kate the things he liked about her? Like how she was so caring and tenacious. A feisty woman like her could survive Kansas, provided she didn’t blow away.

He tried to catch a feed sack tumbling past but missed. The fabric snagged in the blackberry bushes. He tugged it free, then crossed to the barn. With the wind whistling through the slats, he put the bag on the pile and leaned his shovel against the stack for good measure. He squatted beside Yellow Eyes, huddled in the corner, and scratched behind his ears. “I don’t blame you for hiding today. Your skinny little body’d get blown into town out there. You’d think a storm was coming, but I don’t smell one or see one. Just a bunch of dumb wind.”