A Bride in the Bargain (24 page)

The only life—real life—Mama had shown since Papa joined up was the night Anna confessed that Leon had left for good.

“It’s your fault! Your fault!”
her mother had screeched.

And, indeed, it had been. Tamping down her shame, Anna had slipped an arm about her mother’s waist, led her to the parlor, and settled her in a high-backed chair.

Mama had picked up her needle and thread, the vacant look already back in her eyes. Never again would they shine. Her husband had left, her beloved son had left, and her daughter had betrayed her. She became as fragile and empty as the shells Anna now held in her hand.

Anna closed her fist around them, their edges sharp against her palms. With a force of will, she pushed the memories aside, moved to the floor, and began to sort the shells, concentrating instead on what she might create once she had them all organized.

She’d make something for Joe. Something special. Some little piece of herself to leave behind once her debt had been paid off.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

He didn’t tell her about Bertha. Not after Red’s unannounced arrival, nor on the following three Sundays. Instead, Joe continued to woo her. If Cupid had pierced her heart, though, she kept it well hidden. He, on the other hand, found himself well and truly smitten.

“He drank the entire bowl of sugar!” Anna said, her eyes filled with horror.

She wore her yellow calico, providing a bit of sunshine at the end of a rainy week. He’d spent most of the day inspecting his newly completed log chute. While he was gone, Anna had entertained her first Squamish Indian.

“He kept saying
‘kabi, kabi’
and pointing to the coffeepot. But every time I warmed some for him, he filled his cup with sugar, then poured on just enough coffee to saturate the sugar.”

Joe smiled. “He was only drinking the coffee for the sake of the sugar. Next time, you can sweeten it for him.”

She shook her head. “He was very polite, though.”

“I’m sure he was.”

She turned back to an assortment of seashells spread across the floor in front of the fire. Every night after dinner, she’d pour more out and sort them by size and color and type. She was close to the bottom of her collection, and he imagined she’d finish her task before the evening was through.

He pulled off his boots and stretched out his legs. It was his custom to read while she worked, but tonight he couldn’t concentrate. Closing the volume of poems by Wordsworth, he set it aside and watched her instead.

The yellow gown billowed out around her, its skirt trimmed with a design she’d made with both ribbon and fancy stitches. Her booted toes peeked from beneath her hem.

Clutching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she turned a cylindrical brown-and-white-striped shell in her fingers, then dropped it in a bowl with other like-minded shells.

His time was running out. Only two weeks left before he lost his land. Joe needed to make his move and he needed to make it soon. He wondered again if his attempts to woo her were working. Not just because of his deadline, but because he was undeniably attracted to her.

It was several moments before she realized he wasn’t reading. Glancing up, she froze. He surveyed her hair, her delicate facial features, her creamy neck, and the way her dress stretched across her shoulders and chest.

“Shouldn’t you be marrying Mrs. Wrenne soon?” she whispered.

“I should have married her two weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Several reasons.”

She went back to her sorting.

“Anna?”

The stiffening of her shoulders was his only indication she’d heard him.

Unfolding himself from the chair, he joined her on the floor, stretching one leg out and bending the other one. “I don’t want to marry Bertha.”

She stopped sorting but didn’t look up. “She’ll be devastated.”

He rested an elbow against his upraised knee. “I don’t think so.”

“I know so.”

“How do you know?”

“I spent many hours with her on the
Continental
. We became quite close.” She raised her gaze. “You should have told her long before.”

“You needn’t worry. She’ll be well provided for as long as needed. There’s even talk of a man who’s shown extreme interest in her. A man much more suited to her.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him.”

“That doesn’t mean her distress from being left at the altar won’t be humiliating.” The firelight added shades of amber to her troubled brown eyes. She lowered her chin. “I just don’t want to see her hurt.”

“Which do you think would hurt her more? Canceling the wedding or marrying her, even though my interests are elsewhere?”

Scooping up a pile of unsorted shells, she began returning them to a tin. “It’s really none of my business what you do.”

He covered the tin with his hand. “Look at me.”

She shook her head.

Placing his finger under her chin, Joe lifted her face. “My interest lies elsewhere, little robin. My interest lies with—”

“Perhaps you should redirect your interest.”

She tried to pull away, but he captured her chin between his thumb and finger.

“Too late.” He lowered his mouth.

Slapping his hand away, she scrambled back and avoided his kiss. “You’re betrothed, Joe.”

“Consider it broken.”

“I will not. You cannot. She’ll be—”

“Quit harping about Bertha. Accepting my proposal was just as calculated on her part as it was on mine. No feelings were involved for either one of us. What kind of man would I be if I married one woman when I was interested in another?” He grabbed her wrist before she could fly. “Marry me, Anna.”

Her eyes filled. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s too big a responsibility.”

“What is?” he asked. “The commitment?”

“No. Not that.”

“Then what?” He searched his mind for possible objections. It couldn’t be homemaking. She excelled in that area. If it wasn’t that or the commitment, then . . . “Children? Do you not want children?”

She started to deny it, then gave him a shattered look. “Actually, Joe, I wouldn’t want children.”

His mouth went slack. “Why not?”

“I’d make a terrible mother.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. My answer is no.”

“Just like that? Because you don’t think you’d be a good mother?”

She tugged at his hand.

“Do you have feelings for me?”

“Let me go.”

“Answer me.”

She pierced him with her glare, tears rushing to her eyes. “All right, then. I refuse to have feelings for a man who will marry a woman—any woman—for the sole sake of saving his acreage.”

“It’s not just that, Anna. It’s you. I care for you.”

“Really? As much as your land?”

He paused, mulling over her words. Did he? Did he care for her the way he did his land? Anna seized on his hesitation.

“You see?” she said. “You don’t care for me any more than you do Mrs. Wrenne. It’s the acreage you love. As a matter of fact, you care more about that one chestnut tree out there than you do about any woman.”

“That’s not true.”

“Let me go.”

“I’ll never let you go, Anna.” But he did and she raced from the room, skirt flouncing, ribbons flying. Seconds later, her door slammed shut.

Swiping his hand across the unsorted pile of shells, he sent them to all corners. Why couldn’t he make her see they were an excellent match?

He lurched to his feet. He hadn’t intended to propose. His declaration was spontaneous and clumsy. Her challenge had confused him, though. If his land were not at risk, would he have still proposed?

It was an impossible question. Because if his land hadn’t been at risk, he wouldn’t have bought himself a bride. He wouldn’t have been in town to greet Mercer’s girls and most likely he would never have even met Anna. She’d have been bought by some farmer and taken far away.

He did know one thing; he wasn’t interested in finding himself some other Mercer girl—even if there were any to be had, which there weren’t.

He wanted Anna. And he wanted her for a lifetime. But she’d said no. A very clear, articulate, emphatic
no
.

He grabbed the bowls of sorted shells, then slammed them onto the table, making no concession for those that jumped free. Returning to his chair, he began to pull on his boots.

Why couldn’t she see he cared for her? And it wasn’t just attraction. Pausing, he realized she’d carefully evaded his questions about feelings. And if he didn’t miss his guess, she did care for him. Maybe even as much as he cared for her.

So why wouldn’t she marry him? Was it the chestnut tree? Swiping up his ax, he crunched across the scattered shells and slammed out the back door. If it was the tree, he could certainly dispel any doubts she had on that account.

Huddled in front of the fire, Anna rested her head against drawn-up knees. It was well past time to retire, but she knew she’d be unable to sleep.

Was it possible that Joe loved her? He hadn’t said those words, only that he “cared” for her. Still, he hadn’t pretended to have feelings for Mrs. Wrenne.

The thought gave her pause. If all he cared about was his land, then he could simply remain betrothed to Mrs. Wrenne. Instead, he’d asked for Anna’s hand.

What possible motivation could he have for that, if not feelings? Strong feelings?

She sighed. She shouldn’t have accused him of loving the land to the exclusion of all else, but it was either that or tell him what happened to anyone who got too close to her.

His hurt expression played itself again in her mind. She pushed the image away. She could not afford to feel guilty. Otherwise, he might discover the truth. Something that only Ronny and herself knew: She was in love with Joe Denton.

She smoothed her nightdress over her knees. How could she not be drawn to him? With such an intriguing combination of gentleness and fierceness, loneliness and fullness, intelligence and simplicity?

She pictured him again as he shouted over the mighty redwood he’d felled. As he shaved and washed up in the mornings. As he laughed and joked with his crew. As he read by the fire. As he watched her in the evenings.

She loved him, all right. But her love would go unrequited. It must.

Scooting over to her bed, she reached underneath it and drew out her carpetbag. Its wooden frame peeked through the worn edges of the fabric. Undoing the buckle, she opened the bag and pulled away the false bottom. Her father’s letters stared back at her. Smudged. Wrinkled. Dog-eared.

She drew them out and untied the leather cord binding them together. One by one she reread them, though she knew them all by heart. The first few were optimistic and full of patriotism.

Then Papa saw his first battle. And his second. And his third. And the tone of his letters changed. He became tired, weary, worried.

Fingering the last one, she closed her eyes, remembering the day it arrived as clearly as if it had just happened.

After settling her mother in the parlor, she had returned to the entry hall and picked up the letter Mama had dropped upon hearing of Leon’s flight. Anna had skimmed over Papa’s justification and reasons for leaving. It was a recurring theme, and even though she was older now and knew he couldn’t have stayed home while the rest of the town did the fighting, she still resented it.

I know Leon wants to join up as a drummer, but you must not let him, Josephine. Tell him that when I come home I’ll make him a tent he can sleep under. Then he’ll see what it’s like to be a soldier.

He described the countryside but never the details from the battlefields. Finally, she came to what ordinarily was her favorite part. A section at the bottom that he always addressed especially to her.

My dearest Anna, I received news through the Jordans that Mama is in poor health, and I worry that you and Leon are not doing as much as you should. Be sure the two of you fetch all the water, make all the fires, work in the garden, help with the wash, and take on as much as you can.

She and Leon already did that and more. Much more. She’d not mentioned Mama’s decline in her letters, not wanting to worry her father. She wondered again if the Jordans had written him or if Ralph Jordan had caught up to him and given him the news firsthand.

I’ve also been made to understand that you have become somewhat unruly. Don’t you realize that when you and Leon argue and misbehave, the rebel bullets come closer to me? But if you and Leon are good, then God will take care of me and bring me home safely.

A slow chill had filled the pit of her stomach. The fight she’d had with Leon was, in fact, her fault. She’d been tired and irritated with him for playing when there was so much work still to be done. So she’d not only made him angry, but she’d struck Mama as well.

Had Papa been on the battlefield during all that? Had the rebel bullets gone closer to him because of her behavior? What if hitting Mama made a bullet hit Papa at the same time?