Cinderfella (24 page)

“This is above and beyond your duties as a godfather, Nathan, and I'll never forget it. Do you really think Oswald will make an actor?”

Nathan closed the squeaking wagon gate and turned to face Ash. The smile faded. “Yes, I do actually.
If
he's willing to learn. God knows he's got the ego of a star performer.”

“And Verna?”

“Verna will no doubt have husband number three snagged before spring rolls around.” Nathan reached up and placed his arm over Ash's shoulder. It was an awkward position for the shorter man, so Ash leaned forward slightly. “I'll work her hard enough until then.”

“Good luck.”

At long last, the house without Verna and her boys underfoot, without the nagging and the whining and the insults. It would be just him . . . and Charmaine, for as long as she stayed.

“Don't waste this opportunity, my boy,” Nathan whispered, and at that moment Charmaine stepped onto the porch. “You've got her all to yourself, now. Make the best of it.”

“Charmaine's not going to stay.” Ash said this as much to himself as to Nathan. Believing otherwise was dangerous. “She never intended to and nothing's changed.”

She was looking to the wagon with a rather forlorn look in her eyes. After her difficult weeks here, she couldn't possibly be distressed about the departure of Verna and Oswald. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe, in spite of the truce they'd come to, she was dreading the prospect of sharing the house with him alone.

“Ha!” Nathan scoffed softly. “Even I can see that
everything's
changed. She milks cows and feeds chicken, she learned to cook for you. . . . ”

“She's just killing time until her father cools off and she can slip away without worrying about him coming after her.”

“No. . . . ”

“She told me so herself.”

“If you tell her that you love her. . . . ”

“Forget it,” Ash said sharply.

“But it's true,” Nathan hissed. “Don't lie to me, because I know you better than anyone else, and I can always tell when you're lying. It's in your eyes . . . Lila's eyes. I can see even when you're lying to yourself.”

It was the truth, and Ash didn't waste any more breath denying what Nathan saw. “Sometimes I look at her and it hits me like a thunderbolt. This woman is my
wife.
And then it hits me again, the knowledge that she never wanted to be and she'll leave in a heartbeat when the opportunity rolls around.”

“I don't believe it,” Nathan said stubbornly.

Ash glanced at the woman in question, as she paced the front porch with her eyes on the wagon. She really did look distressed. Charmaine didn't belong here, she belonged in the city, with her seminars and her manuals and her. . . .
 

“What do women do in Boston . . . for entertainment?”

“They have oyster parties and go to the theater, for the most part.” Nathan said with a grin.

“What else?” Ash asked seriously.

Nathan hesitated. “Sleighing and ice skating in the winter and picnicking in the summer. Games played after dinner, a buggy ride in the park. Poetry reading and musical events great and small. What exactly are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Ash said softly.

He gave Nathan a hearty hug and another soft thanks, and then Charmaine came down the porch steps to say her own good-byes. Verna and Oswald were as cool to her as they'd been to Ash when he'd said good bye, but Nathan insisted on a hug and a kiss from his Juliet.

As they watched the wagon pull away, there was a tear in Charmaine's eye.

“What's wrong?” Hell, he knew what was wrong. She didn't want to be alone with him any more than she wanted to be married to him.

But she surprised him with her answer. “I'll miss Pumpkin.”

 

This couldn't be right. Doc Whitfield had made a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake.

She almost ran over Sarah Lewis, as the woman exited the Markam mercantile.

“Why, good afternoon, Maureen.”

“Ha!” she said without looking at the woman, without even slowing her step.

Behind her there was a muffled and indignant, “Why, I never. . . . ”

Doc Whitfield was wrong, he had to be. What he suggested was impossible, preposterous. But even as she denied what she'd heard, she knew it was the truth.

Forty-five year old women didn't have babies. Well, perhaps they did, but
she
didn't. It was ludicrous.

More than fifteen years ago, Doc Whitfield had told her she wouldn't have any more children. She remembered that horrid meeting as if it were yesterday, and she'd reminded him of it just a few minutes ago. He was certain his diagnosis had been that it was highly unlikely that she'd conceive again, not impossible . . . but as far as Maureen was concerned that was splitting hairs.

Stuart was just riding in as she approached the house, and she changed course to intercept him. He gave her a wide smile as he dismounted and tossed the reins to the waiting stable boy, but that smile faded as she came near.

“What's wrong?” He reached for her, but she snatched her arm away.

“How could you?” she whispered.

“How could I
what?
”

He was truly puzzled, looking so innocent and concerned. Ha!
He
wasn't the one who was pregnant.
He
wasn't the one who was tired all the time and nauseated most every morning and already getting fat.

“Men!” she said, and then she spun on her heel to walk away.

He followed closely, around the house and up the stairs, through the front door and finally into the parlor. She tried to shut him out there, but he squeezed in before she could close the door in his face.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, tossing his hat aside. “Have you been talking to Charmaine?”

Maureen sat on the sofa and tried to gather her composure. She was going to have to tell him, sooner or later.

“I saw the doctor this afternoon.”

He paled, and she could actually see the fear in his eyes. “What's wrong?”

The tears welled in her eyes. This couldn't be happening. Not now. She was a
grandmother,
for goodness sake. “I'm going to have a baby,” she wailed.

Impossibly, Stuart went even paler. “A baby?”

Maureen nodded quickly.

When he smiled she wanted to punch him in the mouth. “A baby,” he whispered. “After all these years.” He sat beside her and placed a long arm over her shoulder. “Why are you crying? This is wonderful news.”

“Wonderful news!” She tried to edge away from him, but he held tight. “I'm too old to have a baby! My daughters should be having babies, not me!”

“Did the Doc say you were too old?” he whispered. “Does he expect problems?”

Maureen shook her head. “He said I'm disgustingly healthy for a woman of my age, and I should have no complications.”

“Good,” he sighed with relief.

“But what does he know?” she snapped. “He's the one who told me there would be no more children!”

Stuart laid a hand against her face, a hand that was surprisingly gentle. A tear fell, and he brushed it away with his thumb. “You know, we always wanted more babies. So maybe we're a little old. . . . ”

“A
little
old!“

He grinned, a wide smile that deepened the wrinkles on his face and made her heart beat faster. “I couldn't be happier.”

“Of course you're happy.” She tried to sound stern but fell far short. “You don't have to carry this child and give birth in the spring. Oh, and what will people say?”

“Who gives a —”

“Stuart.”

“Who cares?”

Maureen gave in and fell against him, burying her head against his chest. “I'm scared,” she whispered, admitting it for the first time. “I'm not a young woman, and. . . . ”

He wouldn't allow her to say it. “I'll take such good care of you,” he said, “you'll wish you were pregnant all the time.”

She sniffled.

“We'll hire extra help, and I'll stay home more. Hell, what's the good of having all this money if I can't spend it?” His hands brushed her hair. “I love you too much to allow anything to happen to you.”

“It's not that simple.”

“And another thing,” he said, ignoring her. “When the girls were little I missed so much. Getting the ranch started, chasing rustlers, cattle drives, I was away from home more than I was here. This time, I don't want to miss anything.”

Maureen lifted her head to look at him. Maybe this was not such a disaster after all. Maybe everything would work out for the best. Stuart was certainly happy about it. Didn't he realize that a child in the house would turn their comfortable world upside down?

The constant demands, the sleepless nights. The inevitable dilemmas of growing up. The heartache and pain, when the child suffered heartache and pain.

A child's laughter and tears. The unconditional love that comes only from a child. Another child to love and raise. Maybe this would be another beautiful daughter, and then again maybe it would be the son Stuart had always wanted. She was afraid to mention that possibility aloud, afraid she'd jinx whatever chance they had.

“You need a nap before supper,” he demanded, rising and taking her hand to pull her gently to her feet, surprising her by sweeping her up and into his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“There will be no unnecessary walking in the next six months or so.”

“You can't carry me everywhere.”

“I don't see why not.”

She turned the doorknob and Stuart pushed the door open to carry her from the parlor. They were halfway up the stairs when the strain began to show on his face.

“Okay,” he conceded breathlessly as they reached the second floor. “Maybe we're not as young as we used to be, but we're not exactly a couple of old geezers, either.”

She laughed. Minutes ago she would have thought merriment impossible, but as Stuart carried her to their bed she placed her head on his shoulder and laughed out loud. As he very carefully placed her on the bed, he let out a sigh of relief.

“What would you think about fixing up one of the downstairs rooms as a bedchamber . . . just for a few months?”

She took his face in her hands and kissed him lightly. “I love you, Stuart. I'm so sorry I yelled at you earlier.”

“It's all right,” he whispered. “Scared me a little bit, I can tell you that. You've never yelled at me like that before, and I thought surely something terrible had happened.”

She still wasn't convinced that this wasn't terrible, but she felt much better.

Stuart sat down on the bed beside her and fell back. “You know,” he said, still slightly breathless. “Maybe I need a before supper nap myself.”

 

A fragrant stew was simmering on the stove, and the biscuits were almost done. A cherry cobbler was cooling on the table, its perfectly browned lattice crust and the red filling making it almost too pretty to eat.

Why was she so nervous? It wasn't like she'd never been alone with Ash before.

But when he slammed the front door shut she nearly jumped out of her skin. Fortunately he couldn't see her, and she had time to compose herself before he stepped into the kitchen.

“That smells great.” He smiled at her, and the result was most distressing. She loved him more today than she had as a silly child. She loved him more every day, and it was tearing her apart.

He didn't want her to stay. Goodness, he'd been the one with a gun to his head as they were married, he'd been the one to declare on more than one occasion that she'd make a terrible farmer's wife.

While he cleaned up she set the table and filled two bowls with stew. She placed the biscuits on the table, along with butter and jam. Ash would want coffee with lots of milk and sugar, and she'd have tea. By the time he came to the table everything was in place.

“I guess it was lonely around here today,” he said with a smile.

“A little,” she confessed. “But it was blessedly quiet and peaceful. I don't think I realized how much Verna talked until she was gone.”

He nodded his head in agreement and dug in. It was surprisingly gratifying to watch Ash enjoy the meal she had prepared, oddly delightful.

“Do you skate?” he asked abruptly.

“Skate?”

“Ice-skate,” he clarified. “I ran across a couple of old pairs of skates in the tack room this afternoon, and I just wondered. . . . ”

“I love to skate,” she said quickly.

“The pond freezes over in the wintertime,” he said. “Sometimes in December, always in January . . . I mean, if you're still here then we might could. . . . ”

“That would be great . . . if I'm still here.”

She looked into her half-eaten bowl of stew. What did she have to do to prove herself? What would it take to get Ash to ask her to stay?

What if he never asked? After all, she'd told him she didn't intend to stay . . . more than once. She'd made it very clear that she didn't want to be here any more than he wanted her here.

His father had said she had
sand,
and she'd certainly never been one to hold her tongue. Why was it so hard to find the right words now? Where was her courage? Her courage was disturbingly absent, her tongue distressingly uncooperative . . . just when she needed it most!

If she didn't speak up Ash would never ask her to stay.

“I would hate to leave you here all alone during the winter,” she blurted. “Maybe, if you don't mind, I'll stay until spring.”

He didn't lift his eyes from his near empty bowl. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

“I mean, with Verna gone you need someone to cook for you, and to launder your clothes and keep the house,” she said quickly. “And what if you went skating all alone and fell through the ice and there was no one there to help you? Goodness, I would feel as if I were deserting you if I left you during the winter.”