Claimed on the Frontier (12 page)

“Did you enjoy that, darlin’?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I whispered. “I… I don’t even… there are no words…”

He chuckled. “Sometimes, there doesn’t need to be. It’s my pleasure to pleasure you.”

I sighed. “Do I please you, sir?”

“Very much so,” he said, planting a kiss upon my forehead. “You’re good, and pure, and lovely. And my hope is that in takin’ care of you I can become a good man once again.”

I was puzzled by his murmured confession, but I didn’t know how to respond then in the darkness.

“Be a good girl, now,” he said, and his voice had deepened. “I’ll be back in an hour, and we’ll breakfast together. Now you know I expect you to obey me.” I nodded as I lifted the blanket and got out of bed.

The morning was chilly. He left the room and traipsed to start a fire in the hearth while I dressed. As I slipped the dress over my head, my chilled fingers trembling over the buttons, I remembered his own hands removing my buttons. My cheeks flushed at the memory. I wanted more of him, but I needed to learn to be patient.

I wondered if I should take my feelings and doubts to him, or if it would be better to hold them in my heart. I still felt shy around Aaron. He was so stern. He was older than I was. And he was a man.

I heard the door of the cabin open and close as I buttoned up my boots. I scurried to the fire to rustle us up some breakfast. Our provisions were surprisingly ample, and I surmised it had to do with Aaron’s family gathering things up for us yesterday afternoon. I’d seen Phillip with paper-wrapped parcels, though I’d been too distracted at the time to really take stock of what we had. A fresh loaf of bread was wrapped in a towel, as well as many other items that would make my homemaking endeavors much easier. I warmed my chilled fingers by the fire, as I thought about what to make for breakfast. It was our first meal together in our first home, and I had to please Aaron.

We had beans, bacon, flour, molasses, salt pork, yeast, sugar, cornmeal, and many other things we could use to make our meals. A practical approach would’ve been to slice some bread and serve it with butter and jam, and perhaps fry some eggs to go along with it, but I needed to do more. It was my first meal I was feeding my husband.

My husband.

Someone I trusted my life with, but barely knew. What had he meant back in the bedroom, about
being a good man once again
?

Was there a better man than Aaron? And as my mind wandered I remembered the context of the comment he made. He’d just done wicked and lovely things to my body. Was it
right
for a husband to do that for his wife? So many questions plagued me, but I had a job to do.

I eyed the bread on the table, wondering if it had been made by Geraldine’s hands. If it was, I wanted no part of it. If I knew Aaron’s mother had made it, then yes, I’d have gladly eaten it, but my cheeks flamed remembering Geraldine’s ridicule of me the day before. I frowned, pushing the bread aside.

Well. I knew how to make bread. And though it would take time to make a yeast bread that needed to rise, I could at least provide my man with a hot breakfast. I took down a large bowl and measured out the ingredients to make griddlecakes. Flour and eggs, a dash of milk and salt, and I was ready. I leveled the pan over the heat of the hearth while I oiled it, careful not to catch my skirt in the open flames. I thought enviously of the cook stove back at ma’s homestead, and wondered if Geraldine had one. Open-flame cooking was manageable, but certainly much more challenging than standing where my skirts wouldn’t be as likely to catch flame, and I wasn’t as likely to drop the food I was preparing into the roaring fire.

But no. They had their stoves and their established homes, and I had mine. It would take time to earn our way and have enough for a cook stove. But this little home was
ours.

I flipped the griddlecakes one at a time, marveling at the golden browned edges, keeping the plate warm by the fire so that Aaron could have a hot breakfast. We had butter and molasses, and even some maple syrup. I hummed softly to myself as I watched the kettle, little tendrils of steam rising against the black of the fire. It was so warm by the fire as I flipped our griddlecakes, perspiration dripped into my eyes and I ran a forearm over my forehead. We had a good half a dozen. I eyed the batter in the bowl and kept flipping. I’d made more batter than I really needed for two people, being used to cooking for the four of us in the morning. My heart sank. Would I have too much? Mrs. Fitzgerald used to scold me something awful for wasting food. I sighed. I had so much to learn. So intent on my cooking was I that I did not hear the cabin door open, and when Aaron’s deep voice spoke just behind me, I jolted and flipped a cake straight onto the fire.

“Damn it!”

The second the words left my lips, I wished to take them back. I closed my mouth and pursed my lips together, before I turned and faced him. Aaron stood, his hat still in his hand, and his arms across his chest. His brow was furrowed, and he was wearing the flinty expression I was all too familiar with.

“Hand me the plate of cakes, please,” he instructed. I obeyed. Uncrossing his arms, he took the plate, and with his other hand, he reached for mine. After putting the plate of cakes down, he reached for both my hands and placed them on the table.

“Did I not tell you I was past warning you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bend over the table.” Closing my eyes, I obeyed, bending carefully, my bottom raised in the air. He anchored one hand on my waist, and with the other, landed three hard swats, but with my layers of skirts I felt little more than a sting. Still, I was mortified at being punished like a child, and I felt my cheeks flame with embarrassment. He released my waist and spun me around to look at him, chucking a finger under my chin. He was not a fool. He knew the licks he’d given me had not hurt.

“This mornin’, I feel only a reminder that you obey my rules now is in order. I do not want to hear a curse word come out of that mouth again.” His voice deepened. “Am I clear, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, tears springing to my eyes. I did
so
want to obey him.

“I’ve been easy on you, and will allow you time to adjust to my rules. I’m anticipatin’ you’ll find yourself over my knee quite a bit while you learn, and I’m takin’ that into consideration. But if this continues, I
will
punish you
soundly
if I don’t see you makin’ an effort to obey me. You understand?” He quirked a brow.

“Oh, yes, sir.” I nodded, my hands repentantly folded behind my back. He nodded.

“Good. Now let’s eat. I’ve about had it eatin’ just enough to get me through the day and now that we’re here on a place of our own, I’m ready to tuck in. And you, pretty lady, make some mean griddlecakes.” I smiled to myself, folding my skirts behind me as he pulled out a chair from the table and gestured for me to sit down.

“I was afraid I’d made too much,” I confessed, as I forked a few cakes and slid them onto my plate. “I’m used to cooking enough for all four of us.”

“No need to fear that,” he said. “And you’ll learn as we go. It’s one thing to cook in an established house, but quite another to keep a house of your own. Griddlecakes over an open hearth are quite ambitious, though. Why not slice the bread we have?”

I eyed the traitorous bread and said nothing, pretending my mouth was too full to speak. But when I swallowed, I had no excuse.

His voice was low, warning. “Pearl.”

I swallowed another bite and didn’t look up at him as I stuffed another in my mouth.

He spoke again. “You’ll look at me when I speak your name.”

I immediately raised my eyes to his. He was looking at me curiously.

“Yes, sir?” I whispered. I didn’t want to speak of the bread. For some reason it felt as if the griddlecakes stuck in my throat, and I wanted another if only for the reason that I wanted to have an excuse not to talk.

“Why did you go mum when I asked you about the bread?” He looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you just slice the bread for breakfast?”

I cast my eyes at the table, and thankfully he didn’t scold. He might chastise me again for being petulant, but I would speak the truth. I inhaled and faced him.

“I didn’t know who made it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who made it? I don’t understand.”

My cheeks flushed but I continued on bravely. “If your ma made it, I’ll eat it gladly and thank her.” I swallowed. “But if it was made by Geraldine, I’d rather go hungry, and I have no wish to serve it to my newlywed husband.”

He blinked. I held my breath. I waited for him to scold, shake his head, or order me to cut it, eat it, and stop acting like a child. But then his eyes twinkled and his lips twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “I see. Now, Pearl, what difference does it make who made the bread?”

“All the difference,” I whispered. It meant something to me.

Nodding slowly to himself, he took another bite of a griddlecake. He brushed a finger over his beard meditatively for a moment. I wondered if the conversation was over, but then he placed his fork down and folded his hands in his lap. His honey-colored eyes were gentle and kind when he spoke, but his voice was firm. Not corrective, exactly, but I was again aware of his steadfast dedication to morals, and how much older and wiser he was than I. “Pearl, have you ever heard the expression ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’”

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

He nodded again. “It means that a woman who can’t have the man she desires can rival hell itself in her fury. Does that make sense to you?”

I nodded.

“You’re my wife now, and it’s fittin’ that you know Geraldine was sweet on me when she was younger. I’d have nothin’ to do with her. Geraldine didn’t take too kindly to that.”

“I see,” I said quietly. I didn’t like thinking of Geraldine with my Aaron.

“She caught Phillip’s eye, and her pa was more’n happy to wed her off. Her parents left for the east coast, and she’s been with Phillip ever since. Now, Phillip does well by her, but she hasn’t forgiven me. She doesn’t dislike
you
,
Pearl. She dislikes what you represent.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.

“Do you understand now?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Goodness,” I muttered to myself, giving way to that habit I had of speaking before I thought. “I couldn’t imagine such a woman with you. Really, a woman like Geraldine would find herself over your lap more often than she found herself on her own two feet. You’d wear the palm of your hand out on her stubborn backside.”

I looked with surprise to Aaron as he let out a sound that was wholly unfamiliar to me, something between a snort and a guffaw. My eyes widened as he fairly sputtered his coffee all over the table, he was laughing so hard. He pushed away from the table and his sides shook with laughter. His laugh was deep, like thunder, and it took me by surprise. I’d never heard him laugh so uproariously before. I began to chuckle myself.

A knock came at the door, and I scurried to answer it, grateful for something to do as I was not quite sure what to do with my nearly hysterical husband. To my relief, ma stood at the door. Her eyes widened when she heard Aaron’s uproarious laughter, and she peeked around my shoulder.

“Is he quite all right?” she whispered in a hush.

I giggled. “Quite,” I said, gesturing for her to come in. “He… seems to be in a fit of laughter over something I’ve said.”

He was slapping his thighs with his palms, hooting with laughter. “Wear my palm out,” he muttered under his breath. It was nice to see him laugh so. I didn’t know he had it in him. And to think, I’d always thought him such a serious, foreboding man. He certainly
could
be, but apparently, I amused him.

Finally, he quieted, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and getting to his feet to greet his ma. He kissed her cheek, and her eyes twinkled as she unwrapped several loaves of bread and placed them on the table.

I eyed the bread. “Did you make those yourself?” I asked, and to my shock, Aaron resumed his uproarious laughter.

“Aaron!” I said. It was barely a rebuke, but I was trying to get him to come to his senses.

He curled an arm around my waist and pulled me onto his lap—right side up, thankfully—and embraced me that way. I squirmed, uncomfortable with the intimate gesture in front of his ma.

“Hush, now,” he said. “There’s nothing at all wrong with you sittin’ on my lap. I’m keepin’ you out of mischief. I’ll not get a thing done today if you keep makin’ me laugh so.”

Ma’s eyes twinkled and she grinned at us as she laid supplies on the table. A bolt of cloth and sewing supplies for me, a lovely skein of soft cotton yarn, and sundry other supplies that would keep my fingers useful as my husband did his work outside our home.

“You young whippersnappers are making my day,” she murmured. “Makes me miss your pa.”

Aaron rocked the chair with me still in his lap. “You’d’ve liked my pa,” Aaron said to me. I nodded.

“Yes, sir,” I said, in my typical habit of speaking exactly what I thought before considering my words. “I’ve no doubt if he was anything like ma and yourself, I’d have loved him.”

His eyes warmed to me and ma’s movements quieted behind me. I could see Aaron looking at her over my shoulder. I turned to her. She was eyeing me wistfully.

“Pearls are precious and rare,” she said softly, turning to Aaron. “Wherever did you find such a treasure?”

“I’ll tell you the story one time,” he said. “Not today. But when I saw her I knew I would not let her go.”

It often felt odd when people spoke of me as if I were not there. But in that moment, it felt quite nice. Had he truly felt that way? But yes, he always spoke the truth. He was not one to lie. I had no idea that he’d really felt that way when he saw me. I wondered if I’d been a burden to him, as he was the type of man to take care of one weaker and in need of protection.

He stood then, gently putting me on my feet.

“I’ve much work to do,” he said in his deep way, a protective lilt now in his voice that made my heart flutter. He bent over and planting a tender kiss on my forehead. “You be a good girl and ma will help you learn your tasks around here. I’ll be back for dinner.”