Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (11 page)

“
I imagine that your Sarah was very pretty,” she next ventured.

“Yeah, I thought she was pretty
. In a fragile sort of way.
Too
damned fragile as it turned out.”

Lydia remained respectfully silent, careful not to intrude on Ben’s painful memories.

Long moments passed, the stillness enlivened by the crackle of the fire and the wind rustling through the nearby stand of cottonwoods.

“Had she miscarried before?”
Lydia asked, careful to tread gently lest she inadvertently cause offense.

Ben finally tore his gaze away from the skyline. Turning his head in her direction, he said,
“She’d miscarried twice before. After the last miscarriage, I told her that I didn’t want her to take the risk again; that having a baby wasn’t as important as our being together. But she wouldn’t hear of it, she was
that
determined to have a child.”

From the pained expression on Ben’s face, Lydia knew that it was a sorrowful recollection. She well remembered her own excitement in the months leading up to Dixie’s birth. All
of the plans. All of the hopes and dreams. All of the hushed late night talks as she and James planned for their unborn baby’s future.

Suddenly, the full weight of Ben’s loss became painfully clear to her. Not only did he lose Sarah
– his companion, his friend, and his wife — but he’d lost his child, as well.

When James died, her grief had been almost insurmountable. In fact, had it not been for Dixie, she might very well have died of a broken heart. Having her daughter meant that a piece of James would forever live on. That thought
had seen her through the more difficult times. But Ben had been forced to bear his grief alone, without the comfort of a child.

Without that small piece of Sarah that he could nurture and love.

“I know that Sarah’s death was unspeakably painful for you. And, no doubt, the memory of it is still hard to bear.” Although tempted to reach across the table and cover Ben’s hand with hers, Lydia refrained, worried that the gesture might be misconstrued. For some reason, whenever they touched one another, it seemed to bring out the worst in them.

“It was a long time
ago. It doesn’t matter anymore,” Ben replied, his voice little more than a husky whisper.

“No, you’re wrong,”
Lydia countered, knowing full well that his stoicism was a suit of armor that he’d donned to protect his heart from his mournful loss. “Sarah Jane’s life, her death, they will
always
matter.”

Although Ben continued to hold her gaze, he made no reply. In
that shared moment of silence, Lydia sensed that they’d
finally
made a connection to one another.

When, a few moments later, s
he got up from the table, her husband also rose to his feet.

“Goodnight, Benjamin.”

“Goodnight, Lydia.”

For
one brief instant, she thought that Ben might kiss her, but he reached for the milk pitcher instead. While it was nothing more than mere whimsy on her part, Lydia felt unaccountably bereft that Ben had declined to kiss her goodnight.

Stepping away from the camp table
, she modestly lifted her new skirt a few inches as she made her way to the wagon. Although the day had seen its share of conflict, Lydia now knew more about her husband than she had at day’s beginning.

As she climbed into the back of the
Conestoga, she took a small measure of hope in the fact that they’d forged a bond. Granted, it was tenuous. But it was a bond, nonetheless.

“P
ut the bayonet to ‘em!” Ben shouted. “Let those Rebs have a taste of Union steel!”

Worried, Lydia leaned over her husband’s bed pallet. Placing a hand on his back, she gently nudged him. “Ben, wake up,” she whispered, having been roused from her sleep by several loud, profanely issued battle cries. Clearly, he was
suffering from some sort of nightmare.

“Give the Rebel sons of bitches hell! Rally men! Keep chargin
g ‘em!”

“Ben,
please
wake up!” This time Lydia shook her husband as hard as she could.

Suddenly, without warning, Ben rolled onto his back. As fast as a striking snake, he raised his arm, a cocked pistol in his hand
– a pistol unerringly aimed at Lydia’s forehead.

For several tense seconds, they stared at one another.

“Don’t
ever
sneak up on a sleeping man like that,” he hissed, his chest heaving with exertion. Still holding his weapon, Ben slung his forearm over his face, his body shuddering as he took several deep, ragged breaths.

Unnerved by his reaction
, Lydia knelt at Ben’s side. This wasn’t the first time since leaving the Schumachers two weeks ago that she’d heard her husband cry out in his sleep.

“I hardly
sneaked up on you,” Lydia said in her defense, still recovering from the shock of having a loaded pistol thrust in her direction. “I called your name. Several times, in fact.”

Flinging
the wool blanket off his hips, Ben pushed himself into a seated position, a haunted look on his face. “You did?”

Lydia nodded, overcome with an inexplicable urge to put her arms around
her husband and give comfort, having surmised that his nightmare, and the incident that spawned it, deeply disturbed him.

Rising from his bed pallet, Ben
peered at their darkened campsite. “I know it’s not yet dawn, but how about we put on a pot of coffee?” he suggested, the familiar ring of self-assurance having returned to his voice. Offering Lydia a hand, he helped her to her feet.

“If you don’t mind, I shall light a lantern. I’m unaccustomed to making coffee in the dark,” she groused
good-naturedly, daybreak still thirty minutes away.

To her surprise, Ben slung a companionable arm around her shoulders. “Buck up, Mrs. Strong. In Abe Lincoln’s army
, reveille always sounded
before
dawn. You should be grateful that most mornings I let you sleep until sunrise.”

Since he’d
only recently awakened from his nightmare, Lydia wondered if Ben had truly managed to put the violent dream behind him so quickly; or if his good morning cheer was all for show. Suspicious that it was the latter, she kept her own counsel.

A few moments later, i
nclining her head toward the stream that ran along the edge of their encampment, she said, “If you would be kind enough to get the water, I shall roast the coffee beans.”

Removing his arm from her shoulder, Ben dutifully went in search of the water bucket, leaving Lydia to wonder at this latest turn of events. While an armistice had been in effect these past two weeks, she didn’t feel comfortable enough to question her husband about his
recurring nightmare, fearful their truce would instantly erode if she did. An intensely private man, Ben never made mention of his wartime experiences.

Stepping over to the wagon, Lydia scrambled into the back of it, careful not to disturb her daughter. As she did every morning, she reached for the matches
that she kept in a pocket tacked to the side of the wagon bed. Holding the lantern aloft, she struck a match, wrinkling her nose at the sulfurous odor.

After setting the lantern on a stack of boxes, she disrobed, neatly hanging her nightgown on its assigned hook.
Because the green calico was Ben’s favorite, she donned it. Day by day, it was becoming easier for her to wear the colorfully printed dresses.

Hurriedly finishing her toilette, Lydia rummaged through a storage barrel.
Coffee cache and foodstuffs in hand, she exited the wagon and made her way to the table, three chairs, and shallow cooking pit that comprised their makeshift kitchen.

On bent knee, he
r husband was industriously engaged in starting the morning campfire.

When the fire was lit, Lydia measured out a heaping scoop of coffee beans, tossing them into a skillet and setting them on the crackling flames to roast before milling.

“These navy beans sure smell good,” Ben said with an appreciative sniff, nodding toward the covered pot of beans that had been simmering overnight in the ashes of the previous night’s fire.

“I’m glad
that you think so,” Lydia replied, lifting the pot lid to inspect her culinary handiwork for herself. “Although I’m still of the opinion that beans and bacon are an acquired taste. Especially for breakfast.”

“Not in
—”

“I know, I know. Not in Abe Lincoln’s army.”

They smiled at each other across the campfire, Lydia pleased that they could occasionally jest and tease. While Ben wasn’t enamored
per se
, he did seem more at ease in her company. Although he still kept his distance at night, preferring to sleep on his solitary bed pallet by the fire.

Much to her growing vexation.

Because baring her breasts and out-and-out begging the man to consummate their marriage had failed, Lydia feared nothing short of a miracle would alter the situation. Obviously, Ben did not find her desirable in the least.

And if the opposite
was true, he certainly went to great lengths to hide his desire, polite civility reigning supreme. Which, all things considered, was a vast improvement over their first stormy week of marriage.

“I’d say those coffee beans are roasted enough. What do you think?”

At the sound of Ben’s voice, Lydia mentally shook herself. Bending over the skillet, she flicked at the coffee beans with a long-handled spoon.

“
I agree. They do look ready to grind.”

Ben snatched the coffee mill
off of the table. “I’ll do the grinding while you slice the apples.”

Lydia couldn’t help but smile
; fried apples were Ben’s second favorite dish after flapjacks. Fortunately, her husband’s culinary tastes didn’t run to the exotic.

Seated at the camp table,
Lydia took a moment to appreciate the first rays of eastern light, the sun just beginning its dawn trek. As she cored and sliced the apples, Ben poured her a cup of hot coffee before reclining in one of the camp chairs. Glancing at him, Lydia was momentarily struck by the way that the early morning light played off her husband’s silvery strands of hair. If they’d shared the intimacy of a marriage bed, she might have been tempted to run her fingers across those thick, wavy locks.

“I was told that your hair went gray overnight.”

Ben swung his head in her direction, a guarded look on his face. “You heard right,” he answered in a lowered voice, his gaze shifting to his coffee mug.

A noticeable pause ensued.

When Ben refused to elaborate on the subject, Lydia said, “You must admit that it’s somewhat unusual for a man your age to suddenly—”

“I’m not inclined to jaw about it, all right?”

Given Ben’s sullen expression, Lydia had obviously opened a can of worms. Knowing that his hair went gray during the war, Lydia wondered if there was any connection between that occurrence and the violent dreams that plagued him each night.

Not ready to close the book on the subject just yet, she took a deep breath before saying, “I happen to think that your gray hair is . . . is quite handsome.”

Ben’s scowl instantly disappeared, replaced with a more amicable expression. “Since we’re doling out the compliments, I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed your cooking these last few weeks.”

Pushing back her chair, Lydia rose to her feet, carrying the bowl of sliced apples over to the fire. “That is hardly a fair exchange of compliments,” she
retorted as she dropped a handful of apple slices into a greased hot skillet.

“Okay, Mrs. Strong
. What if I told you that you’re one of the handsomest women I’ve seen in quite some time,” Ben countered, one side of his mustache twitching with the makings of a smile. “Would that even the score?”

Enjoying the game, Lydia shook her head. “Seeing as how I’m the
only
woman that you’ve seen of late, I’m afraid your compliment still doesn’t measure up.”

“Well, now, just give me a chance. I know
that I can do better.”

“If you want fried apples with your breakfast,
you will certainly have to.”

“So, you’re going make me work for my morning chow, are you?” Leaning back in his chair, Ben bracketed his chin with his forefinger and thumb, his eyes slowly roaming the length of her body. “All right then
. What if I told you that you have one of the most enticing— Holy hell!”

The next few seconds
passed in a rapid-fire blur as Ben suddenly lunged from his chair and dove toward her. In the next instant, the bowl of apples flew through the air as her husband seized her by the waist and threw himself on top of her, the two of them tumbling together on the ground. Shrieking loudly, Lydia pushed at Ben’s chest with her balled fists, her legs frantically scissoring beneath him.

“For Christ’s sake
! Stop moving!” Ben ordered as he leaned a heavily muscled forearm across her waist. With his free hand, he roughly slapped at her skirt. “Your dress is on fire!”

‘On fire!’

Fear-struck, Lydia did as ordered, her arms and legs instantly stilling. Raising her head, she saw a black, smoldering hole near the hem of her skirt, Ben beating at it with the palm of his hand.

“All right
. It’s out,” he rasped as he shifted his torso, bringing himself face-to-face with her. “You need to be more careful around that fire, you hear?” Although Ben’s voice was gruff, his brow was creased with visible concern.

“It was your . . . your f-favorite dress,” Lydia whispered, the terror
having yet to dissipate.

“
Don’t worry. I’ll buy you another one.” With the pads of his fingers, Ben lightly brushed several loose strands of hair away from her forehead. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I . . . I feel
—” The words stuck in Lydia’s throat as she suddenly became aware of the fact that Ben’s hips were nestled between her sprawled legs, his upper body pressed shockingly close to hers.

In the next instant,
Ben’s nostrils flared slightly, his chest expanding with a deep breath; as though, he, too, had suddenly become aware of their intimate pose. Framing her face between his callused hands, her husband wordlessly stared at her, his gaze fixed on her trembling lips.

Lydia returned
the stare, her heart hammering against her chest as she watched Ben’s eyes dilate until only a thin band of gray rimmed his pupils. But it wasn’t just his eyes that held her in thrall: his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw – truly, there was a manly symmetry to his features that she’d never before noticed.

Or perhaps over the course of their journey, she’d purposely closed her eyes to the fact that her husband was a handsomely virile man.

Leaning his head close to hers, Ben caressed her face with his warm breath. “God help me, Lydia. I can’t stop myself,” he husked in a low-pitched voice as he gently rubbed his whiskered cheek against the side of her face.

With that one tender caress, Lydia’s inner defenses began to crumble, the stronghold of her heart assailed by feelings so potent, so vital, she could no longer resist them. For too long, her womanly urges and needs had lain dormant. Now,
suddenly, they pulsed through her body with a fury.

Still holding her face between his hands
, Ben grazed his lips over the curve of her jaw, each warm kiss accompanied by the silky drag of his mustache.

Bewildered, Lydia bit back a fearful whimper, frightened by the first jolt of desire
to hit her in eight long years. When she’d buried her first husband, she’d also buried with him all of her womanly wants and desires. To her stunned amazement, for the first time since James’ death she found herself lusting after another man. And though she was overcome with a desperate yearning, she had no idea how to handle the sudden onslaught of passion. While she wanted to touch Ben, she couldn’t bring herself to do so, her arms locked at her sides.

As he nestled
his face in the crook of her neck, Ben flexed his hips against her woman’s mound. With a muttered groan, he then slid his hands under Lydia’s body, firmly molding his palms around her buttocks. Again, he pressed his groin against her body as his lips burned a heated path along the curve of her shoulder.

Caught in a maelstrom,
Lydia was fast becoming mindless of everything save for the provocative feel and weight of Ben’s body. Balling her hands, she pound the ground with her fists. She desperately wanted her husband. And yet she had no idea how to physically respond to him.