Authors: Susan Kay Law
Marry Me (27 page)
“We?” Jake paled. “Is…Mrs. Bates is here?”
“In the coach. She’ll be down when the nurse gets them bundled up.”
His mouth formed a word. No sound came out but Emily could read it clearly.
Them
?
He turned for the coach, made his way to it, moving like a sleepwalker through a shifting dream.
The coachman reached inside, helping down another person, as small as Mrs. Sullivan but requiring far more assistance. Swathed in cloaks that seemed to weigh down her fragile shoulders, Mrs. Bates gripped tightly to the coachman’s proffered arm with both gloved hands. She stood clinging to him for a moment, waiting until she could stand on both feet before turning to face Jake.
“Hello, Jake,” Mrs. Bates said.
“I—” He broke off, his attention, his whole being, focused on the slight woman climbing down from the coach with her arms full. “Em—” Hand shaking, he reached out, as if he knew she’d be there.
“I’m here,” Emily said, gripped his hand, and hung on.
“God.” He swallowed once. And again. “Oh God. Would you look at her, Emily? Look at her.”
“I see her,” she whispered. “She’s beautiful.” And she was, pale blond curls wafting out from beneath a snug pink cap that matched her cheeks, eyes as bright and round as blueberries.
“Jenny looks like her mother, of course,” Wilomene said, imperious and proud.
“Jenny?” His head swung briefly toward Wilomene, back a second later, as if he couldn’t bear not to be looking at his daughter. “You call her Jenny?”
“That’s her name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I thought maybe you’d change it, after we—”
“You thought I’d change the name my daughter gave her?”
“I didn’t know.” He reached out slowly, as if he couldn’t take one inch nearer for granted. And then he lightly fingered one cotton-white puff of hair, as if he was afraid she might vanish if he touched more.
Jenny abruptly wailed and buried her face against her nurse’s shoulders.
“She’s shy when she first meets someone,” Wilomene said. She clung to her pride and disapproval to the very last. But then, her gaze resting fondly on her granddaughter, she dared one step. “But she’ll warm up to you quickly. And once she does, she loves with all her heart.”
“Like her mother,” he murmured.
“Yes. Like her mother.”
“Now then.” Barnett stamped over to join them. “I may be having second thoughts about all this if you’re still fool enough to keep us standing around in the snow.”
“Please. Go in. We’ll be there in a moment,” he said, and paused. “Make yourselves at home.”
Barnett ushered the women in, then turned back halfway through the door. “My daughter loved you.”
“I know. Almost as much as I loved her.”
“Don’t let her down.”
Jake nodded, accepting. “I don’t intend to.”
Jake stared at the closed door for another full minute, stunned, as if afraid to believe his daughter was truly on the other side. And then, as slowly as if he’d aged a hundred years in the last few minutes, he turned to face his wife. His cheeks gleamed with water, his hair was powdered white, and he blinked the snowflakes off his lashes.
Bracing herself, Emily waited. And waited some more. And finally, because she’d never been good at waiting: “Are you angry?”
“Am I angry?” He stepped nearer, so she could see each individual flake as it fell and caught, a frozen star that lasted a mere second on his cheek before dissolving into a tear. “You’re the one that’s so good at reading people. Can’t you tell?”
“I—” She had to be breathing. Her heart had to be beating. Intellectually she understood the physiology but she couldn’t
feel
either one. “No. I hope, too much, and the hoping’s getting in the way.”
“You always were good at hoping.” He shook his head. “I never was.”
“That’s okay. That’s why you have me.”
“Do I? Have you, I mean?”
There was no point in denying it. “If you want me, you do. You’ve known that for a long time, though.”
“Yes. Yes, I guess I did,” he said. “You’re shivering. You’re cold, let’s—”
“I’m not cold.” Scared and worried, but not cold. She was never cold with Jake. “Please, I can’t stand it any longer, what are you thinking?”
“What the hell did you tell them that could have possibly persuaded Barnett Bates to haul himself to Montana?”
“I don’t think it was anything I said,” she admitted. “If anything, it was Julia. Once they got past the grief enough to remember what she would have wanted.” And then the cold did hit, down to her bones. “And, too, Wilomene’s health is not strong, and Barnett…they’re not young anymore, and the last few years have been hard. Maybe they just didn’t want Jenny to lose as much as they have.”
“Can I do it, do you think? Do right by her?”
“Of course you can!” she cried, seizing his hand, and nearly wept in relief when he didn’t pull away. “You’re going to be damn wonderful at it. The best ever. I guarantee it.”
“You do, do you?” he said. And then, “I love you, Em. I do. With all I am now, with everything I’ve learned, I love you.”
And then everything began again. Her breath, her heart, her
life
.
“I didn’t want to, you know. I fought it.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“But I never had a chance. Everything that’s ever happened to me all brought me to this point, so I could love you with every cell in my body, every corner of my soul. And I’m just sorry it took so long for me to know it.”
“I told you, Jake. Some things are worth waiting for.”
“Yeah. That they are.” Then he bent his head and kissed her, friend to friend, lover to lover, husband to wife, a vow more powerful than the one they’d taken the day they’d married. “Thanks, Em. For knowing I had it in me. And for loving me enough to see it.”
“You’re very welcome.” She linked her arm with his and turned for the door. The house looked beautiful, roof frosted in white, windows glowing warm and gold. A home, she thought. Yes, a home. “Let’s go get to know your daughter.”
December, 1921
D
ecember in Montana was cold. Cold enough, some said, to freeze your nose—and a few other parts polite people didn’t mention—right off your body the instant you stepped outdoors.
But that didn’t stop the residents of McGyre. No, they were born of heartier stock, especially when there was a celebration to be had. And so they thronged the streets, noses as bright a red as the bunting swagged from every storefront. Toes jigged to the proud, brassy marches blasted by the McGyre City Band, including, their director announced proudly, their tuba player, who’d overcome a severe mouth injury when his lips froze to the mouthpiece in order to be here.
The sky arched overhead, the kind of blue it only got when the temperature hovered well south of freezing, shining on snow as white as Mrs. Sullivan’s sheets. Red, white, and blue, the people told each other happily as they thronged in the streets, swilling the hot chocolate and steaming coffee Wilber Bunku was selling from the front porch of his store. Appropriate weather, they said. A little cold wouldn’t stop McGyre.
Not when they had such a momentous occasion to celebrate. Not when tiny little McGyre was sending off one of their own to Washington, D.C.
And what a distinguished senator he’d be, the ladies murmured to each other. Such a handsome figure he was, broad and tall, that dashing streak of silver in his hair, and, oh, so obviously in love with his wife! They found it so romantic that when Senator Jacob Sullivan, the famous “Proof Sheet King,” resplendent in a black jacket and charcoal-striped pants, climbed out to the back platform of the train (which, they congratulated themselves smugly, they had the senator to thank for bringing to town) to address the crowds, feminine sighs rolled down the streets of McGyre like stampeding cattle.
Wilber, disgruntled because he was a Democrat, damn it, and it was his God-given responsibility to be grumpy on a day like today—not that he’d minded the business, of course—leaned over to Imbert Longnecker, his boon companion, to give his opinion on their new senator.
“I suppose it’s an honor, having him come from McGyre, but you know damn well the fella wouldn’t have gotten elected if we hadn’t given women the right to vote.”
Imbert craned his long neck to get a good view. “It’s done now, Wilber. Might as well accept it.”
“He’s supported the women’s vote from the beginning,” Wilbur complained. “And you know, I think some of them voted for whoever they pleased instead of who their husbands told them to! Which was exactly why they shouldn’t have gotten the vote in the first place, if you ask me.”
“I don’t know why a wife would ever disagree with her husband,” Imbert said dryly. “Besides, think of it. The man’s got five daughters! Can you imagine how little peace he would ever have had if he hadn’t supported women’s suffrage?” Imbert shuddered at the thought. He’d only one daughter himself, but his precious Lana could make him agree to all kinds of things he’d started out saying no to.
“It’s more than that, you know. Why, he even moved all the way to Kansas for two whole years so that wife of his could attend the Women’s Medical College.” The thought required Wilber to finish his own coffee—spiked with the extra kick only his best customers received—in one fell gulp.
“That’s enough,” Imbert said sharply. “I probably would have lost my wife, and my son, too, if Emily hadn’t been there when she had a hard time.”
Wilber had forgotten Ellen had had such difficulties giving birth. And that Imbert had always had a fondness for Mrs. Sullivan. “Sure, and she’s a fine physician, she is. Doesn’t mean women should be meddling in the affairs of state.”
The crowd that had gotten there early enough to get a prime spot roared. Sullivan was giving a right rousing speech, from the sound of it, though Imbert and Wilber couldn’t hear a word. Didn’t have to. You could always judge the success of a stump speech by watching the crowds. If they were nodding, if they laughed now and then, well, you had ’em. The words themselves didn’t matter a bit.
“And that oldest girl of his, heard tell she’s a lawyer. In Chicago, they say.” Wilber hooted. “Now doesn’t that just beat all? A girl lawyer.” That called for another coffee, he decided. And maybe skip the coffee. “Ain’t no daughter of mine gonna get much schoolin’, I can tell you that.”
“That’s her right there,” Imbert said, pointing at the platform. “In the back.”
Wilber whistled through his teeth. “Hell, she’s a pretty one, ain’t she? Why’d a woman that looks like that want to waste herself in a courtroom?” Loyally, he’d tried to remain uninterested as long as he could. But, shoot, the man was his senator, wasn’t he? “Who’s the old lady next to her?”
“That’s Sullivan’s mother. And I’d watch calling her old, if I were you,” Imbert said. “She’d likely tan your hide if she heard you.”
“Sure.” Wilber snorted. “Guess that explains a lot, though.”
“And that’s his former father-in-law.”
“Ooo-hee, the rich one,” he said in awe. “I heard o’ him. Heard he owns half of Chicago, then bought out most of Montana, too. You think he bought Sullivan the election?” Though honesty compelled him to admit that Sullivan could probably have bought his own.
“I don’t believe Senator Sullivan bought the election.” The crowd roared. “Shhh. I want to hear.”
Then, as the assembly went silent, hanging on every word, some trick of the wind carried his voice to them so that they could suddenly hear as clearly as if the man spoke right beside them.
“In conclusion,” the senator said in the rich, deep tones of a natural orator, “you see before you a man as proud as a man can be, deeply honored to represent this magnificent state and its fine citizens in the capital of this great nation.”
He waited patiently for the applause to die down. And then he reached back and drew forward his wife, dressed in a blue suit and red and white striped shirt for the occasion.
“His wife’s still a fine-looking woman, ain’t she?”
“Hush,” Imbert said, scowling.
“Though I have to admit,” Senator Sullivan continued, “that the
very
proudest day of my life was when this woman agreed to marry me.”
Grinning, he laid his wife over his arm, bending her back, and kissed her, hard and long, full on the mouth, right in front of everybody. Giggles burst through the crowd. Two women fainted and, despite the temperature, a dozen more took to fanning themselves with their gloved hands.
“What the hell’s he doing?” Wilber asked.
“If you don’t know, Wilber, it’s about time you learned.”
“Just ain’t right for a fellow to be kissing his wife like that,” he complained, as Mrs. Sullivan had to clap her hand on the top of her head to keep from losing her red-feathered hat. “Not after all those years of marriage. Be giving the women ideas,” he said. “It just ain’t right.”
Applause burst out, swelling and growing until the town rang with it. The senator came up for air, beaming, his wife flushed and flustered at his side.
“I don’t know about that,” Imbert said. “It looks pretty damn right to me.”
A former science geek, SUSAN KAY LAW turned to romance writing as a career because it was the perfect excuse to avoid housework and continue spending all her time doing what she really loved: reading and daydreaming. Also because she was really bad at sitting in a swamp at 5 A.M. in forty-degree weather and tracking bird behavior.
Winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award and a Waldenbooks Bestseller Award, twice nominated for a Rita Award, she confesses that the biggest surprise of her career was when this smalltown Midwestern preacher’s kid was named to
New Woman
magazine’s list of “the steamiest writers of women’s fiction.” Her greatest joy, however, is spending her days thoroughly outnumbered by four of the best males on the planet—her husband and three sons. She currently lives in Minnesota, and plans to be a ski bum in her next life. You can visit her website at www.susankaylaw.com.
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