Prairie Wife (29 page)

Jesse stepped back as she moved around the end of the bed to Cay's
side, where she fussed with the blankets. "Remember, you made a promise to
us."

"I remember. I won't never run away again."

"Because we're a family," she confirmed.

He nodded.

"And we want you here with us." She bent to kiss his
forehead, and he brought an arm out of the covers to wrap it around her neck
and kiss her cheek.

Emotion welling inside her, she turned down the wick, plunging the
room into darkness.

"'Night, fellas." Jesse took her arm and led her from the
room, closing the door and following her to their room.

She changed into her nightdress and sat at her dressing table,
where she removed the pins from her hair. Dressed in only his trousers, Jesse
padded to stand behind her. He took the brush from her hand and brushed the
ends of her hair first, working out any tangles, then stroked from her scalp to
the tips. When they were first married, he used to brush her hair like this often.
She closed her eyes and enjoyed the tingling pleasure and the relaxing
sensation that washed over her.

Laying down the brush, he drew her hair to one side, exposing her
neck. He leaned to kiss her skin and nuzzle her ear, then traced a finger along
her collarbone and inside the neck of her gown, creating delicious shivers.

"Cold?" he asked. "Maybe we'd better get under the
covers."

She accepted the hand he extended. He led her to the bed, then
extinguished the lamp, divested himself of his drawers and climbed in beside
her.

Gently, almost reverently, he caressed her shoulder, then her
breast. His touch moved across the swell of her belly, his hand warm through
the fabric of her gown.

Wanting to be closer, Amy worked the hem upward, and he helped her
cast the nightdress aside. She took his hand and placed it on her abdomen
again.

Jesse drew the covers down so he could press his lips to the place
where their child grew. Amy stroked his hair and freed her heart to accept.
Accept this new life they'd created. Accept her responsibility.

As though a spiritual connection bound all three of them, a tiny
flutter, like delicate wings, quickened in her womb. Their baby made its
presence known for the first time. Her heart skipped a beat at the same time
Jesse raised his head.

"Amy, I felt that."

A myriad of feelings pushed their way past Amy's defenses. The
first tear she'd cried in forever leaked from the corner of her eye and
trickled down her temple, followed by another, and another. Her chest quaked
and a sob was retched from her being. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

Immediately Jesse pulled her hand away. He bracketed her face
between his palms and kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her temples, speaking to her
heart without words. She heard devotion in the beat of his heart,
experienced
calming peace in the touch of his lips and the earnestness of his concern.

"Jesse," she whispered.

He covered her mouth with his, breathed her name, sated her every
need and longing as only he could. She clung to him and wept with newfound joy
and worth.

"Yes," he said against her cheek. "Yes, Amy."

Eventually her tears subsided. Jesse took her in his arms and she
lay with her head on his shoulder. Night closed in around them, and when they
slept, it was with his hand on her stomach and her face turned to his.

***

In the days that followed, Amy told herself everything was
resolved. She had come to terms with a new child. And she had, but there was
more. More newly resurrected emotions vied for prominence, ate at her peace,
eroded her small victory.

The dream of the crying baby returned, and she woke nearly every
night with a start and the sound of that pathetic wail ringing in her ears.

Jesse's understanding and devotion only added to her conflict and
self-recrimination. Remembering all the times he'd tried to comfort her,
looking for solace and peace and partnership in his wife, she blamed herself
for shutting him out. For turning him to the cold comfort of a whiskey bottle.
Her fault. All her fault. Because Tim's death had been her fault.

Mr. Quenton had packed and left the week before, gifting them with
a few photographs, among them the one of the graves. Amy had been tempted to
tear it up and throw it away, but instead she'd buried the photograph in the
bottom drawer of their bureau. As if guilt wasn't enough punishment, she'd
taken it out and looked at it more than once.

One brisk morning, she woke before Jesse, the dream echoing
through her head. She moved to the bureau and silently took out the photograph.
In the semidarkness, she could barely see it, but she remembered well enough.

Moving to the window, she parted the curtain and looked out toward
the slope. She would let herself feel. She would let herself love again. The
walls guarding her heart had been breached. And now she remembered Tim....

She pictured him as he'd been—an active, smiling, beautiful child,
the apple of his father's eye. And she remembered the worst day of her
life—that horrible afternoon—and Jesse's reactions. Then she pictured her son
the way she'd seen him last. Still. Pale. Gone.

Amy put on her stockings and a shawl and made her silent way
downstairs. At the back door, she pulled on her boots and coat and trekked
outside. The frost crunched beneath each step that carried her away from the
house, toward the slope and the crosses that marked the graves. She didn't
notice the cold or the dog that sniffed at her ankles and then chased a small
creature into the brush.

The place she avoided had always been this close to where she
worked and slept, but she'd never before had the courage to climb the hill.

To see Tim's grave.

The marker was there, between the two others. Rosebushes, now
dusted with snow, had been planted at the head of Tim's. Jesse, of course, had
planted and cared for them. Just as he'd built the coffin as an expression of
his love and grief, he'd kept this place tended.

But not Amy. Amy hadn't felt a thing, hadn't cried, hadn't grieved
and hadn't allowed anything or anyone to remind her. She couldn't live with the
fact that she'd been responsible for their loss, for the grief Jesse endured.
All along she'd accused Jesse of not moving forward, while she'd been blind to
the fact
she
was the one who hadn't dealt with Tim's death.

How could he forgive her? She didn't know, but she had to ask him.

How could she forgive herself?

Denying herself forgiveness brought only agony.

"Forgive me, Tim," she said aloud. Saying his name for
the first time unleashed a flood of grief. She dropped to her knees on the
frozen ground. Sobs racked her body in a long-denied expression of pain. She
cried so hard her throat hurt, her chest ached, and the cold seeped into her
knees. The pain was excruciating... but it was a testament to life. She was
alive and she could no longer refuse to live.

She sensed his presence and turned to see Jesse standing silently
several feet away. Tears streaked his cheeks. As always, he was there for her,
giving her space, allowing her time.

"Jesse," she said, her throat dry and constricted.
"It was my fault."

Looking confused, he took a few steps closer.

"I was in the kitchen, using the quiet time to bake. I didn't
check on him. I never thought to make sure the front door was locked in case he
woke."

She staggered to her feet, but Jesse didn't move toward her. He
simply listened.

"By the time I went up to check on him and saw he was gone,
it was too late." Her voice was rising and her face contorting as she
remembered. "It was my fault.
My fault.
How can you ever forgive
me?"

She didn't wait for him to respond. She let her feelings spill
out. "I shut you out. But what could I have done? I couldn't crawl into
this grave with Tim." She looked at the ground, then squeezed her eyes
shut and dropped her head back. "I couldn't go back to that day and change
it. I couldn't even scream loud enough."

She curled her hands into fists. "So I shut off. Insulated
myself from everything and everyone to keep this one tiny shred of sanity
inside from slipping away. Something snapped inside me." Beseeching him
with her eyes once again, she brought both hands over her heart. "I looked
at you and saw you feeling and taking action. I stopped feeling and there was
nothing I could do. But by blocking out Tim's memory I kept myself from
healing. And I kept you from healing, too."

Silence stretched between them. Wind caught the hem of her coat
and flapped it against her legs.

At last Jesse took a few steps to stand before her. "Tim's
death was not your fault. There's no one to blame. It just happened and we'll
never understand why. If there was anything to forgive, I would."

"But there is! I told you, I didn't check. I didn't lock the
door."

"We've never locked the front except at night. But okay, I
forgive you. I do. You'll have to forgive me, too, then, because I didn't think
ahead and lock the door when I was at the house at noon. And I never warned him
not to go to the creek alone."

She shook her head and reached to brush the tears from his cold
cheek. "No, Jesse, no."

"You see, we could blame ourselves forever, but it wouldn't
bring him back. Forgive yourself, Amy. That's what you have to do first."

"I shut you out. It's my fault you started drinking."

"I'm responsible for myself. I made my own mistakes. Don't
take on the weight of the world."

"I shut out Cay."

"We've been through all that. It's done."

"I'm afraid I won't be a good mother to this baby," she
admitted finally. "What if I let something happen?"

He grasped her by the shoulders. "Amy, we can't do anything
about the past, and the only one who knows the future is God. If we let
ourselves worry about what might happen, we'd never go out of the house in the
mornin'."

"After all this you still love me?"

"Always, Amy. Always."

She collapsed against his solid form, and he wrapped strong arms
around her. After several reassuring minutes, she turned to observe the graves
in the first streaks of dawn. "It's just like you said. Tim's with his
grandmas."

"We don't have to forget him, Amy. If we talk about him and
share what we're feeling, we'll keep his memory alive. Remembering can be a
comfort."

"I want to do something," she told him. Taking his hand,
she led him back to the house. She tugged him through the dark kitchen and into
the parlor, where she found a match beside the hearth and lit a lamp. Jesse
shrugged out of his coat and took hers as well, laying them on the back of a
chair.

Amy walked to the mantel and opened the round glass door on the
clock she'd taken in trade. With a simple touch of one finger, she set the
pendulum in motion. Closing the door, she stood back.

The ticking sound filled the room.

"From this moment on, we move forward," she promised.

Jesse took her in his arms and kissed her, the new life they
embraced a tangible presence between them.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For givin' me hope again."

Overhead, the sounds of feet hitting the floor caught their
attention. Minutes later, the steps creaked and two tousle-headed boys peered
at them from the foot of the stairs.

"What's goin' on?" Cay asked. "I don't smell no
breakfast cookin'."

Jesse released Amy but kept her hand in his. "We have somethin'
to tell you boys."

"What is it?"

"It's about another new person in our family."

As the rising sun ushered in a new day, beams of light filtered
through the curtains and spotlighted the Shelby family.

***

Two miles down the road, Sam pulled a buggy up to Matthew Barnes's
home and walked to the door.

Elthea greeted him with a surprised smile. "What are you
doing here so early?"

"Just stopped by to see if you'd like to ride in with me this
mornin'."

His place was the opposite direction, and she knew it. She called
inside to her son. "Sam Burnham's come by for me. I'll be going now."

She gathered her mittens and coat, and Sam held the garment while
she slipped it on.

"This is a pleasant surprise, Sam. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Elthea." He led her to the wagon and
assisted her up to the seat.

Matthew Barnes and his wife stepped out on their porch and watched
as the buggy pulled away. They waved as the sun broke over the horizon.