Teresa Bodwell (20 page)
Authors: Loving Miranda
She knew damn well she didn’t want to let go of Ben. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to hold him here against his will.
“I’m certain they would. But—” He turned Miranda so that they were face to face in the darkness of their bed. He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “You will make a wonderful mother one day, but I don’t have it in me to be a father. I’m sorry. I know I’d feel obligated to stay here, and I’d end up making your life and mine a living hell. I won’t treat you that way, and I damn sure won’t treat my own blood that way. Do you understand?”
“I . . .” Miranda couldn’t understand this man at all. The one thing she knew for certain was that she craved his touch like she needed water. Being without him would feel like being stranded on the desert. “I understand, Ben. I’ll be careful.”
“It’s not your obligation, love.” Ben pulled her close and kissed her with such tenderness she couldn’t help the tear that trickled down her cheek. “What’s this?” Ben brushed the tear away.
“Just . . . happy. Everything was so beautiful today, and you make me feel . . . almost like a real bride.” She sighed.
“You are a real bride, love. I’m the charlatan here.” Ben held her close and she felt him getting hard between her thighs. “I promise I’ll be good to you while I’m here. And when I leave, I’ll make our parting as easy as I can.”
“Don’t talk about parting, Ben. Not tonight.”
“All right,” he whispered. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him, touching the smooth tip of his erection. “Oh, no. I can’t think of anything. We should get some sleep now, don’t you think?”
“No.” Ben rolled her onto her back and straddled her. “No sleep yet, love.”
He bent to suckle her nipple. She was soon soaring high above the mountains that guarded her sister’s ranch, free from every thought but one. She loved Ben Lansing.
The next morning, Ben opened one eye to watch Miranda bent over the fire preparing breakfast. The aroma of bacon and coffee tickled his nostrils. How she’d managed to leave the bed, build the fire, and dress without waking him was a wonder. His stomach growled and she turned to look at him.
“Sun will be up soon.” She grinned. “You’d best get some breakfast; we have chores to do before church.”
Ben stumbled out of bed, wondering what chores she had in mind. He pulled on his trousers, boots, and jacket and went outside to relieve himself. When he returned, he saw that Miranda had prepared a bowl of warm water for him to wash and shave.
“Breakfast!” She fairly sang the word as she plunked the skillet on the table and set about serving them.
Ben sank onto a chair and reached for the coffee cup. After he’d drunk his way through half the cup, he looked up at her. She was still grinning at him.
“How long have you been up?”
“About an hour, I reckon. There’s lots to do, as I said.”
“Hellfire and damnation,” he mumbled into his coffee. “You didn’t warn me you wake up cheerful.”
Miranda laughed at that. “Eat your eggs. You’ll feel better.”
Ben was used to having breakfast at a civilized hour and didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything. But the smells had increased his appetite, and he had no trouble with the three eggs, bacon, and biscuits that Miranda had made.
“You did all this in that fireplace?”
“You can cook about anything with some good hot coals, a Dutch oven, and a skillet.” She added hot coffee to his cup. “Finish up and you’ll have time to split some wood before we go to church.”
He sipped his coffee and watched Miranda tidying their small house. She started with the bed, which they’d left in a tangle. “It was mighty thoughtful of the ladies to make us this quilt, don’t you think?”
“Very nice. A practical gift.”
She smoothed the quilt and fluffed the new pillows Clarisse had given them, placing them carefully and adjusting them until she was satisfied that everything was exactly where it should be. Again, she ran her hand over the colorful quilt, pausing on a square of familiar blue satin.
“That matches your wedding dress,” Ben said as he stepped up behind her.
Miranda walked over to the fire and lifted out the kettle. “All the ladies in town contributed cloth from their wedding dresses. That green is Mercy’s.” She nodded her head toward the quilt. “Ingrid Hansen made a point of saying she wouldn’t put hers in. Didn’t want to jinx our marriage.”
Miranda was making a valiant effort to keep her voice light, but Ben detected the pain there.
“Of course”—Miranda winked at him—“they had no way of knowing this is all make-believe.” She sighed.
“It was a nice thought anyway,” Ben said. He stood and retrieved the ax from the corner. “Sun’s up. I’d better get some work done.”
She didn’t look up from scrubbing the skillet. He walked outside and dragged the cold morning air into his lungs. Instead of helping her, he’d hurt her. His chest ached with the knowledge. She’d have been better off if he’d walked away.
He hated the thought of joining the list of men who had betrayed her. He took his frustrations out on the wood and soon had a substantial pile.
Dammit!
Hurting Miranda was the last thing he wanted to do.
Dammit!
Hurting Miranda was the last thing he wanted to do.
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. As much as he’d like to stay and live up to his wedding promises, he couldn’t. He was not a family man, and that is what she deserved—a man who could truly love her and their children. Staying with her would only make things worse.
A week passed, then two. Miranda woke each morning cheerful, even without any coffee at all. Ben was almost getting used to it, though he didn’t think he’d ever be able to emulate all that energy without the benefit of a strong cup or two of coffee to fortify him. He was more useful later in the day, though. He’d filled their wood bin, hauled water from the creek, and helped Thad repair the roof and build a rain gutter, which would direct water into a barrel they placed against one corner of the cabin.
And he did try to give her something to remember every night. That part of the marriage, at least, had been satisfying for both of them.
They’d settled into a domestic routine by the time the last leaves had dropped from the cottonwoods. November was mostly cold on the mountain. This afternoon the sunshine stayed warm throughout the day. Miranda decided it was a good day for an art lesson, so she dragged Ben outside. She made a quick sketch of the trees that grew beside the creek.
“Seems like the pencil makes bare trees look bleaker on paper than they are in life.” She handed the book to Ben and looked at him, anxious for his opinion.
“You’ve made a fine likeness of the trees. You have a real gift for drawing.”
“Now that sounds like you’re keepin’ somethin’ from me. A good likeness is not the same thing as a good picture, is it?”
Ben sighed. He was staring up at the mountains behind her as he so often did, and she had the sense he was choosing his words carefully.
“A good likeness is . . . It would satisfy Mrs. Wick. Do you remember her?”
“The woman in Denver who thought she knew more about art than you did.”
Ben smiled. He loved Miranda’s loyalty. “That’s the lady I mean.”
“She wanted pretty pictures of flowers. Nice colors that would look good on the wall of her parlor.”
“And perhaps something that wouldn’t require any thought from the viewer.” Ben sat next to Miranda on the stiff, dry grass and looked up at the tree she’d drawn. “You can make a likeness of the tree, or you can . . . make a new living tree on your paper.” He ran a finger over her drawing. “I saw some pictures in Europe where the artists captured the feeling of flowers, the calm of a lake. Not just the image, but the heart of the thing and something more.”
Miranda stared at Ben for a moment. “More than the original tree you mean?”
“Yes.” Ben took the book from her. “Suppose I tried drawing the same tree.” He made a few quick lines. “I can’t really draw anymore, but that doesn’t matter for this exercise. You see?”
She looked at the picture. “It’s the same tree. But it isn’t.”
“Exactly.” Ben smiled. “Your tree has a bit of you and my tree has a bit of me.”
“That’s what I saw in your work.”
Ben pulled his eyes back up to the mountain. “Did you?”
“When I looked at your pictures of the war—not just your paintings, but your drawings in the book, too. I could see courage and fear.”
Ben swallowed. He walked away and followed the creek up the mountain. Miranda came up behind him and pulled on his arm. “I’m sorry—Did I offend you?”
Ben stopped. He shrugged out of her grip and shoved his hands into his pockets. “No.” He glanced at her, then looked back up the slope. “No, you haven’t offended me. You’ve given me the greatest praise.”
“I’ve also reminded you that you might not be able to do that again.”
He turned and looked deep into her moist eyes, knowing he’d caused the tears that were pooling there. “Don’t cry for me, Miranda.”
She took his injured hand and brushed a kiss over the stubs of his lost fingers. “I can’t help feelin’ your hurt.”
“You shouldn’t.” He tried to look away from her, but his eyes were drawn to hers. “You have your life ahead of you without worrying about me.” He smiled, his salesman grin. “I have plans. I’ll be living in a tropical paradise without any cares. Fruit grows everywhere for the taking. Fish in abundance from the sea. And until I save enough money for that trip, I have you.”
“Ben.” Miranda wanted to tell him how much she loved him—how he was a part of her body and soul and there was nothing he could do to stop her loving him. But she knew the words would only make him hurt more, so she bit her tongue. “Let me help you forget the pain.”
He bent to kiss her. She felt an urgency that would have frightened her a few months ago. Now it swept her along until she felt a growing need for his skin against hers. He swept her into his arms and carried her inside, shutting the door against the pains of the world.
“Miranda!” Clarisse greeted her with a hug. “We’re in business.”
“They bought the dresses?”
“Bought them and agreed to buy as many as we can send them. Ingrid will move into town and work here every day. With the money I’m paying her, she’s hired a man to run the farm. Her girls can play with my boys, and we’ll both get a good deal more work done.”
“Don’t forget me. I can help, too.” Miranda figured it was best to spend some time away from Ben. She was feeling more and more attached to him, and he needed to have some time to decide what he wanted to do.
“I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I bought this for you.” She went into the storage room and came out with a rectangular wooden case, like a small suitcase.
“What’s that for?” Miranda wondered if Clarisse expected her to travel to Denver with the dresses. But the case was too thin to be a traveling bag.
“This holds your new paints.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hiram wants color pictures to hang in the store. That way ladies can choose not only a dress design, but the colors they want. You can mix the paints and match pretty well to the fabrics we have.”
“I’m no painter.”
“Don’t worry; Ben can show you.”
Ben. Miranda wasn’t sure he would want to have anything to do with paints. He didn’t even like to talk about painting. On the other hand, maybe it was time he made peace with that part of his life.
She was afraid Ben wasn’t coming back. His note said he’d gone to see Thad. What on earth could those men be doing that was taking all day long?
She’d set out the paints, hoping to start on the project today, but they might lose the daylight before Ben returned. She counted the tubes of paint again and ran her fingers over the soft brushes. The case contained everything a painter needed, Clarisse had told her. A palette, brushes, a small knife, and tubes of paint, fourteen of them in all, including blue, yellow, red, white, black. These colors she understood, but not vermilion, indigo, cerulean blue. She was tempted to squeeze them out onto the palette to see what they looked like. But she didn’t know what to do after that and was afraid of spoiling something. So she waited.
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