The Marriage Bed (34 page)

"Are you crazy?" Spencer shouted, looking from one of them to the other and then settling on Livvy. "Send them back to Bouche? Don't you think he's done enough to them?"

There were tears in his eyes, but Livvy wasn't going to be taken in again. His plans had nearly cost Louisa's life. "Come on," she said to Louisa, her arm tightly around her. "We'll go back home now."

"Wait," Spencer called after them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him bend and pick up the gun, then toss it more than halfway across the pond. They heard the plunk as it hit the water and she and Louisa turned at the sound.

There was a tear making its way down Spencer's cheek. "What did I do? What's happening here?"

"Philip brought home the telegram last night," Livvy Said. "We know what you were planning, but it won't happen. I won't give them up."

"But I thought it was what you wanted. You said you hated to see Sacotte Farm sold. It made such good sense. I buy the mercantile from Zephih and trade it for Sacotte Farm. The railroad'll go right through my failing fields while we're busy picking cherries at Sacotte Farm. It's all arranged with Makebreath. Isn't that what you wanted?"

She stared at him trying to make sense of what he was saying about the farm. "But Sacotte Farm'll be sold. And why would I want the farm without the children?" she asked. "Why would I want . . . Oh, what difference does it make? Did you think my family farm would make up for my family?"

"Livvy," he said, staying her with one hand while touching Louisa gently with the other. "Louisa. I love you. I love you all. I thought I was making you all happy."

He looked so confused, so lost, it was hard to believe that he had really planned to send the children away. "We saw the telegram," she said.

"And it didn't make you happy?"

"Happy?" she shouted. "Make me happy? Sending the children back was supposed to make me happy?"

"Who said anything about sending the children back?"

By now Philip and Neil had shown up, and Neil fell to his knees hugging himself until finally he began to retch in the grass.

"You did," Livvy said to Spencer as she leaned over Neil, holding back the hair off his forehead and pressing a cool hand to the back of his neck. "She's all right," she told the boy. "It's all over now."

"Me?" Spencer asked, fishing for a hankie and leaning over to wipe the boy's mouth. "You think
I
wanted to send the children back? It was
you
who said that Bouche wanted you to bring them out.
You
were the one considering it, not me. I made you promise not to. For the love of God, Olivia. I've already lost two of my children. Do you think for a second I'd be willing to let any more of my children go?"

Neil's heaving was the only sound on the meadow where they all stood. "My fault," he said, gagging and coughing and throwing up his insides. "All my fault."

"And mine," Philip said softly.

Slowly, reluctantly, Philip pulled from his pocket several yellow pieces of paper, a different message scribbled on each one as if he had been practicing sending a telegram.

Livvy covered her mouth with her hand. "But why?" was all she could manage to get out before she fell to her knees, picking at the papers and handing them up to Spencer, one after another after another.

"We thought—" Philip started.

"If you thought you'd lose us . . ." Neil added, his voice shaking so much he was hard to understand.

"Ma said you loved each other," Philip explained, shaking his own head.

"I don't know," Neil admitted weakly. "It seemed so simple when we started. I thought you'd go ask Uncle Spencer to take you back and . . ."

"We're sorry," Philip said. "We're so, so sorry."

"Do you realize," Spencer whispered, pain raw and naked in his voice, looking at Louisa with nothing but pure love in his eyes, "what you might have done?"

Louisa stood off to the side, watching faces and looking unsure. But when Spencer opened his arms and motioned to her, she hurled herself against him and burrowed into his chest.

Neil nodded, and gagged again.

"So you didn't mean to send them back?" Livvy asked, the tentative beginnings of a smile breaking across her face.

"Oh, God, Liv!" He shook his head. "Never."

"But you sent a telegram. To who?"

Spencer jaw tightened. "It was supposed to be a surprise," he said, glowering at Neil.

Livvy tried to put together the things Spencer had said about Sacotte Farm and Zephin's and to figure out what it all had to do with Waylon Makeridge. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Olivia Williamson had it all.

"You can keep your secret," she said, tears streaming so freely down her face that they were wetting her bodice and making her hiccup. "I trust you."

Chapter Twenty-five

On Sunday, Spencer picked his family up at Sacotte Farm for church and Henry's wedding, which would follow the service. He had scoured his skin to be sure that there was no telltale trace of paint that would give his very last secret away, but the hours of sanding and carving and painting had taken their toll and his hands could barely grip the wagon reins.

He had promised her perfection on Tuesday, and come hell or high water, he would deliver. If ever he had to see disappointment cloud Olivia's eyes again, he wanted to be sure he was the one to lift it, not the one to put it there.

They were waiting on the porch, his girls all decked out in their Sunday finery; Neil in a suit that so closely resembled his own he had to smile. Livvy shone there, the beacon of love and faith he would be coming home to for the rest of his life. Surrounding them were stacks of crates waiting to be moved to Zephin's Mercantile, soon to be renamed Sacotte and Sons.

Without even waiting for the wagon to come to a full stop, Neil began to climb up onto the seat next to Spencer, hoping to drive old Curly George to town.

"Hold these, son," Spencer said, then jumped down to assist the girls into the back of the wagon. Josie was soft in his arms, and her kiss knocked his glasses off kilter. Louisa was soft, too, in her own way, no longer stiff and unyielding in his arms.

But nothing felt as soft to his scraped knuckles as his Livvy-love's cheek, which he barely grazed as he sought to tuck an errant tendril behind her ear.

"Oh, Jeez," he said, his eyes closed, his balance suddenly in jeopardy. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Instead of stemming the rising tide, it only made things worse. "Lilacs. I should have known. Livvy-love, you'll be the death of me, for sure."

His knees were buckling.

"It's just two more days, Spence." His goddess in a white blouse with a piece of lace that ended just above the breasts he was itching to touch reached up and stroked his cheek. Struggling to swallow, he was almost embarrassed by the effect her face had on him. Just looking at the love in her eyes brought him close to tears. "You got a good shave," she said, smiling up at him.

"Were you always this beautiful?"

"Oh, I'm hardly that," she said, dismissing his compliment with her hand as if he had uttered sheer foolishness. It had taken him long enough to see her strength, her warmth, her earthiness, as beauty that would endure whatever life might chose to throw their way. If it took him the rest of their lives to convince her, so be it.

"If ever there were eyes that lovely," he said, looking deeply into them and knowing if he got to see them every day for the rest of his life it wouldn't be often or long enough, "I've never seen them."

"Spencer!" she said, clearly flustered by his attention, the forthright way he was staring, the words he had waited so long to say.

"Do you know why they're so beautiful? Because I can see your love in them, Liv. Your love and maybe even your trust."

"We're going to miss the wedding," Louisa complained to Neil in the wagon. "And I've never been to one."

"We're coming," Livvy told her, taking the arm Spencer offered and lifting her good dress up off the ground. As soon as they had some extra money he was going to take her to Sturgeon Bay and buy her some fancy clothes. A woman as pretty as Livvy, he thought, and then changed his mind midstream. A woman as pretty as Livvy didn't need fancy clothes. Her beauty wasn't dimmed by muslin nor enhanced by lace. He watched as she settled herself in the wagon and looked around her at her family. Perhaps it was love that made his wife beautiful, for she was surely surrounded by it and had never looked more radiant.

The service was interminable, but so had every moment been since she and Spencer had agreed to wait until Tuesday to begin, once again, their life as husband and wife.

In church, she'd positioned Josie between them, hoping that the child would cool the heat she'd felt when her leg had been pressed against Spencer's in the wagon while Neil drove them to church. Spencer, apparently one to enjoy torture, had taken the child onto his lap and scooted closer to Livvy, with the weak excuse of sharing her prayer book.

His breath fanned her hair, seeped easily through the lace insert in her sheer batiste blouse, heated her everywhere it touched. And several places it didn't. In two days she would be back in Spencer's house and his bed, and while she'd miss Sacotte Farm, no piece of land could hold a candle to the piece of her soul- that Spencer possessed.

In her heart of hearts, where her hopes and dreams had for so long been buried, she thought she knew what Spencer's secret was. He'd almost given it away by the pond that day when she'd nearly had to learn the hard way just what losing a child could do to a parent's heart and mind and soul. But even if he hadn't managed to save for her a small piece of Sacotte Farm—the part, she supposed, that abutted his land—she could live with the disappointment.

What she couldn't live without were all the people around her who were now all coming to their feet for the joining in holy wedlock of her seventeen-year-old nephew, Henry Charles Sacotte, and pretty little Jenny Wachtell. Spencer placed Josie's tiny feet on the pew and guided her toward Louisa, whose arm went around her easily. Then he twisted Livvy slightly and pulled her to him so that her back rested against his broad, hard chest.

"I don't suppose they'd fall for the bug in your hair again, huh?'' he whispered, and had to stifle a laugh when she turned her shocked face around to him.

"And I thought I could trust you," she chided, pretending to be angry.

"Trust me to love you, Livvy. Always."

Her answer was to lean back against him, rubbing the back of her head gently against his chest. The effect was immediate, and he could tell from her sudden jump that she was aware of his desire.

"Don't move," he whispered in her left ear. "Or it could prove awfully embarrassing."

Obediently she stayed exactly where she was, driving him wild every time she as much as shifted her weight.

Father Martin asked if there were any objections to the marriage and then got down to the
I dos
.

Spencer leaned down slightly and, along with Henry, said that he did. Apparently she liked that because she reached back and squeezed one of his sore hands, and painful as it was, he didn't think he'd ever felt anything as reassuring as that firm hand within his own.

That is, until she suddenly twirled in his arms, her skirt slowly following her, and said, "I do," along with Jenny, then raised her lips to let him kiss his bride.

"Tuesday be damned," he muttered, wishing he could finally do just once what he figured his nephew and Jenny would be doing all night.

The wedding was a lovely affair, jenny's parents apparently so relieved at Henry's eagerness to do right by their daughter that they invited the whole of Maple Stand to share in their happiness. Spencer spoke to Henry privately and then told Livvy that he had made arrangements to give Henry and Jenny their wedding present on—when else?—Tuesday.

Waylon Makeridge, who, Livvy hadn't seen since Emma's funeral, stopped in to wish the newly weds well and have a private moment with Spencer. She had no idea what the two men could possibly have to say to one another, but Spencer seemed more than satisfied when the conversation ended and Makeridge had been shown to the door.

Merely waving at Livvy and giving her a smile on his way, Spencer went directly from Mr. Makeridge to Remy. Livvy had only made it halfway across the room to join them when her brother let out a yelp and called for more beer.

Just as she reached them, she heard Spencer say, "She doesn't know yet."

Whatever it was, it had made Remy happy as a clam, and he beamed at her right along with her husband. And suddenly it didn't matter anymore what she didn't know, only what she did—that Spencer Williamson loved her, loved her as deeply and as fully as she had always loved him.

"Your husband is top shelf, Livvy. Top shelf," Remy boomed, slapping Spencer on the back. "He's one fine man. I gotta find Bess. Bess? Bess!" He ran off, beer on his lips and his wife on his mind.

"What makes you such a fine man, Spencer Williamson?" she asked, not doubting her brother's assessment for a minute. "How come you're top shelf?"

He was determined to wait. Then he and Livvy could start over, fresh and new, in the home she cherished, on land that would one day be worked by Neil as well as any sons that he and Livvy might have. And daughters, daughters weren't out of the question, either.

But she smelled so good.

And her eyes were shining.

And her pulse was racing just as fast as his.

"Shit," he said, and then covered his mouth. "Sorry. Could you wait here, just one minute?" he asked, starting to leave, coming back for a quick kiss, and starting to leave again. He could just kick himself. Didn't he have any self-restraint? Couldn't he wait just a matter of hours? Her tongue came out and moistened her top lip. He couldn't. "Just one minute, okay?"

She nodded and he bent down and whisked up Josie, who had been clinging to Livvy's skirts, taking the baby with him. It took him only a moment to spot Bess, now dancing the two-step with Remy, and to be sure that her husband had filled her in on the plan. Wheezing from the exertion, she came and laid a big kiss on his forehead, her bright-red cheeks moist when they came in contact with his skin.

"You think you could take the kids home with you?'' he asked, a small part of him wishing that Bess would refuse and he would be forced to wait until Tuesday to tell Livvy; a more personal, more immediate part praying she would say yes. Which, of course, she did.

"You're a fine man, Spencer Williamson," Remy said again, this time picking up Josie and giving her a twirl. "I don't care what anybody says about you!" He threw his head back and laughed heartily at his own joke.

"Listen to me," Spencer said, trying to quiet the man down. "It's a secret, remember?"

Remy put his fingers to his lips. "Yeah, Yeah. A secret."

Dusk was falling when they pulled up to the farmhouse. Curly George nickered at Peaches, who stood just on the other side of the fence. The chickens cackled as though they recognized Livvy. Miss Lily mooed long and low.

On the porch were piles of pie tins Spencer had washed out before the wedding. Livvy looked first at them and then at him accusingly. He could have smacked himself for leaving them there, but he'd never expected to bring her home.

"I couldn't let you share your cherries, Liv," he said, sounding pathetic even to himself.

"You bought all those pies?" There was utter disbelief in her eyes, but at his nod, the open mouth of surprise turned into a wide grin. "You did?"

"You're not mad?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm touched."

Women! He'd never understand them, but he'd never give up trying when it came to his wife.

"You want to get down?"

She lifted a shoulder and said, "I guess."

"No rush," he said, sitting with his hands in his lap and his heart in his throat. Beside him, despite the warm night, she shivered. "You cold?"

She shook her head, but he slipped out of his jacket and placed it over her shoulders anyway. She looked like a newly-wed, frightened and eager all at the same time. And even more pressing than his need to satisfy her—not to mention himself—was his need to reassure her that she was safe with him. Her heart was safe in his keeping.

"Nice night," he said, leaning back and crossing his ankles. She looked at him suspiciously. "Don't you think?" ,

"Oh, yes," she agreed, her head bobbing with enthusiasm as if either one of them cared about the weather.

"Smells good, too," he said. He inhaled so deeply he could almost taste her on his tongue, feel her creep into his lungs—but then that wasn't all that far from his heart, where she already resided.

"My roses," she said, gesturing over her shoulder.

"Smells more like lilacs to me." He reached out and touched the pin that held her hair tightly to the nape of her neck. "All right?" he asked, pulling gently on the pin.

She gave the tiniest little nod and turned so that he could reach it easily. As her hair came tumbling down she said something, but the blood thrumming in his head drowned out the words.

"Spencer?"

He had a handful of her hair held up to his nose, and it was doing what it always did to him. His breathing was more ragged than he would have liked. "Hm?"

"Why are my roses all balled up?"

"You do know we're moving, don't you?"

"Moving?"

"This isn't the way I was going to tell you. See, it was all supposed to happen on Tuesday . . ."

She crossed her hands over her chest. "What was?"

The moon was rising, shining on her skin and dancing in her eyes, and she was close and the future was just around the corner and he couldn't help himself. "Could I kiss you?"

"Maybe you better tell me this plan," she started, but he put his arm around her and brushed her lips with his, saying a word, kissing her, saying another.

"You're gonna"—he pecked at her lips—"like it."

"I am?" she said dreamily, melting against him and returning his kisses tentatively.

She had the softest lips he could imagine, full and warm, and he could taste a touch of wine on them still from the wedding.

"Well, I"—he kissed the corner of her mouth, touching it with his tongue—"hope so."

"Why don't you"—her chest rose with her breath and then she let him pull her against him, closer and closer until there was no space at all—"tell me?"

He loosened the tie that was strangling him and found that it wasn't any easier to draw a breath without it. Careful not to let go of her or break their kiss, he wiggled his way to the edge of the seat, taking her with him.

"A second," he said, dragging in a gulp of air and then jumping down from the wagon. "Easy, boy," he said to George, setting the brake from the ground and then reaching up for Livvy and taking her in his arms like a baby.