Vows (9 page)

 
"We can go now," he heard Bliss say, turning Emily in his direction. "I'm sorry it took so long."

 
"I didn't mind waiting, and anyway, Papa was busy visiting. Oh, I'm so glad it's sunny, Charles, aren't you?"

 
"I ordered it for you," he said, and they laughed as they headed for the street.

 
"Good morning, Tom," Charles greeted, in passing.

 
"Hello, Charles. Miss Walcott."

 
She nodded silently and her eyes turned glacial. They moved past and Charles called back, raising a hand, "See you tomorrow morning, bright and early."

 
"Yessir, bright and early," replied Jeffcoat. He overheard Charles ask Emily, "What time should I pick you up?"

 
And her reply, "Give me an hour and a half so I can…"

 
Their voices faded and Jeffcoat heard no more. Looking after them as they moved away with their heads close together, he thought wryly, well, well, so the tomboy has a beau.

* * *

The tomboy had more than a beau. Charles Bliss was a devoted servant who would have done anything for her. He had first fallen in love with her when they were ten and thirteen years old but had waited to declare it until she was sixteen and had brought him the news that her family was moving to Wyoming.

 
"If you're going, I'm going," Charles had declared unequivocally.

 
"But, Charles—"

 
"Because I'm going to marry you when you're old enough."

 
"M—marry me?"

 
"Of course. Didn't you know that?"

 
Maybe she always had, for she'd stared at him, then laughed, and they'd hugged for the first time and she'd told him how very, very happy she was that he was coming. And she had remained happy, until earlier this year when she'd turned eighteen and he'd proposed seriously for the first time. He'd asked her twice since, and she was becoming guilt-ridden from refusing him so often. Yet Charles had become a habit that was hard to break.

 
When he came at noon to pick her up for their picnic she found herself more than anxious to get away with him. He gave a sharp, shrill whistle of announcement as he jogged across the front yard, and slammed inside without knocking. "Hey, Emily, you ready? Oh, hello, everybody!"

 
Edwin and Frankie were both in the kitchen. Frankie ducked a mock punch, then collared Charles from behind. Charles bent forward with the boy on his back, and spun around twice before dumping his burden off.

 
"Where you two going?" Frankie wanted to know, hanging on to Charles's arms.

 
"That'd be telling."

 
"Can I go?"

 
"Nope, not this time." Charles made a fist and pressed it dead center on Frankie's forehead, fending him off affectionately. "We're taking the shay for two."

 
"Aww, gee … come on, Charles."

 
"Nope. This time it's just Emily and me."

 
Edwin inquired, "Is everything all right at the stable?"

 
"Yup. I left the back door open. Nobody's around." Charles rambled in and out of their livery stable as he did in and out of their house, and, naturally, any time he had need of a rig there was no thought of charging him. "How's Mrs. Walcott doing today?"

 
"A little tired, I'm afraid, and somewhat forlorn. She misses going to church with us."

 
"Tell her Emily and I will bring her some wildflowers if we find any. Are you ready, Emily?"

 
Emily removed an apron and hung it behind the pantry door. "Are you sure there's nothing I can bring?"

 
"It's supposed to be your day off. Just turn your cuffs down and follow me. I've got everything in the rig."

 
It was a perfect day for an outing—clear, warm, and windless. The Big Horns appeared as multiple tiers of blue rising to greet the sky along a clear, undulating horizon line. They headed southwest into the foothills, toward Red Grade Springs, following Little Goose Creek until they left the valley to begin climbing. Ahead, the jagged top of Black Tooth Mountain appeared and disappeared as they paralleled draws and rounded the bases of rolling green hills. They startled a herd of white-rumped antelopes and watched them spring away across a green rise. They disturbed a jackrabbit who bounded off on oversized feet to disappear into a clump of sage. They reached the vast forests where the pinery crews had cleared great open tracts and cut skidding roads. The smell was spicy, the road quiet with its bed of needles. At Hurlbum Creek they forded, rounded a curve, and broke into the open above an uplands meadow where the creek looped around nearly upon itself. In the center of the loop, Charles brought the team to a halt.

 
The sylvan spot, so perfect, so peaceful, brought Emily immediately to her feet. She stood in the buggy, shaded her eyes, and gazed about in rapture.

 
"Oh, Charles, however did you find it?"

 
"I was up here last week buying lumber."

 
"Oh, it's beautiful."

 
"It's called Curlew Hill."

 
"Curlew Hill," she repeated, then fell silent to appreciate the scene before her.

 
The creek rushed out of the mountains, purling over rocks that shone like silver coins, smoothed by years of liquid motion. The water made a tight horseshoe bend enclosing a field of thick bluegrass that gave way to tufts of feathery sheep fescue nearer the water. In certain places the creek was outlined by balsam poplars, their new olive-yellow leaves filling the air with a sweet resinous scent. Huddling beneath them were thickets of wild gooseberry and hawthorn blooming in clusters of pink. In the distance a dense patch of golden banner spread across the meadow in a mass of yellow, following summer up to the tree line.

 
"Oh, look." Emily pointed. "Yellow peas." She called the wildflowers by their common name. "After we've eaten we must walk out and pick some. They're Mother's favorites."

 
Charles dropped off the wagon into grass a foot high, and Emily followed. From the storage box beneath the seat he drew a hamper and blanket, which, when spread, remained aloft on the sturdy green stems of grass. On hands and knees they flattened it, laughing, then settled cross-legged in their warm nest. Charles opened the hamper, displaying each item with a flourish. "Smoked sausage! Cheese! Rye bread! Pickled beets! Tinned peaches! And iced tea!" He set the fruit jar down and admitted, "It's not fried chicken and apple pie, but we bachelors eat pretty simple."

 
"It's a feast when you don't have to cook it."

 
They ate the plain food while a tattler called in tinkling notes from its hidden spot at the stream's edge, and overhead a sparrow hawk hunted, drifting on an updraft, cocking his head at them. Nearby an electric-blue butterfly buzzed. The sun was beatific, captured in their bowl like warm yellow tea in a cup.

 
Their stomachs filled, Emily and Charles grew heavy with thought.

 
"Charles?"

 
There were things Emily needed to talk about, painful things that somehow seemed approachable out here where the sun and grass and flowers and birdsong made the formidable seem less dire.

 
"Hmm?"

 
For moments she was silent, toying with two breadcrumbs caught in a fold of her skirt. She lifted her eyes to the distant yellow flowers and told him quietly. "My mother is going to die."

 
Charles changed his mind about the bite of bread he'd been about to take and laid it aside. "I guessed as much."

 
"Nobody's ever said it in so many words, but we all know. She's already begun coughing blood."

 
He reached across the picnic hamper and took her hand. "I'm sorry, Emily."

 
"It … it felt good to say it at last." To no one but Charles would she have been able. With no one but Charles would she have allowed her tears to show.

 
"Yes, I know."

 
"Poor Papa." She turned her hand over and twined her fingers with Charles's because he understood her devastation as no one else. Again she lifted her eyes to his. "I think it's hardest on Papa. I've seen him crying on the porch at night when he thinks everybody else is asleep."

 
"Oh, Emily." Charles squeezed her hand tighter.

 
Suddenly she forced a bright expression. "But guess what?"

 
"What?"

 
"We're going to have a houseguest."

 
"Who?" Charles released her hand and laid his plate in the hamper.

 
"Mother's cousin Fannie, whom she hasn't seen since the year she and Papa got married. She was due in today. Papa is probably picking her up at the stage depot right now."

 
"Fannie of the outrageous letters?"

Emily laughed. "The same. I'm curious to meet her. She's always seemed so worldly, so … so unfettered by convention. Papa says she certainly is—he knows her, too, of course, since they all grew up in Massachusetts. After all these years of outlandish letters I'm not sure what to expect. But she's coming to take care of Mother."

 
"Good. That'll take the pressure off you."

 
"Charles, can I tell you something?"

 
"Anything."

 
She pleated and repleated the fabric of her skirt as if reluctant to divulge her thought. "Sometimes I feel guilty because I tried very hard to take over Mother's chores, but I … well, I don't care much for cooking and cleaning. I'd much rather be with the horses." She abandoned the pleating and turned sharply away from Charles, displeased with herself. "Oh, that sounds so self-indulgent, and I don't want to be that way. Really, I don't."

 
"Emily." He took her shoulders and pivoted her around to face him. "You'll like housework better when the house is your own."

 
She stared into his familiar eyes and answered frankly, "I doubt it, Charles."

 
Disappointment touched his face, then he swallowed and asked in a pained voice, "Why do you fight it so? How many more times will I have to ask?"

 
"Oh, Charles…" She shrugged free of his touch and placed her plate in the hamper.

 
"No, don't avoid the issue again." He set the hamper aside and moved closer to her, face-to-face, hip-to-hip. "I want to marry you, Emily."

 
"You want to marry a woman who's just admitted she hates housework?" She forced a chuckle, unable to meet his gaze. "What kind of wife would I make?"

 
"You're the only one I've ever wanted." He took her by both arms. "The only one," he repeated softly.

 
At his words her eyes lifted. "I know, Charles, but with Mother ill I don't think—"

 
"You've just said Fannie is coming to take care of her, so why must we wait? Emily, I love you so…" His caresses became more insistent. "I rattle around in that great big house of mine wishing you were in it with me. I built it for you, don't you know that?"

 
She did know, and it added to her sense of obligation.

 
"I want you in it … and our children," he pleaded in a low, throaty voice, transferring his hands to her shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over her collarbones.

 
"Our children?" she repeated, feeling a shaft of panic at the thought. Taking care of a stableful of horses she could handle, but she felt totally unprepared for motherhood. Another thought came and a blush warmed her chest and rose to her cheeks. She tried to imagine herself begetting children with Charles but could not. He was too much like a brother for it to be seemly.

 
"I want children, Emily, don't you?"

 
"Right now I want a certificate of veterinarian medicine much more than I want children."

 
"All right—a year, two years. How long will it take you to get it? We'll wait to get married until you've finished your course. But in the meantime, we'll announce that we're betrothed. Please say yes, Emily." As he lowered his face toward hers he repeated in a whisper, "Please…" Their mouths touched as he drew her close, raised one knee, and lay her in the crook of his lap. She felt her breast flatten against his chest, and his arms slip to her back. His hands spread upon it and began moving. His elbow brushed the side of her breast and sent a spear of reaction to its tip. Goosebumps shivered up her nape, which he circled with his fingers. She rested a palm on his breast and felt his heart ramming against it, and wondered—if she waited long enough, would the same thing happen to her own?