The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) (15 page)

And blast, if that didn’t make him want to try harder to understand.

“You’re counting something up?” he prompted.

She turned her head, looking at him fully for the first time. Her eyes widened.

It was like he was seeing her for the first time: the small oval face, big brown eyes—impossibly large in such a petite face—sooty eyelashes, and gently arched eyebrows. He’d call her hair a sort of gingery brown. It was secured in that one braid tracing her cheek and neck, falling well past her shoulders. It must’ve been quite long unbound, maybe even to her waist. A whole lot of hair for such a small woman.

And she wasn’t dingy at all. Not in the least.

She wasn’t tall like Lorelei. She didn’t have loose dark brown curls like the ones he’d once enjoyed playing with. Annie was...different. Not as pretty, but that wasn’t quite true. She was actually quite pretty. Sort of delicate, vulnerable—almost doe-like with those big brown eyes.

And, Lord help him, he noticed.

It couldn’t have taken more than a handful of seconds to take all this in, though time itself seemed to freeze up for a moment and then sprang free.

Wait, what had just happened?

Something
had just happened. But what, he couldn’t rightly say.

He cleared his throat.

“That is,” he said, “are you counting days, maybe weeks?”

Her expression changed, almost like she was experiencing pain.

What had he said?

Her expression cleared almost as quickly, and she nodded. She brushed her fingertips across her eyes is if gathering her sudden emotion and wiping it aside.

It was incredibly moving, and Jem stood still for a moment. It meant something to her that he pushed past that moment when she was defeated and kept trying. A small realization, but it hit him like a blow to the chest. Struck some deep place within himself—maybe his soul. He wondered if God was trying to tell him something. Probably to wake him up.

Annie has something to say. Listen to her.

Something like that.

All right, all right.
Jem gave in silently.

“It’s August fourth now,” he said, piecing together their conversation. “So my birthday is a few weeks away.”

She gathered her fingers into her palm, as if he’d handed her some small gift, something rare, and she’d received it gratefully.

Her lips curved into a smile.

She was pleased. The thought gave him a feeling of great satisfaction, as if he’d accomplished something important.

“When’s your birthday?” he asked, his curiosity piqued now.

Her face clouded, and she shook her head. She wiped the air away from her and held up empty hands.

I don’t have one.

The words came into his head as if she’d said them aloud. If she’d had a voice, he imagined a feminine voice to match her features—the sound of the petite young woman.

It was as real as if Lorelei had been standing there talking aloud. But not the same. Lorelei had her own voice.

And Annie has hers.

Jem didn’t care to dwell on that too heavily.

“Everyone has a birthday,” he said.

But I don’t.
She made some small motion and tapped her forehead.
I don’t know mine.

“Surely you celebrated with your foster family—you must have picked a day?”

She shrugged that away, her features drawn.

They hadn’t.

How on earth had they passed the years with a child and
not made a cake
? Not done
something
.

He thought of little Mae. She’d celebrated two birthdays. Two cakes. One, Lorelei had made, and it got smashed into their kitchen table, with Mae’s little hands splashing icing everywhere, balling it into her fists, bringing it up to her mouth. A lot of laughter. That’s all he remembered. The second cake—without Lorelei—they’d had up at Becky’s cabin. A quieter celebration, at least on his part. All the Jessups, especially the children, and Mae had made plenty of noise as he recalled. He’d been all wrapped up in wool, as if cocooned in a blanket. Numb.

They’d need to have a third cake soon, he realized.

“Mae’s birthday’s coming up too,” he said. “She’ll be three in November. Not long. We’ll need a cake.”

Annie’s expression brightened. A little glimmer of mischief appeared in her eyes. A glow. She cradled her arms and for a second Jem’s heart stopped beating entirely.

She couldn’t mean...a baby?

She couldn’t be...expecting, could she?

She couldn’t mean she wanted one, with him?

No, of course not.

Relief came on him in a rush as he remembered their conversation was centered on Mae’s birthday and planning a celebration. A cake for Mae. A gift for Mae.

“A doll?” he asked.

Annie beamed.
Yes.
She pressed one finger to her lips and tapped her foot once.

“One is yes?” he asked.

She repeated the action.
Yes.
Her eyes smiled at him. And something passed between them, a click of connection that was almost audible.

It was a whole lot to take in all at once, so Jem quickly looked at the horizon.

He didn’t want to
connect
.

Don’t you?

It was his own voice in his own head. Or was it? Was it God nudging him? That was quite a thought. He’d been doing that a lot recently—nudging.

Jem looked at the Rockies, so unchanging. Solid. The sky changing colors even as he watched it. Clouds casting shadows on the crags and mountain faces.

He knew he couldn’t stay in this place—where he was inside. He
shouldn’t
. But it seemed impossible to move. To change.

He wanted it. He didn’t want it.

All that left him with was
stuck
.

Not a nice place to be.

Birthdays
, that same voice nudged.

He sighed and looked over at Annie again. She was watching him, studying him. What did she see?

She didn’t look completely horrified or put off—despite his full beard and the wall he’d built around himself—a fact that was remarkable in itself.

“If...” He swallowed past a thickening in his throat, and continued, “If you could pick a birthday... What would it be?”

She lifted her brows slightly. He’d surprised her. He experienced a loosening of pressure about his person, and a flicker of interest that broke through his eternal fog.

Annie looked up at the rafters, out at the mountains, and back at him. Clearly contemplating. Then, to his shock, she pointed at him.

“
My
birthday?” he asked. “Now, wait a minute. Don’t you want your own day?”

She pressed her lips together.

“You could pick any day. Any month...”

She touched two fingers to her mouth.
No.

“November’s a good month...”

She tapped the toe of her boot twice.
No.

“January? Not much going on in January. We’ve got the New Year, of course... How about February?”

She stomped her foot twice. Her eyes danced.
No.

“No?” he asked.

She repeated the action.

“So two is no. And you want
my
birthday?” He scratched the back of his head, scratched lightly through his beard. She wanted his birthday. “Well, all right. If you’re sure.”

She stood straighter and issued a challenging look.
I’m sure.

“Well, all right then. September seventh. We’ll have to get Ray to make us a cake.”

She shook her head and placed a hand over her chest.
I will.

“Oh no. You can’t make your own cake.”

She tilted her head in question.
I can’t?

“Nope. It’s a rule.”

It is?

“Can’t make your own birthday cake.”

She shrugged, accepting, but her eyes traced over his whole person searchingly: his eyes, his face, the beard, his scraggly hair, the height and breadth of him.

He felt sized up.

But there was only acceptance in her face. She was trying to figure who he was, Jem realized, as much as he was trying to figure who she was.

He didn’t know what she saw or how he stacked up.

He combed thoughtfully through his beard as he stared back out at the view.

After a bit, he sat on the top step, leaning heavily with his elbows braced on his knees.

She watched him.

“Well, are you going to sit with me or not?” he asked, when she didn’t move.

He heard that same huff of a laugh that she made—no, not an ugly sound at all—and was pleased when she plopped down beside him. A clean flowery scent of soap came with her.

In one of Lorelei’s plainer work dresses, one with a big full skirt and ruffled neckline, she looked somewhat dwarfed. She tucked the layers of fabric under her like a small girl, and sat with her elbows on her knees, her hands framing her chin. Not that she truly looked like a child. Petite, yes, but womanly, more like.

And, Jem realized, she’d managed to leave space for about two brawny ranch hands between them.

He smiled to himself as the silence fell around them again. It was surprisingly comfortable sitting out on the porch with her, a woman he barely knew.

He suddenly had a hankering for a blade of grass to put between his teeth, but he was too settled to want to move. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Not bad at all.

It wouldn’t hurt him to make just a little more effort to get to know her, would it?

NINETEEN

A
s was the custom, the evening meal at the Creed house was served in the formal dining room. Gabe sat at the heavy walnut table that stood in the center of the room, surrounded by walls paneled in the darkest mahogany that always made him feel like they lived in a palace. The table was set for eight: just the family, plus two empty chairs. He’d always wondered why no one had taken those two chairs out years ago. It wasn’t like his father would ever want any more children.

The wall sconces provided poor light, as they were set so low. His father preferred two great candelabra to be lit, as they were tonight. The flames flickered, burning down the fragrant beeswax candles and letting off a gentle stream of white smoke now and then.

Gabe liked the scent, and he didn’t mind the dim atmosphere. He didn’t much want his father—up at the head of the table—to have a good view of him anyway.

Nearly four weeks had passed since his father had come home. Four interminably long weeks.

Tonight the major was talking a streak, bragging about his days in the war against the Indians, telling tales about battles and ambushes in the most gruesome detail. He was drunk, of course. The crystal wine decanter before him was empty. Their serving girl, Margaret, had already filled it to the brim twice.

Gabe’s older brothers had each enjoyed a modest glass, but that was all. So Father had drunk almost all of it himself.

It was going to be one of those nights.

Mama sat at the foot of the table, with Gabe maintaining his steady silence on her left. She hadn’t touched her dessert, which spoke of her distress. It was the only sign of her great distaste for Father’s horrible tales. Otherwise, her features were placid, if a little withdrawn.

Gabe wanted to tell his father to stop, but the words jammed in his throat. He glanced at the silver punch bowl on the sideboard with his father’s name engraved on it: “Presented to Major Elias Creed for Acts of Service.” The script was beautiful, an elaborate scrolling affair. All Gabe wanted was to throw it across the room. Make some noise. Do anything to stop his father’s blathering. He hated his own cowardice almost as much as he hated his father’s casual brutality. It seemed he’d enjoyed killing, and not just the braves.
Not just the men
.

He didn’t stop at the killing either. He bragged of other things. Things that turned Gabe’s stomach. Things no man should do, let alone brag about.

Gabe’s fingers curled tightly around the thick stem of his crystal water goblet, so tightly he feared it might break. He could almost see it, could almost hear the shards scattering across the table, making a tinkling sound. Something had to break. Inside him, it felt much the same, as if he was being strangled slowly from within.

But if he spoke now, he’d stumble over his words as he always did before his father. His trouble was always worst when he was talking to The Major.

His father’s bleary gaze would invariably lock onto him. A fire would spark in his eyes. And Gabe would be next in line.

The words would come at him.

The
attacks
, more like it.

Gabe didn’t have the stomach for it tonight. He simply kept his head down and tried to blend in with the walls.

His time would come soon enough. If not now, then when the others went to sleep. The far-off cracks of lightning to the west only solidified his feeling that a storm was brewing.

Crack.

Another low rumble. Another summer storm. It had been a month for rain.

Outside the windows, the ranch was tinged in gray tones. The hillsides of their land had grown dark and windswept, prepared for yet more rain.

The horses were restless—their cattle seeking shelter too, as best they could.

Gabe took a sip of his cold spring water. It may as well have been hot air. There was no refreshment in it.

“I see your boy’s huddling beside you tonight.” The Major’s voice came like a crack of thunder right in the house. Sudden and unwelcome.

Mama stiffened. She picked up her dessert fork and glanced at Margaret, dismissing her without even lifting a hand.

“Your son
Gabe
is sitting quietly and respectfully beside your wife, Elias.” She lifted her chin, proud as ever, restrained. Everyone said she was beautiful. Did they all know his father didn’t deserve her?

Gabe’s father picked up the decanter and, as if only now noticing it was empty, slammed it back onto the table.
Crack
.

Gabe clenched his jaw, half expecting it to shatter, but it didn’t. He took another sip of his water, his hand betraying a tremble.

“My son,” the major scoffed. “Is that right,
Gabe
? My son?”

Always with the accusations. Gabe gripped his goblet. His face flooded with heat, then went icy cold, his head floating oddly toward the ceiling. He blinked to clear his suddenly tight vision.

Not now. Not now.

“Y-yes, sir,” he said miserably. His brothers fixed their eyes on their plates. This was something no one wanted to see. It was always the same. Even in town. People averted their eyes. Pretended not to notice. The Major might backhand him, make a joke of it. Like he was kidding. Might rain insults down on him. Claim Gabe had spilled this or that. No one saw.

But
this
.

How dare you insult Mama!
How dare you suggest she was unfaithful! She’d never do such a thing.
That’s what Gabe wanted to yell at the top of his voice. Same as ever. He didn’t, of course.

“Y-yes, sir,” the major repeated, waggling his bleary head in disgust. He lurched up from the table.

Gabe froze in his seat, bracing instinctively for a blow, but his father merely grabbed up the decanter and stood facing the door to the dining room, calling out, “Margaret! More wine!”

It was sure to be one of those nights. A night that would not end soon enough.