The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) (30 page)

When he was finally done with all of it, from the first word to the last, he straightened the pages into a neat pile and set them on the table beside the bed.

“Come here,” he said, opening his arms. She slid slowly into them and he drew her down onto the bed. They lay side by side, his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close. She remained stiff, and he had to wriggle around until they were more comfortably settled against one another: him in his nightshirt, her dressed head to toe in the same dress she’d worn last night.

“Sleep a while,” he insisted.

He waited a while more, but she never completely lost that awkward stiffness of wakefulness. Her breathing was still too shallow. She hadn’t fully relaxed against him. He caught her looking at Lorelei in her ornate silver frame.

“Does it bother you that her portrait’s here?” Jem asked.

Annie hesitated, her lip caught adorably between her teeth. She obviously didn’t want to tell him yes, but he could see it in her eyes. It wasn’t right to be here together, not with Lorelei right there on the bedside table. He could see that now.

He cleared his throat and snuggled Annie into his side. She fit nicely there. Or she would if she would let go of all the tension inside of her, keeping her from resting.

“I was thinking of moving her into Mae’s room,” he said, though it had just now occurred to him. “So she could have a memory of her mama. Would you mind that?”

He heard Annie take a breath and release it softly. She shook her head, her actions so filled with relief that he chuckled. They lay quietly in the cozy depths of the bed for a spell. After a while, she tilted her face up to look at him.

“I saw Lorelei’s photograph in the box,” she signed, and Jem could have sworn he heard her voice in his head, almost as if she’d spoken aloud. It was happening more and more frequently—
hearing
her when she signed. But then she frowned in a dissatisfied fashion. Not because her motions were constrained by her position tucked against his side, but from not signing the right word.

“Her trunk?” he supplied, his voice still roughened from sleep.

She nodded, then spelled it out one letter at a time.
T-r-u-n-k.

“We’ll learn the sign,” he promised, “when the new books come.”

She offered him a small smile and continued, nodding at Lorelei’s photograph, “I showed it to Ben.” When she made the sign for Ben’s name her irritation showed. “He took it. He said bad things.”

“Why?” Jem asked, nudging his chin against the top of her head. “Why show it to Ben?”

“I was—curious.” Again Annie spelled the sign she didn't know. Jem gave her a little nod as soon as he understood, so she didn't have to spell out the entire word.

“About Lorelei” she continued. “How she died. Anything. I thought Ben liked me.”

Jem considered what she’d said. Annie had come here not knowing anything about Lorelei, or about him or Mae either, really. She’d known nothing except one small interchange at the train stop, when that young preacher had been bartering her off. Jem shuddered inwardly at the memory, one question still haunting him:
what had Creed planned to do with her?

In the weeks that followed, Annie would’ve naturally learned more about Jem and Mae, just from being around them. But he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about his loss. Not even when he should have said something. Not even after they’d stayed together here. In this bed. As married folks did. Instead, he’d escaped into work—work other men could’ve done. He could have stayed home after dinner tonight. Shared his history with Annie. But he hadn’t. After taking them one huge step forward, he’d practically run away. And that wasn’t fair

“I suppose that’s natural,” Jem conceded, referring to her curiosity about Lorelei.

She relaxed against him and signed, “Ben didn’t tell me anything.”

So, she still didn’t know about Lorelei.

“He was angry.” She tensed again as she signed the words. She seemed particularly distressed that Ben didn’t like her anymore.

“Don’t mind Ben too much. He still likes you.” At least, Jem thought he liked her. Ben had sure seemed worried when he was standing over Annie while she was breathing like she was.

“What happened to...Lorelei?” Annie signed the name and pointed to the framed portrait.

Jem tightened his grip on her, not wanting to open old wounds. She simply rested one hand over his, where it lay on her shoulder. She was with him. Understood this was difficult for him.

He pushed away his reluctance.

“She died,” he said.

Annie didn't move. She just waited.

“It was after a surgery. We were living in Iowa then.”

“Sick?” Annie asked, one small gesture.

“She had a...womanly issue,” Jem said. Though he was a veterinarian and a professional, he didn’t much care to go into all the sensitive details of his young wife’s troubles. What they later learned was a tumor. How they’d been told she’d never have any more children.

“It was bad.” He left it at that.

“She died in surgery?” Annie asked, making an
S
sound for surgery, accompanied by a cutting motion on her arm. He understood easily enough, but they’d have to learn that sign too. The proper one. Heaven forbid she might need it someday.

“No, the surgery went just fine. At least that’s what we thought. But then...” He gritted his teeth. He should have noticed things sooner. She’d been so terribly pale. Tired all the time.

“She wasn’t doing well. She barely got out of bed. Mae was so little. She needed her mama, but all she got was me.”

“What was wrong—with Lorelei?”

“We still don’t know. A sickness that got in her blood? Only there was no fever. Maybe the surgeon simply didn’t finish the job right.”

Jem imagined the operation. Perhaps the doctor
hadn’t
finished properly. Jem was a doctor—a horse doctor, but still. He should have known something was wrong. At the time, he’d thought it only natural that she was tired after the operation. He’d given her time to recover, taking over the care of Mae as best he could. Fed her cow’s milk, broth, and whey mush when it was clear Lorelei could no longer nurse. Mae had fussed, and Jem had spent hours rocking her. He hadn’t slept much. And it seemed Lorelei could do nothing but sleep. In his bone-weary tiredness, he’d actually envied her.

How could he have not seen?

“Not too long after, just a few days, she stopped eating. And by then”—he shrugged—“it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.” Annie paused to touch his hand. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Jem squeezed her shoulder, refusing to let the burning sensation in his throat turn into tears. It seemed he was past tears anyway. Lorelei was becoming memories. It was bound to happen, but it still felt wrong.

“You loved her.” Annie’s easy acceptance—the way she didn’t press for more than he was prepared to give—was encouragement enough to continue.

“Yes, I loved her.”

She folded her hands softly across her middle. Her body rested against his side. He wondered if she expected him to say something about his feelings for her—Annie—now.

He stared up at the ceiling, the wide wood beams dark against the white paint. He should reassure Annie, tell her he loved her now too. But the words wouldn’t come together.

What did he feel for her? Was it love? It might not be the same as what he’d felt for Lorelei—the young love, the constant yearning, the inability to think properly whenever she was near—but there was affection there. Possibly stronger feelings.

And now...he’d waited too long.

The moment to say something passed in silence, slipping away with every second. Now if he said anything, it would seem to her that he felt he
had
to say something. Like he didn’t mean it. When he barely knew what to say. And when he did say it—whatever
it
was—he wanted it to mean something.

“Annie...” he began, uncomfortably aware that he was less the man he wanted to be for her in that moment.

She reached up and pressed her fingers to his mouth, stopping him. The action told him she knew it was too late too. She knew the moment had passed. What must she be thinking? He closed his eyes, feeling terrible.

Then he felt her fingers stroking lightly over his beard. She pulled herself up and kissed him softly, laying her hand so gently against the side of his face. What was she telling him now? Was she saying it was all right that he didn’t love her? Was that what she thought? Maybe she was simply saying it was all right that he couldn’t put it into words yet.

As he returned her kiss, he hoped that was true. He hoped she knew he had deep feelings for her, if not by his words then by what he did. Every day.

She tucked herself into his side again, still fully dressed from last night. Surely she’d be more comfortable without her dress and corset, but he suspected she was drifting asleep and didn’t want to disturb her now. She must’ve been awake nearly all night writing. She was likely exhausted.

“My ma left when I was young, maybe five,” he found himself saying, without meaning to say anything. It was just her words and her story, they caught at him. He felt them. In some ways, he’d lived them. She needed to know that. To keep all his shame to himself now, after she’d exposed so much of her heart... It seemed wrong. “Maybe younger. I don’t know.

“But you had your father?” she signed.

“He beat me,” Jem said matter-of-factly. “Beat her too. That’s why she left. Mean-to-the-bone kind of man. Never happy. He drank too much.”

She lay unmoving in his arms, with a listening kind of quietude of spirit, then she signed, “I’m sorry.”

“Never quite got over that,” he said. “Her leaving me there with him. But I got out too, eventually. Some folks helped me, the Jessups.”

“Sounds like good people. Like you.”

Jem was starting to learn the rhythms of her signing more and more, even anticipating what she was going to say, but he couldn’t have been more surprised by what she’d just expressed.

“What?”

“You saved me. You saved Sugar. I told you, remember?”

“I remember.” He settled her more comfortably against his side, resting his chin against her head. Breathing in the fresh clean scent of her shampoo. Her words had meant a lot. Mostly because he never wanted to be like his pa. It was an ugly fear that sat in the back of his mind all the time. Would he ever hit someone? Surely not Mae, not ever. But would the rage catch up with him someday?

Soon, Annie’s head drooped against his chest and her breathing deepened in sleep. Jem wished he could dream away the whole day with her. But he was wide awake, thinking about what she’d written. He thought about having to move Lorelei’s photograph into Mae’s room. And how hard that was going to be. Regretted not telling Annie what he felt about her.

Even now—when he had time to probe at his feelings—he couldn’t think of any proper words to say. And so he looked around the room. There was nothing to see, except Annie’s pages stacked on his bedside table. The loose photograph of Lorelei was there too, the one Annie had found in the trunk. He barely remembered setting it there, but he must have.

The morning sun shone in, slanting golden streaks across the quilt. Everyone else was likely up already. They’d probably eaten breakfast. Jem thought he smelled fresh-baked biscuits and that good thick brown gravy that Ray made. His stomach rumbled in protest but he ignored it. Mae and Sugar were probably downstairs pestering poor Ray. And Ben. Both men were almost certainly speculating why he and Annie weren’t up yet. Probably drawing all sorts of wild conclusions about that.

Jem sighed.

He hadn’t been able to tell Annie he loved her, but she hadn’t made any declarations of love either. She knew the sign for that—they both did. Although, maybe she’d been too shy to tell him. A woman wanted to hear a man say it first, didn’t she? As Jem’s arm went numb under the weight of her body, he was left wondering how Annie felt about him.

Was there any love in her heart toward him?

Whatever they had—and however unsettling things were at times—
this
wasn’t a bad place for them to be. They were simply making the best of what had happened to them at that train depot in the Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. And it wasn’t bad, not bad at all.

It just seemed there should be...more. Something that might cost him something. The question was: did he have enough left in him to give?

THIRTY-NINE

G
abe woke to the sensation of movement, a saddle horn in his gut, his face planted against the bristly coat of his horse’s neck. How he hadn’t slid to the ground beneath them he didn’t know. They were moving across rough terrain. That much he could tell. Everything else was fire emanating from his back, traveling up his spine, exploding in his brain. Pain. Pain that wouldn’t let up.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d blacked out. Once, twice—maybe more—and every time he woke up still draped forward over Denali’s solid neck. He didn’t even remember how he got the saddle on the big gelding. How? He’d barely been able to stand, let alone lift a forty-pound saddle. Somehow he’d gotten a bridle on the big bay too. Must have been something he’d done in a nightmare-state, half in, half out. He certainly couldn’t recall now.

All he remembered was last night, having the ugliest argument he’d ever had with his father, how he’d left his father’s house forever—finally.

If I stay I’ll die.

That one thought had driven him on, and somehow he remained in the saddle.

Images from the night before flickered by in a red haze: Denali standing patiently in the center aisle, Gabe brushing his coat. The two long white ropes drooping from the barn posts, fastened to the tie ring on Denali’s halter. So normal. Then his father storming in, drunk. Threatening to brand Gabe’s horse, some punishment he’d dreamed up for all the imaginary wrongs Gabe had done against him.

But Gabe hadn’t stood for it. For once, he’d had something to say. No one was going to touch Denali. No one. Especially not his father.

His father hadn’t liked that. Not at all. He’d screamed at Gabe, said he wasn’t family, to talk back like that. He’d said awful things about Annie too, called her bad names. And his face... His face had turned into something Gabe had never seen. Monstrous. Determined.

Gabe still couldn’t believe what happened next. He couldn’t believe what his father had done, but his back was still on fire. He’d seen the red-hot brand in his father’s hand, knew he’d flown into a blind rage.

Gabe closed his eyes, trying to wipe the nightmare from his vision. He tried to breathe. It hurt to fill his lungs. He sipped in a breath. Still too much. Once again, he faded out. Faded back in. Gray, everything. No color. He almost wished he’d just die, to end it, but there was a small fire inside him too. He couldn’t give up.

There was no choice now. He had to leave. Things would only get worse. His father would have to cover it up. He’d keep Gabe silent through threats and intimidation, or worse. Why stop at this? Why not kill him? Bury him in the mountains. Pretend he’d run away. Mama might even believe that.

Gabe had to go.

Sleep tugged at him, but his father’s voice kept sliding thought his thoughts. Only leftover memories, but so close they were real. Accusations. Gabe wasn’t his real son.
Has your mother ever said anything? Told you about another man? Your real father?
Denying it had only made him angry. The more Gabe had protested, the worse it got.

And then that was it. It happened.

Gabe struggled onward. He had to make it north to Denver. Somehow. He had to get to his uncle’s. They’d figure something out. Uncle Micah had always said to come if Gabe ever needed anything. Maybe he’d suspected something. Maybe he knew a thing or two about his own brother.

Gabe started to slide and somehow righted himself. One more slide like that when he was out and he’d be on the ground, possibly with his head broken against a rock. There was no way he’d make it to Denver, not now. Not like this. He’d be lucky to make it to Ben’s.

Ben’s.

He slogged along slowly, feeling every bump, every stumble the horse made in the dim light of dawn.

When had the sun risen?

He lifted his head and saw buildings. A familiar outline against the misty horizon. His family’s house. Their stables. Their paddocks. Their horses.

No.

They must have traveled in a circle. Denali must’ve decided he wanted back in the barn. Wanted to eat.

They couldn’t be
here
.

But they were.

Gabe recognized the view all too well. Denali had brought them home. Nearly back to the house. How?

He shook himself awake, icy cold, sick at the thought of his father seeing them. Coming out for him.

Lord Almighty
, he gasped silently, a petition.

“No, Denali,” he mumbled weakly. “We’ve got to get to Ben’s.”

With that thought his only hope, Gabe struggled to stay awake.

* * *

Jem heard something thud against the back porch. Something big. Under the kitchen table, Sugar let out a low growl, then a sharp bark. Her stranger alert. Jem held his fork arrested to his mouth, looked over at Ben. A look of concern flickered in Ben’s eyes too.

Jem exchanged a silent message with Ray:
get Annie and Mae out of the kitchen, someplace safe
. He waited until Ray had ushered Annie, Mae, and Sugar as quickly and quietly as he could to the parlor, close to the front door, in case they might need to slip out. He wasn’t sure why alarm bells were ringing in his ears, but they were. It might only be one of the ranch hands fooling around, but there was a feeling in the air he didn’t like. All the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

He watched as Ben circled slowly to the mantle and got his shotgun off the wall. Watched as he quickly loaded and waited for Jem’s cue. They were at least prepared for the worst. Whatever the worst might be.

For some reason, an image of Creed’s face flashed in Jem’s mind. The last time he’d seen him at the wedding. The way he’d been staring at Annie. Hungry. Seething.

Jem unsheathed his Cheyenne knife, the one he always wore on his belt these days. He edged over the back door, keeping the wall between him and the opening. Ben edged over on the other side. Jem gestured to him with two fingers, indicating he was going to take a look-see out the back. Ben nodded and waited, the shotgun held loose but ready.

Jem leaned forward real quick and saw nothing at first, then he made out a large lump on the porch just outside the back door. All he could see was the back of a torn shirt and a shock of dark curly hair. In the driveway, panting hard, stood Gabe’s horse. There was no one else in sight. No movement, no noise besides the horses in their paddocks.

“It’s Gabe,” Jem said, sheathing his knife and rushing outside. Gabe groaned, a worrisome sound as he lay there with his face pressed against the floorboards. Ben was right there beside him in an instant, bending down to look into his young friend’s face. His gun lay forgotten on the porch beside him, within easy reach.

“Gabe? You all right?”

“He’s hurt,” Jem said, after a quick examination. He’s been burned.”

“Burned?”

“Looks bad, like a branding iron maybe.”

Ben blanched. He looked like he wanted to reach out to help his friend somehow, but didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“You mean, you mean someone did this to him?” he asked. “On purpose?”

“Ray!” Jem called back toward the house. “It’s Gabe! Come on out.” He hesitated a moment, then called again, “Have Annie take Mae upstairs to her room.”

* * *

Annie huddled by the settee with Mae in her arms.

“You heard him, Miss Annie. Get Mae upstairs,” Ray said, just before he strode out of the parlor, more like ran.

Annie looked at the doorway to the foyer. She looked at the doorway to the kitchen, where Ray had gone to help. Jem’s voice had sounded so serious, urgent even. What had happened? Was Gabe hurt? Could she help? If she only took a quick peek...

She set Mae down on the big rocker by the fireplace and signed, “Mae, stay here. Please.”

Mae puckered up her lips, obviously hurt at being left out. “I wanna come.”

“Please,” Annie signed. “Stay here.”

Mae nodded reluctantly. Perhaps there was something in Annie’s expression that convinced her. Or perhaps something in the men’s tones and their hurried actions spoke deeply to her, for she settled back against the rocker and tucked her knees up to her chin, prepared to wait until Annie came back.

“Where should we put him?” Ben’s voice filtered toward Annie. The back door creaked open and slapped shut.

She hurried into the kitchen.

“Annie,” Jem said, his eyes touching on her and widening. “Not now. Get Mae up to her room. This isn’t something she should see.”

“She’s waiting.” Annie gestured to the parlor. “She promised.”

“I don’t want you to see either.”

“I want to help,” she insisted, her heart going to Gabe.

“He’s hurt. It’s bad, Annie. It’s something you can’t un-see once you’ve seen it.”

She nodded bravely.

Jem sighed. “We need a place for him. Clean linens. Some towels...”

“He can have my room,” Annie signed, then realized how that must sound. But they were husband and wife now. They should be staying in the same room, shouldn’t they? Besides Gabe needed a place, and that was the most important thing.

Jem’s eyes met hers— in one instant, an understanding passed between them. Then the moment flickered by, and Jem started issuing orders. “Let’s get him upstairs. Annie, after you get Mae settled, grab some clean towels and change out the sheets. Pad the mattress down with maybe an old quilt or two, whatever you can find. Ray, we’ll need fresh water, my medical bag, and some broth, later. Ben, help me carry him up, will you?”

Annie rushed off in one direction, and Ray in the other.

She only paused once to look back at the sight of Ben and Jem carrying Gabe’s body between them.

It was as bad as Jem said. Worse.

And he was right—it was something she could never un-see.

What in the world had happened to Gabe? Something awful. It pained her to see him that way, and she hoped and prayed Jem would be able to help him.

* * *

Once they had Gabe settled in Annie’s room, Jem tended to the boy’s wound as best as he could. Each time Gabe flinched, Jem felt the pain himself, fresh. It was like living his own wounds over again. More than once, he had the fiercest desire to run outside, but he stayed put, gritting his teeth. More than once he wished Gabe would slip into consciousness, but he never did.

Once Gabe was resting as comfortably as possible—on his stomach with his head turned to one side—Jem pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat in it.

“Can you tell me what—?”

“My father. He w-wants Annie,” Gabe interrupted, intent on getting his piece said. He had other ideas about what they needed to talk about evidently. “The way he looks at her. It’s wr-wrong.”

“I know. But he’s not going to have her,” Jem reassured him, his gut tightening. Looking at Gabe, he saw exactly what Creed could and would do. He feared he’d underestimated the major.

“Oh, I know,” Gabe blurted out. “I won’t let him.”

Jem looked at him amazed, both for the utter assurance with which he said it, and the fact that he didn’t stutter at all, not then.

“Ben told me about Annie—how you bought her out from him.”

“How’d Ben know about that?” Jem, asked, surprised. “We never talked about it.”

Gabe grimaced. His back had to be in miserable pain. “I don’t know about that. But B-ben said he heard you say it yourself, talking to Ray.”

Talking to Ray?

Ben hadn’t been there when Jem told Ray the story. At least, Jem hadn’t seen him. Maybe he’d been on the back porch? Or in the parlor? Jem hadn’t been paying attention to who was coming or going. Or staying put to listen.

“My father’s a bad man, Mr. Wheeler. He’s done things.”

“I know. He hurt you. Not just this once either, I’m sure. There’s more than one mark on you. There are old stripes from whippings too, with a switch, I’d guess, or a whip. Am I right?”

Gabe nodded once, a look of shame crossing his young face. “Whatever was handy. A switch, a crop. His fists.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Jem said, feeling a wrench for the young man before him. “My pa hurt me too.”