The Outsider (15 page)
“Your family is all settled in upstairs.”
He wasn’t a stupid man. “This wasn’t my idea, Starla. I wouldn’t have invited them without discussing it with you.”
She waved toward the stairs. “But here they are.”
“Was I supposed to put them up in the hotel?”
When she didn’t answer, his attitude chilled. “I trust you’ll do everything possible to make them feel at home.”
“Oh, they already feel at home. It seems
I’m
the one who’s the outsider here.”
“If you feel that way, I’m sure it’s not because of anything they’ve done.”
“You’re sure.” She repeated the words the way she’d pull back the hammers on a double-barrel scattergun. “Silly ol’ me. Why would I feel excluded just because you invited a passel of strangers under my roof who make no bones about poking their noses into our business, then treat me
like a lying Rebel slut who stole away their precious little Tony?”
He took in her fury, his impassive expression betraying nothing for a long moment. Just when she began to fear she’d provoked him into one of his rare rages, a totally inappropriate smile spread across his face. She let both hammers drop.
“This is not amusing! I will not be insulted and sneered at in my own home.”
She couldn’t know it had been the way she’d referred to the house as her home that had circumvented any irritation he might have felt at being wedged into the middle of an awkward situation between two factions of his family, old and new. Before she had an inkling of what he meant to do, he clasped his crutches under his arms, freeing him to reach out to her, snagging her into an engulfing embrace. She went immediately rigid, her heart pounding against the broad wall of his chest in a fast and frantic rhythm. But because she didn’t pull away, he was encouraged enough to brush a light kiss against her temple.
“This is my house, too, Starla,” he told her firmly. “I’ll tolerate no bad manners, not from you—” His arms hitched up tighter when she drew a protesting breath, stopping her interruption as he added, “And not from anyone else. If they’re rude to you again, I’ll carry their bags to the hotel myself.”
She went still against him, apparently surprised by that vow. Her voice was small and uncertain.
“You’d do that for me?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she relaxed, her body melting gratefully along his, a maddening contrast of soft bosom and cutting corset stays. Intoxicated by her unexpected yielding, Dodge spread his hands wide, pressing her closer.
Starla’s response was instinctive. Her palms flattened against the satin of his vest, pushing fiercely to find leverage as she ordered breathlessly, “Don’t. Let me go. Don’t!”
She stumbled back from him the instant his grasp loosened, but before he could speak an apology, a rustle of skirts warned them they weren’t alone.
Startled, yet wisely deciding to remain silent, Marian Dodge looked at the two of them, then said, “Alice was wondering if there were any extra blankets for the children.”
“I’ll get them.” Starla tore her glassy gaze from her husband’s and turned to hurry up the stairs, brushing past his mother without a glance.
Damn
. His life had just gotten more complicated.
Dodge moved into the parlor, propping himself up in front of the sideboard to pour himself a stiff drink. His mother didn’t have to say a word for him to feel her censure.
“I don’t remember you imbibing so early in the day. Is your back bothering you … or is it something else?”
He gulped down the bracing liquor and waited for the burn to subside before facing his mother’s too-knowing study.
“I’m fine, Mother.”
“If you and your bride are having problems—”
“We’re not having any problems. She’s pregnant, she upsets easily.”
“Does our being here upset her? Maybe we should go to the hotel—”
He sighed heavily, seeing no way to win this particular argument. “Stay. Please. Get to know each other.”
“You’ve hardly had time to do that, have you?”
“What I know, I like, or I wouldn’t have married her. Is there anything else you want to get out in the open? You’re hardly the soul of diplomacy.”
“Why did you marry this woman?”
“I love her.”
Dodge was almost as surprised by that statement as she was, not because he’d told her a lie, but because it was the honest truth. A truth that staggered him.
To turn their talk from unstable ground, Dodge asked, “Why didn’t Father come down with you?”
“He couldn’t get away.”
The pain of that was like a long-festering splinter. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? Dodge pretended it didn’t matter by keeping his tone casual.
“Allie told me he and Frank were busy with some big order. Is Frank working out all right?”
Marian was blunt. “He’d rather be working with you.” Then she threw up her hands. “I know, I know. That was settled long ago. But you have to realize how hurt he was by your decision not to go into business with him. It was your great-grandfather’s dream—”
“It was the right decision for me. Just like coming here and marrying Starla was right for me.”
She spoke her mind without reservation, a family trait. “I don’t understand you, Hamilton. Are you purposefully doing everything you can think of to break our hearts?”
“That’s not fair.” He wasn’t immune to the sharp barb of guilt she intended him to feel.
“Your father wants you home; we all do. Haven’t you carried this little show of temper far enough?”
“You don’t understand, do you?” He shook his head sadly. “I didn’t just walk out on the family on a whim. I tried to explain that to you. This is what I want to do with my life.”
“What? Throw all our traditions away on behalf of slaveholding Southerners who thank you by putting a bullet in your back?” Her words caught in a sob. She put a fisted hand to her mouth until she was in control again. Still her voice trembled. Though a strong woman, she was also a mother fearing for her youngest child. “Don’t do this. Come home where you belong, where we can care for you properly. It’s no sin to admit to weakness. Or to making the wrong decisions out of stubbornness and pride.”
He was trying to frame his answer in a manner that might make an impression on her when he saw Starla standing in the doorway. From her unnatural pallor and the pinch of her lips, he guessed she’d heard enough of their conversation to be alarmed.
However, her tone was carefully modulated as she said, “The children are all settled in. I planned on frying chicken for supper, if that meets with your approval, Mrs. Dodge.”
Marian looked from her son’s stoic features to the startlingly lovely creature he’d married. She made herself smile. “That sounds so formal, dear. Call me Mother. Or Marian, if you prefer.”
“Would chicken be all right for supper … Marian?”
“That would be fine, dear. Just fine. Don’t go to any trouble for us.”
No trouble. No trouble at all.
Starla whipped the cooked potatoes, milk, and butter with a vengeance until her arm ached with the effort and the potatoes were smooth as custard.
Trouble. That described the Dodges in a word. A plague of trouble descending upon her house with their questions and their prying and their ploys of affection to lure her husband away. A deep, cold panic lay behind her irritation. What if they succeeded? Where would that leave her and her unborn child? Where would she go if Dodge turned away? As often as she vowed not to give him any power over her emotions, she’d unwittingly placed her future in his hands with the claim “I do.”
A whiff of smoke reminded her to check the stove, where dark warning curls escaped around the edge of the oven door. With a gasp she wrenched it open, rearing back as a scorched cloud billowed out. Fumbling through the burn of anxious tears, she grabbed the pan of biscuits and began to pull it out before the sear of hot metal shocked her into dropping it onto the kitchen floor with a clatter.
“Starla?”
She turned toward Dodge, shaking with irrepressible
sobs. With surprising agility, he crossed the room.
“What’s wrong? Star, what’s the matter?”
She extended her hand. Words tumbled from her trembling lips. “I burned my fingers.”
His expression dissolved with tenderness. He took her hand and dipped it into the water basin, holding it there until the searing pain began to lessen. Then, as she gazed up at him through eyes like molten emeralds, he lifted those reddened fingertips to his mouth. His kiss miraculously made the sting disappear.
“Is that better?” His words were gruff with emotion.
Yes, it was better. Somehow, all it took was the warm link of their hands, the unpressuring gesture of concern. She found herself fanning her fingers along the rough burr of his cheek and jaw, running her thumb over the curve of his mouth. The sudden flare of responsive heat in his dark gaze satisfied rather than intimidated.
And that startled her into an anxious retreat.
He didn’t try to prolong the connection, nor did he pursue it. Instead, he told her softly, “Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”
He didn’t understand. She wasn’t afraid of him at that moment.
She was afraid of losing him.
Dinner went surprisingly well, with no one commenting on the well-done chicken or overly crisp biscuits. Starla played gracious hostess beneath mother- and sister-in-law’s scrutiny and remained quiet to observe the workings of the Dodge family. Their spontaneity bemused her, for while the children displayed proper table manners, they were allowed to speak up, oftentimes interrupting the flow of conversation without fear of reprisal. And the adults listened.
Amazing.
She’d never seen anything like it. It put her heart in a tender twist. Was this what Dodge would be like with the child she carried? Was this how he’d act if he’d married a more responsive woman? She was seeing a spontaneity in him that had been missing in all the weeks they’d been married. Around her he treaded lightly. With his family, he did what he liked without caution. A twinge of envy squeezed at her even as her reserve kept her carefully aloof from the free-flowing affection.
And when the meal was over and the boy and
girl had been excused, no one complained about sticky fingers or greasy kisses as they embraced mother, grandmother, and uncle. They regarded Starla with uncertainty and shy smiles, waiting for an invitation to approach. Such beautiful children. She could feel Dodge watching her as she swallowed her anguished longing. Shy with them herself, she merely returned their small smiles and kept them at a distance. Letting them get too close would open up too much dangerous emotion.
And it was with still greater shyness that she stood in the doorway to her husband’s bedroom as the members of the house settled in for sleep. Preparing for bed, Dodge had stripped out of his shirt and shoes and regarded her questioningly, wearing only his long johns and trousers. For a moment she stood paralyzed with anxiety.
“Was there something you wanted?” he prompted at last.
Starla swallowed hard.
“I wanted to know if I should share your room. Your family will expect it and think it odd if I stay upstairs.”
He stared at her unblinkingly. “Oh. Yes, they probably will.” No invitation followed and she began to fidget.
“Then may I come in?”
His gaze settled on the white-knuckled tension of the fingers holding together her robe. “Are you sure you want to?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Bold words belied by the brilliance of her glass-green stare. She was clearly terrified.
“Come in, then.”
She edged cautiously into the room with all the enthusiasm of a woman stepping into a pit of snakes. She looked everywhere but at the big unmade bed where they’d spent the previous night so comfortably. The memory of his quiet breathing, the warmth of his sleeping form against hers, stirred a tremor of unsettling sensation not altogether unpleasant.
She wasn’t the only one nervous with the situation. Dodge moved around the room with an uncommon awkwardness, his self-consciousness making him clumsy. Minutes ticked by as he wasted time with trivial matters, carefully selecting his next day’s attire and laying it out in neat folds, shuffling through the papers he’d brought home with him with a fixed intent. Starla seized upon his distraction gratefully.
“If you have work you need to do—”
“Just some reading to familiarize myself with the files. I usually do it in bed.”
“Don’t let me disturb you. The light won’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Neither of them moved toward that beckoning expanse of tousled sheets.
Finally, Starla took a breath and turned her back long enough to shed her silky robe. She slipped under the covers, bundling them up under her chin as if suffering a chill, her back braced stiffly toward the shared middle of the mattress, her eyes determinedly closed.
Seeing her unnatural posture, Dodge smiled ruefully. It was going to be like sharing his covers with a cigar store Indian.
Resigned to a sleepless night, he sat on the edge of the bed to prop his crutches against the night-stand and to wriggle out of his trousers. He heard Starla’s pattern of breathing race in the silence of the room. After making a bolster of pillows to support himself, he eased back, teeth gritted while he lifted his legs up onto the bed as if they were twin sticks of wood. Then he waited with a taut patience for the clutching spasms working along his spine to twitch down the muscles of his thighs.
Starla watched him.
Hating that she should witness signs of his weakness, he forced himself to relax and pretend he wasn’t on the edge of a scream. His hands shook too fiercely from the strain for him to pick up the papers from the night table. Instead, he fisted them in the covers until the sensations of discomfort became manageable once again.
Starla said nothing. He was relieved when she turned her head away, pretending to seek slumber. Her form was too tense for that miracle.
He tried to read. Nothing he scanned with restless inattention stayed with him. Nothing held his interest quite so completely as the contour of his covers dipping from shoulder to waist and up the rounded hip of the figure lying next to him.