A Marriage of the Heart (35 page)

It would have been easy just then to give in to the pull of her words, to help her forget, but he caught an iron grip on his emotions and pushed her gently away from him. He didn’t want her responsiveness when it was based on fear or worry. He shook his head, swallowing hard.

“Abby, no . . . I can’t . . . not like this. You’d resent it later.”

“But you’re my husband.” Her voice took on a shrill note.

“I know, but . . .”

“Never mind. I’m going to bed.” She yanked herself away from him.

“Abby, please . . .”

“Good night!” She climbed into bed, not bothering to change into a nightdress, and yanked the quilt up and over her shoulder.

Joseph slid in misery to his own cold place on the floor.

A
BIGAIL FELT SO CONFUSED AND ANGRY, SHE COULD SPIT
. She tried to regulate her breathing beneath the cocoon of the quilt and to ignore Joseph’s rustlings on the floor. She couldn’t believe that she’d just been kissing him like that and he’d rejected her! She squirmed in embarrassment. And then that awful girl and her poisonous words . . . Why did she, his wife, repeat them to Joseph? She’d been so confident at the bed-and-breakfast, but in the reality of her own room, things seemed less clear. Her
mind swirled and her stomach churned as she finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

All too soon it was morning, and she dragged herself from bed, wanting to get downstairs ahead of Joseph. She felt like a mess after having slept in her clothes, but she didn’t take time to repair her
kapp
and hair. She had no idea what to say to him. She had her hand on the doorknob when his voice halted her.

“Running away?”

She turned, staring at him in the half-light as he leaned up on one elbow.

“Ya.”
It didn’t occur to her to do anything but to tell the truth.

“Come here.”

She shook her head, biting her lip. “
Nee
, I’ve had enough of—everything last night.”

He got to his feet easily, his torso half in shadow as he reached for her brush from the bureau. “Come here, Abby. Please. Let me help you with your hair.”

Just the thought of him touching her hair made her mind tingle with delight, but she clung with stubbornness to the doorknob.

“Why should I?”

He smiled. “Because I’m a fool. Because I don’t deserve it. Because you want to.”

She glared at him. Why did he have to be so right all the time? She took one step forward and he was across the floor to meet her, his bare feet moving in silence.

“Come on. Sit down on the bed.”

Reluctantly she let herself be led to sit on the edge of the bed while Joseph moved to kneel behind her on the mattress. She felt him put the brush down. His clever fingers found the hairpins with no problem. He lifted her
kapp
off and set it somewhere behind her. Then he began to unwind the complicated braid.

He took his time, separating the long strands with his fingers, reaching up to massage her scalp tenderly. She felt a constant ripple
of chills play up and down her arms. Then he began to brush her hair, starting at her scalp and then arching his body to reach the very ends. He was so gentle, so thorough. She found it difficult to sit still.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and she responded to the husky pull of his voice, though she shook her head at his words. She wished he’d kiss her, touch her somehow beyond the brush, but he kept stroking. And she soon thought she’d die with the sensuous tension spinning sparks inside of her.

“There,” he said finally, leaning down over her shoulder so that their eyes could meet. “How’s that feel?”

“Wonderful,” she breathed.

He smiled at her, a warm, rich smile that touched his eyes and made her think of sunshine and shadows and enchanting forest glens.
He is the one who is beautiful,
she thought. And then he bent his head, and she saw the dark fall of his hair while his mouth found the warmth of her shoulder through her blouse. And then he stopped. She nearly fell backward at the sudden withdrawal of his body from behind hers. He got off the bed, replaced the brush, and leaned his hip against the bureau.

“That’s the best I can do. I can’t braid.”

She stared at him. “I can’t braid.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing . . . I mean, nothing. Of course I can braid.” She reached shaking hands up to work at her plait while he pulled his shirt on. She had to turn her head to ignore the movements of his fingers, and once more felt torn between a restlessness and a desire to wring his neck.

He pulled on his glasses and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. “All right, sweetheart. I’ll see you downstairs. I’m really hungry this morning.”

He was out the door before she could speak, and she wondered for the second time in as many days whether she was losing her mind—or her heart.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
T WAS A
S
ATURDAY IN LATE
O
CTOBER AND THE FIRST DAY OF
the county fair when Abigail awoke with the beginnings of a bad cold. She sneezed and sniffled and roused Joseph, who peered up at her from his bed on the floor.

“Are you sick?”

“
Nee
.”

“You’re sick. You’re staying home today.” He rose to stand next to the bed, considering her with a frown as he adjusted his glasses.

She set her lips in a firm line. “I am not staying home. I want to go . . . with you.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached a firm hand to press against her forehead. “You’ve got a fever. You’re staying home. I’ll stay with you.”

She flopped back against the pillows. “No, you can’t do that. Father is expecting you to look at the stock with him. I just wanted to see how my sweet corn does.”

And spend the day with you,
she thought.

She loved the fair and the freedom it had always brought in the past. Her father had always been too involved in his own manly pursuits, so she’d been able to roam as she liked. And she liked the idea of tasting treats with Joseph, walking beside him, and maybe winning a prize. But she did feel like a day of rest would probably do her good, so she sighed aloud in frustration.

“I’ll bring you a present, then. And the vegetable ribbons aren’t until tomorrow anyway. I’ve read the schedule.” His tone was cajoling.

She pouted.

“And if you’re feeling better, you can go tomorrow. But if you’re not, I’m having Dr. Knepp come round.”

“For a cold?”

“ . . . you could have strep throat or something.”
Ya

“My throat’s fine.” She scrunched down beneath the quilts and sneezed again.

He laughed and bent forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “All right, little mouse. But today you rest. And wish me a blue ribbon with that bull I’ve been fostering for your father. I’ve never seen such a huge animal.”

She sighed. “A big hunk of meat on four legs.”

“That’s right.” He grinned. “And some nice prize money in the bank.”

His soft beard rubbed her chin as he kissed her good-bye, and she listened with a forlorn ear to his and her father’s voices as they talked, then left the house.

She buried her head in the covers and fell back to sleep. She was awakened several hours later by heavy footsteps downstairs and hopped out of bed to yank her clothes on. Everyone should still be at the fair. She did her hair with haste, then tiptoed out of the room to the top of the stairs.

J
OSEPH SAT ON THE KITCHEN TABLE AND SHOOK HIS HEAD
at Dr. Knepp. “No,” he rasped, catching his breath. “No drugs.”

“Son, you’ve got three broken ribs. I’ve got to set them. A touch of something to help ease things off won’t send you back.”

Joseph shook his head again, groaning faintly. “Just do it.”

“All right, then. Put your hands on my shoulders.”

Joseph focused everything he had on raising his arms, but he couldn’t stifle the cry that came from his lips as he reached the goal.

“Good. Now I’ll set them. It will hurt badly.”

“I . . . understand.”

The doctor sighed and ran his large hands experimentally down the rib cage. Joseph squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip until the blood came. Dr. Knepp shifted the bones into relative position, and Joseph felt the room swim before his eyes.

“Scream if you want, son. It won’t bother me.”

Just then the squeak of the steps interrupted the doctor. Abby walked into the room.

“What’s going on here?”

Joseph made a faint sound of distress, and the doctor turned his head.

“Wait outside, Abigail, if you please.”

“In my own home? I will not. What are you doing on the kitchen table? Joseph, you’re awfully pale and your mouth is bleeding. What happened?”

“Abigail, your husband’s got three broken ribs. Setting them is about one of the most painful things I can do to a man. Now, please, step outside.”

“Well . . . I’ll help you, then,” she said uncertainly.

“No,” Joseph gasped.

Abigail’s face fell and she turned dejectedly, easing out the front door.

“Women!” the doctor exclaimed, tightening a strip of linen with such intensity that Joseph nearly gave in to the pull that had been haunting him for the past minutes. He sagged forward, almost unconscious.

“Thank the good Lord,” Dr. Knepp murmured, tying off the rest of the bandages.

“Danki,”
Joseph whispered as the doctor eased him back, fulllength, onto the kitchen table.

A
BIGAIL CLENCHED AND UNCLENCHED HER HANDS IN DISTRESS
and kept a keen ear on the goings-on inside. When she heard Joseph cry out, she felt her stomach drop and tears come to her eyes. He’d been so adamant about her not staying; she couldn’t understand why. Then a thought came to her mind, almost as though God had whispered it. The pain. He was in terrible pain, and based on what he’d revealed about the pills, she didn’t think the doctor would be able to give him anything. Or perhaps he’d be tempted to ask for something, and it would start him off again down that long, dark road.

She straightened her spine. She could help him through the pain, if only she knew how. The screen door opened and Dr. Knepp walked out, drying his hands on a towel.

“He’s unconscious.”

“What happened?”

Dr. Knepp gave her a wry look. “He took it into his stubborn head to try and ride a wild horse to win some prize money. He fell off and took a good kick to the ribs.”

“Ach,”
she murmured weakly. “Will he . . . be all right?”

“He’s going to need careful nursing for the next week or so. Will you do it?”

“Of course . . . I–I’m his wife.”

“So you are, and you can do this, Abigail. Help him through this time.”

She swallowed. “He wanted me to leave, but I think I understand.”

“Of course he wanted you to leave. What man wants to appear weak in front of the woman he loves?”

“But . . .” She stopped as the doctor’s words sank in.
The
woman he loves?
But he couldn’t—could he?

“I’ll fetch your father; we’ll put the boy downstairs in the master bedroom before he comes round completely.”

The doctor stalked off the porch, and Abigail tiptoed inside.

Joseph lay sprawled and pale as death across the kitchen table. His shirt lay on the floor in ruins, and his rib cage was bandaged tightly. He seemed to rasp when he breathed. She drew closer, fearful of rousing him. His glasses were nowhere in sight, and blood still dripped from the corner of his mouth. She gently lifted a corner of her apron and pressed it against his lips, and he moaned in response. She stepped back, anxious now for the doctor to return.

Joseph turned his head and opened his eyes, peering up at her in an owl-like fashion.

“Ab-by?” Even the syllables were obviously painful for him to get out, and she hastened to shush him.

“Shh . . . yes, Joseph. It’s Abby. I’m right here. Do you—want me to go?”

He shook his head. “
Nee
. . . promise . . . stay.” He tried to cough, then half sobbed with the effort.

She caught up one of his dirt-stained hands and pressed it close to her cheek. “
Ach
, Joseph. I’ll stay,” she whispered. “I promise.”

“Gut,”
he mumbled, then he slipped into unconsciousness.

She stared down at him, her husband, and the doctor’s voice rang in her head.
“The woman he loves . . .”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN