His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (35 page)

Bonnie started, some of her color returning. "Urn... missing?" Her gaze snapped back to Eden. "Of course not. He's probably under Auntie's porch, playing with that wretched toad. He... had a bellyache this morning. And he disobeyed my order not to leave the house."

"I see."

Bonnie audibly swallowed. "Anyway, since I'm here, you might as well give me a bottle of citrate of magnesia. For Jamie."

"You know very well Michael doesn't hand over medicines without a thorough examination. As soon as he returns, I'll tell him you'd like to set an appointment for Jamie—"

"I think I know my son well enough to determine what ails him. Besides, there's no telling when Michael will get back," she added hastily, "and my son is suffering now."

Again Eden counted to ten. She decided not to point out that a child who felt healthy enough to crawl under a porch with a toad probably wasn't suffering. At least not from dyspepsia.

"Very well. There are other remedies for bellyaches. The apothecary should be opening his shop soon. And you won't need Michael's prescription for peppermint, valerian, yarrow, or blue flax."

Bonnie wrinkled her nose. "I couldn't possibly stomach... I mean,
Jamie
couldn't possibly stomach the smell of boiling flax seeds this morning."

Another one of Eden's insights struck. This one was more ominous, more shattering. It made her stomach roil.

"This isn't really about Jamie, is it?" She choked out the remainder: "You're in the family way."

Bonnie retreated so hastily, her shoulders struck the wall. "N-no!" Her hand dropped to her abdomen, belying her protest. "How dare you? I'm not even married!"

Eden lowered her gaze. To a man-hungry widow like Bonnie, what difference would marriage—hers or anyone else's—make?

Dread gnawing at her innards, Eden tried not to draw the most heartbreaking conclusion about Bonnie and her real reason for visiting the clinic before business hours. "Have... you told the father?"

Bonnie spun away. For a moment, she looked like she might bolt out the back door for safety. Instead, her steps faltered.

"No."

"You won't be able to keep the baby a secret for long."

She faced Eden again, her eyes glistening a haunting green. "Aunt Claudia said your tonic stopped her chest pains."

"Um... yes," Eden admitted warily, her mind shrieking for answers that she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Was Michael really the father of Bonnie's baby? Or had Bonnie come here merely to get medicine for her nausea?

"I didn't believe Claudia at first," Bonnie rushed on. "But Sera said it was true. And Jamie says you're some kind of Indian Medicine Woman. Didn't you mix potions for people in Colorado?"

Eden squirmed. The very mention of Colorado was enough to deflate what little confidence she'd managed to build under Michael's tutelage. Although she still tried to refer all patients to him, the sheer volume of Michael's practice made her assistance necessary. After observing her for several weeks as she treated minor maladies, he'd insisted she had the skills to treat rashes, bee stings, head colds, and sprains. Part of her had been excited to think Michael was giving her an opportunity to grow her skills and prove herself to Blue Thunder's skeptics.

But the rest of her had begun to wonder if he were just too sick, too exhausted, and he didn't care who helped him shoulder his patient load. For surely if Michael believed in his heart she was competent, he would have heeded the medical advice she gave
him.

Instead, he opted for coffee instead of the rejuvenating teas she brewed for him each morning; he paid lip service to their agreement that he would come home each afternoon for a nap; and he refused to soak his weary muscles each evening in an herbal bath because he didn't want to smell like a "dandelion." Her confidence wavered every time he dismissed her ideas, and no matter how kindly he declined her offers of help, her pride stung.

"Bonnie..." Adulteress or no, the beseeching look in the older woman's eyes was nearly Eden's undoing. "I'm not the expert that Michael is. You should really consult with—"

"No! Not Michael. He'd never understand!"

Hugging her waist, Bonnie began to pace in an agitated rhythm, the heels of her kid boots scoring the soft pine boards. "This shouldn't have happened," she muttered under her breath. "I was so careful. I could
kill
that old mountain woman for convincing me her preventatives worked."

She turned abruptly, a tear staining her cheek. "It's not fair! I don't want this baby."

"I know you don't think so now," Eden countered shakily, not liking where this conversation was leading. "I know you're worried about the things people will say—"

"I
can't
have this baby, don't you see?" Bonnie's eyes brimmed. "Birthing Jamie nearly killed me. I can't do it again. I can't let him grow up alone!"

Oh, Bonnie.
Eden's chest ached. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought they'd find common ground in an age-old female fear. "I helped Talking Raven midwife several women out west. They were scared too, because the first child came so hard. But the second came easier. And so did the third."

Bonnie's brows knitted. "So you could make me live?"

"No, but you can. By fighting for life. By refusing to leave Jamie at any cost. Isn't that how you got through those first three months after he was born?"

Bonnie blinked at her. Eden blushed. She didn't know where that fount of wisdom had come from. Even so, some part of her knew, as surely as if Talking Raven had stood congratulating her, that her insight had been truth.

"I guess so." Bonnie bit her lip. "But I don't put much stock in prayer. I mean, I prayed till I was blue in the face that Michael and I would..." Her voice trailed, and she had the decency to redden. "Anyway, it's not like I have a choice. I can't go to him now. Doc Perkins is half blind. And that old mountain woman's clearly a charlatan. Maybe your Indian ways can... can eliminate my problem."

Eden cringed. Even when her herbs had failed, her intent had always been to save lives, not take them. "I'll do everything I can to help you, Bonnie, except... something we'll both regret."

Bonnie straightened her spine, but her show of mettle was undermined by the quiver in her chin. "I thought you hated me. Why are you being nice?"

"Well..." The question was a good one, considering the circumstances. "I suppose it's because I see the good in you. The part that loves Jamie and worries about Aunt Claudia. I try to ignore the rest."

"I suppose you think I should ignore your bad parts, too," Bonnie said petulantly.

The front bell jangled before Eden could respond. Bonnie jumped hard enough to make her straw boater bounce.

"Promise," she hissed, clamping a hand over her hat and backing for the rear door.

A footstep rattled the floorboards beyond the curtain that separated the rooms.

"Promise you won't say a word, Eden."

"But—"

"Promise!"

She nodded, too choked to speak. Bonnie fled in a flurry of crimson, the back door banging closed behind her.

"Mama?" Jamie poked his tousled curls around the curtain. "Oh. Hello, Miss Eden. I thought I heard Mama's voice."

Balling her fists in her skirts, Eden gulped a steadying breath and steeled herself against glancing toward the rear entrance. "She's not here, Jamie. Why aren't you in school?"

"Mr. Luke said I didn't have to go. He paid me a whole dollar to find Mama!"

Mr. Luke?
Eden's heart stuttered even as her brain pounced on that grain of hope.

"Uh-oh." Jamie was gazing out the side window toward Claudia. She stood wreathed in her habitual smoke cloud as she unlocked the door of her general store. "I gotta scoot. If I don't get over there 'fore Auntie eats her breakfast, there won't be any peppermints left! Bye, Miss Eden. If you see Ma, tell her Mr. Luke's looking for her."

Eden watched the boy dash back the way he had come.

Luke Frothingale! The mayor's son!

Her momentary relief was checked by an insidious doubt.

Just how many lovers does Bonnie have, anyway?

The widow had been seen clinging a bit too cozily to a number of prominent bachelors since Independence Day. Eden had heard folks whisper that Bonnie didn't care one whit for any of them, that she was just trying to hurt Michael the way he'd hurt her when he'd gotten caught with his hand up Eden's skirts.

Maybe Bonnie doesn't know who sired her baby.

Eden's eyes stung. She didn't know for sure that Michael had spent the night at Farmer Garretson's house. And last night hadn't been the first night her husband hadn't come to their bed.

In fact, he disappeared during business hours, too, leaving Eden to stammer excuses to his patients. Because he refused to speak of the circumstances surrounding his absences, she'd tried to convince herself that a patient's confidentiality was at stake. She even allowed herself to believe that he'd been called to some medical emergency at the orphanage. Circumspect questioning of Lydia Witherspoon, however, always proved there'd been no emergency and worse, no visit from Michael.

But the hardest lie of all to face came in the wee hours before dawn.

Michael had stopped making love to her only a week after their honeymoon. He'd used Sera as his excuse, pointing out that his unschooled sister was liable to hear them in a bedroom only two doors down the hall. When Eden tried to seduce him during less conventional times—the Saturday afternoon, for instance, when Collie first sneaked Sera to the animal orphanage to meet Vandy—Michael claimed he'd agreed to repair the leaks in Claudia's roof. Other times, he pleaded an appointment he'd forgotten to mention. Or a headache. Or fatigue.

As if to apologize, he usually brought her flowers the next day. He never actually said he was sorry; she supposed he was too proud for that. But in truth, she didn't need him to say the words. She just needed him to hold her.

She remembered the last time he'd allowed himself to touch her in their bed. On that predawn morning in mid-August, a golden moon had long since bobbed behind the horizon. The candles had guttered; even the crickets had hushed. Daylight couldn't have been more than an hour away. Something roused her from a dream—the usual restless dream—about him.

She realized his breath was stirring the curls on the nape of her neck.

Tingles streaked to her toes. She lay on her side, not daring to move. Not since Louisville had he eased himself beside her in this way, a
hungry
way, as if his long weeks of abstinence had finally taken their toll. His hand skimmed her cheek, so feather soft, she thought she must have imagined it. But then the hair he'd been brushing back from her ear snagged on the button of her gown. She swallowed.

He froze.

Half afraid to breathe, she lay waiting, hoping. She listened to his heart—or was it hers?—thundering around her in the night. The heat between his thighs nearly scalded her buttocks, but she only craved more. How many nights had she lain smoldering like this, longing for him to set her aflame?

Finally his voice, low and husky, crooned above her ear. "I'm sorry."

Tears crowded fast and thick into her throat. He said nothing else,
did
nothing else.

It was more than she could bear.

"Michael."

He tensed.

"P-please touch me again."

She felt a tremor move through him.

"I didn't mean to wake you." The tone was very different this time, so distant. So... polite.

"I don't mind. Truly." She rolled on her back—and checked her next impulse. Something in his manner warned her against reaching for him, against pressing her lips to his or weaving her fingers through his hair.

"I love you so much," she whispered fervently.

His chest heaved above her. As dim as it was, she could see his features contort. Was he in pain?

"You are"—the rasp of his words grew almost guttural—"more than I deserve."

She tried not to frown. This wasn't the first time he'd alluded to such a thing. That he might honestly harbor the belief was starting to unnerve her.

She tried to focus on her love, not her upset. "Sometimes you make me so happy, I wonder how I could deserve you," she countered gently.

He bowed his head. She didn't need to see his face to realize his turmoil. Struggle was etched into every rigid sinew, every ragged breath. She ached to know what was tearing him apart.

"Would you... tell me if I'd done something wrong?" she whispered uneasily. "Something that hurt you?"

"Oh God." His gasp was half laugh, half sob. "You're the one blessing in my life."

"Then what—?"

His lips swooped. Her head reeled with the tender savagery of his kiss. Dizzy with delight, she barely noticed the taste of salt on his tongue. She barely noticed how he shuddered when she arched her hips against his.

He loved her in every possible way that early summer morning—except one. The one that would join them completely. The one that she yearned for so much, she ached physically whenever he stood within reach.