The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (15 page)

Amy smiled back tremulously.
She was a married woman now, and this man was her husband.

I
T WAS ALMOST TWILIGHT
when Jesse and Amy reached their new home. The sun was slipping below the horizon, and the area was bathed in a golden glow. As they approached the house, Amy, who had seen the place several times in the past, looked at it with new interest. She leaned forward, and as they drew closer, she sucked in her breath sharply.

“Why, Jesse! It looks so…so different!”

He smiled, casting her an uncertain glance. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, yes! It's wonderful.” Jesse had obviously replaced the bad boards and painted the whole thing a crisp, clean white. He had even added dark green shutters to the windows.

“I wanted to put on a porch in front, too,” he told her, “but I didn't have time. I'll get it done before next spring, though. That way we can sit out and look at the wildflowers over there. There's a pastureful of them every spring.”

“And watch the fireflies in the evening,” Amy added, her lips curving upward into a smile.

“Sure.”

“I can plant flowers in front of the porch. Mama'll give me cuttings from her rosebushes.”

They smiled at each other in perfect agreement, the sweet pride of ownership swelling in their breasts. Though Amy had grown up in comfort, she had never really had
anything of her own except for her books, and Jesse had had less than that, not even a true home. This small house with the new corral beside it was a treasure to them.

They pulled up in front of the house, and Jesse leaped down to help Amy out of the buggy. She looked at the house, then back at him. Jesse smiled at her, relieved that she liked the place. He'd worked like a demon on it the past two weeks, and he'd driven the other two men with him until they regretted agreeing to help him. He was proud of the results and already filled with love for his first home, but he had been afraid that Amy, used to the large main house of the ranch, would not like it. He had known that she would be too kind to say anything bad, yet had worried that her face would fall in disappointment. But even a sweet disposition such as Amy's would not account for the clear joy that he had read in her unguarded face as she looked at their home.

“Come on, I want to see what it's like inside,” Amy said, starting forward.

“No, wait. It's bad luck.” Jesse stopped her and bent to sweep her up in his arms. “I have to carry you across, or we'll have bad luck.”

Amy giggled. It was strange to be held like this by a man, to have his arms around her at the knees and chest, to feel his hand there, just below her breast, and his own chest so firm and warm against her other side. She could see straight into Jesse's face. His eyes looked so green this close, and she was fascinated by the texture of his tanned skin, and the blending of blond and brown strands in his hair.

He felt her gaze and turned his head to look into her eyes. He went still, and for a moment they remained motionless, gazing at each other, aware of nothing except how close they were and every place that their bodies touched. Amy felt suddenly hot and breathless, and she
wanted to move her hand from its place on Jesse's shoulder and weave her fingers into his hair. Her eyes went to his mouth, and she wondered what it would feel like if he kissed her—really kissed her, not like the respectable peck that he had placed on her lips at the end of the wedding ceremony.

Then Jesse moved, breaking their trance, and carried her through the front door. He set her down, and Amy looked around delightedly. No one would have recognized this for the line shack it had once been. It was still only one big room, of course, kitchen, bedroom and parlor all in one, but it had been transformed with loving care. The walls had been sanded and painted, and the floor, which had been merely packed earth, was now laid with pine planks, carefully varnished. There were only a few pieces of furniture, and though they was not new, they had been handpicked by Amy from the things in the McAlister attic. The big brass bed and the lyre-backed oaken wash-stand had been her grandmother's. The hutch and table in the kitchen area were the ones they had used when she was a child, replaced years ago by more expensive ones her mother had ordered from San Antonio. The braided rug in front of the couch came from Amy's own bedroom at home; her grandmother had given it to her when she turned sixteen. She loved everything in the room, and it made the house seem immediately her home.

“Oh, Jesse!” she breathed, her eyes shining as she turned slowly, taking it all in. “It's beautiful. It's perfect.”

Jesse grinned. “You really think so?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I didn't have time to get everything done, of course, but I can get to the rest of it this winter. I thought that I could build shelves for your books along that wall behind the couch.”

“Really?” Amy turned big eyes brimming with gratitude and happiness toward him. “Jesse, you are so sweet. How could I ever thank you?”

“You don't need to thank me, ma'am.” He looked embarrassed. “You're my wife now. Why wouldn't I try to make you comfortable here?”

“Since I'm your wife now,” Amy told him teasingly, “you might stop calling me ma'am.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It slipped out. It seems so odd…. It'll take me a little while to get used to it.”

“Me, too,” Amy admitted. She turned back to survey the room once more, and was filled with housewifely pride and a sudden nesting instinct. “I'll need to make curtains for the windows. That's all it's lacking. And maybe braid a rug for beside the bed.”

She colored faintly and turned away. Abruptly the free-and-easy camaraderie between them, the shared happiness, was gone. Amy could have kicked herself for mentioning the word
bed.

“I, uh…I better unharness the horses and turn them out in the pasture,” Jesse said stiffly, and left the house.

While he was gone, Amy spent the time exploring the house more thoroughly, opening the doors and drawers in the kitchen and bedroom areas. When Jesse returned, carrying her trunk, Amy turned, her brow knit in puzzlement.

“Jesse, where's the stove?”

He checked for an instant, then continued to carry the trunk over to the wardrobe. “Well, there isn't one, for the moment.”

“There isn't one,” Amy repeated blankly.

Jesse nodded. “I'm sorry. I know it's not convenient, but the line shack didn't have one, and Hansom's Store didn't, either. He had to put one on order for me. It should be in in a week or two.”

“But, Jesse, what are we going to do until then? How will I cook?”

He jerked a thumb toward the fireplace at the kitchen end of the room. Amy turned and looked at it, and her eyes widened.

“The fireplace!” She turned back to Jesse, panic on her face. “But, Jesse, I don't know how to cook over an open fire!”

“Well,” Jesse said reasonably, “it can't be all that hard. People did it for years before they had stoves. Mrs. Sprague still cooked that way.”

“But you don't understand.” Amy's voice rose in a wail.

Jesse's face tightened. “I'm sorry, Amy. I know it's not what you're used to.”

Heedless of what he was saying, Amy plunged on. “You don't know what an awful cook I am! Even Ines said so, and you know how sweet she is. I was already afraid that you'd hate what I cooked for you, so I was going to start out with the two or three things that I know I can do all right, like scrambled eggs and stew and bean soup. But I don't even know how to cook
them
in a fireplace.” Tears started in her eyes. “It'll be awful, and you'll be sorry you ever married me, and— Oh!” She broke off, the tears rolling out of her eyes and down her cheeks, and she looked at Jesse with such exaggerated distress that it was almost comical.

Jesse couldn't help but chuckle, relieved to find that Amy wasn't upset because cooking in the fireplace was “beneath her.”

“Ah, Amy…” he said, starting toward her.

“Don't you laugh at me!” She took a step backward. “It's not funny.”

“Well, maybe not, but it's not a tragedy, either.” He took her arms in his and gave them a gentle shake. “I don't
care whether you can cook. I'm sure I've eaten worse than anything you could dish out. There've been times when I've had nothing but hardtack or jerky for days.”

Amy looked at him doubtfully. “But at least it wasn't burned—or, worse, half burned and half raw.”

He laughed at her expression. “Then we'll eat jerky and hardtack instead. We have a supply, you know. Or I can manage a pot of beans over the fire, I think. Besides, it's only for a little while. The stove'll come in soon enough.”

“I guess you're right.” Amy heaved a sigh. “But I'd hoped I could conceal my ineptitude from you for a time, at least. Now you know.”

“So you aren't a good cook. It's not the end of the world. There are lots of people who can't do things that you're good at. It all evens out.”

“No.” Amy shook her head. “I'm not good at anything practical.” She moved away and plopped down in one of the chairs by the table. “All I'm good at is reading and daydreaming.”

“It's hard to get by if you can't read,” Jesse said tersely. “Believe me.”

Amy looked at him oddly. “Why do you say it that way?”

Jesse shrugged and turned away. “No reason. I'm just saying that you don't think enough of yourself. You're always trying to make less of yourself than you are. Imagination's a grand thing, and there are plenty of people who could use a little of it. Why, how else would all those people who write those books you like to read do it? You know a lot about all sorts of things—history and such. You've got what somebody like me will never have. I've heard you. You know dates and places, and the why and wherefore of things. That's more important than knowing how to cook, isn't it?”

“Not if you're hungry,” Amy replied drily.

Jesse chuckled, shaking his head. “I forgot to mention, you know how to argue, too. I never met such a one for always having to have the last word.”

“That's not true!”

Jesse cast her a speaking look, and Amy burst out laughing. “All right, point taken.” She paused, looking at him, and said finally, “You really don't mind?”

“Well, I doubt I'll enjoy it. But it won't last forever. Anyway, I know you, and you're too clever to let something buffalo you. Pretty soon, you'll be cooking up a storm.”

“I've never done it before.”

“Ah, but this is the first time there won't be somebody there to cook something good when you ruin it.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Jesse Tyler! Are you saying I ruined my dishes on purpose just to get out of doing it?”

“Nope. Just saying that you never had much reason to learn before. I wouldn't think there's anything you can't learn if you put your mind to it.”

Amy smiled. “Thank you. I hope you'll say the same after you've eaten a few of my meals.”

“Well, at least that won't start tonight,” Jesse said jovially, crossing to the front door and picking up a box there. “Before we left, Ines gave me this. Said she reckoned we wouldn't have any interest in trying to fix a meal tonight.”

Amy grinned. “She was trying to save me embarrassment on my first night in our new home.”

“Well, whatever, she sent us quite a spread.” He set the box down on the table and began taking things out of it. “What do you think of this, Mrs. Tyler?”

Amy glanced up, startled, then smiled shyly at Jesse. It sent a funny fizzy sensation through her to hear herself
called by her new married name. There was something even more tingling about hearing Jesse say the words.

“I think it looks scrumptious,” she retorted. “And,” she continued, leaning across the table and putting her hand on his, “I think you are the best and dearest of men, and I'm terribly, terribly lucky to have you for a husband.”

He was still for a moment, his eyes gazing deeply into hers, almost as if he were searching for something there. Then he grinned in his usual way and said lightly, “Now, there is one of the few times when you aren't right.
I'm
the one who's lucky. Let's sit down and sample Ines's present.”

They sat down to eat the delicious meal. Amy found it easy to be with Jesse. He made some light conversation, but he seemed just as content to be silent. Normally, when Amy sat in silence with someone, she was very aware of her inability to make conversation and felt guilty for the awkwardness, and then she became even more tongue-tied. But Jesse's easy acceptance of the quiet, perversely enough, freed Amy to talk, and she soon was chatting away about her plans for their home.

After the meal, when Jesse went out to check on the animals and Amy cleared the table and washed up, she began to think about the night ahead of her and wonder what was going to happen. Jesse had told her that he wouldn't expect anything like that from her, so tonight would not be a real “wedding night.”

She cast a glance at the large brass bed in one corner of the house. Did Jesse expect them to sleep together in the same bed? There really was nowhere else
to
sleep, but, on the other hand, Amy could not imagine climbing into bed with a man and going to sleep, cocooned with him there under the blankets, with nothing between them except a few inches of air and the cotton of her nightgown. Amy drew in a shaky breath just thinking about it.

The dishes were few, and she finished them quickly. Then Amy turned to unpacking the things from her trunk. Keeping busy helped hold off the thought of what this evening would bring.

After a while Jesse came in, carrying a hammer and nails, and went over to the bedroom area, where Amy was working. Amy glanced over her shoulder at him. She felt awkward, being with him here, so she turned away quickly and resumed her task, keeping an eye on him as she worked. Jesse pounded a stout nail into the wall at a level with the top of his head, and left it protruding an inch or so, then tied a piece of thick twine to it. Stretching the twine out, he curved it around the back of the large wardrobe, making a ninety-degree angle, and up to the side wall, where he pounded another nail into the wall and tied the other end of the twine to it.