The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (16 page)

Amy glanced at the twine, puzzled. It formed a sort of imaginary wall, enclosing the bedroom on the two open sides. “What's that?” she asked. “Are you going to build walls there?”

“Nah. I thought about it, but I figured it'd make the bedroom too small and dark.” He finished tying the twine and stepped back to look at it. “I'm probably going to have to tack it into the back of the wardrobe, if you don't mind. I'll use a little nail so it won't leave much of a hole.”

“That's all right. But what's it for?”

“Cloth walls,” Jesse replied with a flash of a grin. “We can hang some of those sheets and things in that trunk your ma sent out here.” He nodded his head toward the cedar hope chest.

“Oh! I see. We can pin them up like on a clothesline.”

“Right. Then you can have some privacy. I'll bunk down out there.” He gestured toward the living area.

“But where? On the sofa? It's too short, surely.”

“You're right about that. Then I'll just spread out my bedroll on the floor.”

“Oh, no! Jesse, you can't mean to sleep on the floor!”

He shrugged. “Why not? I've slept on the floor before, believe me.”

“That may be, but not here—not in your own house.”

“But where else am I going to sleep?” he asked reasonably. “There isn't another bed, and I prefer the floor to that couch—I hate running up against the back of it every time I turn over.” He paused and looked at her. “What did you think, Amy? That I was going to break my promise to you?”

“No! No, of course not.” Amy hastened to reassure him, worried that she had hurt him, that he would think she didn't trust or believe him.

“Because I won't,” he went on flatly. “Ever.”

“I know you wouldn't. I just didn't think about…the practicalities of the situation before. It seems so awful that you should have to sleep on the floor in your own house.”

He smiled at her, and Amy thought what a warm green his eyes turned when he smiled like that, like leaves struck by the sun. “You're too softhearted. I don't mind, really. Later, when I have the time, I'll build me a truckle bed.”

“All right. If you're sure.” Amy went to the trunk and pulled out several sheets.

Together they hung them on the twine with clothespins. They met in the middle, and their hands happened to reach up to the line at the same time, and they brushed against each other. A little thrill ran through Amy at the contact, and she pulled her hand back self-consciously,
unable to look at Jesse. She felt more than saw him turn away.

He gathered up his hammer and nails, saying stiffly, “Well, I'll take these back out to the toolshed.”

Amy nodded. She suspected that he was giving her this time to undress and put on her nightgown. She was grateful to him for that. Even with the sheets up, she thought, she would have felt embarrassed at undressing in the same room with him. As soon as he closed the front door behind him, she skinned out of her clothes as fast as she could.

Jesse was gone long enough that she was able to not only undress, but wash up and go through her other nightly routines, as well. She blew out the oil lamp beside the bed and crept in under the covers. She curled up and closed her eyes. The bed was deliciously soft, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender, but these things made little impression upon Amy. She was more aware of the tight, cold little ball of loneliness that was centered in her chest.

Sometime later she heard the door open and Jesse come in. She did not open her eyes, just lay still, listening to the soft noises he made as he laid out his blankets on the floor and rolled up in them. Somehow the sound of his presence only made Amy lonelier. She thought how pleasant and comforting it would be to have Jesse's arms around her, as he had held her that night when he rescued her from Charles. Amy could not recall ever having felt quite that safe and warm.

Did Jesse mean to keep his promise not to touch her forever?
If that was his intention, then she knew that he would stick to it. Jesse was a strong person.
Or perhaps,
she thought,
it wouldn't require any strength of will on his part. Perhaps it was just that he found her too unappealing to even desire to sleep with her.

With that thought, tears seeped out from between her lids, and she turned her face into the pillow and cried, softly, so that Jesse would not hear her.

J
ESSE PAUSED, WIPING
the sweat from his brow, and looked over his shoulder at the western horizon. The sun was sinking fast, and soon the light would fade too much for him to see. It was time to quit.

Amy would have supper ready soon, anyway, and he couldn't deny his eagerness to get back inside and see her. His stomach rumbled, and he grinned to himself. It wasn't desire for food that was calling him home. If he was lucky, enough of the meal would be salvageable to fill his stomach, but with Amy's cooking, even that wasn't always a possibility.

They had been married for a little over a week now, and in that time decent meals had been few and far between. The first meal Amy had cooked, breakfast the day after their wedding, had been an unmitigated disaster, with blackened bacon, fried eggs that were raw on top and scorched on the bottom, and toast that was the color and consistency of charcoal. Even Jesse, despite a valiant effort, had been unable to eat it. They had wound up eating the leftovers from their packed supper of the night before.

Amy had finally gotten the knack of cooking eggs and bacon over the fire, and her toast now was only a little burned around the edges, making breakfast the best meal of the day. A rump roast the other evening had been charred on the outside and still raw in the center, and her
vegetables usually wound up a big, gluey blob that was almost unrecognizable. Jesse still wasn't sure what the thick green mass the other night had been, though he suspected beans or peas. Her corn bread was passable, as long as he left the bottom crust stuck to the pan and ate only the top portion.

Jesse drove in a final nail, hung the hammer through his belt and climbed lithely down from his perch on the crosstimber of the barn. He strode toward the house, stretching out his tired muscles. He was working harder than he ever had, but he didn't mind it. Everything he did was for him and Amy, and that made it a joy. Once he finished getting this barn built for the protection of their horses and the hay, he would be able to start doing the work he really loved: hunting, capturing and training the wild mustangs that still roamed the range. His life, he thought, was almost perfect. He was married to the woman he loved, they had their own cozy little home, and he was doing the work he loved, the work he excelled at. It couldn't have been better—except for the fact that he couldn't sleep with his wife.

The frustration was eating him alive. He had sworn not to make love to his wife, thinking that he could live like that. After all, he had loved Amy for years, had seen her often at the ranch, and he had managed to keep his desire and love for her in check, hiding it from everyone.

But he was finding out how different a situation it was, actually living in the house with Amy, sitting across from her at every meal, seeing her when he awoke and at night before he went to sleep, talking and laughing with her, sharing thoughts with her. His love for her seemed to grow with each passing day, and his promise became harder and harder to keep.

He was coming to know all her different expressions—
the bemused, vague look she turned on him when his voice pulled her away from the book she was reading, the flashing anger that made her eyes huge and glowing when she talked about some wrong, the way her eyes brimmed with merriment and her mouth twitched upward when she was amused. He was learning her thoughts and dreams, discovering the fascinating breadth of her imagination. He had heard that familiarity bred contempt, but in him it was drawing forth a deeper, stronger love—and an equally strong desire. The more he knew Amy, the more he wanted her.

Yet he could not have her. He was sworn to keep his hands off her, and if he broke that promise, if he tried to seduce her, to kiss and caress her into giving in to him, then she would lose faith in him. Once her trust in him was gone, he would have no chance of winning her love. The only hope he had with Amy was to give her time to get over her love for Charles Whitaker, and then maybe, just maybe, she would come to return
his
love. He knew how to be patient; he used that skill every time he broke and trained a horse. He knew how to coax and wait, how to take his gains in small increments.

He also knew how badly a mistake could ruin the whole careful plan and make a horse skittish again, setting him back. That was why he had to move so carefully with Amy, why he had to stick to his promise until
she
urged him to break it. Unfortunately, maintaining that promise was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Sometimes he thought that he would rather put up with ten Olen Spragues than have to live like a eunuch with the woman he loved.

Jesse reached the house and went inside. It was warm and scented with the smell of a wood fire. There was also a charred odor, one with which he had grown quite
familiar the past few days. Jesse stopped, and his eyes went warily to the fireplace. Well, at least there was no food actually in flames, as the sausages had been last Thursday.

He strode over to the fireplace, picked up the hot pad lying there and pulled out the spider skillet. Lifting the lid, he found several pork chops. They were barely brown on the top, but Jesse had learned not to be fooled by that. He grabbed a fork from the table and lifted one of them from the skillet. It came up slowly, sticking to the hot metal, and when he got it turned over he saw that the bottom was almost black. Shaking his head, he turned the other two, covered the pan again and set it back at the edge of the fireplace. The other pot was causing the smell. In it were four small, blackened, roundish objects; he wasn't sure what they were, but they had obviously gone long past the point of being cooked.

Jesse set the pan down on the counter and turned, looking for Amy. As he had expected, she was curled up in the comfortable chair in the corner of the room beside the window. In one hand she held a meat fork, in the other, a book, tilted to catch the last dying rays of the sun. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and her eyes were darting back and forth, devouring the lines. She whipped the page over and started avidly down the next one.

Jesse had to grin. It was impossible for him to get angry with Amy. She looked so sweet and intent, so amusingly lost to the world. Sometimes he felt as if he had married a sprite or a fairy, blissfully disconnected from the concerns of other human beings because she was attached to another world, one in which mere men like him could never enter.

“Amy…” he began. Then, he cleared his throat and said, in a much louder voice, “Amy!”

She jumped, her eyes flying up from the book to where he stood. “Jesse!”

A delighted smile broke across her face, and whatever fragments of irritation he felt with her quickly flew away. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler.” The term of address was the closest he allowed himself to come to an endearment. It carried for him the warm, even titillating knowledge that she belonged to him now.

Amy uncurled her legs and stood up. “I didn't hear you come in. I was reading my favorite book, and I was at the very best part.” She paused and sniffed the air. “What's that smell?”

He said nothing, only raised his brows, and Amy wailed, “Have I burned dinner again?”

She dropped her book and raced toward the fireplace, but Jesse caught her by the shoulders. “It's all right. I already turned the pork chops, and I took the, uh, the other things off the fire.”

“The other things?” Amy looked at him blankly, and then her eyes widened in horror. “You mean the potatoes?”

“Is that what they were?” An amused grin tilted up the corners of Jesse's mouth.

“Yes! Where are they?” He gestured toward the counter, and she went over to them. When she saw them, her hands flew to her cheeks, and she cried, “Jesse! They're ruined!”

She turned to him, her eyes filling with tears. “I've done it again! I am so sorry.”

“It could happen to anyone,” he replied soothingly.

Amy's lips twitched with disgust. “No, it couldn't, and you know it. Honestly, Jesse, I'm such a mess! I'm the most awful wife, and you are always so sweet and kind about it. I feel terrible!”

“Would you rather I growled at you or banged on the table?” he inquired politely, his eyes lighting with amusement. “I suppose I could manage to work up a tantrum or two.”

Amy managed a small, watery smile. “Sometimes I almost wish that you would. I feel so guilty—you're so good to me, and I'm managing wretchedly. Oh, Jesse! You must regret marrying me!” Tears began to spill over out of her eyes.

“Never!” Jesse retorted fiercely, reaching out to grasp her shoulders. At his touch, she gave way to her tears and threw herself against his chest, crying.

“You don't even know the worst,” she told him, sobbing. “I—I finished the curtains this afternoon, and they're horrid! I ruined them!”

“Sweetheart…” Jesse uttered the endearment without thinking as he curled his arms around her. She felt so good in his arms that he almost let out a sigh of pure pleasure. Amy was warm and pliant against him. He could feel the soft pressure of her body all the way up and down his, and it sent an enticing, sensual thrill through him. Jesse ached to help her, to comfort and reassure her. Yet he ached just as much to squeeze her closer to him and let his hands run free over her body.

But he knew that she trusted him, and so he could not do what he wanted. It would be taking advantage of her weakness and her unhappiness, it would be going back on his word to her. And no matter how painful it might be at times to keep his promise, he was determined to do so.

So Jesse contented himself with laying his cheek against her soft hair and breathing in the delicious scent of it as he cuddled her body against his. He hoped that Amy was too naive to notice or that the clothing between
them was thick enough to hide the instinctive reaction of his body from holding her this close.

Amy's tears stopped, and she let out a little sigh, snuggling closer. That little movement almost undid Jesse's resolve, expressing as it did Amy's enjoyment of being held by him. Jesse wondered if she might feel some bit of desire for him, too. Could she sometimes feel lonely in that bed by herself at night and wish that their marriage was of a different kind?

He could not let himself believe it. It was just his wishful thinking, his own willful longings, that made him impute his desires to Amy. Amy was too sweet and naive, too innocent, to think of such things. He remembered how disgusted and angry she had been when Charles Whitaker started mauling her that night—and she had been in love with him. How much less would she welcome the advances of a man she didn't even love!

Jesse forced himself to loosen his arms around her and move back a little. Amy, too, stepped back and raised her face to look up at him. Tears glistened on her pale cheeks and swam in her eyes, making them huge and luminous. Her mouth was soft and almost trembling, deliciously pink and moist; it seemed to call out to be kissed. Instinctively he began to lower his face toward hers, but then he caught himself. Drawing in a harsh breath, he released her completely and moved away.

“Uh…well, why don't you show the curtains to me? They couldn't be that bad.”

Amy hesitated, then said in a muted voice, “All right.”

She went listlessly to her bedroom, which was still roped off by sheets, and returned a moment later, two pieces of material in her hands. Mutely she held them out to Jesse, and he took them.

“Why, they look fine to me,” he told her heartily, and carried them over to the window. The material was attractive, and the two sides looked to be the same length; his fear had been that one was longer than the other. “Look,” he said cheerfully as he held them up on either side of the window. “Oh.”

Now he could see the problem. Both sides might be the same, but they were too short. The curtains ended, ludicrously, a good two inches higher than the windowsill. He looked back at Amy, who was standing watching him, her arms folded across her chest. He hoped she wouldn't start crying again. He could think of nothing to say to make her feel any better about the curtains.

To his surprise, a smile twitched across Amy's face, and she had to bring up her hands to cover a laugh. Her eyes twinkled merrily above her hands, and suddenly she couldn't hold it in anymore. She began to laugh. “Oh, Jesse! I—I'm sorry.” She tried to swallow her laughter and regain a sober expression, but it was a losing battle from the start, and she once again burst into giggles. “But that look on your face!”

She gave way to her laughter, and Jesse couldn't keep from joining in. The curtains were, after all, absurd. So, for that matter, were the potatoes she'd cooked. He laughed harder, thinking of all the silly mistakes she'd made over the past week and how hard-pressed he'd been not to laugh at most of them. Now he released the amusement he had so valiantly held in—and, with it, much of the tension that had strung his nerves taut. The more he laughed, the more Amy laughed, too, until finally their sides were aching from their merriment.

His laughter slowed, then stopped as Jesse released a sigh and leaned against the wall, recovering his breath.
Amy flopped down onto a chair, holding her sides. She wiped her eyes and looked at him.

“I didn't know being married would be this much fun,” Amy confessed naively.

Suddenly, as hard and fast as a fist to the gut, desire slammed through Jesse. He wanted to charge across the room and pull Amy to her feet and kiss her again and again, so deep and hard that they melted into one another. He clenched his teeth together hard to keep back the words that threatened to tumble from his mouth, words of love and yearning and hot, youthful passion.

“Do you really not mind the things I do?” Amy went on.

Jesse levered himself away from the wall. “No, I don't mind.” His voice came out hoarsely. He jammed his hands in his pockets and turned aside, clearing his throat. “Amy, I didn't marry you to get a cook or a seamstress. I've told you before.”