The Immortal American

Newton’s third law: for every action there is a reaction.

  I closed my eyes wondering what my fellow Provincials’ response would be. Eight men dead. More wounded.

  Mathew interrupted my thoughts as he got ready a second time for the approaching redcoats.

  “This morning, oh dear Lord, Violet, I took you on that counter. . . you didn’t have the sponge combination—contraption. What does one call it? Child-stopping-mechanism you got from the midwife. Oh, you might be pregnant. I’m so sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking. I know you don’t want children yet. I was so caught up in the moment, and—”

  That was what Mathew said to me only moments before he was to leave to meet the other officers of the militia. I tamped my laughter down by biting my bottom lip, blushed and shrugged, so happy that he thought of our making love instead of my darker worries. “I was caught up in the moment as well. In fact, if my memory serves, I was the one that asked you to . . .” I tilted my head toward the ceiling of our bedchamber, almost ready to say make my legs shake while I screamed out in ecstasy, but I wasn’t sure if I was bold enough to say that sort of thing . . . yet.

  “Oh, right, right, my naughty wife. What am I saying? You’re completely brilliant. That idea in the barn—undeniably genius, of this I’m sure.”

  I chuckled more.

  “And if I had more time, wife, I’d take you again. My goodness, I think I’m insatiable concerning you.”

  “Well, I am the same, Mathew.”

  He veered closer to me, then growled and stopped himself. “What you’ve done to me. What you’ve done to my body, but,” he cleared his throat and nodded, making fists then flexing out his fingers, “but we have to be more careful. You need time to grieve.” He softly caressed one of my cheeks, the other hand slipping to my waist.

  I shook my head. “I’m done with grieving. Or, to be more precise, I’ll always miss my sister and mother, but I don’t want to be stuck with the dead. I want to start living. I’m ready for children. I’m ready for your children. I want to have children that look like you. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I want our children to look like you.”

  I laughed and blinked. When I closed my eyes I saw an image of me as an old withered woman, like some of the stalks of oats as they pushed their way through the soil. I saw my back stooped with the test of time, heavy on my shoulders, burdened my neck and head with wrinkles. Happy wrinkles. I saw myself smiling with blond grandchildren and Mathew beside me, his age-spotted hand on mine. I saw love all around us.

  As Mathew mounted Cherry, fresh from his brief nap and prancing about to make getting in the saddle a challenge, I called out, “Remember what you asked to be on the kitchen table when you return?”

  He blinked and shook his head.

  My smile grew as I said, “That dish we had in the barn this morning, that same dinner we had after you read me your letter to your cousin. Do you remember it now?”

  His eyes widened as the rising sun streaked a crimson ray into the horizon and beyond. That scarlet hue made him look like he shined in heaven’s own light. His blond hair took more gold into it, his skin glowed, his light blue eyes shone out like a beacon for my soul to come back to him, always to come back to him. He reminded me of the stories I’d heard of God’s guardian angels, even with the shock on his face once he caught on to my meaning. He swallowed and nodded.

  “I’ll have that same dish for you on the kitchen table when you get back to me.”

  Mathew gave me leering smile and tipped his hat. “You’re a brilliant wife. You do know that, don’t you?”

  I giggled.

  “I love you, brilliant wife!” he said as Cherry crow hopped, then stopped with a firm pull of the reins by Mathew.

  “I love you, husband of mine!”