Vows

  He answered by closing his hand around her neck possessively, kneading it, sending shivers down her spine.

  "It doesn't look good, Edwin, my staying on."

  "Since when have you been concerned about how things look, you who ride bicycles and wear knickerbockers?"

  "If it were only for myself I wouldn't be concerned, but you have two children. We must consider them."

  "You think they'd be happier if you leave?"

  She spun on her knees, knocking his hand aside, and lifted her face in appeal. "You're intentionally distorting my meaning."

  "If you think I'm going to let you go, you're crazy, Fannie," he warned vehemently.

  "And if you think I'm going to allow any improprieties between us as long as I'm single and living in your house with your children, you're crazy, too!"

  "I already have Emily's approval to marry you, and I'm sure Frankie won't mind a bit. You've been as good a mother to him as his own was. Maybe better."

  "This is not the time or the place, Edwin."

  "I only want to know how long I have to wait."

  "A year is customary."

  "A year!" He snorted. "Christ."

  She considered him with gentle reproof in her gaze. "Edwin, I'm only now packing up Joey's clothes. And I didn't want to repeat the graceless old saying about not letting the body cool, but perhaps you need to hear it today."

  He stared at her for five tense seconds, then spun about and clumped from the room with frustration in every footstep.

  Fannie was right, of course, but her clinging to gentilities did little to relieve the overburdening sexual suppression Edwin practiced in the days that followed. He gave up the habit of going home for coffee, making sure he was there only when one of the children was also present. He carefully guarded his watchfulness, and kept a proper distance, and to his immense relief Fannie mentioned no more about leaving.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Emily, too, suppressed her need to see Tom Jeffcoat until the proper time could come for her to make the break with Charles. She had chosen not to tell her family until after the deed was done, so when they asked what had happened to Charles lately, she said he was busy in the evening building furniture on speculation, stockpiling it for sale to the preempters who'd begin rolling through again in the spring.

  During the first two weeks following the funeral she saw Tom only from a distance, across the length of the block dividing their livery stables. The first time they stood and stared. The second time he raised a hand in silent hello and she raised hers back, then they stared again, lovelorn, bound by the same strict rules that held Fannie and Edwin apart.

  Not until a full month after the funeral did they bump into each other accidentally. It happened as Emily left Loucks's store with a basket of drygoods she'd picked up for Fanny. Tom was coming in just as she was going out, and they nearly ran each other down on the boardwalk.

  He steadied her by both arms—a lingering excuse to touch—while their blood rushed and they stared into one another's eyes with thwarted longing seeming to flush their entire bodies.

  Finally releasing her arms, Tom touched his hat brim. "Miss Walcott."

  How obvious. He had not called her Miss Walcott since the first week he'd come to town.

  "Hello, Tom."

  "How are you?"

  "Better. Everyone's adjusting at home."

  His Adam's apple bobbed like a fishing cork and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Emily … oh, God … I wish I were." He sounded miserable.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Wrong?" He glanced furtively up and down the boardwalk. Though it was empty, he made fists to keep from touching her. "That was a hell of a thing you said to me the day of the funeral. You can't just say a thing like that and walk away."

  She felt suddenly buoyed and optimistic, realizing he'd felt as lonely and denied as she. "You did the same thing to me one day on the street. Remember?"

  They both remembered, and smiled and basked in each other while they could.

  "Charles tells me you haven't been seeing him much."

  "I asked him for some time to myself. I've been trying to ease away from him."

  "I want to see you. How long do I have to wait?"

  "It's only been a month."

  "I'm losing my mind."

  "So am I."

  "Emily, if I—"

  "Howdy!" Old Abner Winstad came out of the store just then, stepping between the two without bothering to apologize for interrupting.

  "Hello, Mr. Winstad," Emily said.

  "Well, give your family my best," Tom improvised, tipping his hat to her before adding, "How're you, Mr. Winstad?"

  "Well, to tell the truth, sonny, my lumbago's been acting up lately and I went to see Doc Steele, but I swear that man's got no more compassion than a—"

  Abner found himself talking to thin air as Tom headed down the boardwalk, forgetting whatever it was he'd been heading into Loucks's Store for.

  Abner scowled after him and groused, "Young whippersnappers … got no respect for their elders anymore."

  * * *

  Another two weeks went by during which Emily saw little more than a glimpse of Tom down the street. It was late February and dreary outside, and the snow had turned dirty, and she missed Tom so much she could scarcely bear it. She had decided she'd give herself two more days, and if she hadn't run into him she was going to make a clandestine late-night trip to his house, and the devil pay the consequences!

  Who made up these damned rules of mourning anyway?

  She applied more oil to her rag and began working it into another piece of harness while Edwin crouched beneath Pinky. He let the forefoot clack to the floor and straightened, announcing, "Pinky's thrown a shoe. Will you take her across the street?"

  Emily's heart suddenly burst into quick-time, and she stared at her father's back. Did he know? Or didn't he? Was he intentionally giving them time alone or didn't he realize he'd just answered her prayers? She stared at his crossed suspenders and squelched the urge to press her cheek to his back, slip her arms around his trunk, and cry, "Oh, thank you, Papa, thank you."

  Instead, she dropped her oiling rag, wiped her palms on her thighs and replied tepidly, "I suppose."

  Turn around, Papa, so I can see your face. But he left Pinky tied in the aisle and moved off toward the next stall without giving his daughter a clue about his suspicions or lack of them.

  With her heart racing, Emily plucked an ancient, misshapen wool jacket off a peg and gratefully led Pinky away. Out on the street, walking toward Tom's stable, she became flustered by an uncharacteristic rash of feminine concerns.

  I - forgot - to - check - my - hair - I - wish - I - were - wearing - a - dress - I - probably - smell - like - harness - oil!

  But she'd run from their own barn thinking of only one thing: getting to Tom Jeffcoat without wasting a solitary second, relieving this immense, insoluble lump of longing that she had carried in her chest day and night since the last time she'd been in his arms.

  She led Pinky into Tom's livery stable through the "weather door," a smaller hinged access set within the great rolling door. Inside, she heard his voice and stood listening, entranced by each inflection and tone merely because it came from him. Little matter that he spoke in the distance, to a stranger, about fire insurance. The voice with its own distinctive lilt and lyricism was his, unlike any other, to be savored just as she savored each glimpse of him, each precious stole touch.

  She closed the weather door and waited with anticipation pushing against her throat. He appeared in the office doorway and she experienced the giddy joy of watching pleasant surprise flatten his face and color his cheeks.

  "Emily … hello!"

  "Pinky needs a reshoe. Papa sent me." She saw him bank his urge to come to her, saw him tense with impatience over the unconcluded business still waiting in his office. "Take her down to the other end. I'll be there in a minute."

  She felt as if she had stepped i
nto someone else's body, for the sensations aroused by him were foreign to her. There was impatience, welling high, counteracted by as great a sense of unrush now that she was here in this realm, where everything around her was his, had been built and touched and tended by him. Take your time coming back to me. Let me bask in the knowledge that you will. Let me steep in this place that is yours, where you have slept and labored and thought of me.

  She walked Pinky to the smithy at the far end of the barn, tethered her outside the door, then wandered inside where it was warm and smelled of hot metal and charcoal and—was she only imagining it?—the sweat of Tom Jeffcoat. She unbuttoned her heavy jacket and stuffed her gloves into the pockets, wandered past his tool table, touched the worn, smooth handles of hammers that had collected the oils from his hands and maybe those from his father's and grandfather's hands as well. Wood … only wood … but precious and coveted for having been closer to him than she. She stroked the anvil, scarred at the blunt end and worn brilliant as a silver bullet at its point; beside it he had stood as a boy, watching his grandfather at work. Upon it he had learned as a man. Steel … only steel … but the anvil seemed as much a part of him as his own muscle and bone.

  Pinky nickered at being left on a short line and Emily sauntered back to her, glancing down the corridor to where Tom and the salesman now stood near the weather door, exchanging final comments.

  "Maybe in the spring then, Mr. Barstow, after the first cattle drive comes through and the homesteaders start showing up again."

  "Very good, Mr. Jeffcoat, I'll pay you a call then. In the meantime, if you want to reach me you can write to the address I gave you in Cheyenne." The two men shook hands. "You've got a mighty nice setup here. Well, I'd better let you get back to your customer."

  "Appreciate your stopping, Mr. Barstow." Tom opened the door and saw the man out.

  When the door closed he turned to find Emily watching him from the opposite end of the corridor. For moments neither of them moved, but stood transfixed by one another, marking time to the beat of their own leaping hearts, experiencing the same ebb and rush of protracted yearning that she had felt earlier. He started moving toward her, slowly at first … and disciplined. But he hadn't taken four steps before she was moving, too, with much less discipline than he, striding long and purposeful.

  Then they were running.

  Then kissing, wrapped together openmouthed and urgent after weeks of deprivation, feeling one agony end while another began. They kissed as if starved—deep, engulfing, whole-mouthed kisses that knew no limit of possession.

  Tearing his mouth from hers Tom demanded breathlessly, "Tell me now … tell me again."

  "I love you."

  He held her head, smattered her with hard, impatient, celebratory kisses. "You really do. Oh, Emily, you really do!" He clutched her possessively, swiveling them both in a circle, dropping his head over her shoulder. "I missed you. I love you…" And realizing his tardiness in saying so, chastised himself, "Oh, damn me, I should have said that first. I love you. It's been the longest six weeks of my life." Again they kissed, futilely trying to make up for lost time—wet, wide kisses during which they caressed each other's backs, ribs, waists, shoulders.

  "Just stand still for a minute," he breathed, clasping her near, "…and let me feel you … just feel you."

  They pressed together like leaves of a book left out in the rain, with Tom's aroused body pocketed against her stomach, both of them shaken and wanting so much more than allowed.

  "You feel so good," she whispered. "I think about you all the time. I imagine being close to you like this."

  "I think about you, too. Sometimes during the day I stand and stare out the window at your dad's livery stable, at the office window, and I know you're in there studying, and it's all I can do to keep from marching up there and hauling you back here."

  "I know. I do the same thing. I stand in the window and read the sign above your door and tell myself it won't be long. It won't be long. But it is. The days never seem to end. When I bumped into you in front of Loucks's store it was terrible. I wanted to follow you back here so badly."

  "You should have."

  "Afterwards I went home and curled up on my bed and stared at the wall."

  He chuckled—a sound life rife with suppressed desires. "I'm glad."

  "It scares me sometimes. I never used to be this way but lately I grow listless and I can't seem to concentrate on anything and I miss you so much I actually feel sick."

  "Me, too. Sometimes I find myself banging away on a piece of iron that's too cool to shape."

  They laughed tightly, falling silent at the same moment, overwhelmed to learn that they'd suffered the same agonies. They hugged again, straining together, rocking from side to side while his hands stroked her ribs, narrowly avoiding her breasts. With her upraised arms overlapped upon his shoulders she waited breathlessly for the touch she had no intention of fighting.

  Please, she thought, touch me just once. Give me something to survive on.

  And as if he heard, he found her breasts, but finding them, realized they stood in the main corridor where anyone might enter and discover them.

  "Come here…" he whispered, and hastily drew her through the smithy door into the warm, shadowed room where he backed her against a rough wood beam. Slipping his hands inside her coat, he captured her breasts straightaway, cupping and caressing them, pushing her suspenders aside, dropping his open mouth over her uplifted one. From her throat came a muffled sound of accession as she rested her arms upon his shoulders.

  "Em…" he breathed against her face as the kiss ended.

  She'd brook no endings, but picked up where he left off, keeping his mouth, and curling her hands over his upon her breasts when they would have slipped away. He emitted a muffled groan and dipped at his knees, matching their hips, marking her with a controlled ascent that drove her against her leaning post. His caresses became reckless, splendid, rhythmic.

  When the effort of breathing seemed to crush his chest, he reluctantly dropped his hands to her waist and his forehead against the post. Resting lightly against each other, they regrouped. For moments their minds emptied of all but the welcome truth—they loved with equal passion; it had not been imagined or embroidered during their weeks apart into something it wasn't. What they had felt then, they felt now, mutually and intensely.

  "Em?" The name came out muffled against her shoulder.

  "What, Thomas?"

  "Please marry me."

  She closed her eyes and whispered simply, "Yes."

  He reared back. Even in the dimness she saw the grand shock possess his face. "Really? You mean it?"

  "Of course I mean it. I really have no choice in the matter." She hugged him rapturously, taking a moment to envision herself as his wife, in his bed, at his table, in this livery barn with a half dozen black-haired stairsteps fighting over who was going to hand Daddy the next horseshoe nail. It surprised her not in the least to be imagining herself with his children after purporting to be in no hurry to have them. She savored the image, breathing the scent of his neck while her breasts lifted against him. "Oh, Thomas, this is how it should be, isn't it? It's what my mother meant."

  He leaned back to search her face. In the meager light from the forge her eyes appeared as black jets.

  "I have so much to tell you," she said. "Could we sit down? Close, where we can hold hands, but not this close. I can't think too clearly when you're touching me this way."

  They sat side by side on a pair of short nail kegs, their finger linked on his left knee. When they were settled Emily began in an evenly modulated voice.

  "The day before my mother died she enjoyed a remarkable spurt of vigor. She felt strong and could breathe well, so she talked a lot. We all took it as a good sign, and we were so happy. Papa even carried Mother down to the supper table, and she hadn't been strong enough to sit through a meal for months. I've thought about it often since, how we all thought it meant a real turnaround, but
it ended up being quite the opposite. It seemed almost as if she was fortified for a very good reason—to tell me the truth about herself and Papa and Fannie."

  Staring at their joined hands, Emily told Tom the entire story. He sat quietly, moving only his thumb across the creases in her palm. Minutes later she finished, "…and so I'm reasonably certain Papa and Fannie intend to get married as soon as it's decent. But Mama wouldn't have had to tell me, would she? She could have let me go on believing that her marriage to Papa was all a bed of roses. When she died it seemed—this is hard to say because sometimes it sounds absurd even to me—but it seemed as if her death was deliberately timed to prevent my marrying the wrong man."

  They stared at their hands, thinking of Charles. When their eyes met their gazes held underlying regret for having to hurt him.

  "If I could only be taking you away from somebody beside Charles. Why does it have to be him?"

  "I don't know." She pictured Charles and added, "If he were unscrupulous or unlikable this would be so much easier, wouldn't it?"

  "Emily?" Their gazes remained rapt. "We have to tell him. Now … today. We can't sneak around behind his back anymore."

  "I know. I knew it at the wake when you came and took my hands."

  "Would you like me to tell him?" Tom asked.

  "I feel like I should."

  "Funny … I feel the same way." They thought about it for a moment before he suggested, "We could tell him together."

  "Either way, it won't be any easier … for him or for us."

  Abruptly Tom dropped her hand and covered his face, heaving a deep sigh into his palms. For minutes he sat thus, knees cemented to elbows, the picture of gloom. She felt dejected for him, wishing she could ease his sense of traitorousness, yet it was no greater than her own. Her eyes stung and she touched his forearm, fanning a thumb over the coarse black hair that reached well past his wrist into the back of his hand.

  "I didn't think love was supposed to hurt this much," she ventured at length.

  He laughed once, mirthlessly, scrubbed both hands down his cheeks, then flattened his lower lip with two fists, staring at his anvil. Minutes passed, bringing no solution to the anguish both felt.