"Ahh…" he breathed as they took their due.
She smiled, watching the meshing of his black locks with hers of apricot hue. "We're beautiful together, aren't we?"
"Beautiful," he agreed.
When he moved, she moved in counterpoint, spellbound by the wonder of their bodies expressing what they had felt for so long. In time she threw her head back, chin high, rocking against him. When he shuddered, she watched, thinking how beautiful his face, gone lax in the throes of fulfillment. She watched to the end, savoring the sight of his closed eyes, his trembling arms as he waited out the last ripple of feeling.
With its passing, his eyes opened.
They smiled with newfound tenderness. Having believed for so many years that they could not love more, they found themselves awed by the force of their feelings now that they had shared each other physically.
"Edwin…" She cupped and stroked his silken jaw. "My beloved Edwin. Come closer. Let me hold you the way I've always dreamed of holding you … afterwards."
He rested upon her, warming her collarbone with his breath, wetting it with a faint, suckling kiss. A very weary kiss.
"I'm so tired," he admitted, the words nearly indistinguishable against her flesh.
"And so beautiful."
He smiled, near exhaustion. "You will marry me, Fannie…" he murmured as he drifted off to sleep, "…soon, won't you?"
She smiled at the ceiling, combing his clean, damp hair with her fingers. "Absolutely, Edwin," she replied serenely. "Soon."
* * *
Dawn came, and crossed their bed, and another across town.
Tom Jeffcoat flexed his legs and winced behind closed eyes. He opened them and saw sunstreaks on the ceiling, angled, oblique—the heavy gold of earliest morning. Outside a dog barked, faraway. Sparrows chirped in the eaves. His bare shoulders were cold, and in the room he caught a scent reminiscent of charcoal. He swallowed with a dry, parched throat and remembered: the fire … the stable … the horses … Emily … Charles…
Disconsolate, he let his eyes fall closed.
Oh God, nothing's left.
The mattress jiggled—barely a flutter. He rolled his head and there sat Emily—dirty, drooping, asleep on his kitchen rocker, with her feet—in soiled stockings—sprawled on the mattress.
Emily, you poor bedraggled girl, how long have you been there?
He studied her without moving, feeling the weight of depression descend, wondering how he was going to support her, how many horses he'd lost, if they'd gotten the mare out, who else was in the house, if they'd apprehended Charles yet, how he was going to repay his grandmother, how long he'd have to wait now to get married.
He let his eyes drift closed and gave way to despair. I'm so thirsty…and tired…and broke… and burned out. Charles, damn you—why did you have to do a thing like this? And you, too, Tarsy. I thought you were both my friends.
He opened his eyes and willed them to remain dry. But it hurt, dammit, it hurt to think they'd turn on him this way! His throat felt as if he'd swallowed a piece of his own burning building. While he was still trying to gulp it down, Emily sighed in her sleep, rolled her head, and opened her eyes. He watched awareness dawn across her face, then a quick succession of emotions—fear, relief, pity—before she lunged to her knees beside the bed, capturing his hand and pressing it to her mouth.
"I love you," she said immediately, lifting brimming eyes. "And I'm sorry I believed Tarsy."
His thumb moved forgivingly across her knuckles. Their gazes lingered while his thoughts became laced with a jumble of emotions too profound to voice. He rolled slightly and drew her close by the back of her uncombed head and put his face against it. He held her thus, breathing the scent of smoke from her hair, feeling tears gather in his throat, segregating matters of superficial importance from those of real consequence. Life. Happiness. Loving. These were what really mattered. As he sorted and logged these realizations, Emily spoke, her voice muffled against the bedding.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't wake up so I could tell you. I thought you might die." At the hollow of her breast she clutched his hand, gripping it so hard her nails dug into his flesh. "Oh, Tom, I was so scared."
"I'm all right," he managed in a scraping whisper. "And it doesn't matter about Tarsy."
"Yes it does. I should have trusted you. I should have believed you."
"Shh."
"But—"
"Let's forget about Tarsy."
"I love you." She lifted her face, revealing streaming eyes. "I love you," she repeated, as if afraid he would not believe her.
"I love you, too, Emily." He touched her dirty face with a cluster of bruised knuckles and dredged up a weak smile. "But do you think I could have some water? My throat feels like my barn must look."
"Oh, Tom, I'm sorry…" She popped up and ran out to the kitchen, returning with a big glass of wonderful-looking water. "Here."
He struggled up, with her ineffectually trying to help, and, propped on one hand, downed the entire glassful while she watched.
"Another, please."
He drank a second in the same fashion, then leaned back as she adjusted the pillows behind him.
"How do you feel? Does it hurt to breathe?"
Rather than reply he asked a question of his own. "The mare—did she get out?"
Emily's sorrowful expression answered, even before her words. "I'm sorry, Tom."
"How many did I lose?"
"Only two—Patty and Liza."
"Liza, too," he repeated—one of the pair who'd brought him here from Rock Springs, his first pair. "Is anything left?"
"No," she answered in a near-whisper, "it burned to the ground."
He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and swallowed.
The sunny room suddenly seemed gloomy as Emily watched him battle despair, willing herself to keep dry-eyed while she searched for words of consolation. But there were none, so she simply sat down and took his hand.
"What about Charles?" he asked, still with his eyes closed.
"Charles is at my house. He's got burns on the backs of his hands, but otherwise he's all right."
Tom lay motionless, giving no clue to his reaction, but she knew what he was thinking.
"Charles didn't set fire to your barn, Tom."
He lifted his head and fixed her with judgmental eyes. "Oh, didn't he?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know. Maybe it was lightning."
"In February?"
Of course, he was right, and they both knew it. Though she hated to suggest it, she ventured, "Maybe it was Tarsy."
"No. I was standing on her porch steps exchanging insults when we heard the firebells start."
"Then who's to say it was started at all? It could have been an accident."
But he was a careful man who put out lanterns before he closed up for the night. And a forge, contrary to popular belief, was one of the most fire-safe structures built, by virtue of its being a constant threat if improperly constructed and insulated.
He heaved a deep sigh. "God, I don't know." His head fell back and she sat uselessly, feeling so sorry for him. He looked defeated and weary and worried.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, a paltry offering, but the only one at her disposal.
"No."
"Your lips are dry. Would you like me to put some petroleum jelly on them?"
He lifted his head and studied her for a long, silent moment, then answered softly, "Yes."
She produced a squatty jar of the ointment and sat down on the edge of the mattress to apply it. Her touch upon his mouth healed more than his chapped lips. It began easing the infinite ache in his heart.
"You stayed here all night." He spoke quietly.
"Yes." She capped the jar and dejectedly studied it in her lap.
"Your father will come in here and have the rest of my hide," he speculated gently.
"No, he won't. Father and I have come to an understanding."
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"About what?"
She set the jar aside and said to the sunny wall. "I told him I intended to stay here and take care of you until you're back on your feet again." Glancing over her shoulder she met his gaze foursquare. "I also told him that the moment you are I intend to become your wife."
He remained expressionless, watching her for a long time before she saw hopelessness overtake him again. He drew a shallow sigh and puffed it out as if holding his pessimism to himself.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Everything."
"What?"
"Listen to me, Emily." He took her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, concentrating on it as he detailed his disastrous situation. "I've got two cracked ribs. Who knows how long it'll be before I can work again? My liverystable is burned to the ground and I have no money to pay for the one that's lying in ashes, much less to rebuild. You've just told me my carriages are gone, and two of my horses died, and you want to marry me?"
"You'll heal and we'll rebuild," she announced stubbornly, leaving the bed and lugging the rocker to the corner of the room, where she clunked it down with a note of finality.
"With what?" he said to her back. "I've got no fire insurance, no hay, nothing."
"Nothing?" She turned and accosted him with common sense. "Why, of course you've got something. You've got this house, and a great big lot in a prime location in a town that's growing every year, and an anvil that belonged to your grandfather, and eight healthy horses in my father's paddock." She joined her hands stubbornly over her stomach. "And you've got me—the best veterinarian and stablehand in Johnson County. How can you call that nothing?"
He hated playing devil's advocate, but believed he had little choice. "Emily, be sensible."
She approached the bed and fixed him with a look of determination. "I am being sensible. I did all my being stupid last night while I sat in that chair and worried and bawled and acted like a perfect ninny. Then I made up my mind that worrying is idiotic. Nobody ever succeeded by worrying. It's a waste of energy. Hard work is what succeeds, and I'm willing to do plenty of it if you are, but I think the first step is to get ourselves legally married so we'll have that hurdle out of the way."
"And what about the period of mourning?"
"The period of mourning be damned," she decreed, dropping to the bed and taking his hand again while her voice softened with sincerity. "If you had died in that fire I would never have forgiven myself for mourning away the few happy weeks I might have had with you. I love you, Thomas Jeffcoat, and I want to be your wife. Conventions and burned barns don't matter as much as our happiness."
He sat studying her, comparing her to Tarsy and Julia and the other women he'd known. None had her spirit, drive, or optimism. None would have stood beside him staunchly in the face of the defeats he'd just suffered. Emily was ready to plow ahead, undaunted, and take him and his dismal financial prospects and a future whose only certainty seemed to be a lot of hard work and worry. And he had no doubt that if anyone raised an eyebrow over her nursing him overnight in the privacy of his own home before they were married, she'd take them on over that issue, too.
"Come here," he ordered quietly.
She came, and lay in the crook of his arm with her head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder. The golden sun poured across the bed, gilding their faces. They listened to the sparrows in the eaves. They listened to their own breathing and the sounds of the town awakening on a Saturday morning. They linked fingers atop his bandaged ribs and watched the sun streaks slant down the walls.
Emily fit the pad of her thumb against Tom's and said thoughtfully, "Thomas?"
"Hm?"
"Charles didn't set fire to the barn. He wouldn't do such a thing. He's the one who pulled you out of it and saved your life. I was there, so I know. When he thought you might die…" Emily paused before admitting, "…he cried. Please believe me, Tom."
He pressed his lips to her hair and closed his eyes for a long moment, telling himself to believe it. Wanting to believe it.
"You still love him, don't you?" he asked against her hair
She sat up and studied Tom, unruffled. "Of course I do," she admitted "But not the way I love you. If I felt that way about him I'd have married him when I had the chance. If I can believe you about Tarsy, you must believe me about Charles. Please, Tom. He would never destroy what was yours, because in hurting you he'd hurt me, too, don't you see?"
He considered the three of them and their incredible triangular love. "Do you honestly think we can survive in this town—all three of us?" Tom asked.
"I don't know," Emily answered honestly.
They sat thinking, troubled, for long minutes before he asked, "Would you go back East with me?"
She felt the grip of loneliness at the thought of leaving her father, Fannie and Frankie, but there was only one answer she could give.
"Yes, if that was your choice."
His respect and love for her increased tenfold as he recognized the emotional strife that had accompanied her answer. They were still sitting, holding hands with tens of questions unanswered, when someone knocked on the front door. Emily stirred and went to answer.
At the sight of the two familiar faces on Tom's porch, her spirits lifted. "Hello Papa. And Fannie … I didn't expect to see you both here."
"How is he?" Fannie asked, stepping into the house.
"Awake, tired, feeling like a piece of over-smoked jerky, but quite alive and he's going to stay that way. Oh, Fannie, I'm so relieved."
They exchanged hugs and Edwin said, "We want to talk to both of you."
"Papa, I'm not sure he should talk a lot. His voice is raspy and his throat hurts."
"This won't take long." Edwin brushed past his daughter and led the parade into the bedroom, observing jovially as he entered. "So you made it Jeffcoat!"
"Seems that way."
"Looking a little the worse for wear."
Tom chuckled and boosted himself up higher against the pillows. "I'm sure I do.
Edwin, in an unusually expansive mood, laughed and took Fannie's hand drawing her along with him to the bed. He ordered his daughter, "Here Emily sit down. We have some news you'll both want to hear."
Emily and Tom exchanged curious glances while she perched at his shoulder with Fannie at his knee and Edwin standing beside the bed.
"First of all, they've arrested Pinnick for setting fire to your barn. He tied on a good one down at the Mint Bar last night and when they found him this morning, curled up on the boardwalk, still half-pickled, he was holding on to a bottle of whiskey and blubbering about how sorry he was, he didn't mean to burn the whole thing down, he only meant to set you back a spell so he'd get back the business he lost when you moved into town."
"Pinnick?" Tom repeated, flabbergasted.
"Pinnick!" Emily rejoiced, clapping her hands, then reaching for one of Tom's.
Edwin continued: "And I was barely into my britches this morning when Charles comes stomping downstairs and through the kitchen buttoning his jacket and cussing a blue streak about that damned Jeffcoat and what a nuisance he was. The way I remember it, he said. How many buildings does a man have to put up for him, anyway? Then he bellers that he's heading off to see Vasseler about a barn-raising and that it's by God the last one he's going to do for Tom Jeffcoat. So they're out there right now, Vasseler and Charles, rounding up a work crew to get started the minute the ashes cool. And on top of that, Fannie and I—"
"I get to tell this part," Fannie interrupted, hushing Edwin with a squeeze on his arm.
Edwin paused in mid-word, glancing at his future wife, clapped his jaws shut, and gave her the floor with a wave of a hand.
Fannie looked bright and happy as she continued, "It seems I was quite indiscreet last night when I threw my arms around your father and kissed him in the middle of all that hubbub with almost everyone in town watching. Since they all know the truth by now, Edwin and I have decided it would be most expedient if we got ma
rried posthaste. We were wondering if the two of you would like to plan a double wedding, perhaps at the end of next week?"
Before Tom and Emily could wipe the shock from their faces, Fannie added, "Unless, of course, you'd prefer separate ones, in which case we'll certainly understand."
In the resulting outburst everyone talked and hugged and shook hands at once, and laughter filled the room. Felicitations rebounded from the walls and the sense of goodwill multiplied among all four. Like conspirators in an innocent prank, they agreed with Fannie, who said, "What's good enough for a father is certainly good enough for a daughter! Just let anyone wag a tongue now!"
When Fannie and Edwin had gone, Emily and Tom stared at each other in renewed amazement, then burst out laughing.
"Can you believe it! In two weeks!"
"Come here," he ordered as he had earlier, this time with a much brighter outlook.
She slipped beside him, doubled her knees up against his hip, and hugged him voraciously around the neck. They kissed in celebration and he said against her ear, "Now, I won't take any back talk from you. You're picking up your bundle of clothes and going home where you belong."
"But—" She pulled back.
"No buts. I can take care of myself, and one night in my house is all the tarnish I want to put on your halo. The next time you come into this room it'll be as my wife. Now, git, so I can get up. There's a carpenter I've got to see."
"But, Tom!"
"Out, I said! But if it would make you feel any better, you can pump me some water and put it on to heat before you leave. Then I'd suggest you go home and do the same for yourself. You smell like a chimney sweep." She laughed and shimmied off the bed while he pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and sat with the sheet across his lap. Happy, and hopeful, and suddenly gay, she swung back to him and looped her arms around his neck.
"Know what?" she inquired teasingly.
"What?" he repeated, nose to nose with her.
"I gave you a bath last night."
"You did!"
"And you've got ugly knees."
He laughed and spread his hands near the sides of her breasts. "Miss Walcott, if you don't get out of here I'm going to be on them and I'll probably overwork my poor scorched lungs and die in the process, and how would you feel then?"