Chapter Seven
When Lydia awoke the next morning, she saw Dean in the kitchen area preparing breakfast. The scent of bacon reached her, causing her mouth to water. She stood, wrapped a quilt around her, and walked to the fireplace, which crackled and popped sparks. Her heart sank when she touched her dress that hung in front of it. “Still wet,” she told him, pulling the quilt more tightly around her.
Dean scooped scrambled eggs and bacon onto plates and set them on the table. “The air is damp. Makes it take longer for things to dry.”
“I’m aware of that.” The ungenerous thought passed her mind that she was not the stupid one of the two of them and didn’t need him to explain simple things to her. She sighed and sat on the stool beside the table.
Dean didn’t immediately sit with her. He walked to the window and looked out. “Wonder when this blasted snow will stop. I want to go to town and get a loan from the bank, like you suggested. I want to get money to the miners.”
Despite feeling rather morose, she couldn’t help but be pleased that Dean thought her idea had worth. She couldn’t recall her husband ever appreciating anything she had to say.
After breakfast, Dean said, “I must go to the barn. Will you close the door behind me?”
She stood from the stool, leaving her quilt behind. She still wore only his shirt, which fell to the mid portion of her thighs. To his credit, he did not peek at her legs, at least not while she was looking at him.
He tied one end of the rope securely to the inside knob and then walked outside, allowing a burst of frigid air inside. “You can close it now. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He walked away holding the rope until he was no longer visible through the wall of white.
She shoved the door closed as much as she could, though it remained open a sliver because of the rope tied to the inside doorknob. It occurred to her that she could untie the rope and allow him to walk to his death. The cruel thought occupied her mind only briefly before she dismissed it. She wouldn’t do something so terrible, but it struck her how foolish it was for him to assume she wouldn’t. She’d made her anger toward him clear, and he’d still chosen to trust her.
When he was gone for more than an hour, she found herself worrying about him. She couldn’t imagine what was taking him so long. When he finally returned, bringing another gust of cold air with him, she was relieved.
“What took you so long?” she grumbled, not looking up from the book she was pretending to read.
“I had to pump water to the horses and feed them grain. And I brought you this.”
She looked up to find him placing her carpetbag carefully on the floor next to the hearth. She sprang to her feet and rushed to it, afraid to hope that all her belongings were still intact. She opened the bag and took out her garments, her wallet, her compact, and her mother’s jewelry. Joy surged through her as she realized nothing was missing. She noticed the ripped seam at the bottom of the bag, lending credence to Dean’s story that he’d searched it for money.
“I always intended to return your belongings,” he said, hanging his coat by the door.
Lydia surveyed the items scattered on the floor, feeling immense gratitude toward Dean, though she knew that was a ridiculous thing to feel. She picked up her hairbrush and placed it back in the bag. “I hope you don’t expect me to thank you for giving me what was mine to begin with,” she snapped.
“No, I only hope it’s made you feel better, and that it’s proven I’m not a thief. I didn’t want anything in the bags besides the money I thought would be hidden in the seams.”
She didn’t look at him as she proceeded to place her wallet back in the bag.
“Wait, don’t pack it yet.” He held his hand out, which contained a spool of thread with a needle attached. “I’ll stitch it for you first.”
Surprised, she looked up, meeting his eyes. “You’re going to mend it?” she asked, tilting her head.
He nodded. “Yes, I’m familiar with sewing. I’ve mended my clothes all these years on my own. It wasn’t hard to me to believe Barnaby could use a needle and thread too.”
She slowly stood with her bag and handed it to him. She could think of nothing to say as she watched him take it to the sofa. She sat on the opposite side and observed him silently as he expertly threaded the needle and proceeded to close the bottom seam using a fine backstitch.
“What kind of man are you?” she asked softly, more to herself than to him. She didn’t mean it as an insult, though perhaps it would be perceived that way, but the way he showed regard for her bag and carefully worked to restore it confounded her. He didn’t seem to care that he was doing women’s work. He only seemed to care about her feelings. Once again she found herself comparing him to the last man in her life. Her ex-husband wouldn’t have been caught dead holding a needle, or doing anything that might hint that his pursuits weren’t invariably grand and superior to hers.
“The kind of man who’s trying to make things right,” Dean said. “The other two bags are in the barn. When spring comes, I’ll take them to their owners. That was my plan all along. I never wanted to keep anything for myself. I just wanted to get the money that rightfully belonged to my employees.”
She groaned and leaned back on the sofa. “Dean, can I ask you something? Do you have anything besides air between your ears?”
“Pardon me?” He paused his sewing job to frown at her.
“I mean honestly. You deliver the bags you stole to Matthew and Mary in Sacramento, you’ll be caught. You’ll go to prison.”
He stabbed the needle into the cloth. As he tied the last stitch, he said, “Not if I’m smart about it.”
She barked a laugh. “Oh, really? Nothing you’ve done the last couple days has been smart. What makes you think that will change?”
“For fuck’s sake, woman,” he said, his tone milder than his words. He handed her the newly mended bag. “How many times do you think you can call me stupid and get away with it?” It was a rhetorical question because he didn’t wait for an answer. He walked to his desk, where he picked up his pencil and bent over a piece of paper to scratch at it.
She thought about Dean’s actions, and a new opinion of him started to form. She saw that he was good, good to a fault. He was like a child traipsing mud onto a newly cleaned floor in his rush to give his mother a bouquet of wildflowers. He seemed not to understand the mess he left behind in his effort to do good.
“Perhaps when you go to town,” she suggested, “you could purchase one new case, place all their belongings in it, and post it to Sacramento. I could write a note to include saying the marshal recovered their things and mine and the thief has been apprehended. They’ll believe me, since they know me, and they’ll be so happy to have their things back, they won’t try to learn more.”
“Hm,” he grunted. “Not a bad idea. I reckon that’s the way to go about it.”
“And I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have said so.”
He scratched away at his paper without acknowledging her attempt at an apology.
“You’re na?ve and reckless, with good intentions. That’s a better way of putting it.”
“Oh! Thanks a lot,” he exclaimed, swiveling in his chair to face her. “Just what a man wants his wife to think of him.”
“I’m not your wife, in case you forgot,” she said.
“Not yet, but you will be.”
Her mouth fell open at his assertion, mostly because his voice didn’t contain a hint of doubt. “What makes you so sure?”
“I wasn’t sure, not before a few minutes ago. You kept my rope fastened to the door. You didn’t cut it free to let me die. That was a test. Another rope is fastened outside. I would have made my way back regardless. But if you’d cut it, I would have known there was no hope of winning you over and making you mine.”
“Be serious, Dean. That only means I don’t hate you enough to kill you.”
“It’s a start, Lydia,” he said, emphasizing her name mockingly as she had done his. “It’s something I can work with. I like solving problems, and that is what you are—a delightful problem.” He smiled at her, a teasing grin that further disarmed her.
She couldn’t help but return a small smile. Somehow, being called a problem by him sounded like a high compliment. She was also a little impressed by how he’d tested her. “That was a good idea, testing me with the rope.”
He pointed at her with his pencil. “See, I’m not stupid. Soon you will come to respect my intelligence.” He leaned forward and purposely fell off his chair with such an exaggerated flourish and hard landing that Lydia burst into laughter. Her sides hurt and tears sprang from her eyes as she continued to laugh without the ability to control herself.
He laughed along with her as he settled himself back into his chair. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed like that. It felt so good, like all the tension in her body was slowly expelled through every gasp for breath.
How Dean had managed to make her opinion of him change within the course of twenty-four hours from fear and hatred to acceptance and admiration, with a soup?on of endearment, spoke to the charm she’d recognized in him from his letters and then at the mercantile. He was open with her, accepting her into his confidence with full trust that she was the woman he wanted to marry. Was this part of his na?veté, or had he too understood and admired her on account of her letters to him?
When she’d gathered her composure, she realized her comfort would now increase thanks to the return of her carpetbag. “I’m going to change into a fresh dress now.”
He nodded and turned his back to give her privacy. “You can put your other belongings into the second drawer of the dresser if you want.”
“That would mean I plan to stay.” Lydia stripped out of Dean’s shirt and pulled her dress down over her head. It was her best clothing—a sky blue frock that hugged her curves.
When Dean turned back around, his gaze passed over her, indicating appreciation for what he saw. This caused Lydia to feel the same sizzle of warmth she’d felt for him on the coach’s platform, only now with more intensity. She felt a new sort of animal attraction toward him. She didn’t exactly understand it, but now knowing his noble motives, she looked back on the terrifying robbery with new perspective. She recalled his deep voice, his uncompromising orders. Something about the way he’d addressed her as “young lady” during the exchange now caused her belly to flip with pleasure instead of fear.
“I hope you’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll prove myself worthy of being your husband if you give me the chance.”
“I don’t know,” she said, steeling herself. “I only moments ago discovered you didn’t intend to steal my belongings. I must reorganize my thoughts about you. They are scattered.” She wouldn’t admit that her thoughts about him felt reckless and a bit shameful. Why were images of him as the bandit scurrying through her imagination? Why was she thinking of him binding her with rope, scolding her, and forcing her to obey him?
“What can I do to help you… organize?” His lips were quirked in a half smile.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No, of course not. I only found it endearing how you worded that. It would be stupid to make fun of you, and I wouldn’t want you thinking that about me.”
She snorted a laugh. “Remember, I took that back. I do not believe you are stupid. Na?ve is what I’ve determined.”
“Ugh,” he said. “That’s so much worse. Makes me sound like a schoolgirl. I might as well put my hair in pigtails and skip around the cabin.”
The picture in her mind of him doing that was so ludicrous that Lydia burst into laughter once again. Gone was the fantasy of him as a bandit, and gone were her shameful feelings for imagining it. When she stopped laughing, she said, “I didn’t know you were funny. It wasn’t apparent in your letters.”
He grinned at her. “I will make it my mission to make you laugh like that every day. So unpack your things, stay a while.”
“Oh, all right,” she relented. She walked to the dresser with her carpetbag and carefully placed each item in the middle drawer. It was considerate of him to empty one in advance for her arrival, and it was also nice of him to ensure it was on a comfortable level for her to see without standing on tiptoes or bending over, like the top and bottom drawers would have required her to do.
She had to admit that she was coming to like the true version of Dean. He was better than what she’d guessed before meeting him. She’d guessed he was humble, hardworking, and generous. Now it appeared he was all that with a witty streak. She tried not to acknowledge what else was true about Dean—he was scary enough to awaken an animal attraction in her. Admitting that, even to herself, caused her cheeks to burn with shame. She still didn’t understand the reasoning behind the stagecoach robbery but, with time, perhaps she could learn to accept it.