Chapter 6 #3
A streak of glistening sunlight on the iron blade.
A swooshing arc.
Thwack.
A clean split.
Another swing.
Thwack.
Again.
Thwack.
Again.
Warmth spreads across my shoulder with my daughter’s burp.
A sign to keep my mind—and eyes—on what matters?
Guiltily tucking the curtain back into place, I focus all my attention on Emmaline.
“Look at you and your messy chin.” Two gentle passes from the rag, and she’s all clean.
“That was a quiet burp. Too quiet, as your…your papa would say. But I think he’d be proud of the mess you made.
No, don’t fall asleep again,” I plead. “You don’t want to stay awake and talk to your momma? ”
A grunted sigh from pouty lips is my answer as her dark lashes meet the tops of her chubby cheekbones.
Oh well. I’ll hear from her soon enough when it’s time to eat again.
Swaddling her and snuggling her against me, I run my fingers through her dark hair and kiss the soft, tiny spot between her eyebrows and nose.
“All right, then. Go to sleep, my darling. Momma’s got you. ”
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Then silence.
Not even a whistle.
My ears strain for the sound of his boots heading toward the house and up the porch steps. If he’s coming inside to hover over us like a mother hen, I’d much rather be here in the parlor than the bedroom with that big bed there to tempt him into doing anything more than pretending to care for us.
But there’s nothing.
Braving another peek, I ease the curtain back just enough to stay hidden.
The tightness in my chest eases at the sight of Warren still outside.
He buries the axe in the dirt and pulls his shirt up to wipe his face, exposing the tanned skin above the line of his pants.
And with a shrug, he works that shirt right off before tucking it into his waistband and grabbing another log.
I swallow past a dry throat. This man I married has strong shoulders. Strong arms. Even his side is well-defined and muscled. My gaze skitters over the front of his pants and what it hides before traveling down his thighs until I reach his muddy boots.
Muddy boots that turn and very deliberately point my direction.
Uh-oh.
Please don’t let him be looking at me.
Please don’t…
But he is. And more. Warren’s ever-present grin splits his face from ear to ear as he pushes his hat back and waves a big hand at me.
Damn it! I yank the curtain closed, and the rough action draws a soft cry from Emmaline.
“Shhh, Momma’s sorry.” Embarrassment burns my cheeks as I rock her back to sleep in the noisy chair.
He can’t see me now, but my runaway heart almost expects him to race in and laugh at me because he caught me.
What on earth is wrong with me? It’s not as if I did wrong by looking out the window, no matter what Mrs. Overstreet would have to say about his shirtless appearance.
The gnawing sensation deep in my stomach doesn’t go away as I pointedly ignore the window—and the man outside it—on my way to reluctantly place a drowsy Emmaline in her makeshift cradle on the bedroom floor. “Sweet dreams, my baby.”
The last word fades on another yawn as I stand on creaky knees.
Maybe I ought to take a little nap, too.
And when I wake up, maybe my uneasy feelings will be gone.
The bed Warren insists I sleep in every night draws a lingering glance from me.
I don’t particularly feel like being in it, because even without being in the room, his presence is too strong for me to be comfortable there.
Bad enough that his scent wafts from the bedding as I drag it to the floor and settle next to Emmaline.
Is she breathing? I place a hand on her chest to make sure.
Sometimes she’s so quiet that it scares me, but at the rise and fall of her breaths, my shoulders relax.
Satisfied enough, I reach for her little hand—the one with that wretched birthmark—and press my lips to it.
“Sleep easy, my darling…I’m right here.”
But as I pull back, I’m pleasantly surprised when Emmaline clings to my finger. “Silly girl,” I whisper as my lips stretch into an unfamiliar smile. “Can Momma have that back?”
She refuses to let go, though. If anything, I’d wager that her grip tightens even further.
A quiver pulls at my bottom lip, and suddenly, it’s all too much.
Suspicion of my husband, exhaustion from caring for Emmaline, and the loneliness of vulnerability all mix together and escape in the form of a single tear that trickles down my cheek and onto my neck.
Damn it. I shrug it away and try to be strong, but I’ll be damned if another one doesn’t take its place.
Another, and then another, until I find myself silently sobbing into the pillow, each choked breath bringing in the scent of leather and hay from my unwanted husband. All while my little girl unknowingly anchors me to this world with her small fingers.
My Emmaline.
My only reason for living these last few months.
And now that she’s here, my only reason to carry on.