Chapter 13
MARA
The last of autumn gradually gives way to winter, but instead of gently easing in, Mother Nature blew in with a blanket of white that all too quickly smothered the ground last night. And now that I’ve been going outside with Warren so often, having to stay indoors makes me feel restless.
Trapped.
My heavy exhale blends in with the crackling of the blazing fireplace as I glance to the sofa.
Long legs stretched out and socked feet propped up on the sofa arms, my husband dozes with his hat over his face and Emmaline snuggled atop his chest. Her tiny fingers clutch his shirt as if to keep him in place, but I know there’s not a chance of him going anywhere as long as she’s sleeping on him. He’s such a good papa.
He’s a good husband, too. I wouldn’t mind napping in his arms right now, but the sofa isn’t wide enough to hold the three of us with how he’s stretched out. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I need some space. Because ever since the night he told me he wanted to kiss me, Warren’s been…more.
More intense.
More husbandly.
And it’s more than just making sure I’m eating enough.
It’s the way his arm tethers me possessively to his side even though no one else is around.
The way he holds me in the rocking chair before the hearth, one warm hand running up and down my spine as the other gently plays with my hair.
The way his thick fingers lock with mine as he presses tender kisses to my temple in the darkness.
It’s as if he means to make me fully acquainted to his touch. His words from that night echo in my head, and not for the first time today either. There’ll come a time when we learn each other’s bodies. When I lay you down on this bed and finally know what you taste like between your legs.
But a full month has passed since then, and still nothing.
Nothing except a constant, aching awareness of how surprisingly good the warm, heavy weight of him felt between my thighs.
I squeeze them together even now, imagining what it might feel like to have his lips brushing over me there like he said he would.
I always did wonder if it could feel as good for a woman as it seemed for the men.
I steal a furtive glance again. Still dozing, and still holding Emmaline protectively with one hand cupping her bottom while the other spans the entire expanse of her back.
With another look to make sure he’s still sleeping, I settle my gaze on his pants.
What does he look like behind them? I’ve seen more cocks than a woman my age should, and after so many days without having to service any men, I don’t even know how I’d react if I saw one again.
But something about Warren makes me want to find out.
Another achy pang strikes my center, and frustration leaves me in a ragged sigh as my head thunks against the chilled window pane.
“What’s all that noise about, wife?”
I turn back just as Warren lazily uncovers his face. An unexpected shiver—and not one from the cold—rakes over me at the intensity of his gaze. A gaze that’s definitely wide awake as it leisurely roams my body, pausing to linger on my hips and breasts.
Over the course of another six weeks, my body’s thin, bony frame has become rounder and more feminine, and my cheekbones lost their harsh angles for softer ones.
My breasts, though? They were already of more than adequate size because of my milk, but now they’re even fuller.
Almost enough to make me self-conscious, but part of me likes the way my husband can’t seem to keep his eyes from them.
“There’s too much snow for us to go on a walk today.
” I don’t mean to sound so grumbled, but it’s true.
No doubt I’d sink in halfway to my knees.
A brief bit of concern hits me. “What about the workers? And Rosie and her mother. Will they be okay?” The men might as well be invisible for as rarely as I see them in the distance, but I don’t want them to freeze to death in this weather.
I also don’t want them in here with us if they don’t have enough supplies.
“They’re all in the bunkhouse with plenty of firewood, and I’d wager that Rosie’s pestering them for plenty of treats.
I do pity the poor fellas, though. Especially my friend Dalton.
” With practiced ease, he deposits Emmaline into her cradle.
It’s become routine to drag it from our bedroom into the parlor every morning and then back again at night so she’s always in the room with us.
“Why?”
Warren pauses to stretch on his way to join me. “Because he’s one of the men my family sent over to help. And they all have to bed down with each other while I have the prettiest wife in the world to keep me warm.”
A burn streaks across my cheeks, an all too common occurrence now. He always knows just what to say to pull a blush from me. I glance to the bunkhouse. “Is he a close friend?”
“Yep.” One big hand slides down my side. “And maybe when we go to my parents for Christmas dinner—if you’re feeling up to it, that is—I’ll introduce you. He’s a good friend and a good man.”
Maybe he is, but I don’t think any man is as good a man as the one I married.
His hand flexes around my hip in the gentlest squeeze.
Measuring me once a day isn’t enough for him.
No, he needs some small way to touch me multiple times throughout the day to reassure himself that I’m eating enough, and just mentioning Christmas dinner opened up a perfect opportunity.
As usual with these not so hidden inspections, Warren ends it with one last squeeze and a softly pressed kiss to my temple. “So…all those sighs of boredom. What say we play a game since the little one’s sleeping the day away?”
“What kind of game?”
His free hand plays with some loose strands of my hair. “Checkers. Ever played it before?”
“I think so.” A vague memory forms of me and another little girl moving some circular pieces over a patterned board before Reverend Overstreet sternly chastised us for risking our souls in a game of chance. “Where we try to move all our pieces to the other side of the board?”
“That’d be the one.” He tugs at my waist. “C’mon. Let’s bring the cradle to the kitchen and see how many rounds we can do before our little girl wakes up.”
It turns out we can play quite a few while Emmaline sleeps. Usually one hour is her preferred nap length, but some of them have lengthened to two hours lately. After one practice round where he refreshes the rules for me, we play for real and I win four games to Warren’s three.
“Beaten by my own wife.” His wide smile belies the rueful shake of his head. “You’re getting too good at this.”
I look at the pile of red pieces I collected from him and can’t stop a small smirk of my own. “That was pretty fun.” Not at all an evil game like Reverend Overstreet believed, and not so much given to chance as it is simple strategy. “Ready to go again?”
He leans back and crosses his arms. “I think you’ve conquered checkers pretty good. How about a different game?”
“Like what?”
“Twenty-One. Just need to grab the—shit.” Warren winces. “Uhhh…never mind. Not that one. I’ll, um…think of something else.”
“What’s wrong with that one?” It sounded innocent enough, but now I’m not so sure. Not with the troubled look on his face.
“It’s a, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “A card game.”
We both fall silent for a moment.
“Oh.” I’m taken aback, and I know my expression shows it.
“Shit,” he groans, raking a hand through his dark brown hair to muss it even further. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Mara. Damn it, I didn’t think at all. I’m sorry. Should’ve known it’d remind you of—”
“No,” I interrupt, coming to a quick realization.
“It’s okay. Neil’s the one who used the cards in a bad way and offered up something that wasn’t his to give.
Just…let’s maybe not play poker. That way it will be completely different.
” I smile softly. “I don’t know anything about Twenty-One, though. You’ll have to teach me.”
“You sure?” Still obviously feeling terrible, he eyes me suspiciously. “You’re not just saying that?”
I gesture towards the confining walls. “We’re stuck here for a good while, and I don’t think I can play endless rounds of checkers. That’d make me just as bored as I was to begin with.”
“If you’re really sure.” He drags out the words as if expecting me to change my mind at any moment. But I don’t, and he accepts that. “All right, get ready to learn.”
The cards fly in the most mesmerizing blur between Warren’s long fingers as he shuffles them. I’ve been paying far too much attention to his fingers lately, but something about the confident way they handle the cards has my heart skipping a beat. Ridiculous, I know, because they’re only fingers.
But they’re his.
And if his fingers have me feeling this way, what about the rest of him?
“You’ll get two cards. The goal is for them to be as close to twenty-one as possible, but the choice you have to make is deciding whether or not you’re satisfied with the two numbers you have or if you want to draw another card.
The problem with drawing another card is now you might get too high of a card and go over twenty-one. ”
“So it’s more a game of chance than skill.”
He concedes my observation. “In a way. But you still need skill in making the decision. How about we do a trial hand before the real thing?”
So we do. And that’s when he teaches me terms like stand, hit, and bust and the hand motions to represent them. Oh, and to be mindful of his cards, as well, because one of his will show while the other is facedown.
“All right, wife.” Warren lifts a dark eyebrow in challenge. “Let’s begin.”
The rounds are much quicker than checkers, and it doesn’t take me very long to fall into the rhythm of the game. The hand motions are beyond me, so we just speak our intent. I also win more than I lose, which makes me smile in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed by the man sitting across from me.