Chapter 11
“She’s made great strides this week, thanks to you.”
Thatcher’s words of praise warmed Amelia as she stood at the entrance of the stall and watched him finish wrapping gauze around Queen’s hoof.
“She’s still got a ways to go before she heals.” On one knee in the hay, Thatcher bent his head as he focused on Queen. “But eventually she’ll be able to walk normally again.”
He’d discarded his hat, and his fair hair lay flat, unlike in the morning when he’d just woken up and they ate breakfast together, which had quickly become one of her favorite times of the day—a time when they could relax over their meal, sip coffee, and talk about the families and animals he needed to visit.
Unruly hair or not, he was a handsome man, and he seemed to grow more so every day.
Or maybe she was just noticing more things about him—like how he had a throbbing vein in his neck whenever he strained to do something, or how he had long fingers that held strength but also tenderness.
He had a tiny scar on the back of one hand and a strand of hair that always fell over his forehead.
His eyes changed shades of blue depending on his mood, and his jaw ticked when he was thinking hard about something.
Yes, she’d learned a lot about him during their first week of marriage. In fact, she knew more about her new husband after the short time of being with him than she’d known about Charles after two months.
One thing was certain . . . Thatcher Hoyt was a good man.
As though sensing her attention, he peeked up at her. “What are you thinking, sweetheart?”
He’d taken to calling her sweetheart, which she liked much more than she should, the same way she liked looking at him more than she should.
She dropped her attention to the leftover gauze she was wrapping back onto the roll. She couldn’t very well tell him she’d been admiring him, so she said the next thing on her mind. “You’re the one to thank for Queen’s recovery, not me.”
“We’ve been a team. But you’ve done more than I have.”
Over the past six days since they’d brought Queen back to the farm, Amelia had spent countless hours soaking the horse’s foot in cold water, cleaning it and rubbing it with ointment, and putting on fresh bandages.
In fact, she’d spent more time in the barn than in the house, and still hadn’t unpacked her bags.
Thatcher had finally moved them into the bedroom, but Queen’s care had taken priority over everything else.
In addition, she’d gone on all of Thatcher’s calls with him except for the one he’d done in the middle of the night. He hadn’t woken her and had been back before she’d risen at dawn.
Yesterday they’d gone to church, and there, Thatcher had introduced her to his cousin, his cousin’s wife, and their three little children, who had invited them to come to their home for Christmas Day, which was only about a week away.
Thatcher had lingered after the service, enjoying talking to every person in the church, calling them by name and asking them about an animal or two that he’d helped them with. In return, everyone had greeted her warmly and welcomed her.
The way people treated her in this community versus Albany was starkly different, and she was relieved to have a husband who was well-liked instead of despised.
She loved the busyness of her life with Thatcher and that he had easily accepted her being his assistant not only at home with Queen but also on his calls.
However, she was starting to feel guilty about the dishes and laundry piling up, the table growing even more cluttered, and the trail of muddy footprints that streaked the floor. Especially with Christmas so near.
She’d decided that today she would take some time to care for the house. Even though Thatcher didn’t seem to mind the mess, she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her as a wife.
In fact, the longer she was with him, the more she wanted him to like her. Because the longer she was with him, the more she liked him.
He was just so likable.
Maybe it also had to do with how kind he was to her.
He went out of his way to help her the way a fine gentleman would a lady—with dismounting from the horse they were still borrowing from Mr. Oakley, opening doors for her, tucking her arm into his elbow when they walked, making sure she was always warm and comfortable, and so many other small kindnesses.
Not to mention how respectful he’d been of her regarding marital relations.
He’d taken her by surprise when he’d told her he wanted to put off sharing the marriage bed until they had a chance to get to know each other and let affection develop between them.
She’d been skeptical about his intentions, but after he’d slept in the loft the past week, she admired him for honoring his word.
At times, she worried he would change his mind about being married to her. Maybe he would find something about her that he didn’t like and cast her aside, especially since they hadn’t consummated their union and he could still ask for an annulment.
On the other hand, he seemed happy with the way things were going, and he never complained that she was doing anything wrong. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
He wrapped the last of the bandage around the mare’s hoof, then stood and brushed the hay from his trousers. “That should get you through the morning,” he said to Queen as he rubbed his long fingers over her silky black muzzle.
The horse nickered her response, probably liking Thatcher as much as everyone else.
Amelia hesitated only another moment before stepping back. “I suppose I had better go inside.”
“You sure you don’t want to ride into town with me?” Thatcher stooped to gather the supplies.
She did want to go with him, but then the house would remain untidy and unclean for another day. “You go on. I really need to do a few chores.”
“Okay.”
Did his voice sound disappointed? Maybe she ought to go after all. But no, she had to prove she was of some value to him as a wife, that she could manage a home and do all the things a wife was supposed to do.
He paused in his packing away the supplies. “Is there anything you need or that you’d like me to get you?”
There he was again, being so kind to her. At times like this, she wasn’t sure how she’d picked so fine a candidate for her husband. She was fairly certain he was the best man out there and that no one else could begin to compare with him. All the more reason to do whatever she could to keep him.
Thatcher’s warm blue eyes captured her and kept her from scampering away. “What are you craving today, sweetheart?”
Earlier in the week, she’d had a strange craving for mashed potatoes.
She hadn’t cared about the meat, had only wanted the potatoes.
So when Thatcher had come into the house after taking care of the animals and seated himself at the table to a pan of mashed potatoes and nothing else, she’d admitted to having food cravings once in a while.
“I’m fine today. But thank you for asking.”
“You’re sure? Because I can stop and get you anything you want.”
Should she admit that she’d been thinking about homemade noodles in butter sauce? She hadn’t eaten homemade noodles in years, had only tasted them a time or two at community gatherings. So why was she craving them?
Thatcher’s eyes twinkled. “I can tell you want something.”
“How?”
“Because you hesitated.” He gave Queen a final pat before stepping out of the stall and into the aisle beside Amelia. “And because you have a cute little wrinkle right here.” He gently caressed her forehead where she’d apparently furrowed her brow.
At the contact, like most of the time, her senses homed in on his fingers, his closeness, his warmth. She was embarrassed to admit she was beginning to crave his touch more than any food.
He’d been touching her just briefly in passing all week—a squeeze of her hand, a stroke against her cheek, the tuck of hair behind her ear, or a caress to her shoulder. He’d been respectful with every contact, never lingering, never crossing a line, and never making her feel uncomfortable.
In fact, his touches had stirred a strange longing for more—more like the kiss he’d given her on her dimple that night in the bedroom. She wouldn’t mind if he leaned in and kissed her cheek like that again.
But she didn’t voice her opinion on the matter. He’d said she didn’t need to do anything, that he’d be the one to lead. She wouldn’t know what to do anyway.
With the bright morning sunlight streaming through the open barn door, his face was fully visible and his smile just waiting to be unleashed. Could she be the one to set it free this morning? If so, how?
“So what can I get my beautiful pregnant wife today?” His voice was light but contained a note of sincerity.
He was so sweet to her with the compliments too. He wasn’t gushing over her or using flattery to gain favors from her. No, every time he said something nice, it was clear that he meant it.
She liked that he thought she was beautiful but that he complimented her about other things too—like her helpfulness, her company, her cooking, and more.
“Well?” He stuffed both hands into his pockets.
“I suppose you could purchase noodles.”
His brows rose. “Noodles?”
“And maybe dill pickles?” She’d had a craving for those in the middle of last night when she’d had to get up and use the chamber pot. “I thought I’d cut up the pickles and mix them with buttered noodles for supper tonight.”
He didn’t respond, which meant she’d taken him by surprise again—at least, she hoped so.
“Doesn’t that sound delicious?”
“I’m not sure . . .”
She fought back a smile. “I guarantee it will become your new favorite.”
He studied her face for a moment, then his lips quirked.
“You’ll love it.”
“Is that so?” His smile crept out a little more.
She wanted to see it in all its breathtaking glory. “You’ll like it even better if we sprinkle the pickle juice over it all.”
And there it came. His lips curled up, revealing his straight teeth and bringing out more charm than any one man should ever be given.
At the sight of his grin, her heart leaped like a calf frolicking in the sunshine. She wanted to just stand and admire that happy, carefree smile of his. But she knew he needed to get going to town, and she needed to tend to the house.
As she made her way across the haymow and past the wagon, she could feel him watching her go. She paused at the barn door and shot a glance back at him. “You don’t have to get anything for me, Thatcher. But if you do, I promise I won’t make you eat the noodles and pickles together.”
His chuckle was like more sunshine falling across her. She passed by the chickens, and as she crossed the snowy ground toward the cabin, contentment sifted through her.
To the west, the mountain ranges towered over the foothills and sprawling grassland where several families in the area owned ranches.
To the east, on the opposite side of the barn, more mountain peaks touched the sky, all of them blanketed with thick snow.
Although the cleared land around the cabin and barn was barren and the fields beyond were fallow, the lushness of the evergreens covered with snow made everything come to life.
She drew a breath of the cold air into her lungs and let a reverence settle over her.
She would raise her family here and be a good mother to her children, unlike her own mother.
Long ago she’d vowed that, if given the opportunity to have a child, she would be the opposite of her mother and never run off, never give up on a marriage, and never stop loving her child.
She wasn’t sure what she’d done to disappoint her mother. What had been wrong with her that her mother hadn’t been able to love her enough to stay? Hadn’t even loved her enough to be a part of her life in some small way.
As she reached the stoop of the cabin, she paused and breathed in the crispness of the high-altitude air that contained a smoky, wood-burning scent. She placed a hand on the swell of her baby. “I will love you better, baby. I promise.”
Once inside the cabin, she began heating water to wash dishes. She’d just rolled up her sleeves and started scrubbing when Thatcher stepped inside for a few seconds to let her know he was leaving and to say goodbye.
After he was gone, she tried not to think about how quiet the home was without him there and instead focused on the tasks that needed to be done.
When the dishes were scrubbed and put away, she swept and washed the floor, picked up the sitting area, and then turned to survey the kitchen table with its heaps of stuff.
She needed to organize everything, but she wasn’t a good organizer any more than Thatcher was.
Maybe she ought to also decorate a little for Christmas, but she’d never been a good decorator either. She hadn’t done much at her childhood home, had always been too busy helping her father with the milking and other chores to bother with the house.
But a good wife would probably think about getting a Christmas tree or garland, trying to be festive in some way, maybe even by doing some special baking.
With her hands on her hips, she released an exasperated sigh. Standing and staring and wishing the mess would all magically go away wouldn’t get her anywhere. But where should she start?
Tentatively she approached the table and picked up a newspaper. There were at least a dozen, if not more, of those. She could stack them neatly and perhaps place them in the basket next to the sofa, where someone had stored other newspapers and magazines.
She began placing the newspapers onto the bench, most of them out of Denver from the past months.
As she did so, she made another pile of dirty towels and rags and odd socks.
Then she gathered the mail into a bundle.
Most of it seemed to be correspondence from Iowa addresses, perhaps from Thatcher’s family or friends.
She lifted a newspaper to reveal several more envelopes, each with a woman’s name on the front. Eileen Smith. The address was New York City.
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Where had she heard it?