Chapter 13
Amelia exited the barn and swallowed the reservations that had been lodging in her throat since yesterday, when she’d found Eileen’s letters.
She blinked against the bright morning sunshine, her eyesight quickly adjusting after the dim lighting of the barn, where she’d spent the past hour tending to Queen’s hoof.
Thatcher stood by the well, hoisting up a bucket of water, probably to fill the troughs.
His coat strained against his arms and shoulders as he hefted the rope and the heavy load.
Wearing his gloves and tall boots and a Stetson over his unruly hair, he made a fine, fine picture—as rough and rugged as the craggy boulders that rose in the foothills behind him.
Her heart pinched sharply. Would she lose him today?
No. She had to find a way to keep him, keep what they had, keep him from giving her up once he learned she wasn’t the bride he’d sent away for.
Could she refrain from informing him until after they went to cut down the Christmas tree later today? Or maybe she should wait until after Christmas. After all, she didn’t want to ruin the day.
They’d had an enjoyable evening last night eating the noodles coated with butter and cheese, and with pickles on the side.
They’d teased and talked all through the meal.
Afterward, she’d helped him restock his medical bag with the fresh supplies he’d brought home.
Then, as they’d taken their usual spots in front of the fireplace—he in the chair and she on the sofa—he’d read aloud from the latest newspaper he’d purchased with the tales of White River War.
Amelia didn’t know much about the natives who lived in Colorado, had only heard of the conflict that had happened back in September when Utes in eastern Colorado had attacked an agent on their reservation, killing him and his employees while taking their women and children as captives.
The newspaper article told about another attack, this one against US troops just north of the reservation, in which a major and thirteen men had also been killed.
Amelia had heard tales of the conflict between the natives and the new settlers from time to time while she’d been growing up. But it had all seemed so far away and foreign.
Now that she was here in the middle of the West that had once belonged to the natives, she supposed she could understand why the natives were fighting to keep their land.
It was wild and untamed and untouched by the industries that filled the East with massive cities that were busy and crowded to capacity.
Charles had predicted that the local farms around Albany would one day give way to more industries. He’d claimed the change was inevitable, which he’d used as justification for taking the land away from the farmers who’d been there for generations and selling it to the highest bidders.
Was the same thing happening in the West with the natives? The land being taken for the sake of progress?
Whatever the case, Amelia was sad to hear about the conflict with the natives. She and Thatcher had discussed the issue, both of them wishing there was a way to resolve it more peacefully. Their conversation had been deep and thoughtful and interesting.
Maybe if they had more such good evenings, they would draw closer so that he got the affectionate relationship he’d said he wanted.
She held out her hand and examined her wedding band. Thatcher had said, “To my way of seeing things, we’re married and made a binding commitment that I’m not planning to end because of any hardships we face.” He was an honorable man, and she knew he meant what he said.
The trouble was, he hadn’t realized he’d married the wrong woman when he’d said it.
What if she didn’t tell him about the mail-order-bride mistake until Eileen actually showed up? That might not be until spring now, and that would allow plenty of time for their relationship to develop. Could she even work on winning him so that he would fall in love with her?
Love had never been a part of her husband requirements before. Love hadn’t been a part of any of her marriage plans. She was too realistic to allow herself any hope that she would experience love.
But if love would keep Thatcher interested in her instead of Eileen, then she had to consider it. And yet, how could she keep such a secret for months? She’d feel like she was living a lie.
She began to cross toward him, her boots sinking in the wet layer of snow that had fallen over the night.
She knew the second he caught sight of her, because he paused briefly to watch her approach before resuming his winding of the rope.
“The coat suits you,” he called.
She brushed a hand over the thick, warm wool. “I’ve been much warmer this morning.”
“Good.” He cocked his head toward the barn. “How is Her Royal Majesty?”
“She’s not as restless and seems more content.”
“Well, that’s good. We wouldn’t want to upset Her Queenship.”
Amelia’s lips twitched with the need to smile. Thatcher had that effect upon her.
He hefted the bucket up the rest of the way, then guided it toward the stone edge of the well and rested it there.
She wasn’t sure why she was approaching him, except that she somehow wanted to start winning him and making him fall in love with her . . . before Eileen showed up. How did a woman go about earning a man’s love?
She wasn’t well-versed in such matters. All she knew was that she had to try so that she didn’t lose him.
As she reached the well, she latched on to one side of the bucket handle, intending to help him carry it back to the barn.
He didn’t protest her hold, but as he hefted the bucket between them, she could feel him take most of the weight.
Slowly, so that they didn’t slosh the water out, they started back to the barn. “Do you think she’ll ever be well enough for someone to ride her?”
“She might always have a limp, but I imagine she’ll be able to handle you.”
Amelia bit back a frustrated sigh. She just hoped she was still around when Queen was better and able to ride. But she had no guarantees.
“Look.” Thatcher halted and pointed ahead to the woodland of evergreens that bordered the strawberry field.
Amelia paused, her breath coming out in puffs of white in the cold morning air, even with the sunshine bathing her head. She looked in the direction Thatcher was pointing to find a herd of what appeared to be oversized deer grazing in the tall grass that hadn’t yet been flattened by snow.
There had to be thirty or more quietly eating, their ears flicking with attentiveness. Some had antlers and others none. But all were the same dull brown. Their heads had a thick build, similar to cattle, but their tales were short and stubby like those of deer.
“Deer?” she asked softly.
“Elk.” Thatcher lowered the bucket of water to the ground without taking his gaze off the herd. “Called wapiti by the Shawnee.”
“Wapiti.” She rolled the unfamiliar word over her tongue.
“I’ve been told the elk herds can get quite large in the winter.” Thatcher spoke reverently, his eyes on the herd. “In the spring and summer, they break up into smaller bands as they have calves and find fresh grasslands.”
“The antlers on some of them are so big.” And majestic, reaching backward half the length of the elk’s body in some cases.
“Apparently the males grow new antlers every year. I visited a man over the summer who shot a bull and had the antlers on his wall. He said they weighed a good thirty pounds.”
“I can’t imagine how the bull carries that kind of weight around on his head.”
“They must have muscular necks.”
One of the males turned toward them, as if realizing he had an audience. The creatures were too far away to worry about a stampede or an attack. Even so, she sidled closer to Thatcher.
At the brush of her arm, he shifted his hand so that his fingers grazed her back. She could hardly feel the touch through her coat, but she liked that he welcomed her so openly and was so gentle in return.
Was this an opportunity to do more to make him happier with their relationship? But what should she do?
He’d reached out to her in little ways every day with small touches and caresses, like the one on her back. Maybe she could do the same to him.
She took a step even nearer and rested her head against him. In the next instant, his hand at her back circled her waist. All the while, he continued to watch the herd, his expression unchanging, his eyes wide with admiration.
She hesitated only a moment, then slipped her arm around his back too, so they were standing side by side. It seemed natural enough for her to do so, and thankfully, he didn’t react or say anything.
Neither of them spoke as they took their fill of one of the most beautiful sights in all of creation, with the herd grazing peacefully in the snowy grassland against the backdrop of the craggy hills and mountains.
She loved being in the crook of his body, having his strength holding her up, being there to support him and receive his support. It was a new and unfamiliar feeling but not unwanted.
She burrowed into his side, a strange warmth rushing through her that made her want to be closer and feel more of him.
The hard length of his abdomen, the tautness of his arm, the possessive clasp of his hand—she was attuned to it all .
. . and a part of her wanted to go on standing there like that all day.
But she couldn’t. She had to say or do something. “It’s beautiful, Thatcher.”
“It is.” His voice was low. “I’m glad I get to see this with you.”
“I’m glad I get to see it with you too.”
She felt him shift. In the next instant, he pressed a kiss against her hair on top of her head. It was somewhat hard and lingering. And his arm behind her tightened.
He’d kissed her on their wedding night and then her dimple once. But he hadn’t kissed her again until this moment. She liked it. A lot. And she had no desire to pull away. In fact, she had a sudden urge to kiss him back. It didn’t have to be a long kiss. She’d make sure it was short.