Chapter 3
WARREN
“All right, Mrs. Shay,” Jolene chirps despite the late hour, “let’s get you washed up again and into a fresh nightgown.”
I can’t help but to grin like a loon at hearing “Missus” put in front of my last name.
I have a little family now, one that’s all mine to protect and care for.
A hurting woman in need of a tender touch and a helpless little baby in need of a father.
The sobering thought of her complete despair in that wagon makes my smile fall away.
Underneath the smudges of dirt on the sharp planes of her face, something in those big blue eyes of hers called to me.
Maybe it was the way her thin arms tried to wrap around her belly as if to protect it the best she could.
Maybe it was the way she stared hopelessly at Abner’s dull pocketknife as if it held the meaning of life—or death.
But I knew I had to do something because she needs me.
They both do.
“I need to speak with you,” Mrs. Smith says in a low tone, putting a small hand on my arm.
“Step outside for just a moment.” Five peals of the clock ring to signify the early morning hour as I follow her into the hallway.
The sound of the latch closing is one I’m not too fond of at the moment.
Not when it’s keeping me from my wife and child.
Clearly troubled, the little woman stares up at me. “I’m not one to interfere with what happens in the marriage bed, but you’re going to have to be extremely gentle and patient with her, Warren. More than you might think.”
A beat later, her words pull my stare from the closed door. “What do you mean?”
Worry tightens the fine lines around her eyes.
“The poor child. After you left, I took that filthy dress off to bathe her. She may have been violated months ago when the baby was conceived, but it happened recently, too. What I saw between her—” Her voice cuts off as she raises a hand to her mouth in dismay.
“It was terrible, Warren. Just terrible.”
A muscle works in my jaw as some unknown emotion stabs my gut.
“Do you know who it was? Did she say anything?” I wonder if it was those men my brother killed.
The ones who kidnapped my sister-in-law Dove and Abner from the church just a few hours ago.
Or Crowley, Dove’s father, who’s likely dead by now if I know my brother’s need for vengeance.
Mrs. Smith’s white-haired head shakes. “Nothing. Mara’s going to need kindness. So much kindness. And I know how tender-hearted you are, so don’t be hurt when she doesn’t accept it. The girl’s got a right to be bitter. She needs healing in both body and heart.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take it.” Dark spots color my vision as I glance at the closed bedroom door and think about the hell she’s lived through.
She doesn’t want the touch of a man. I know this, and I can’t fault her for it.
Not even the touch of her husband who promised not to lay with her.
Because on top of rape, she just had a baby.
A cute, wrinkly baby girl who still needs a name.
Hell, she’s not going to be ready for anything other than holding hands for a good while.
If she can even stomach that.
A noisy bang and a male curse carry up from the ground floor outside, and Mrs. Smith glances sharply towards the window.
“Wait here,” I calmly tell her as I stride across the hall and pull aside the curtain. A man in wrinkled, day-old clothes glares at one of the trees lining the fence as he rubs his head and then stumbles away. “All good. Just someone who’s likely had a bit too much to drink at the fair.”
But I don’t like how close he got to my new wife.
How do I know he’s not one of the men who’ve ever hurt her?
People from three towns over come to Hope’s Stand for the fair.
Any one of them could be someone who abused her.
What if, God forbid, one of them wound up here seeking medical attention and Mara saw them?
As soon as the thought hits me, my fingers flex into a fist. I’d kill him. The ladies here would be horrified, but I’d do that and more to keep my wife’s past from traumatizing her further.
I can’t have anything or anyone hurting her ever again.
“When can I bring her home?” The sooner Mara’s there, the sooner she can recover in privacy with just the three of us together as a new family.
And not that I think she’d run away in her condition after accepting the protection of my name, but if she tried, she wouldn’t get far if I had her at home.
I need them close so I can keep them safe.
She may not want me or anyone else to care for her or our baby, but there’s no getting rid of me now.
We’re in this for better or for worse, and at this point, things can only get better.
“If you’re wanting her to convalesce at your house, you’ll need to take her this afternoon before more soreness sets in.”
I do, but… “She’ll be okay? I don’t want her hurting all the way there.”
Mrs. Smith shakes her head. “She’s uncomfortable now but the pain will likely be stronger the second day. And maybe it’s a good thing if you bring her home soon. Things can get loud and busy here. Peace and quiet will go a long way in helping her to recover.”
That works for me. Neither of us speaks again until the door opens, making my feet itch with the need to see my new little family. “All done?”
“All done,” Jolene answers, balancing a large bowl filled with bloodied linens on her hip. “Washed her hair, too.”
That’s all I needed to hear. I dip my head in gratitude for these two women and how they’ve cared for my wife. “Thank you, ladies. Thank you both. And good night.” Morning, rather.
Quiet footsteps bring me into the dimly-lit room where the earthy scent of childbirth still lingers.
I’ve seen lots of babies being born. Animal ones, that is.
Being raised on a farm, there’s no getting around it.
Pigs. Cows. Horses. It’s always amazed me.
But to see the newness of life in the form of an infant... well, it sure does tug at the heart.
And now this little girl is mine, right along with her mother.
My bride who’s laying in bed without me and looking much more frail and brittle than she did in the wagon.
My wife that I haven’t even kissed except for a quick press to her forehead.
I wonder where she came from. Judging by all the scriptures she screamed during labor, she probably spent a lot of time around missionaries.
How the hell did she end up in this situation?
But now’s no time to ask her. Not with a pallor leeching away the smooth bronze of her skin as she stares with unfocused eyes at the baby’s makeshift cradle, a simple dresser drawer on a table beside the bed.
Did she want this child?
Does she regret marrying me?
It’s too late to change the outcome of either because the baby’s here and I’m not going anywhere. Not since I know how much they both need me, even if Mara doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet.
Chapped lips pinched with discomfort, she tries to raise up from the pillows, and the instinct to help has me reaching out.
“Here, let me—”
Her wince deepens as she recoils from me. “Don’t—”
Hands dropping, I smile grimly and drop into the bedside chair instead while I rub the grit from my sleep-deprived eyes.
“Touch you. I know.” I keep my voice low as Mara’s slim fingers work through her dark, tangled tresses.
Fingers that probably left little bruises on my thighs from how hard they dug into me when she was giving birth.
As small as she is, there’s a strength to her, and with all the dirt washed from her face, her beauty punches me in the gut.
As does her thinness. “Have you thought of a name yet?”
“No,” Mara says shortly, barely showing me the gemstone blue of her eyes as she braids her damp hair with shaky hands.
“Are you hungry? I can get you something if you’d like.”
Her forehead tightens before relaxing. “No.”
“Just let me know when you are, okay?”
Silence.
More silence.
“Do you want to name her after anyone?” I could kick myself when my innocent question drops all emotion from her face. Damn it.
“No,” she whispers rawly, fingers stalling.
“No worries. I can help you come up with something.” Anything to break this heavy silence. I offer up one name after the other with the briefest of pauses between them. “Virginia. Grace. Rebecca. Gertrude.”
The last one elicits a scowl from her. Not the smile I was hoping for, but still progress. “Christ, no. Anything but that one.”
“All right, no Gertrude,” I soothe, mildly amused at her penchant for language. “I didn’t care for that one much either. Emmaline. Lydia. Charlotte. Ru—”
“Emmaline,” Mara interrupts, voice returning to a flat tone. “I like that one.”
That’s better. Good thing she didn’t choose Charlotte, though, because I’d never be able to sing about how much Charlotte LaRue loves Watkins ale.
Come to think of it, I’m gonna have to change the songs I sing. I’ve got two little women in my family now, and bawdy songs like Charlotte LaRue aren’t fit for their ears.
“Little Emmaline Shay,” I murmur affectionately over the drawer, resting an arm on my knee. Huh...where’d that stain on my sleeve come from? Oh. Blueberry pie from the fair. Halfway surprises me that my fingers aren’t purple.
Looking back down at the newborn, I repeat her name to myself. It has a good ring to it, as does Mara Shay. “Aww...look, she’s awake. Do you want to hold her?” I know I do. With her scrunched-up features and soft black hair, she’s adorable.
Mara ties off the end of her braid. “No,” she says after a pause. “Not...not right now.”