It was bitterly cold outside. A blue norther had recently swept through, leaving behind a dusting of snow and drifts along the fence lines. All day, Conn had been trying to talk Emaline out of attending the Grange Christmas social. “It’s too cold outside, Emaline,” he argued. “You’ll catch a chill riding all the way into town. And what if your labor starts?”
“I’ll bundle up warmly, Conn. And if my labor starts, we won’t have to send for the doctor, because Doc Swilling will be right there. I’m as strong as a horse. I’ll be fine. Besides, I want to dance.”
Conn took one look at his wife’s bulk and laughed out loud. “I’ll be lucky if I can get my arms around you!”
“Then I’ll find someone who can.”
Conn caught her arm and whirled her into his embrace. He wasn’t far off the mark. His arms barely made it around her girth to close behind her. “All right,” he conceded. “We’ll go to the dance. But you’re going to rest between numbers. And we’re coming home early.”
Emaline readily agreed to Conn’s conditions. She hadn’t planned to dance a great deal anyway. Mostly she wanted a chance to visit with Melody and talk with the ladies present about the impending birth of her child. The immense size of her belly made the idea of giving birth a little daunting. She feared the pain and wanted some reassurance that she could manage it.
As Conn drove Emaline into town in the wagon, his eyes constantly shifted to cover the horizon. He hadn’t forgotten, even if she had, that someone had tried to kill her in the spring. The culprit had never been found, and Conn knew he was out there somewhere waiting for another opportunity to finish what he had started. Conn had guarded Emaline well over the past months, never letting her travel without an escort, always making sure she had someone with her in town. She had chafed at the constraints he put on her but had conceded that there was just cause for his concern.
He wondered what he would do if he ever caught the man responsible for attacking his wife. Shoot him and risk starting the feud all over again? Turn him over for trial by a jury of his peers? Hell, if he was a Winthrop a jury of Winthrops would just let him go again.
“What are you thinking?” Emaline asked when she saw the furrows of worry on Conn’s brow.
“I’m thinking it’ll be a long time before Bentons and Winthrops ever learn to trust each other.”
“I trust you. Melody trusts Devlin.”
“That’s not trust, it’s love,” Conn said.
“You have to trust first, before love can grow.”
“Oh, is that how it is?”
“That’s how it is.”
It took a moment for Conn to realize that Emaline was suggesting her love for him had grown once she had learned to trust him. On some level he had known for a long time that she loved him. She had never said the words, but then, neither had he. He wasn’t sure what she was waiting for. Plain old fear was stopping him.
Several weeks ago he had taken the daguerreotype of himself and Josie from the piano, where it had been since the day Josie had died, and carried it into his office. He had sat for a long time staring at it with eyes that eventually blurred with tears. He had never grieved for Josie, he realized. He had been too consumed by hate. Now, two years later, he felt an ache in his chest, and there was a painful lump in his throat. He had fought the tears that threatened, but couldn’t hold back a choking sob. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as anguish dammed for years gushed over a wall that had somehow come tumbling down.
Conn wasn’t sure when he first realized Emaline had come into the room, but he turned to her and buried his face against her growing belly and cried for what had been lost. She had closed her arms around him and stroked his hair and murmured words of comfort that he understood even though he never heard them.
When he had fallen silent again, he had been embarrassed because she had seen him like that. But Emaline had brushed aside his apologies.
“You loved her, Conn,” she had said. “You should grieve that she’s gone.”
He had captured her mouth, grateful for her understanding, seeking solace for the pain, and discovered something unexpected in her arms. The emptiness, the place that had become a void when Josie died, had been filled again. He didn’t have to face life alone. He had Emaline.
He had put the daguerreotype in his desk drawer for safekeeping. It was no longer necessary to remind himself every day of his pain, to nurture his hatred of Winthrops. He was going to have to stop hating if there was to be any future for himself and Emaline. And their child.
His thoughts were brought to a halt when they pulled up at the barn where the dance was being held.
“Hey, you two! We’ve been waiting for you,” Devlin called. “What took you so long?” Devlin had his arm around Melody, and he let go of her to help Emaline from the wagon. Before he could touch her, Conn was at her side, his hands at her waist.
“I’ve got her,” he told Devlin.
They could hear the music coming from the barn. A couple of violins and a piano could make a lot of ruckus, Conn thought. He could see that Emaline’s toes were already tapping.
“Come on, wife,” he said, slipping an arm around her and leading her toward the noise. “Let’s go kick up our heels.”
Emaline eyed the green-and-red wreaths strung across the ceiling as Conn whirled her in the dance. She was so dizzy from looking up that she felt breathless, yet she had a smile on her face that spread from ear to ear. It was wonderful dancing with Conn. It was wonderful looking around the room and seeing faces that were smiling instead of sullen with suspicion.
Emaline’s happiness fueled the hatred of the man who had attacked her in the spring until his heart pounded in his chest and he felt dizzy. Christmas was awful for him this year, because he was alone. But they all seemed happy. Especially her. His heavy fists opened and closed, as he yearned to close them around the flesh at her throat. Nor should the child in her belly be allowed to live. Because his child had died. Emaline had become a symbol of all he despised, and he would know no peace until she was dead.
No guns had been allowed in the barn for obvious reasons, but he had hidden a pistol in his coat pocket. He didn’t care what happened to him, as long as Emaline Benton died before he did.
He was aware of the music only as a raucous noise in his head, aware of the people around him only as sources of heat and movement, aware of the lanterns hung around the barn only as a sort of burning radiance, guiding his way to vengeance. His eyes were focused on her as he crossed the barn. At last he would be free of the pain. He would kill it when he killed the woman.