10

“You can’t go to her.” Rachel stared at Jacob, her words choked, and she fought the urge to weep or cajole him into changing his mind. “I had hoped . . . that is . . .” She turned, unable to face him, the heat of shame creeping up her neck.

She felt his presence behind her, his gentle touch on her shoulders. He slowly coaxed her to face him. “What had you hoped, beloved? That we could pretend our life was as we had planned it? We cannot go back to those days. Our life includes your sister now, and we have to make the best of it.”

Her lower lip quivered, and she blinked against the tears stinging her eyes.

He lifted her chin until she met his gaze. “What had you hoped, Rachel?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to you. If there is something I can give you, you know that I would.” She searched his tortured gaze, realizing in that moment how much it pained him to leave her. “Please don’t make this harder than it is.”

“I wanted to be the first to conceive.” The words were a whisper, an embarrassment. She couldn’t blame him for not trying, as she had had his time exclusively since her wedding week, forcing Leah into a secondary role of more maid than wife. The power over her husband’s affections, over her sister, had soothed the hurt of betrayal but a little. If she could bear Jacob a son first, then she could allow Leah the consolation of Jacob’s time now and then.

“There is no reason to believe you still won’t.” He leaned close to her ear, his breath tickling, his kiss a gentle promise. “I will give her tonight, but tomorrow will be yours. She said herself that it can take a woman time to conceive.”

“She told you that?” She could not imagine Leah having such an open conversation with him.

“She wants to bear a child, beloved, as every woman longs for.”

“She can bear all she wants, just not first.” She knew the words were harsh, but she could not hide the jealousy that rose like a living thing within her, sometimes so strong that it threatened to choke all kindness from her.

“Who knows but perhaps you are not already carrying the seed of promise within you?”

She blushed at his frank words and the way his eyes roamed over her, assessing, loving her with a look. Her time was still a week away, so perhaps . . . it could be true.

“You will give her only tonight?”

He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I cannot avoid her forever, Rachel. I will give her tonight, and perhaps others now and then. But tomorrow will be yours.” He kissed her then, a kiss that did not linger, then cupped her cheek in a parting gesture.

She gripped his hand and squeezed. “I will be waiting,” she said, forcing more cheer into her voice than she felt, watching him slip from her tent into the night.

When he was gone, she sank onto her mat and gave in to the bitter tears. She could not bear to share him. Could not bear to think her sister might conceive ahead of her. And in the turmoil, she could not decide which was worse, competing with her sister for her husband or competing to be the first to bear Jacob a son.

Leah stood at the door of her tent the following morning, accepting Jacob’s parting kiss on the cheek, then watched him stop at Rachel’s tent and give her a lingering kiss full of promise. The familiar jealousy felt like a kick to her middle. She shouldn’t compare. It did no good and only caused her further pain. He loved Rachel. He only tolerated her. Perhaps worse.

Emotion made her chest tight, but she drew in a breath to steady herself. He had come to her last night, and though their time was nothing compared to the first night when he thought she was Rachel, still he was kind to her. But she could not make him love her. He was too kind to say so, but she knew he resented her.

The thought threatened to make her spirits sink even lower, and she would not allow herself to ruin the memories of her time with him. Perhaps even now a child grew within her. She placed a hand over her middle and glanced heavenward. Please grant me this mercy. You see how it is with me. Please give me a son to take my husband’s place.

It was a selfish prayer, she knew. And the chances of her conceiving after one night when she had not done so during her entire wedding week seemed unlikely. Then again, perhaps the Almighty would consider her plight and have mercy.

Three months passed, and Jacob found himself choosing to spend more nights with the sheep in the fields, avoiding his tents. How had his life become so complicated? A man could only give so much, and sometimes all he wanted to do was lay his head on a rock and stare up at the stars. To dream of the ziggurat and the angels of God gliding from earth to heaven, to know that surely God had a purpose for all of his struggles.

He should take joy in knowing Leah carried his child now. But the thought, which would normally have pleased him, lost all joy every time he stepped into Rachel’s presence. He sighed. Dragged a hand along the back of his neck as he looked over the field, mentally counting the sheep.

The afternoon sun blazed overhead, and it was time to call the sheep to take them to water. He lifted a flute he had fashioned to his lips and played a familiar tune, then called for the sheep to follow. As he walked he continued to play, then stopped short when he caught the sound of another flute matching his tune with accompanying harmony. He turned, searching the hills for the flutist. Surely a bird would not sound so similar or carry such a well-matched tone.

At last he spied someone walking toward him. He stood still, watching, his heartbeat quickening as the woman grew closer. She drew the flute from her mouth and tucked it into the pouch at her side, smiling up at him.

“I hope I am not intruding.” Rachel’s dark eyes were large, her lips parted, inviting.

“No.” He looked at her, uncertain. He had spent the past several nights in the fields, moving farther in search of green pastures. “But it is not safe for you to have come here alone.”

She shrugged. “I know where I am going.” And he had to admit, she knew well the land surrounding her father’s home.

“That does not mean someone might not come upon you unaware.” Fear for her safety suddenly hit him full force. “You should not come alone.”

“I know how to use a sling, Jacob.” She touched the pouch at her side that held the stones she could grab in an instant, the sling hooked to its strings. “I’ve got pretty good aim too.” She smiled at him again, her eyes alluring. “What I can’t understand is why my husband prefers the company of the sheep”—she glanced purposely around her—“to me.”

She stepped closer until he could feel her breath on his beard.

He held her upturned gaze and lowered his head, his lips grazing hers. “Perhaps because it is quieter here.” He leaned away from her, gauging her reaction.

She lowered her eyes, her look apologetic. “I am sorry to have caused you such strife, my husband.” She rested a hand along the collar of his robe. “My sister’s pregnancy came as a shock, since you spend so little time with her.” She glanced beyond him.

He touched her cheek, and she met his gaze. “Your child, whenever he is born, will be firstborn of my heart. Even if Leah should give me ten sons, yours will be first. The blessing will be his.”

The promise came from a place deep within him, and he knew he meant it with every word. Rachel was his heart. Her children would be his heirs. And while he would not neglect Leah’s children, he would not make his parents’ mistake of confusing the issue of which son would rule after him. One wife and her firstborn son would have preeminence.

“Will you come home tonight?” She looked so small and fragile now, and he suddenly wished he had not stayed away.

He nodded. “Do you want to come with me to the well? We could make music as we walk, though your flute sounds better than mine.”

She laughed. “I’ve practiced more.” She pulled the flute from her pouch again and lifted it to her lips, played a merry tune, and then strode on ahead of him toward the well where he had first laid eyes on her.

He followed like one of the dumb sheep, struck by her beauty, her talent, and the way she could make him promise her the world. Would to God that she had been the first one to conceive. Would to God that He would look down on her even now and fill her empty arms.